Strong Enough To Be Your Friend - 1
http://owl.heggen.net

by Kim Heggen


This story nominated for a 2004 "Light My Fire" Award 
for best general "The Sentinel" fan fiction story

Disclaimer: If you recognize the name, then the character isn't mine. Sadly, the boys belong to Pet Fly and I'll have to give them back. This is fanfiction and generates no financial compensation for me.

Summary: An injury in the line of duty forces Jim and Blair both to make agonizing decisions, and leads them on a journey of grief, betrayal and redemption. In other words, it ain't a comedy, folks.

Ratings: Probably PG-ish. The occasional cuss word; no graphic violence. Medical doublespeak warning, smarm warning.

Disclaimer #2: Part of the plot is stolen from one of my favorite SF authors, and I'll give that reference when the story is complete. Hey, plagiarism is a relative thing, right?

Spoilers: I think this will be set post S2P2, but I don't anticipate major spoilers.

Thank you to all who helped me with this story: to BJKira, for wanting some JimAngst; to Tegan and Christina, for faithful (sometimes almost daily!) feedback; to Iris, for, um, backing me up when I needed it, and for wnnepooh, for kicking me (very nicely) a few times when I needed it!

Thanks to all who had enough faith to read along, and to all who had enough patience to wait until it was finished.

And DawnC...special thanks to you, for all your on-line chitchat and companionship over the last couple of months. You have no idea how much you've helped me during my time of spousal deprivation. You're a pal!

Feedback is welcome, be it public, private, positive or negative. You may discuss it, praise it or hold it up to be sneered at. Just make sure you warn about spoilers if you discuss the plot on the list.

Happy reading!

Part One

"You know, Jim, it was my turn to cook dinner tonight," I venture, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand.

"'Was', Junior?" he responds, lifting an eyebrow. "It still is."

It's been a long day for both of us. Jim left early for some crack-of-dawn briefing about this suspected serial killer, and when I caught up to him this afternoon we went out chasing wild geese, dead ends, and red herrings. Yes, we have left no cliche unturned. Then I let Jim sucker me into helping him with the disaster on his desk.

"Oh, c'mon, Jim," I groan. "It's almost eight o'clock, man. Give me some credit, here. You're the one who wanted help with paperwork. If you'd let me go home, I'd be there already with dinner on the table. Can't we just stop and pick something up?"

Jim snorts. "Your car's in the shop, Sandburg, remember? How were you going to get home?"

Oops. Jim's right; I'd had to scrounge a ride from a fellow T.A. over to the station this afternoon.

I open my mouth to take another stab at the dinner issue, but I notice that Jim isn't listening...well, not to me, anyway. He's got that funny focused look on his face that he gets when he's dialing up his hearing.

"What?" I demand. "What do you hear?"

Jim pulls a flagrantly illegal U-turn. "I'm not sure, Chief, but it didn't sound right. Just a lot of yelling from a few blocks away, and some odd smells. Hang on." This last is delivered a bit too late, as the truck practically catches air.

I curse mentally. Yes, I'm always glad to see Jim's senses working at their top potential, but I'm hungry and tired. Jim, on the other hand, is constitutionally incapable of ignoring a possible crime in progress. Oh well, maybe it'll be nothing.

I hear a muffled sound in the distance, and I see Jim visibly flinch. "What?" I ask again.

"Shots fired," he replies mechanically, eyes straight ahead. Ouch, he must have had his hearing cranked up when he heard the shots, and that probably didn't feel too good. Great, I think to myself; something's going down. So much for dinner of any kind tonight.

As Jim predicted, we're indeed only a few blocks from the ruckus. We round a corner and pull into a small, poorly lit industrial area. Jim skids the truck to a stop in front of a huge grey warehouse with its main door flung open. There's a late-model silver BMW parked at an angle out front, and two police cars about twenty feet closer to us.

Jim leaps out of the truck and I follow, since he hasn't said anything to me about staying in the truck. The yellow and black sign on the building reads Cascade AgriChem, and I can see coveralled workers coming out of the building. Apparently, they run a swing shift here...though at the moment, no one seems to be doing any work; in fact they all look rather alarmed.

Grabbing at the elbow of the man nearest him, Jim flashes his badge and turns on the ol' Ellison charm. "Cascade P.D.! Tell me what's happening in there, now!"

The man goggles at Jim for a moment, then finds his voice. "The cops are chasing some guy. I think he stole that car out front. He just pulled up and ran inside, the crazy bastard. The cops are in there," he jerks him thumb over his shoulder, indicating the warehouse, "lookin' for him. We've heard shots, too."

Peeking inside, I see rows of metal barrels as well as large glass bottles and some crates. Jim takes a few steps inside, wrinkling his nose at the chemical odors, then turns back to me.

"That guy could be hiding in here anywhere, Chief. I want you to stay here, in case he comes back out this way." He starts cautiously down one of the aisles, his weapon in his hand.

"Uh, Jim?" I call out. "What if he's armed?"

"Then you duck, Sandburg," comes the rapidly fading answer.

I wait at the entrance, peering into the gloomy interior and wishing, not for the first time, that I had even a little bit of Jim's heightened senses. The warehouse employee, a thick-necked fellow who looks like he could have had a bit part in "Clan of the Cave Bear", stands his ground next to me, to my surprise.

"You a cop?" he asks curiously after a few moments.

"No," I hesitate, wondering exactly which version of my standard answer I should use on Mr. Sloping-Forehead here. "I'm, uh, sort of a civilian advisor. Detective Ellison is my - -"

A series of noises interrupts my explanation...first a gunshot, followed infinitesimally later by a crash. Then, a sound taken straight from my nightmares: Jim's voice, screaming in agony and dying out in a strangled gurgle.

I'm off and running before I realize it, homing in on that horrible scream. A foul stench comes billowing toward me, burning my eyes and throat. Around me, I can hear shouts and running from the other officers, but I ignore them. Pulling the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose in an attempt to shield myself from the noxious gas, I fight my way towards Jim.

When I find him, he's lying on his back, hands clenched at his sides. Around him are pieces of broken glass and a pool of some horrible oily liquid. I don't see any blood, but his eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. As soon as I kneel next to him, coughing, and search frantically for a pulse, he takes a long shuddering breath. His back arches, and his arms and legs began to twitch rhythmically.

Through a haze of fumes and stinging tears, I become aware of one of the other officers next to me. "We need to get him out of this stuff," I shout. "He's having a seizure!" I no longer really care about the car thief or whoever the hell they were chasing...all that matters is getting Jim to safety and to medical help.

The officer isn't all that much bigger than me, but together we're able to drag Jim out of the spill and slowly, painfully, we're able to get him out into the cool fresh night air. Jim continues to jerk and twitch as we drag him, seizing violently.

"Ambulance is on its way!" I hear someone yell. I kneel back down next to Jim, gulping. The tremors seem to be slowing a bit, but he's still stiff and unresponsive and he's starting to look slightly blue around the lips. He's still breathing, though slowly. One of the warehouse employees runs up with hose and starts spraying Jim with it. I bounce up to my feet, and it's all I can do not to slug the guy.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shout. "You'll make him hypothermic!"

"Got to get that stuff off of him, kid!" the guy yells back. "That's malathion! Nothing else stinks like that. We need to start getting his clothes off, too. The ambulance'll have blankets for him."

I take a deep breath and try to help. A lot of the water spray hits me instead of Jim, and pretty soon my teeth are chattering so hard that my jaw aches. By the time we peel Jim's outer clothes off, the ambulance is pulling in.

The paramedics walk over, cool and professional, and begin assessing Jim. Never have those calm voices sounded so welcome. I'm seen my partner ill and injured before, but I'm not sure I've ever been so frightened for him. I sit down where I am in the wet parking lot, listening dully to the medics work.

"Okay, he's not protecting his airway, and his O-2 sats are only 75. Get the O's on him, and let's get ready to intubate."

"We've got IV access. What meds do you want?"

"Let's give him point one per kilo of lorazepam and see if that does it; might stop the seizures too."

"Give me a cuffed seven point five tube. Where's the suction?"

Silence for a few moments. Then, "Got it! Tape!" When I finally gather up my courage to look, things look decidedly more peaceful. They've got a breathing tube taped in place, and he's now just lying still. His chest rises and falls rhythmically as the medic squeezes the bag to make him breathe.

Something blocks the light for a moment, and I look up blearily. Oh.

Simon stands in front of me, holding out his hand to help me up. Someone must have called him. Right now, he's very definitely a welcome sight. "Sandburg, what the hell is going on here? What's happened to Jim?"

I let him pull me to my feet, and stand there, swaying slightly. I must be a sight: drenched with icy water, stinking with that chemical that we found all over Jim, my face stained with tears that I know are not all from the irritating fumes. Simon takes off his coat and drapes it around my shoulders. I try to answer him, but my tightening throat and chattering teeth make things difficult.

"W-we on our way h-home and Jim heard s-something." I huddle deeper inside the coat. "C-car thief, in the warehouse. S-shot up some of the bottles. P-poisonous...he was having a s-seizure."

Simon frowns. "Jim was poisoned? Is that what I smell?"

I nod slightly, and look back over at Jim. They're loading him on a gurney and rolling him into the back of the ambulance. He's still lying there quietly.

I feel Simon's arm about my shoulders. "Come on, Blair. I'll drive us to the hospital."

 

Part Two

 

I hate hospitals. I hate hospital waiting rooms the most, especially ER waiting rooms. Old magazines, bad coffee, odd-looking people, screaming children. Even under the best of circumstances, this is not my favorite place to be.

Let's just say these are not the best of circumstances.

Since Jim has come in by ambulance, Simon and I are forced to stay out in the waiting room until someone comes out to get us. Every time the automatic doors open, I sit up and crane my neck in an attempt to see back into the department. I can't see Jim, of course, but at least I don't see people running or hear them yelling things like "We're losing him!" or "Get that to me STAT!". That seems like a good sign to me, and I cling to this observation as the only crumb of information I've got.

I'm more than half tempted to just cruise on back the next time the doors open; sometimes you can accomplish quite a bit by simply looking like you know where you're going.

But for now, I try to wait patiently, knowing that Jim will need me. Once they let me see him, they'll have to pry me away from him with a crowbar.

Simon handles the stress by being officious. He's made at least four trips up to talk to the poor volunteer whose job it is to keep the waiting room under control. He's buttonholed the receptionist for information. And when he's not doing that, he glares at the other people in the waiting room as if resenting their presence.

To top it off, my gut is most unhappy with me. Whether from nerves or from all that stuff I inhaled in the warehouse, I make about three trips to the bathroom while we wait. After the last visit, I know I look pale and sweaty, and I'm just hoping Simon won't notice how sick I am. The last thing I want is to be a patient myself today.

Just as I'm starting to give more serious consideration to the idea of waltzing on in like I own the place, the automatic doors slide open again and a tall man in blue scrubs walks straight up to Simon. His nametag reads Dr. Roberts.

"Are you Captain Banks?" he asks. He's got a pleasant, humorous face, but there are fatigue lines around the eyes.

Simon nods. "Yes. Jim Ellison is one of my detectives. How is he? Can we see him?"

Dr. Roberts smiles, to my intense relief. " Yes, you can. Come on back, and I'll fill you in on the way."

I assume that the invitation includes me as well, and Dr. Roberts doesn't even ask who I am. Right now, that's fine with me.

As we pass through the sliding doors, the ER physician begins to explain. "He's been exposed to a rather large amount of a particularly nasty pesticide. I won't go into the pharmacology of it all - - it's complicated, and I can't remember it all myself - - but it works by keeping the body from breaking down used-up nerve chemicals like it's supposed to."

I swallow, and a chill passes through my body. "Like nerve gas?"

"No, not nearly that bad, but there are are a few similarities, I suppose." We round a corner and stop in front of a curtained-off bed area. I can hear the steady, reassuring beep of monitors coming from behind the curtain.

"When Mr. Ellison got here, the medications that the paramedics gave him to stop the seizures were wearing off. We gave him a lot more sedative to stop them, as well as atropine and pralidoxime, which are a couple of specific antidotes for this kind of poisoning. He's responded very well, but he's going to be pretty shnockered for a while."

Before I can collapse with relief, the doctor twitches back the curtain and motions to us. I slip inside, with Simon following close behind me.

Jim still has the breathing tube down his throat, but now it's hooked up to a ventilator. They've cleaned him up and put a hospital gown on him. His color is good, and at least he looks relatively comfortable. I slide into the hard plastic chair by his bed and capture his hand in mine, while the doctor continues to talk with Simon.

"In smaller doses, the effects of this pesticide are usually limited to vomiting, diarrhea, sweats, trembling, things like that," he says. I blink. Ah, so that's why I feel so rotten. Maybe I can sneak away at some point and ask Dr. Roberts how long it's supposed to last.

"With massive exposures, or in people who are particularly sensitive to the effects, we see seizures."

Simon pulls up another chair and sinks into it. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He should be fine. He'll need to stay on the ventilator until all the sedation wears off, but I anticipate that will likely take only a few hours. They're getting an ICU bed for him as we speak." He clears his throat. "You're welcome to stay here with him for now."

Simon thanks the doctor, who nods and leaves us alone with our friend. Almost reverently, I lift Jim's limp hand and hold it to my own clammy face, feeling the warm blood course through it, sign of the warm, breathing life inside. So different from the stiff cold hand I'd touched in that parking lot, in that scene from my nightmares. Tears of relief slide from under my closed lids and drip noiselessly onto Jim's hand.

"Hey, big guy," I whisper. "You're gonna be okay. Just take it easy and sleep. I promise I'll be here when you wake up. Just don't make me wait too long." I close my mouth tightly, knowing that any further words out of it will be accompanied by more tears than I'm prepared to deal with right now. I'm shaking, and I don't know if it's from emotion or that damned pesticide.

I hear Simon get up and walk behind me, and I feel those strong hands rest on my shoulders. He doesn't say anything, but his presence helps steady me somehow, and the shaking stops. The three of us form a silent, unmoving tableau until they come to move Jim up to the ICU.

 

Part Three

 

Once we get up to the ICU with Jim, Simon performs an exercise in futility and tries to talk me into going home for a while.

"No way, Simon," I insist. "Not until he wakes up and sees me...then I'll consider it."

Simon shakes his head ruefully. "Blair, you're exhausted, you're still in wet clothes, you smell like that pesticide, and I can hear your stomach rumbling from here."

Ugh...don't remind me, Simon...that's not hunger, that's churning nausea that I'd rather not think about. Aloud, I say earnestly, "None of that matters, Simon. I'll get something hot to drink, and maybe they'll let me have a blanket so you can have your coat back. I'll be okay." I slip out of his coat while I'm saying this.

Simon takes off his glasses and rubs his face. "Why do I even try to win arguments with you, Sandburg? All right, have it your way. Do you want me to swing by the loft and bring you anything?"

"No...thanks, though." I find myself yawning, tired from after-reaction.

"Take care of him, Blair," he adds, and leaves.

Simon must have stopped and made a few suggestions at the nursing station on his way out, because a few minutes later one of the nurses comes in bearing a couple of blankets and a cup of cocoa. She's plump and motherly, and pats me on the head while she settles me down in the surprisingly comfortable chair.

"There you go, dear. Put your feet up on this," she sticks a folding chair under my feet, "and take a snooze. You look tired, and your friend'll be asleep for a while."

She gives my head a final pat. "Call if you need anything. It's slow in here tonight, thank God."

I sip the cup of cocoa slowly, and it stays down. Tossing the environmentally-unfriendly styrofoam cup in the nearby trash, I scoot closer to the bed and take Jim's hand once again. I lean back and settle into the blankets and close my eyes.

 

* * * * * *

 

I'm dozing, in an odd shallow state of near-sleep in which I still hear the beeping monitors, when I feel Jim's hand move in mine. My first terrified thought is that he's having another seizure. I sit up straight and look at him closely, but he appears to be resting peacefully. I also notice that my neck is stiff, my butt has gone to sleep, and my clothes are almost dry, so I guess I've been out for a while.

Experimentally, I squeeze Jim's hand...and am rewarded by an unmistakable return squeeze.

"Jim!" I whisper excitedly, mindful of the other patients in the ICU. "Can you hear me?" This time I get a faint nod in return. He even opens his eyes briefly, although they don't track very well.

I squeeze his hand again, then let it go. I wriggle out of my cocoon of blankets and pad barefoot over to the nurses' station, where I spot my cocoa-bearing angel of mercy writing in a chart. This time, I remember to look at her nametag, which reads "Doris". She looks up and smiles.

"Uh...Doris? I think Jim is starting to wake up. Will they take that tube out of him soon?"

"Probably." She closes the chart and comes over to Jim's bedside. I watch with groggy interest as she pinches his toes, asks him to nod (which he does) and asks him to squeeze her hand (which he also does). She next turns her attention to the ventilator dials, and nods with satisfaction.

"He's been breathing completely on his own for the last hour, dear, so I'll put in a page to the doctor on call. By the time he's able to get here, your friend will be awake enough to get that tube out."

 

* * * * * *

 

The on-call doctor arrives in short order, and apparently agrees with Doris. They make me step outside while they take the tube out; I take the opportunity to visit the facilities after I hear the first gurgly suction sounds coming from behind the curtain. Yuck. At least my stomach seems to be settling down; until I heard those sound effects I was almost hungry.

When they let me back in, the tube and ventilator are gone, and Jim is wearing an oxygen tube under his nose. He opens his eyes as I sit down in my chair and pick up his hand again.

"Hey, Chief," he manages to croak. "You look like hell."

Relief surges through me as a palpable wave. Despite what the ER doctor said, I'd been unable to shake the fear that Jim wouldn't wake up, or almost worse, wouldn't know me. Brain damage, from the horrible moments when he looked so stiff, so blue...that's all I could think of.

"You don't look so hot yourself, man," I murmur. "You took a bath in some toxic pesticide. Do you remember anything?"

"Not really," comes the hoarse response. "I feel like crap."

Now I can smile. "That's an amazing coincidence, 'cause you..."

"..look like crap," he finishes. "I know."

He smiles back, faintly, and closes his eyes. I reach up and lay a hand on his forehead in benediction as he falls asleep again.

 

Part Four

 

Two days later, they discharge Jim from the hospital. I think this has less to do with him getting better, and more to do with the exasperated nursing staff begging the doctors to send him home. Me, they loved...but after a few of Jim's remarks about the food, the lack of privacy, and his too-small hospital bed, the nurses were ready to sedate him and hook him back up to the ventilator. Not exactly a model patient, that's my partner. I point this out to him as we walk carefully out to my car, Jim having somehow gotten out of the regulation wheelchair ride.

"Jim, I can't believe they let you out so soon, man. What did you do?" I open the passenger door of my old Volvo for him. He may have won the arguments about going home and skipping the wheelchair bit, but there's no way I'm letting him drive.

He waits to answer until I'm settled in my seat as well. "I merely pointed out to them that unless they could prove to a judge that I was incompetent to make my own health care decisions, they had to let me go, and they might as well make the best of it."

I cluck my tongue disapprovingly. "Tact, Jim, when are we going to teach you some tact? You're lucky they didn't call your bluff." I turn to grin at him momentarily as we pull out of the patient loading zone. "Between us, I bet Simon and I could have found a judge who would do it." Jim growls something unintelligible, but he's smiling.

Simon's words of earlier that morning come back to me. I'd stopped by the station to talk to him on my way to pick Jim up, and he'd warned me in no uncertain terms that he expected Jim to rest for the rest of the week before coming back. Somehow, he'd seemed to think that I might be able to get Jim to behave.

I have my doubts about that.

"Do you have to go back for follow-up?" I ask casually, in search of potential nagging material.

 Jim's jaw works briefly. "The neurologist, on Friday," comes the short answer.

"Do you want me to come along? I can rearrange - -"

He cuts me off. "No, Sandburg, I can go to a doctor visit by myself, without you along to hold my hand."

Geez, what's crawled up his butt this morning? "Sure. Fine. Whatever." I shut up, and concentrate on driving.

I hear Jim sigh softly a few minutes later, as we're almost home. "Sorry, Chief. Didn't mean to bite your head off."

"That's okay," I lie.

"No, it's not," answers Jim. "But I'm not in the best mood to be pestered right now. I'm tired, I ache, and I've just had no privacy at all for the last two and a half days." He sighs again as I park my car in its usual spot. "I think I just need some time to myself, Chief."

We climb out of the car and head up the stairs. I try to sound light-hearted even though something in Jim's manner worries me just a little. "Hey, as long as you follow the doctors' instructions to the letter, sleep eight hours a night, eat nutritious food, and stay away from the station until next week I promise I'll leave you alone."

Jim smiles at me absently, sadly. "Deal, Sandburg."

 

* * * * * *

 

To my surprise, Jim seems to take the deal seriously. He takes a nap in the afternoon while I grade essays, and eats a substantial dinner without prompting. He even compliments me on my cooking, which tonight hardly qualifies as being worthy of the term. I've been too busy for anything fancy, so dinner is merely disguised leftovers. He even goes to bed early.

I stay up far later than I intended, first grading essays, then going over some of my notes on Jim's abilities. What with teaching and an unusually heavy caseload for Jim lately, I've been neglecting my documentation. I pull out my notebooks and laptop and get to work trying to get the mess organized.

When I find myself reading the same paragraph for the fifth time without really comprehending it, I know that it's time to stop for the night. I tidy up the coffee table and pack my papers and computer back into my room.

On impulse, I walk softly up the stairs leading to Jim's room, and stand halfway up listening to his quiet breathing. The normal, slow respiratory rhythm of sleep...nothing like his stuttering, struggling attempts during the seizure, or the harsh hiss of the ventilator.

I turn to go back downstairs, and curse to myself as the stair creaks...then I hear him roll over, and cough lightly, and I know he's suddenly awake.

"Chief?" comes the soft query.

"Sorry, Jim," I answer, pitching my voice low. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I...just felt like checking on you." I bite my lip, realizing I'm doing exactly what I said I wouldn't. "Sorry," I repeat.

Silence for a moment. Then, "Come on up for a moment, Chief."

I pad up the remaining few stairs, and perch hesitantly on the edge of Jim's bed. There's just barely enough light drifting up from below to keep me from tripping over anything. Not that there's ever anything up here to trip over; no randomly scattered items on Jim's floor.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see Jim sitting up against his pillows. He's got the same half-sad smile he was wearing earlier, in the car. The late hour, my fatigue, the darkness...all of this makes it somehow easier to talk to him instead of harder. "I'm surprised I was able to sneak up on you at all," I half-whisper. "You must have had your hearing really dialed down."

Jim closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. "Yeah. My head hurts, and my nerves seem to be a little raw still. I think I was hearing every keystroke you made," he admits. "So I cranked it back down...that's mainly where I've had all my senses, the last couple of days."

I frown. "Jim, level with me, man. How do you really feel? Is anything wrong?" A faint wisp of foreboding curls across my gut, like a brief cramp.

He shakes his head. "No. Nothing other that the obvious. Nothing I can really put my finger on. I'm just...irritable, I guess."

"I still wish you'd let them keep you in the hospital longer," I plead.

This time, Jim doesn't get mad. He smiles again, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "Chief, do you know the real reason they let me come home?"

I shake my head, mystified.

"I told the doctors I would get better faster, here at home, with you to look after me. The nurses agreed with me. One of them said to the doctors...something that I'll never forget."

He reaches a hand out to me, and I clasp it, comforted by the reassuring warmth. "What?"

"She said, Chief, and I quote, 'That young man just pours out healing to those around him.' Meaning you, Blair. You're constantly healing me, and I'm a rotten patient. I'll try to be better."

Now I'm smiling back. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jim?" I quip.

"Don't get smart with me, kiddo." He frees his hand and cuffs me lightly on the cheek. "Go get some rest, Chief. I'll see you in the morning."

 

Part Five

 

The next couple of days fly by, for me. I'd begged one of my fellow T.A's to cover for me while Jim was in the hospital, but in payment I'd agreed to teach her Thursday and Friday lectures so she could sneak off for an ultra-long weekend. I don't really mind; I do love to teach, and sometimes I feel guilty about the amount of time I spend doing things for the police instead of concentrating on my teaching responsibilities. This enforced "down time" will give me a good chance to reconnect with my academic life.

I'm initially a little concerned about leaving Jim by himself all day, but he seems to be doing so much better that I push the annoying worries away. The gloom that had fallen over him the day I brought him home from the hospital seems to pass, and I'm relieved to see and hear him acting much more like his usual self. He assures me several times that he feels fine, and so I plunge into an enjoyable haze of classes and reading.

Friday afternoon, I come home early after proctoring an exam for Leila's "Myth and Mysticism" class, laden with blue books to pass on to Leila on Monday. As I let myself in, I realize that the lights are off and there's no sign of Jim. Come to think of it, I hadn't noticed his truck down below. I'm about to get seriously worried, when I remember what he'd said about the neurologist appointment being today. He must not be back yet.

I toss my backpack in my room, and head for the kitchen to look for dinner inspirations. I'm definitely in a mood to cook something messy and creative. Hmmm...I've got tortillas in the freezer, and enchiladas are always fun. You can put just about anything in an enchilada and it will still be authentic, as long as the sauce is right. Let's see: here's onions, and sweet potatoes, and some of that Jack cheese with the little jalapenos in it...

Just before I put the kettle of sweet potatoes on to boil, I realize that I haven't got any tomatoes for the sauce, not even canned. Damn! Can't make enchiladas without sauce, after all. Since it's a nice day, I grab my keys and elect to walk to the small corner market three blocks away. Their prices are a little higher, but I hate the idea of driving just to get a couple cans of tomatoes.

Of course, once I'm there I have to pick up a carton of ice cream and a few other things; it's about forty-five minutes later when I walk back up the stairs with my groceries. The door swings open; Jim must be back.

"So, how was the doctor visit, big guy?" I plop the bag of groceries down on the counter before turning to look for Jim...and freeze.

I expect to see Jim sitting up on the couch, or perhaps hear him moving around in the bathroom or upstairs. But he's not in any of those locations; instead, he lies sprawled on the floor by the fireplace...once again, twitching irregularly, his eyelids fluttering.

My feet finally answer the shrieking demands of my brain, and I race to his side, almost tripping over his recumbent form. I sit down on the hard floor, and reach out to shake his shoulder.

"Jim!" Oh my God, I can't believe this is happening again. "Jim! Can you hear me?" Of course he can't, I berate myself. Seizure victims...what were you supposed to do with a seizure victim? He's breathing this time, at least. I need to call an ambulance, now.

But as I start to climb to my feet to get the phone, the shaking stops and all of Jim's muscles relax. His breathing becomes more regular, and his eyes close fully. I let out the breath that I hadn't realized I was holding, and sit back down on the floor next to him. With shaking hands I loosen the top buttons of his shirt, then pull his head onto my lap. He opens his eyes at the motion.

"Chief?" The barest whisper, in a strained voice...but there's recognition in his eyes, and bewilderment. "Wha' happened?"

"Sshh," I reply automatically, looking him over quickly. He doesn't seem to be injured anywhere, but my heart gives a painful lurch when I realize how close he must have come to striking his head on the fireplace when he collapsed. "You've had another seizure, Jim. Can you tell me...Jim, are you hurt anywhere?" I try to keep my voice calm, but it shakes anyway.

He shakes his head, and his eyelids drift shut again. "Not...'nother one. So tired...cold..."

I frown. Jim, cold? Not that he's exactly firing on all thrusters at the moment, but...if I lean all the way to my left, I can just reach the pillow that's on the chair. Lifting his head, I carefully squirm out from under him and slip the pillow underneath. He mumbles something incoherent, and rolls over onto his side.

"Hey, Jim, don't go to sleep on me, man," I say softly. "There's no way I can move you. You should be in bed, or at least on the couch."

In the end, though, I settle for tucking a couple of blankets around him where he lies. He's completely out, but breathing comfortably, so I figure I should just let him sleep it off.

And then what, Einstein? Call the neurologist? I don't even know the guy's name. Call Simon? Yeah, and have Jim string me up by my big toe when he wakes up. Besides, what could Simon do other than sit here with me and worry?

I move slowly to the kitchen and put my groceries away, all of my interest in cooking having fled. I notice absently that the ice cream hasn't melted too badly, and I toss it in the freezer. I put the sweet potatoes on to cook anyway, since I went to the trouble to peel them. Then I move over to the chair by Jim, and sit there thinking while I watch him sleep.

"This is not good, Sandburg," I say aloud. "Not good at all."

Jim hasn't said anything to me about expecting more seizures. Of course, he can be a bit elusive at times. I mentally curse myself for not going along to the neurologist appointment, for leaving Jim alone the last two days, for going to get groceries. Not very logical of me, to blame myself...but I can't help it.

After a few more minutes of circular thinking and mental dead-ends, the timer dings and I go to drain the sweet potatoes. Jim stirs and mutters at the sound, then goes back to sleep. I set the colander in the sink abruptly, thinking of Jim's few confused words after the seizure.

"Not another one," he'd said, or words to that effect. Was he referring to the initial episode in the warehouse? Or had there been another episode that I hadn't heard about?

I shake my head. "Buddy, when you wake up we are going to have a few things to talk about."

 

Part Six

 

Jim slumbers away on the floor while I go through the half-hearted motions of preparing dinner anyway. I make my enchilada sauce and finish concocting the filling. I'm just setting things up on the counter to assemble the whole mess when he finally stirs and sits up.

"Chief?" He rubs his eyes, looking extremely puzzled. "What the hell am I doing sleeping on the floor?"             

I turn off the burners and walk back into the living room to stand beside him. "What do you remember?" I ask carefully.

"Sandburg, what happened? I feel like crap." Jim rubs the back of his head. "My head hurts."

"You were having a seizure," I say, watching him for his reaction.

And I see it, the tiny inconsistency in his facial expression. Not the utter shock and disbelief that I would have expected as his response to this shattering news, but something else. Dread, followed immediately by guilt: both quickly clamped down.

Jim seems to deflate slightly, like a man who's just...well, like a man who's been told bad news that he was halfway expecting. Oh, I know him so well by now. Damn you, Jim, you've been hiding things from me again.

"What do you remember?" I ask again, finally sitting down on the couch.

He leans forward and rests his head in his hands for a moment. "I came home, and saw that you'd been here and started cooking, that your car was here. I figured you weren't far away. I remember dialing up my hearing, trying to see if I could tell where you were, hearing you walk up the street." He swallows and lifts his head. "That's it, until I woke up now."

His eyes meet mine, and I lock my gaze onto his, willing him not to look away. I need honesty from him, and I need it now. "Jim, how many other times has this happened that I don't know about?"

He can't look at me any longer, and I know his answer before he gives it. He grimaces as he answers.

"Besides the initial one? One other time, in the hospital, the night before I came home. No big deal." He picks absently at some loose stitching on the blanket.

"And they still let you be discharged? What were they thinking? What were you thinking, Jim?" I bounce to my feet on that last comment, my hands clenched at my sides.

"Settle down, Chief," Jim says tiredly. "And don't shout. My head is killing me."

I bite back any further response, and wordlessly collect the bottle of Tylenol from the bathroom. I shake out two and hand them to Jim with a glass of water. He swallows them, and slowly begins to lever himself off the floor with the aid of the chair behind him.

"Here, let me help," I say softly, and go to support him as he stands and walks over to the couch. I may be mad at him, but I don't want to watch him slip on the blankets and bean himself again. I think Jim's noggin has had enough punishment for one week.

I sit down beside him and take a deep breath, trying to continue the conversation in a more normal tone of voice. "Jim, why did they let you come home if you were still having seizures? Shouldn't you be on medication, or getting scanned, or something?"

"I talked to the neurologist about that before I came home," Jim says slowly. "She gave me a couple of options. I could stay there longer, or I could come home and continue my work-up as an outpatient. She didn't seem to think it would be a long-term issue, just an after-effect of the poisoning."

She? Whoops, Sandburg, you're being sexist. "And medication? To keep this from happening?"

"We talked about that too, Chief. She didn't think it was necessary yet."

"What about today? Did you go to your appointment?" I hate to badger Jim, but I need the information.

"Yes. She told me that I looked fine, that my EEG was normal, that I could return to work on Monday," he answers, a touch defensively.

Work. I haven't even thought about that yet; I've been too busy trying to just make sure Jim is going to be all right. I fall silent as the implications sink in, and the images rise in front of my mind's eye: Jim, having one of these episodes while working a case, or worse yet, while driving to one. Jim, lying helpless and unable to protect himself, with me miles away on campus.

"When are you going to tell Simon?" I ask.

"I'm not," he says simply, his eyes daring me to take the discussion further.

"Jim, are you nuts? At the very least, you should be on desk duty until this gets sorted out!"

His voice rises. "Sandburg, a couple of...of episodes doesn't make me an epileptic. I'm still just trying to get this stuff out of my system. I probably reacted differently than most people, that's all. I've got the weekend to rest up." He takes a deep breath. "I'll be fine."

"Jim...I wish you would listen," I plead. "C'mon, man! At any moment, this could happen again, and you'd be helpless."

"That's always been the case!" he counters. "Ever since my senses came on-line, I've been in constant danger of a zone-out. That leaves me just as helpless, and we've learn to deal with that possibility." His voice softens. "Come on, Chief. Help me out, here. Between you and me, we can figure this one out." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Just work with me a little longer on this."

I look down at the couch, not meeting his eyes. In a way, he's right. The whole problem isn't that much different that the zone-out issue. And the rules at Cascade P.D. have always been a little different for Jim, not to mention for me. But I'm still scared for Jim, for his safety.

"Promise me you'll put a time limit on this," I ask, raising my eyes again to look at him. "Two weeks, Jim. If you're still having trouble in two weeks, we tell Simon and your specialist. And promise me, you'll take me with you whenever possible when you're working."

Jim meets my gaze for a minute, and I can read the pain and uncertainty there. My righteous anger melts away; this courageous man, my friend, is frightened by this betrayal of his own strong body. All of his posturing and bravado can't change that, and he needs my help. Impulsively, I slip my left arm around his broad back, and he leans against me for a moment.

"I promise, Chief," he answers, almost inaudibly against my hair. "Two weeks."

 

Part Seven

 

All that weekend I watch Jim covertly. If he notices, he gives no sign. I change my plans of studying in the library all day Saturday and instead arrange to check out the materials and bring them home.

Jim goes down to the basement and brings up a set of battered wooden shelves, and announces his plans to refinish them. "With all of your books and oddities, Chief, I figured we could use the extra shelf space," he explains nonchalantly.

Other than a brief trip to the hardware store for sandpaper and stain, he doesn't leave the loft. He sets up his work area in the living room, moving the furniture and putting down newspapers. He works diligently and carefully at his task for the rest of the day.

Between paragraphs, I sneak surreptitious glances at him. He kneels, absorbed in his work, feeling the smooth wood for any tiny roughened spots. I smile to myself: it's an unusual application of his talents, but certainly a piece of furniture sanded by a finicky Sentinel would turn out satiny smooth.

There's no trace of last night's brief discord, and I feel once again as if Jim and I are in synch, in communion. It's as if he knows, without my specifically mentioning the subject again, that I need to watch him and know that he's safe. And truly, being with him like this does help.

We pass the rest of this weekend largely in silence, in quiet. There are no further signs of seizures: no staring, no twitching, not even the slightest hint of a zone-out. By Sunday night my anxiety is fading, and I make no further comments against the idea of Jim returning to work in the morning.

Monday and Tuesday pass routinely. I go to my classes and teaching sessions at Rainier as scheduled, trusting that Jim will call me on the cell phone if he needs me. "There's been nothing active, Chief," he tells me. "We're just going over old cases. Go ahead and get caught up on school for a change."

Wednesday morning the phone rings during breakfast. Jim snatches it up. "Ellison."

I listen to his tone of voice and watch his face. Calling at this time of day, it's almost certainly Simon.

Jim's eyebrows raise almost to his hairline...no mean feat. "Really? Huh. Well, it's the least we can do. Sounds good. What's the address?" He leans over to the counter and scribbles something on a scrap of paper. "Okay. Sandburg and I can take tonight's shift." He looks over at me questioningly; I nod. I'm not sure what I've just agreed to, but I'm not letting him go by himself.

"Right," he finishes. "Talk to you later, sir."

"What's up?" I ask.

Jim sits back down and attacks his breakfast again. "Seems that the state police office in Seattle thinks they might have an I.D. on this serial killer, and their suspect's mother lives right here in Cascade. They're reasonably sure he might end up here eventually."

"So we're staking out the house?" This doesn't sound too bad.

"We're helping out the state police. They'll take some of the shifts and we'll take some. I figured that tonight would be better for you, Chief." He frowns. "You don't have to, you know. Do you have classes tomorrow?"

"No, actually. I'll be fine, Jim."

"Good." He gets up and carries his cereal bowl to the sink. "Take a nap if you can. I have the feeling this is going to be boring."

 

* * * * * *

 

We arrive at the stakeout site at about 8 that evening; the state police team is just packing up their stuff. We chat briefly; they've seen no one entering or leaving except the elderly woman herself.

"We were lucky to be able to get this house," one of them comments. "It was already vacant and up for rent, and you've got a perfect view of the front door." We're in a little grey house directly across the street from a battered aquamarine trailer. A few tired blades of grass grow out in front of the trailer, along with some brightly-colored plastic daisies that spin jerkily in the breeze.

After the state cops leave, Jim twitches aside the curtains. "Nice place," he comments.

I stare thoughtfully out the window. "Most killers grow up in poverty, Jim, within impaired or dysfunctional families. In primitive societies with fewer class distinctions, violent crime is much less common."

Jim grunts in reply and drags a chair up to the window to watch, sucking on the straw of an enormous paper cup of cola that he bought on the way to the stakeout. I guess he figures he'll need the caffeine. After a few attempts at conversation, I settle down in the other chair with an article that I've been putting off reading, dealing with dowry practices in sub-Saharan Africa. "Dry" doesn't begin to describe it.

By the time I finish reading and put the article aside, I'm starting to yawn and my neck is stiff. Jim's still staring out the window; his face expressionless. He rubs a hand across his eyes, then looks over at me as I put my neck through various contortions in an attempt to get the kink worked out of it. He smiles slightly.

"Hey, Chief," he says slowly, "drag your chair over here for a minute." He turns so that his left side faces the window and motions me to sit in front of him. Mystified, I comply, sliding over next to the window, facing away from him.

"Okay, watch the trailer for a sec."

"Why?" I ask curiously. "I mean, I'm glad to, it's my turn, but," I try to turn around to look at him, which yanks on my sore neck. "Ow." I reach up a hand to rub the offending muscles. "It hurts when I do that."

A low chuckle from Jim. "So don't do that." He puts a hand on the side of my chin and gently redirects my vision out the window. "Hold still for a few minutes, if that's physically possible for you, Chief."

Then he puts both hands on my shoulders and proceeds to massage my sore neck. It feels wonderful, especially since I spent the day doing research instead of taking the recommended nap. I have trouble keeping my eyes open and fixed on the trailer across the street...until I feel the ice slide down between my shoulder blades. I open my mouth to yell. "Jim, you - - mmph!" A handful of ice, presumably from Jim's soda, lands in my mouth as well, and I slide off the chair howling with laughter and indignation.

"C'mon, Chief, get off the floor," says Jim with a creditable attempt at a straight face. "It's your turn to stare out the window."

 

Part Eight

 

The night wears on, and we both get increasingly punchy. Jim, I'm sure, is expecting retaliation for the ice incident, but I really haven't any hope of getting past his guard. I have to be satisfied with making him slightly nervous instead.

At about 3:30, I'm pouring the last of the coffee out of the thermos when Jim suddenly sits up straight and frowns...and gets that listening look on his face.

"What?" I ask, setting down the thermos.

"I'm not sure. I hear something..." Jim puts one hand to his forehead, as if in pain.

"Headache?" I ask.

"No...lights, too bright..." he mutters, his voice oddly thick.

And then I stand frozen as he stiffens in the cheap plastic chair, his head thrown back, his face contorted in an eerie grimace. Once again, I watch helplessly as the seizure overcomes him with its fury, as the tiny spark of awareness that is my friend is engulfed in a terrifying neurologic electrical storm.

I grab the chair to keep it from toppling, and cling grimly to Jim's jerking skull while still trying to keep one eye on the trailer across the street. Gradually, the motions subside; as his body become boneless I struggle to ease the chair out from under him and manage, grunting, to lay him out on the floor.

Then I return to my vigil, staring miserably out the dirty window, trying not to think about what I'll say to Jim when he awakens.

 

* * * * * *

 

He sleeps for about an hour. This time, when he awakens, the confusion is short-lived; I can tell from the horrified look on his face that he realizes what's happened. I remain seated where I am, my attention focused out the window but with my eyes making occasional anxious flickers to Jim's face.

"How long?" he asks, finally.

I'm momentarily disoriented by the question. How long was the seizure, or how long since it happened? "The seizure was only a few minutes, but you've been asleep for about an hour." My voice sounds flat and accusing to my ears.

Painful silence for a few minutes. Then, "I'm sorry, Chief." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him lift himself slowly to a sitting position.

A pressure builds up behind my eyeballs, and I can feel my temper rising. Even the heat of anger seems to carry more life that the blankness I've been feeling since tonight's seizure.

"You're sorry," I repeat bitterly. "Gee, that helps a lot, Jim. That makes me feel so much better." I stand up, and turn to face him. "Here we are, on an official stakeout assignment, and you've been lying there unconscious for over an hour."

"Chief, I said - -"

"Let me finish, Jim." My voice drops, low but intense. "We've been incredibly lucky. What if I'd seen our suspect walk out that front door? What if your seizure hadn't stopped by itself? I think that an ambulance pulling up in front of a supposedly vacant house would have been a little suspicious, don't you?" I turn around and go back to the window, where I don't have to see the hurt in his eyes.

"This can't go on, Jim. You've go to do something, or I will."

Jim staggers to his feet and walks uncertainly to the house's tiny bathroom. He doesn't quite get the door closed, and I can hear him retching. At that sound, I feel the bulk of my anger radiating away.

Eventually he comes out and sinks back into his chair. He doesn't say anything.

"Are you all right?" I finally manage to say. The words sound pitifully weak compared to my heated outburst of a few moments ago. Way to go, Sandburg...kick your sick partner when he's down. Even if he is being an idiot.

Jim sighs and leans onto the table, his head resting on his folded arms. "Depends on what you intend to do next, Chief," he says finally.

"What do you think I should do, Jim?" I answer. My throat tightens. As my fury dissipates, the tears threaten to wreck what little composure I've got left. Dammit, this whole situation is tearing me apart...I can hardly imagine what it must be doing to Jim.

"You promised me two weeks," he reminds me, his voice hardening slightly.

So I did. Not one of my smarter moves, in retrospect.

"I guess...I didn't expect it to happen again," I explain half-heartedly.

"Neither did I," Jim whispers, burying his face in his arms.

Hesitantly, mindful of my earlier angry words, I reach out to lay a hand on his arm. He's still trembling slightly with the after-effects of the seizure, and his skin feels cool and sweaty.

"Please, Jim." My voice comes out hoarse, clouded with suppressed emotion. "Please tell Simon about this, and take some sick time." I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

"We'll talk about it later, Chief," he insists, raising his head. I can almost feel him gather up his will, feel him lock up his own insecurities in some lost compartment for which I don't have the key. "I'm all right. You've watched long enough; let me take over."

Reluctantly, I move aside, but I continue to watch both Jim and the trailer's front door. We sit in silence until morning, and a palpable curtain of tension falls once more between us.

 

Part Nine

 

Rafe and Brown show up a little early to relieve us, about 7:30 a.m; the state cops are planning to take the next night shift. Both detectives greet us cheerfully, but I can only manage a weak smile in return. Jim just grunts.

"What's with him?" Rafe asks me quietly, as I slip out the door.

I shrug. "Just tired, I guess. It was a long night," I explain, and hurry out to the truck.

Briefly, I consider arguing with Jim over who should drive. But it's a short trip, and I decide not to push it. I'm going to need every ounce of will and determination that I have if I'm going to convince Jim to deal with this problem.

As soon as we get home, Jim tosses his keys in the basket and starts to head upstairs. I snatch at his elbow.

"Wait, Jim. I need to talk to you."

Jim sighs. "Sandburg, I'm tired, I've got a massive headache, and I want to go to sleep. Can't this wait?"

"No, I don't think it can." I talk quickly, afraid that he'll simply walk away and ignore me. "I need to know what you intend to do about this...this problem, Jim. Besides your strategy of just hoping that it will go away, that is." Drat...too sarcastic. There's a fine line to arguing with Jim. Too harsh, and he'll just shut down completely...but if I'm too conciliatory, he won't take me seriously.

Jim glares at me. "Sandburg, this is my problem, and my responsibility. You can either help me, or stay out of my way. You are not my conscience." He turns away again.

"No, I'm not...but I'm your friend, and your Guide. Doesn't that count for anything?" Haven't I earned the right for you to listen to me? I add silently.

Jim closes his eyes. "Just what do you expect me to do about this, Chief?"

"I already told you, Jim. Take some medical leave, and go back to your doctor."

When he opens his eyes again, his face remains shuttered. "It's too late now," he says woodenly. "It's gone too far, now. I can't tell Simon until we've got this licked."

At least he's saying "we" now. "But you're not doing anything to find a solution, Jim. That's what I'm trying to tell you." My voice breaks, despite my best efforts.

"I don't think this is anything the doctor can help me with, Chief." He rubs his hand across his face. "She didn't expect me to have any more seizures, and told me everything was normal. I think it's a Sentinel thing, and I think you'll have to be the one to figure it out. If anyone can." His voice sounds so tired, so devoid of hope.

"Then give me that chance to fix it!" I grab his wrist and hold it. "Right now, no one knows about this but us. Take a few days off, and just tell Simon you're not feeling well. Which is true." I lock eyes with him, willing him to agree with me, to give me some assurance.

He looks away after only a few seconds. "Maybe, Chief," he sighs. "Let me think about it." He gently removes my hand from its death-grip on his wrist. "I really need some rest now." He turns and ascends the stairs.

I stay there for a few moments, my soul aching, and finally walk slowly to my own room.

 

* * * * * *

 

I sit in the middle of my bed, a colorful pillow clutched to my stomach.

I've tried to sleep, but my mind won't let me. The one time that I drifted off, I dreamed of Jim...running toward a steep cliff while I shouted at him to be careful. Jim's been upstairs for two hours now, presumably asleep, but I'm still sitting here hashing out arguments with myself.

I'm faced with a choice I never wanted to face. Despite my best efforts, I cannot get Jim to promise to seek medical attention. I cannot get him to promise to take time off. He might come around eventually and agree with me, but how long do I dare to wait?

Every day that he goes untreated might make it that much harder to find a cure. Every day that he's out on the streets is another chance for him to collapse behind the wheel of his truck, or falter in the course of his duties...to endanger himself, the people of Cascade, and the excellent men and women who are his colleagues.

No oaths bind me to protect the people of my city, like the oaths that bind Jim; I have no contract, no paycheck from the Cascade P.D. But in my own way, I've served them both, with my body and with my blood...in a thousand ways. And it's reciprocal: this city, even with all its blemishes, has become my home; through Jim, the Major Crimes crew has become in a sense my family, their souls enmeshed with mine. Where does my ultimate responsibility lie?

I have two choices, as I see it. I can continue to keep Jim's secret, as he's essentially asked me to do...and keep hoping that I can convince him to take action. By doing so, I would implicitly condone his decisions, and share in any blame.

Or, I can go to Simon and tell him everything. Betray Jim, at least in his eyes, even if for his own good.

Once, this would have been easy. Before I met Jim, it never would have occurred to me to take responsibility for another person's choices. Now, things aren't as clear for me.

My mind tells me that I must act; my heart and gut weep at the thought of doing this to Jim. He's not just my research subject; he's my best friend, my partner, my Blessed Protector.

I lay back on the bed, fighting back tears and a sick feeling in my stomach. What we've got...can it survive this? If I tell Simon about Jim's seizures, will my friend ever forgive me?

Maybe not...but maybe he'll at least be alive long enough to have the chance to do so.

I reach over and set the alarm to allow for a nap. I need a little sleep to be safe to drive. With Jim upstairs, I can't just pick up the phone and blab to Simon; I'll have to go down there in person. And, realistically, I need to take the time to gather up a few things, as there's no guarantee that I'll have a place to stay after tonight. Maybe Simon will put me up for a few days if things get ugly.

I finally fall asleep, still clutching the pillow.

 

Part Ten

 

Brrriinnngggg!

I roll over and pick up the alarm clock. First, I try to turn it off, then I realize that the ringing is coming from the other room.

Brrriinnngggg!

It's the phone. Of course.

I pad out to the kitchen and snatch up the phone, glancing at the clock as I answer. It's 2:14 p.m.; my alarm would have been going off in a few minutes anyway.

"Hello?" I barely restrain myself from just saying, "Yeah?"

"Sandburg? I need to talk to Jim." It's Simon.

I'm momentarily confused. Wait a minute here, I wasn't going to call Simon; I was going to go talk to him in person. Only I haven't done it yet...have I? So why does he want to talk to Jim?

"Sandburg?" comes Simon's voice. "Hello? Can I talk to Jim?" Now he sounds irritated.

"Uh...sorry, Simon. Hang on, here he comes." The object of the conversation is striding into the kitchen now, in boxers and half-askew bathrobe. He grabs the phone from me. "Ellison."

"You're welcome," I mutter under my breath. Now I remember...I haven't talked to Simon yet; the phone call is just a coincidence. But why would Simon bother us after an all-night stakeout?

Jim's already hanging up; I've missed most of the conversation while in my sleep-stupid state. "What's up? " I ask cautiously. I feel as if my decision to betray Jim's condition to Simon must somehow be visible on my face.

He doesn't seem suspicious, though, merely slightly wary. "Rafe called in; he thinks the suspect has just shown up at the trailer. They're waiting for back-up, and then they'll go in. Simon wants me there as well." He goes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and returns fully dressed in a remarkably short period. He hesitates at the door just for a second. "Are you coming?"

This is crazy...but what choice do I have? "Sure. Hang on just a moment." I snatch up my shoes, stuffing my feet into them. I hadn't bothered to undress for my nap.

Jim touches my shoulder briefly once we're in the truck. "Chief...I'll stay out of trouble. Simon just wants me there to make sure none of the evidence gets missed. I'll let Brown and Rafe wave their guns around. Most of the action will probably be over by the time we get there."

 

* * * * * *

 

As we pull up in front of the now all-too-familiar trailer, though, the team is just assembling on the trailer's tiny porch. Rafe and Brown, plus three state police, all vested and armed to the teeth. Jim's right...they don't really need him, just someone with a dustpan to sweep up the pieces.

We climb out, and, true to his promise, Jim hangs back and merely waves at Rafe. Rafe grins back. One of the state cops rings the doorbell; when there's no answer, Brown counts to "3" with finger gestures and Rafe kicks the flimsy door in with a crash. "Police!" someone shouts, and they cautiously make their way in, with drawn weapons.

Even distracted by my worry for Jim and my heartache over my decision, I can feel a little bit of curiosity eating at me. When Jim walks up onto the creaking porch and peeks in, I follow him. From inside the trailer, I can hear the sounds of the guys thumping around, looking for the suspect...and the sound of frantic sobbing, presumably the old lady. I step inside, still at Jim's heels. Yes, there's the elderly mother, sitting on the couch; Rafe's talking with her and trying to reassure her, looking most uncomfortable.

We walk into the kitchen; Jim keeps one hand on his gun. The place is unbelievably filthy. My sneakers slide unpleasantly on the greasy kitchen floor. An odor of stale cigarettes, rotted food and unwashed bodies permeates the air. I sure hope Jim has his sense of smell turned all the way down, or we'll all be treated to the spectacle of watching a Sentinel lose his lunch. Not that he's had any.

Brown and the state cops emerge from the trailer's single bedroom, leading a handcuffed fortyish balding man. Brown looks pretty pleased with himself; the suspect looks...creepy. I can't really put my finger on what it is about him that bothers me; something about his eyes. He stops briefly in the kitchen and stares at me; until the state cop jostles him from behind.

"Get moving."

After the guy's eyes pass over me, my skin crawls. Brrr...what a nasty-looking dude. They take him outside and stuff him into a patrol car. I walk out the front door again, with Rafe close behind me.

As we join up with the others on the sidewalk, Rafe and Brown start arguing good-naturedly.

"Man, I bagged him; I did all the work. You should have to go downtown and get the dude booked and processed," gripes Brown.

"That's just it." Rafe smiles winningly. "He's your suspect now, and your responsibility."

"My responsibility? Just 'cause you were busy holdin' hands with his mama?" Brown feigns indignation.

"Oh, c'mon, take him in and get started. I'll go over to the stakeout house and get all of our stuff."

Brown grumbles something inaudible, but climbs into the patrol car and leaves. Jim comes back out of the trailer.

"Whew, what a stench." He turns to Rafe. "Good work, for both of you. I wasn't looking forward to any more night-long stakeouts, listening to the tribal customs of the Abudabu Indians or whatever it is he talks about." Jim jerks a thumb at me.

I don't think he means anything by this, he's just making conversation...but I feel my face flush anyway.

Rafe catches my eye and grins, then shrugs. The meaning is clear: I shouldn't let Jim get on my nerves. I feel a little better, but only a little. The real problem isn't something I can just let slide off my back like Jim's occasional cutting remarks.

As Jim and I start to walk back to the truck, Rafe calls out to us. "Hey, I just remembered. We were just tearing into a pizza when the suspect showed up. You guys want some?"

Jim perks up visibly, no doubt already smelling the pepperoni and grease from where he stands. "Pizza? Sure."

We accompany Rafe back across to the grey stakeout house, and up the porch stairs. Jim gets to the door first, and puts his hand on the doorknob...and stops. "Do you smell that?" He wrinkles his nose.

"Smell what?" laughs Rafe. "How can you smell anything after being in that trailer? My nose still burns."

Jim's hand jerks on the doorknob, and for a fraction of a second I think he's just having trouble getting the door open. Then I glance at his face, and I see his eyes roll back into his head.

"Jim!" I scream, and dive for him, but I'm too far away.

He sags and collapses, back into Rafe...who's caught with his left hand in his pocket. Rafe's other arm flails wildly as he falls. Jim's weight is enough to knock the poor guy backwards, completely off the porch; he lands on his outstretched right arm with a sickening crunch.

 

Part Eleven

 

There's too much happening here, too much at once.

Finally, I understand a tiny bit of what is must be like for Jim, zoning out on sensory overload. Instead, I've got emotional overload. My best friend lies on the porch, his body stiffening in yet another seizure, his face stretched in a horrible parody of a grin. At the bottom of the stairs, I can see Rafe's crumpled body, moving feebly; worse yet, I can hear him scream with pain.

I don't know who to help first.

It seems like I stand there for minutes in an agony of indecision, but it's probably only a second or two before I run down the stairs to Rafe's side. I tell myself that Jim will be okay, he's been through this before; I'm just going to have to hope that he keeps breathing and comes out of the seizure on his own. The realization that this is, in some sense, Jim's fault, is not something that comes to me in any coherent thought...but I can't remember another time when I wouldn't have rushed to Jim's side first even if someone else needed me more.

Rafe's legs are still on the bottom step, at an awkward angle, while his body is mainly on the sidewalk. Blood pours out of a laceration over one eye. Even before I get to him, I can see that his right arm must be broken. It certainly wasn't mean to bend there, just above his elbow.

"Rafe!" I shout, trying to get his attention through the haze of his pain. "C'mon, man, calm down and let me help you." I look for a place to touch him without hurting him further, and settle for putting one hand on his chest. "Take some deep breaths; you're hyperventilating."

He tries to comply, drawing deep, shuddering gasps of air. "Oh, God, this hurts. My arm hurts."

"Your arm's broken, Rafe," I say, trying to keep my own voice steady, "but you'll be okay." I reach out to touch his left hand and the uninjured arm. "I need to go call an ambulance for you. I'll be back as fast as I can."

"All...all right. H-hurry." Rafe's teeth are chattering with reaction and shock; I slip off my sweater and lay it on top of him as I get up. Not much, but maybe it'll help.

I sprint back up the stairs, stopping a moment to check on Jim. He's stopped seizing and appears to be breathing okay. I run past him, into the house. Thankfully, the department had the phone hooked up here just for the stakeout, otherwise I'd have to waste time getting Jim's keys off of him to get the cell phone out of the truck where we left it. I make the call and give the dispatcher what information I can, then hurry back down to Rafe's side.

He's a little calmer now; I reach over to take his good hand. "Ambulance is on its way. Just hang in there, buddy."

He nods. "What's...what's the matter with Jim, Blair? Where is he?"

I have to look away. "He's okay. He's...not feeling too good right now."

 

* * * * * *

 

As I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the Emergency department waiting room, I have a curious sense of having come full circle, back to the beginning. Maybe...maybe if I try hard enough, or wish on the right star, I'll find everything back the way it was when I sat here last time. Maybe the last week was only a dream, a nightmare brought on by too much studying and odd hours.

Last time I sat in this waiting room, I feared for Jim's body. Now, I fear for his psyche, his soul...not to mention his career, and our friendship.

I've already talked to the ER doctors about Jim. They looked him over and did another CT scan, which was normal. They tell me that he's waking up, and I tell them about the previous episodes so that they understand what they're dealing with. In light of the frequency and severity of the seizures, they want to admit him overnight for observation.

They offer me the chance to see him, but I tell them I'll wait until he's in a room. Then I go back to sitting in the waiting room, staring numbly at my hands.

Simon shows up, eventually. Someone from the hospital must have notified him; I didn't. In fact, I don't really want to see him. I know that I have no masks left, nothing to hide behind. There's nothing left of me but brutal honesty.

I'm only half-aware of Simon as he sits next to me in the waiting room. He must sense that I'm not really quite myself, because he doesn't bluster, doesn't yell, just lays a big hand on my shoulder and speaks to me gently.

"Sandburg, what's going on here? What happened to Jim and Rafe?"

I blink at him, puzzled, for a moment. "How long have you been here, Simon?"

He sighs. "Long enough to talk with the doctors, and long enough to find you. What are you doing, over here in the corner like this?" I'd chosen the darkest, furthest corner of the waiting room to hide in. "I almost didn't see you." He looks at my face, and frowns. "You look shell-shocked, Blair."

"That's a pretty accurate observation, Simon. I feel like I've just been through a battle."

"What happened?" he asks again. "The doctors tell me that Rafe has a bad fracture, that he's going to surgery. How did it happen?"

I don't answer; Simon persists. "And they tell me that Jim had some kind of seizure. Were you there?"

"Every time, almost," I whisper.

"What do you mean, 'every time', Sandburg?" Simon's voice grows deeper, more ominous.

Oh, Simon, you don't want to hear this. Don't make me tell you what your star detective has been doing to himself; it's too late now, anyway. I put one hand in front of my face.

"Jim's been having seizures since he came home from the hospital," I tell Simon in a low voice, unable to look at his face.

"What?" exclaims Simon. "Jim hasn't said anything about this. Are you sure?"

"Oh, very sure, Simon. I wish I was wrong. He...wouldn't go to the doctor, wouldn't let me tell you." I feel unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. "I'd made up my mind to tell you, this morning, after he had a seizure during the stakeout." I can hear Simon's sharp intake of breath at that piece of information. "But...I never got the chance, and now it's too late."

I can see a blend of emotions cross Simon's face, out of the corner of my eye. Disbelief, fury, and worry all war for precedence in his eyes. I try to get up, to run somewhere, to be anywhere other than here...but Simon still holds me down by one shoulder. "I want the whole story, Sandburg. What happened to Rafe?"

I reach up to wipe tears off my face. "He fell off the porch." I explain, dully. "Jim had a seizure, and slammed into him. Is he..is Rafe going to be okay?"

"I hope so." Simon puts his free hand on my other shoulder, and forces me to turn slightly. "Sandburg, look at me. Look at me!" he repeats sharply. Reluctantly, I comply. "Yes, you should have told me. I'm not happy about that." He lets that sink in a moment. "But Jim Ellison is a hard man to say 'no' to, and you trust him. I can understand how this happened, I think."

He looks at me, taking in my misery and my guilt, my reddened eyes, my defeated appearance. "Sandburg, I want you to do something for me."

I nod in aquiescence, not trusting my voice.

"I want you to go back in there, and sit with Jim. Stay with him. He's going to need you when he wakes up from this. He'll be in bad shape when he finds out what happened."

 

 

Part Twelve

 

At Simon's words, I sigh and drop my head into my hands. "I was afraid that's what you were going to ask," I say softly.

"Sandburg..." Simon sounds exasperated. "Sandburg, what the hell's the matter with you? Why do I find you skulking out here in the waiting room, when you should be with Jim? I mean, it's almost one of the laws of the universe! Where I find one of you, I find the other. Especially when something is wrong." He pauses for a moment. "Are you that mad at him?"

"I guess so...I don't know." I rub my tired face. "I've tried...to feel something, Simon. Other than worry, anyway. I can't seem to get really angry with Jim, but I'm just not ready to face him, either." I don't understand my own feelings, my ambivalence. Or really, my lack of feelings.

"Blair, you can do this," says Simon, dropping his voice. "You've been through worse with Jim. It's not as if he's really done anything to hurt you, this time."

I nod half-heartedly. What Simon says is true; we've been through worse.

"Think about it this way," Simon continues. "As Jim's immediate supervisor, I'm extremely disappointed in him for ignoring his medical problems at the expense of one of his colleagues. Yes, I'm angry. But I'm also his friend, and as his friend I'm worried about how he's going to react to the consequences of his actions."

Simon stands up. "As his boss, there'll be some decisions I'm going to have to make, based on what you've told me. As his friend, I don't want to talk to him about any of this until he's in better shape, and that means having you at his side, supporting him. Apologies and explanations can wait.

"Jim's honor is his life. We both know that. Sandburg, if you can't find it in your heart to forgive Jim for this...this, stupidity and pride of his, if you can't start feeling again, being the friend and Guide that Jim needs...then you may as well just take his gun and point it at his head. Save him the trouble." Simon's voice becomes harsh.

I leap up. "Jim would never...Simon, you can't make me responsible for him like that!" I say this louder than I intended; a couple of people turn and stare from the other side of the waiting room. They're too far away to actually hear us, though.

Simon's just trying to scare me, right? Jim wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. Would he?

A terrifying vision swims before my eyes...of me, coming home to the loft one day, and finding Jim. Swinging from a rafter, his face purple, his heartbeat stilled forever, the blue eyes clouded in death...

I don't realize that I'm crying until I feel Simon's arm around my shoulders, forcing me to sit down next to him. "Easy, Blair. It's okay. He's going to be all right."

"Oh, God, you're right," I gasp into his suit jacket. "This could kill him."

"Sssshh," Simon says. "No, it won't. We won't let it happen." He pats my back. "Now you're thinking like a Guide again, Blair."

And I'm feeling again. It hurts. The numbness hovers near, just out of reach...but I won't go there. I choose to be flesh, not ice; I choose empathy over detachment. But oh, it hurts.

"How can I help him?" I pull back from Simon a little so that I can see his face. "He hasn't exactly been taking my advice, lately."

"How will you know, Blair, until you try?" Simon pauses to let that sink in. "Think about it a little more, think about what you need to say. But go talk to him, Sandburg. Fix whatever's wrong between you, and you'll go a long way towards making him feel better."

He takes a deep breath, and stands up. "I'm going to see if they will let me see Rafe before he goes to surgery. Jim's in the exam area number three, on the left. The nurse will let you in."

I shake my head, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "I'm ready, now. Show me."

 

* * * * * *

 

My legs wobble uncertainly as I walk through the Emergency Department. I stand nervously for a moment in front of the indicated curtain, then yank it aside.

Jim's in the bed with his eyes closed, but they open at the sudden sound and movement of the curtain. To my utter relief, he looks at me with recognition. He doesn't smile at me, but there's a sort of yearning on his face as his eyes meet mine. There's a chair by the head of the bed; I step inside and close the curtain and sink gratefully into the chair.

"Hey," I say softly, taking his cool, sweaty hand in mine.

"Chief," he murmurs. "I was beginning to wonder if they'd ever let you back here. Made me think something was wrong with you."

A sharp pang of guilt stabs me in the gut. "No," I reply haltingly. "I'm okay. How do you feel?" That seems fairly safe.

"Just a headache, and I'm a little woozy." He looks away, and sighs. "It happened again, didn't it? No one's telling me much, but I assume I'm not here because somebody bonked me on the head."

"No...you had another seizure. How much do you remember?" I ask carefully. How much have they told him?

"I remember coming out to the trailer, watching the arrest...then, not much. Laying down. The EMTs talking to me." He frowns. "Chief, why'd you have me brought to the hospital, anyway? How long was I out?"

"Long enough." I don't want to go there, just yet. Obviously, no one's told him about Rafe and his injury; I guess that will be my joyous task. But first...

"Did anyone else see me go down?" Jim persists.

I take a deep breath, and release Jim's hand. "Jim, the doctors know about all of the earlier episodes. I had to tell them; I thought it was important for them to know. And," I hesitate only a second, "I told Simon as well. He needed to know, Jim."

"You what?" he hisses. "You had no right! The doctors, maybe, I can see that. But you should have...Dammit, Sandburg, you should have let me tell this to Simon myself!" He half-sits up in the bed, eyes blazing.

"Jim!" I push him back down. "How long, do you think, before he found out anyway? You were unconscious, man. I did what I thought was right." I did what you should have done a week ago, my mind adds. "You didn't give me much choice."

We lock eyes, and just for a second I witness a brief glimpse of the full Ellison fury. A bit like looking into a nuclear reactor, I suppose. But I stand my ground; this time, I'm going to win.

Then he sags defeatedly, and his gaze falls away from mine. I take his hand again, squeezing it; he returns the gesture half-heartedly. "I'm sorry," I whisper. Not sorry for my choice, but sorry for what Jim's going to go through. He can interpret my words however he chooses.

He reaches up his free hand and touches my face briefly. I'd debated stopping to wash away the evidence of my emotional conversation with Simon before coming back to talk with Jim, but I think I was somehow afraid of returning to that frozen state of un-feeling. When Jim speaks, I can hear a faint shake in his voice.

"You've been crying, Chief."

I nod at him without answering. The hand returns to my face, gently tracing the tear-tracks. "That's not like you. Were you that worried about me, about this mess I've got myself into?" Apprehension creeps into his voice. "Or is something else wrong?"

I'm saved from answering by one of the nursing staff, who pokes her head in. "They've got a room for you upstairs, now, Mr. Ellison. We'll roll you up in just a moment." She smiles at both of us.

 

Part Thirteen

 

It takes a while to get Jim settled in his hospital room, and I try to use the time to regain my emotional footing. I nip down the hall for a cup of coffee, rather than stick around and observe the admission process. I know, from entirely too much personal experience, what will be involved. First, the nurse will ask all of the same questions that have already been asked downstairs. Then Jim will have to put on his silly hospital gown, and complain about how it hangs open in back. After that, if he's really lucky, a different doctor will be along to examine him again and order more tests.

All perfectly calculated to send an already impatient, tired and slightly confused Sentinel over the edge.

I, on the other hand, am starting to feel a bit better. The coffee helps; bitter, acidic and scalding though it is, the caffeine lifts my mood considerably. I lean against the wall outside Jim's room, half listening to the faint grumblings inside, half watching the activity around me. Most of the other patients, from what I can see through some of the open doors, look a lot sicker than Jim. One old guy walks up and down the hall, pushing his I.V. pole as he shuffles; his skin has a ghastly bilious color, and a thin plastic tube hangs from his nose.

As he gets closer, I can see that his face doesn't look right at all, mainly because half of his jaw just isn't there. I shudder briefly and find something else to look at.

Okay, so maybe having a few seizures isn't so bad. Sure, this is a serious fix Jim's gotten himself into...but no one's dead...and from what Simon said, maybe Jim's career can recover from this. He hasn't been fired yet, anyway.

I walk back to the main elevators, where I remember seeing a public restroom. I wash my face and comb my hair, fishing an elastic band out of my pocket to pull the whole mess back into a neat ponytail. I have the distinct feeling that I'm going to have to get seriously tough with Jim in the hours ahead, and I want my appearance to reflect my persona of the Sentinel's All-Knowing Guide rather the the Scrawny Roommate Who Can Be Pushed Around.

"That's right," I say to my reflection, who looks back at me uncertainly. "Sandburg is going to kick some butt here, verbally, and Ellison is going to listen for a change." I clench my jaw, and try to look like Jim. No, I need to stick my chin out a little more...

The restroom door opens, and I jump. It's Simon, who looks at me oddly.

"Sandburg, you all right?"

"Uh, yeah. Fine." I clear my throat. "How'd you find me?"

"I wasn't looking for you, precisely. But, since you're here...how's Jim?"

"The nurses are still tucking him in," I answer. "I haven't told him about Rafe, yet...but he knows that you know about his seizures." And surprise...he hasn't ripped my arms from my body for telling you, either.

"Hmm."

"How's Rafe?"

"He's okay." Simon folds his arms and leans back against the wall. "I got to see him for a few minutes, before he went to surgery. He was pretty groggy, but feeling no pain. He was, uh, worried about Jim, though."

I grimace. "Well, that makes three of us. I guess...I'd better get back before Jim starts getting antsy. Unless there's anything else?" I raise my eyebrows at Simon.

"Sandburg, I didn't come here looking for you." Simon looks meaningfully at the urinal.

"Oh. Right." I make my escape.

Back in the hallway outside Jim's room, I hesitate briefly. Spine of steel,Sandburg, spine of steel, I remind myself. I creak the door open.

Some of my forced jauntiness fades at the sight of Jim. He's sitting up in bed, scowling, with a thermometer in his mouth while the nurse takes his vital signs. The nurse smiles at me; I think I see a flash of recognition in her lively brown eyes. Maybe she remembers me from Jim's last admission, since we're on the same floor as before.

"Come on in, Mr. Sandburg. We're almost finished here." She reaches over and removes the thermometer, and records something on the chart. "We've called Dr. Philpott. She's just finishing up at her office, and she'll be over in a little while to talk with you." She glances again at her notes. "She's ordered a regular diet for you, Mr. Ellison, so we'll call the kitchen and order you some dinner. Do you feel like you could eat?"

Jim nods without much enthusiasm. "Sure. Anything's fine."

She favors us both with another brilliant smile, then leaves and closes the door behind her.

I take my place in the chair by Jim's bed, feeling suddenly awkward. "Who's Dr. Philpott?" I ask, searching for a conversational opener.

"My neurologist," Jim answers flatly, looking away.

"Oh." How do I tell him about Rafe, about the way his colleague was injured because of him? "Well, maybe she'll have some idea of what's wrong with you." I take a deep breath. "Jim, there's something else you need to know."

He looks back at me. "Out with it, Chief," he says finally. "I could tell you were hiding something." His face remains carefully blank.

"Jim, when you had this last seizure, you fell. We were all standing on the porch, at the stakeout house. Do you remember?"

His brow wrinkles as he thinks. "Sort of. Not much, though."

"You fell backwards, and you knocked Rafe off the porch. He's going to be okay, but he's got a broken arm. He...doesn't know what actually happened, just that you fell. I don't think he saw all that much."

"Jesus...not Rafe..." Jim whispers, and look at the wall again for a moment. When he turns back, his face is bleak. "Sorry, Chief. You warned me, and I should have listened to you. Too late now."

Silence. I've wanted to hear Jim say those very words, but now I take no joy in hearing them, no satisfaction in being right. "I wish I'd been wrong," I answer softly. "But...if you didn't listen to me then, will you listen to me now?"

"Maybe." He gives me a grim smile. "Depends on what you've going to say."

"Deal with this. Talk to your doctor. Work with me on this, just like we've always done with your senses. Stop burying your head in the sand, and stop evading the truth." My words are clipped and abrupt.

Jim doesn't answer me. Instead, he points to the white plastic bag on the floor labeled "Patient's Belongings".

"Is that the rest of my stuff there on the floor?"

"Yeah," I answer, puzzled. "All except your gun, anyway. That's in the hospital safe; I had to sign for it. Why?"

"Give it here."

I hand him the bag. He digs around until he comes up with his badge, which he cradles in his hand for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at me, and smiles sadly.

"Not much of an ending for all your hard work, is it, Sandburg?"

"I don't understand," I say slowly, beginning to understand all too well.

"Do me a favor, Chief," he says woodenly. "Call Simon for me. Tell him I've got something to give him."

 

Part Fourteen

 

I stare first at Jim, then at the badge he holds in his hands.

"You're going to resign? Just like that? Jim, you haven't thought this through, man. You can't do this!" I tend to babble when I'm stunned.

"Sandburg," Jim explains wearily, "it's inevitable. There'll be a lot of pressure on Simon to fire me, if word of this gets out. I'd just rather...skip that, if I can. Take my own destiny into my hands," he adds bitterly.

"Simon's not going to..." I start to reassure Jim, then bite my lip uncertainly. What, exactly, had Simon said? That he would have some decisions to make once Jim was feeling better, that he wanted me by Jim's side to support him. Right then, my mind had breezed right past the meaning of Simon's guarded words, but now they sound downright ominous.

Still...even if Jim might lose his job anyway, I can't just let him quit. I can't let him just sit back and take the easy way out. Jim Ellison giving up his badge is just too damn close to Jim Ellison giving up on life. It's just not like him.

All right, time for a different tactic, then. Now, I need that spine of steel I was harping about earlier.

"No!" I reply heatedly, and jump to my feet.

"No, what?"

I return his gaze steadily. "No. I won't have anything to do with it. You want to quit, you call Simon yourself. Actually, he's still here in the hospital, over in the surgery waiting area. I'm sure they could page him overhead.

"But if you do...if you hand Simon that badge, we're through. Finis, end of story, sayonara, adios, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out." I talk rapidly so that I won't feel the pain behind the words quite so much. How many different ways are there to say 'goodbye', in all the languages of the world? Are there any peoples who don't view even a temporary parting as sorrowful?

"The roommate thing, the friend thing, the Sentinel thing, all of it. I'll head out right now and pack my bags, Ellison. I'll find something else to do my dissertation on. Is that what you want?" I keep my voice down, in deference to the undoubtedly thin hospital walls, but I try to put every ounce of my own determination behind my words.

It's all I can do not to look away from Jim, and the hurt in his eyes. "So, that's how you feel, then, Chief?" he murmurs, with obvious bitterness. "If I'm not a cop, you don't want to work with me any more. That's pretty low. I have to say, I wouldn't have thought it of you."

Now I reach over and whack the mattress with my fist, which doesn't make much noise but serves for emphasis in a pinch. "You're not listening to me, Jim! Will. You. Shut. Up. And. Listen?" Whack, whack, whack, whack.

"All right, Sandburg, enough!" Jim glares at me as he shouts. "I'm listening, though God only knows why."

"I said...if you quit, I'm out of here. If you give up on yourself, without a fight, without even trying to see this through...I don't think I can stand to be here to watch you slowly self-destruct, because you'll destroy me as well." I fling myself back into my chair, arms folded.

This began as a spur-of-the-moment bluff, to get Jim's attention, shake him up a little. The more I say, though, the more I begin to believe that I may be telling the truth. Don't think about it, just keep going.

"But if you give it your honest best effort...if you get the medical help you need, and jump through Simon's hoops, or apologize, or whatever it is you need to do...if, in spite of all that, you still lose your job..." I unfold my arms, and lean forward, trying to get Jim to look at me.

"Then I'll still be there for you, even if you end up a security guard at K-Mart. Or flipping burgers at Wonderburger. We make a hell of a team, Jim, no matter what we're doing."

He meets my eyes, now, searching my face. Probably listening to my heart rate as well, I suppose. For a few tense seconds we both sit there, neither of us yielding. Sort of like the North-Going Zax and the South-Going Zax, if you're into Dr. Seuss. Finally he nods.

"If you really mean that, Chief..." he says slowly.

"I do," I say. "I'm not sure when I realized it, but I do. I can't stand by and watch you make such a mess of your life."

"You leave me no choice, do you?" His face is unreadable...then he smiles ever so slightly. "When did you become so stubborn, Sandburg? What happened to that easygoing anthropology student that used to hang around with me?"

"He's still here," I say softly. "But he's spent the last couple of years learning coercive conversational techniques from this high-sphincter tone cop with a thing for house rules and having his own way. It's taught him a lot." I put out my hand. "Do we have a deal, then? You promise not to take the easy way out, here? On anything?"

I don't know whether Jim picks up on the second meaning of those words, but he nods and clasps my hand. "Deal, Chief." He squeezes my hand, and releases it. "So now what?" He looks at me expectantly and with no small amount of relief. "I don't suppose you'd had the chance to run to the library while I was unconscious, research this, and come up with a miracle cure already?"

It's a feeble attempt at humor, but kind of absurdly funny, so I snicker and play along. "Oh, sure, Jim. And then after that, I developed a cure for cancer, a solution for world peace, and created a miracle hair-restorer that I'm sure you'd be interested in."

"Very funny, Junior. Besides, if I ever lose all my hair, I could always have a wig made out of all the hair that you leave in the shower drain. It might take me two, three weeks of saving hair clogs, but it could be done." Now he's actually grinning, even though it seems a little forced.

"Okay, okay." I run my hands through the hair in question, trying to think. "We may as well just hypothesize that this has something to do with your Sentinel abilities, for now. That seems more productive to me. How many seizures have you had, not counting the first one in the warehouse?"

He thinks for a moment. "Four, I think. You were there for all but the first one."

I snort. "At least we know I'm not the one causing it. Let's see...the location was different each time. You were pretty tired for the last two. Could sleep deprivation be playing a role, d'you think?"

He shakes his head. "I was pretty well rested the first two times. In fact, the first time, when I was still in the hospital, I'd been asleep most of the day, and I was incredibly bored. So bored that I..." He stops in midsentence and whistles softly, a look of suprised comprehension appearing on his face.

"What? What?" Jim's onto something, I can tell.

"I was so bored that day, I was trying to listen to the conversations going on at the nurses' station. That's the last thing I remember, until I woke up to see my nurse standing over me after the seizure." He snaps his fingers. "Every time it happened, Chief, I was just starting to extend one of my senses. That must be it!"

 

Part Fifteen

 

I frown at Jim. "Are you sure? That seems a little too simple." Meaning, he's probably right, but I wish I'd thought of it first. "You were using your senses every time?"

He nods. "The first time at home, in the loft, I was listening to see if you were on your way home yet with the groceries. Nothing very difficult, but that's the last thing I remember. Last night at the stakeout, I was listening to see how many heartbeats I could actually hear inside the trailer. And today..." Jim looks sheepish.

"Today, what? Were you listening to something? Maybe it's just your hearing that messes you up, then," I suggest.

"No, I don't think so. Today I was smelling to see what kind of pizza Rafe and Brown had ordered." A short, bitter laugh from Jim. "Canadian bacon and pineapple."

I mull over Jim's observations. "What about the rest of the time? I mean, I assume you haven't had a seizure every time you've tried to use your senses." Either that, or there's a whole lot going on that he hasn't told me yet.

"No, you're right. It doesn't always happen," he agrees. "Maybe there's some other factor involved...stress, or doing too many things at once, or how long it's been since I've had a seizure. I don't know."

"Jim, if this is true...how can we even begin to fix it?" Now I'm even more worried. I'm not sure I have the expertise to deal with this by myself. I've never run across any references to a Sentinel developing a problem like this.

"I don't know, Chief," he admits. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

I shrug helplessly and glance at the clock. It's getting late. "Where's your doctor, man?"

"Probably got held up in traffic." He looks down at the scratchy hospital blankets, picking idly at a seam. "You know, Chief," he says slowly, "maybe it's time we enlisted some outside help."

I raise my eyebrows at that. That's the last thing I'd expect to hear Jim say. "Outside help? What do you mean?"

"No offense, Blair, but this time the problem seems to be both medical and Sentinel-related. I think you need a consultant. Maybe, if we're cautious, we can get my neurologist involved, tell her at least part of the story."

"I don't know, Jim," I answer cautiously. "I hate to take the risk of word getting out about you." Or, having him end up as someone else's research project, even with confidentiality maintained.

Okay, so I'm jealous. Not a pretty thought...but he's MY Sentinel, after all. I'm the one who found him and identified his abilities.

But...I can't afford to ignore anything that might help Jim. And, he's at least including me in the decision, discussing it with me instead of making a unilateral declaration. So, I halt my flow of objections, and try to listen.

"Tell you what, Chief," he's saying. "Stick around and meet her. You've got good people instincts. Right now," he looks into my eyes, with a directness and honesty that's been missing for so many days, "right now I think I trust your judgement more than I trust my own. If you think she'll be able to keep things confidential and work with us, then you tell her. It's your call."

Control. He's giving up control here, something that I know is very difficult for Jim. Letting me make this decision is an incredible demonstration of trust on his part, of faith in my ability to judge character. I look down at my feet for a moment, feeling the burden of Jim's trust settle almost as a physical weight upon my shoulders.

When I look back up at him, he's smiling. A weary smile, to be sure, but one that his whole face participates in.

"After she takes a look at me, Chief, have a talk with her. Take her down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, and feel her out."

I can't resist the obvious vulgar crack. "As opposed to feeling her up, of course." I dodge Jim's well-aimed swipe at my head.

"Behave yourself, or I'll make you wait in the waiting room," he snorts. "Besides, she's a little old for you...not that that ever stops you from trying."

I contrive to look as innocent as possible. "Me? I don't know what you're talking about, Jim. I don't deliberately set out to charm all of these women, y'know."

 

* * * * * *

 

Jim's neurologist finally shows up about ten minutes later. She's a short, slight woman of about Jim's age, with short dark hair and a brisk birdlike manner. She immediately apologizes for keeping him waiting.

"I'm sorry. One of my partners is on vacation, so my clinic ran later than usual." She touches Jim's hand briefly. "I'm also sorry to see you back in the hospital so soon."

"It wasn't my idea, Doctor. Believe me." Jim answers her wryly.

She turns to me and extends her hand. "You must be Mr. Sandburg." She shakes my hand firmly, appearing to give me a quick appraisal with her alert grey eyes.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," I stammer. Huh. Jim must have been talking about me, the big lug. Will wonders never cease?

"I'm Dr. Heidi Philpott. Your friend has told me a few stories about you." She smiles at me, amusement dancing in her eyes...something that makes me wonder exactly which stories Jim has been telling her.

She pulls up a chair and starts talking with Jim, taking occasional notes on a clipboard. For once, I sit and listen and don't interrupt. He tells her all of the events of the past week, except for the details involving his senses. She nods sympathetically when he gets to today's seizure and its unfortunate results.

"I have a little good news for you on that front." she tells us. "I stopped off in post-op before I came here. Your friend Rafe has had his surgery to have his fracture pinned, and is doing fine."

Jim sinks back into the pillows and closes his eyes. "Good," he says quietly. "That's...a relief."

"I need to examine you now, Mr. Ellison." She reaches for her bag and pulls out a stethoscope and some other instruments.

I stand up and clear my throat. "I'll, uh, go take a little walk." I know I'm supposed to be helping to find a solution for Jim's problem, but I feel a little weird watching his doctor examine him.

Jim shrugs. "Suit yourself, Chief. Stay out of trouble."

"This won't take long," Dr. Philpott adds.

 

 

Part Sixteen

 

I walk around the ward for a while, and poke around out by the elevators and restrooms...half-hoping to run into Simon. He's nowhere to be seen, though. I kill a little time with an ancient, tattered National Geographic, then head back to Jim's room.

I knock softly, and stick my head in. Jim's sitting up on the edge of his bed, his eyes closed. Dr. Philpott is poking at his feet and legs with what looks like a mangled paper clip. I sit down in my recently vacated chair, fascinated.

"All right, keep your eyes closed...Now: two points or one?" She manipulates the paper clip so that one point touches Jim's foot.

"One." With his eyes still closed, he waves in my general direction. "Hey, Chief."

"Now?" She pokes him with both ends of the clip, about an eighth of an inch apart.

"Two."

"Good." She repeats the same test in several other locations, including his hands. The last time, I notice, the two points are so close they're almost touching. "How many now?"

"Two," Jim replies without hesitation. Dr. Philpott's eyebrows rise, but she maintains the same cool expression.

"That's enough of that, Mr. Ellison. You can open your eyes. You know, you've got excellent two-point discrimination. Most people would have perceived that last one as just one point," she comments, rummaging in her bag.

I'm watching Jim's face, so I see the brief startled look that crosses it, before he carefully schools his expression back to blandness.

"All right, Mr. Ellison, one last test." She pulls a tuning fork out of her bag, whacks it on the edge of my chair, and touches the humming piece of metal to the side of Jim's head.

He jerks away immediately and yells, clapping his hands to his head. "Eeeeyowww!"

Dr. Philpott nearly drops the tuning fork. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Was that painful?"

"Uh...you could say that. I've got...sensitive ears." Jim rubs the offended appendages.

"Hmm." She stows the tuning fork, and stands up. "Well, I needn't subject you to any more torture with that. It's just a crude device for determining hearing loss, and clearly your hearing is fine." She purses her lips and looks speculatively at Jim.

"So..." I butt in. "Any ideas, Doctor? Can you tell me why he's having these seizures?" I don't want to badger this obviously busy woman, but I'm remembering Jim's request that I try to assess her as a possible confidante and ally.

She sighs. "To be honest, no, not really. He's in the best of health, apparently, with a very normal neurologic exam. I'm going to have to think about this one."

Well, at least she's honest. That seems to be a plus.

She turns back to Jim. "I do want you to stay here in the hospital tonight, Mr. Ellison. You seem fine, but you've had two significant seizures in twenty-four hours, for no apparent reason. I'll be back in the morning, and we may be doing some more tests. Oh, and I want to start you on some medication to prevent the seizures, probably Tegretol." She hoists her bag of tricks and seems to be about to leave.

Jim looks concerned. "Is that absolutely necessary, Doctor? I was hoping to avoid taking medication."

She shakes her head. "I can't force you, of course, but I certainly recommend it. At least for short-term." She puts her hand on the doorknob.  I'll be by early, probably about seven."

Jim shoots an unreadable look at me. I stand up, manage to wriggle in front of Dr. Philpott, and courteously open the door for her.

"Uh, Doctor, can I talk to you for a moment?" I say as soon as we're both in the hallway.

She gives me a weary, less-than-enthusiastic look. "Mr. Sandburg, usually when a friend or family member wants to talk to me alone, it's something that I shouldn't be hearing without the patient's permission. Your friend certainly seems like a competent adult."

All right, so confidentiality is important to her. Definitely a point in her favor, if I can get her to listen.

"Jim is the one who wants me to talk to you. I do have his permission," I explain.

She looks dubious, so I take a few steps back and stick my head back in Jim's room. "Jim, can you convince your doctor that I have your permission to talk with her?"

He chuckles. "You want me to write you a note, Sandburg?" Looking over my shoulder at Dr. Philpott, he nods. "It's okay. I have no secrets from Blair, not any more." He smiles wryly. "Keeping secrets was what got me into this mess."

The simple statement rocks me for a moment. No secrets from me, he says. Then Jim beckons to me. "Come here for a moment, Chief."

I walk back to his bedside. "What?" I ask curiously.

He reaches over to the small table next to his bed. "Just in case Simon comes by to talk to me, I want you to hang onto this for me." He hands me his badge. "So I won't be tempted to do anything foolish with it."

I close my hand on the badge's leather cover. "You got it, Jim."

On to Part 2...