Warning: For language.

Note: Throughout this story, I will be referring to lyrics from the song, 'I Will Remember You', by Sarah McLachlan…

Context: This story is an AU of sorts and is in response to a request from Dreamcatcher for a story following Blair's death at the fountain, but in this version, he isn't all right, but in fact suffers brain damage…and Jim has to contend with all that that means and his part in all that happened…

by Arianna

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"Sandburg was dead, Joel," H told me, awe in his voice, his eyes wide with shock. "I swear to God-he was dead." He was standing with Rafe and Megan in the Emergency lounge at Cascade General, and they all looked disoriented. I had just arrived at the hospital and had no idea what was going on or what had happened-I'd only heard that Sandburg had been badly hurt and had been brought to the hospital.

"Dead?" I repeated, appalled and sickened by hearing the words I had never thought to hear in the same sentence: Sandburg and dead. Normally buoyant, brash and smart-mouthed, Henri's hushed words and stunned behaviour were so out of character that my chest got tight and I felt breathless. Dead? Sandburg?

"It's all right, Joel," Megan said quickly, reaching out to grip my arm, as if to steady me, but she was pale and trembling like a leaf in the wind. "Jim brought Sandy back."

I shook my head, trying to understand what they were telling me. "You mean, he crashed-went into cardiac arrest?" I clarified, thinking it must have been close, that that's why they all looked so shell-shocked. I looked to Rafe, who'd been silent up until then, staring into space. As if he felt my gaze upon him, he turned his head to meet my eyes.

"No," he replied quietly, his eyes haunted. "Blair had been dead for some time, likely between fifteen and thirty minutes before we found him-too long. His body was blue…cold from being in the water. He'd drowned in the fountain at Rainier…murdered. Simon and Jim tried real hard to bring him back. And the medics tried. For a long time-it'd been almost an hour since we got to him before they gave up. Said he was gone…"

I guess I must've looked-well, sick. When I found my voice, I asked, "Then…how?"

They looked at one another, and then Megan took up the telling of the miracle they had witnessed. "Jim wouldn't accept it. Couldn't, I guess. He kept saying it couldn't be happening and yelling for Sandy to come back…H and Simon dragged him away from the…from the body, tried to get him to accept Sandy was gone, but Jim pulled away from them. He…uh…he knelt beside Sandy and cupped his face. It was… heartbreaking to watch. And then, there was this blinding flash of light and he called out to Simon that he could hear Sandy's heart." Swallowing, she took a ragged breath, and continued, "He called back the medics and started mouth to mouth again. And Sandy-he gagged up water and started to breathe."

"Damnedest thing I ever saw," H rumbled. Rafe swallowed hard and nodded. Megan's hands came up and fell again in the universal gesture for saying, 'Don't ask me how…'

I nodded, silent, thinking about what it meant-about all that it meant. I believed what they'd told me. They were experienced cops who were more familiar with the look and reality of death than anyone ever wants to be. If they said that Blair was dead-then he was dead. Jesus. We'd all known there was something different about Jim, and his relationship with Sandburg. There was a kind of affinity between them that I'd never seen before-an inter-dependence that went beyond even the most profound relationship of partners.

I knew about partners…I understood a relationship that in many ways was closer than the one a cop had with their spouse.

But I'd never seen anything before that transcended death; that could deny the finality of death.

My God, resurrection is not an everyday experience! I had to struggle to wrap my head around it. What kind of power could achieve that? It was awesome and frankly, in some ways it was terrifying.

What did it mean about Blair, about his life, that he was so essential that he be allowed to live again? What kind of purpose must he have? Must they have together that it was worth a miracle to save? What kind of power did Jim have, to work such a miracle?

Looking around, unable to deal with the reality of it, I focused on more mundane issues. My throat tight, I asked the obvious, "So, I guess Jim and Simon are with him?"

But their eyes fell away.

"Now what? Don't tell me that boy is alone?" I demanded. "Where the hell are they?"

"They went after Alex Barnes," Megan said then with a sigh. "She…she's the one who likely killed…" but she choked on the words. Taking a breath, Conner continued, "Barnes tried to kill Jim last night, too. And she still has those canisters of gas. They were going to check the burned out remains of her apartment…for all the good it will do."

I didn't know what to say to that, and I didn't want to think about what had happened to Sandburg, still couldn't really take in the magnitude of it. So I focused on Ellison and Simon, feeling mystification at first, wondering what could have possessed them to leave Sandburg. Was it duty? Surely someone else could be tracing that bitch. Or revenge? Did the need to retaliate, to seek retribution outweigh being with Sandburg now, when the kid would need support more than he'd ever needed it in his life? How could Jim do that? How could he leave Blair alone? Or was it that he couldn't face…oh, God. Sandburg was alive, but no one had said if he had suffered brain damage.

"Do we know…" I wasn't sure I could bear the answer, but I had to know. "Do we know if Blair is all right? I mean…he's alive. But, is there damage?"

"Jim saw him for a couple of minutes, and said he was lucid-a bit spacey, but lucid," Megan replied wearily as it all caught up to her. "So I guess he's all right. As far as we know, he's been asleep since."

I rolled my eyes as I looked away. Blair would have been in shock, an adrenaline surge. Might not even remember seeing Jim when he woke up again.

"There's, uh, more you might not know," Megan said hesitantly, looking from H and Rafe back to me. When I wordlessly quirked a brow, wondering what else there could possibly be, she continued, "Jim kicked Blair out of their apartment last week."

"He did what?" I exclaimed, staggered. And I began to seriously wonder if this was some of kind of really terrible nightmare. None of it made any kind of sense. I couldn't imagine Jim walking away before he knew for a fact that the kid was all right-but kicking Sandburg out of the loft-that wasn't possible. Lord knew, Jim could be a cold bastard, but he just wouldn't do that.

She nodded as H corroborated the story, his face grimacing in disgust as he stated flatly, "We found all of Blair's stuff in boxes in his office when we did the preliminary investigation after he was taken to the hospital."

"And the last time I saw Jim's apartment, it was completely empty-barren, and very spooky," Megan added, looking a little sick. "They'd been fighting about this Barnes woman and Jim was pretty angry with Sandy."

I heaved out a breath. Great. Just great. Those two were always yammering at each other, but it never meant anything. What in the hell had caused this rift…and what did the problem between them have to do with the fact that Blair was murdered by Barnes, and that she'd apparently tried to kill Jim, too?

"But Jim really wanted Blair to live at the fountain. I've never seen him so desperate and out of control-wild with grief," Rafe murmured, in case anyone wondered if the breach between them was still an issue. From Ellison's frantic behaviour, it seemed it wasn't.

But did Blair know that?

Why the hell wasn't Ellison here, to be with the kid when Blair woke up again and needed him?

What an unholy mess.

Well, I'd be damned if Blair was going to wake up alone.

"Do you know where Blair is now?" I asked, feeling suddenly very angry. Well, it wasn't right. The kid shouldn't have been left alone. Maybe it's just me, but I think that a guy who had been murdered and then miraculously brought back to life might appreciate it if someone noticed and cared that he was still around!

"They were taking him to Intensive Care for observation," Rafe replied, sounding distracted, like he couldn't quite put all the pieces together in his head. "They're afraid of lung infection from the water he aspirated."

I didn't need to ask why they were still down here in the Emergency lounge instead of upstairs. Not after what they'd told me. They couldn't bring themselves to leave but didn't have a clue what to say to him. They were in shock themselves. How did the family and friends welcome Lazarus when he walked out of the burial cave? After they expressed joy, what then? How did you talk to a man who had been dead? Would he ever be the same again? Would any of them? Was that why Jim and Simon had taken off? Had it overwhelmed them, too? I sighed and scratched my head. Whatever the reason, they'd be back before long. I sure didn't mind staying with Blair until they returned.

"Fine. Look, you three look wasted. Go make out your statements at the station and then head home. I'll go up to check on how he is," I told them then, maybe sounding more brisk than I'd intended, but I wanted to get to the kid.

I watched them go. Stiff, disorientated. They were happy Blair was alive, in awe of it. They just didn't understand it and their minds hadn't had time to really absorb what had happened. What they'd witnessed.

Couldn't blame them. I was having a hard time absorbing it all myself. Still, in some ways, I envied them. Not everyone gets to see a miracle as wonderful as they did at the fountain.

********************

That had been about an hour ago. The ICU staff were amazingly accommodating when I showed up. None of that 'only relatives' or 'five minute limit' crap. I think they also knew someone had to be there when he woke up. Someone he knew. So, now, I'm sitting here, gripping his hand, thanking God for the miracle of this extraordinary young man's life-and wondering where Jim and Simon were. Jim anyway. I'd expected him back by now.

He was starting to wake up…shifting a little. Squeezing my hand. Holding on.

"Blair? Can you hear me, son?" I called to him softly.

"Mmm?" he mumbled. Frowning a little, trying to wake up. Blinking, his eyes were unfocused but tracking around the small room, trying to get his bearings. When he looked at me, I could see confusion in his eyes.

I wasn't the one he'd expected to see.

"Joel?" he murmured with a frown, his voice hoarse, rough.

"Yeah," I replied quietly. "How're you feeling?"

But he only squinted in concentration, his gaze again drifting around the small cubicle. "Where's Jim?"

Well, I'd known that would be the first question. I wish I had a better answer for him. "He, uh-he and Simon left…"

"Left? Where?" he asked again, his eyes coming back to meet my gaze, troubled...frightened?

"They went after Alex, Blair," I told him. "She still has the canisters of gas." Maybe saving the lives of millions of people was a good enough reason not to be there when your best friend and partner woke up after having been dead. Maybe there was no one else who could go searching for trace elements of evidence that had been blown sky high.

It was bullshit and I knew it.

From the look in his eyes, before he quickly looked down and away, he knew it, too. "Oh," he sighed, so softly I barely heard him. Then he swallowed and nodded, a short, jerky motion, tight and contained.

"He'll be back, Blair," I told him. Insistent. Certain. Like that could be enough.

He flashed me a quick look before he turned his head away and closed his eyes, as if he was going back to sleep. But when his fingers loosened from mine, I knew it was a deliberate action-a deliberate letting go.

I'd seen the expressions that had flashed in his eyes before he hooded them. I'd seen the disbelief and hurt. The lost look of abandonment…a poignant, aching look of hopelessness. And then empty resignation, as if he understood and it was no more than he should have expected.

It scared the hell out of me.

I told myself that it would be all right, that Sandburg really did understand and accept it. Like he always seemed to understand and accept the sometimes apparently irrational and often nasty behaviour from Ellison when the rest of us didn't. I told myself that because I needed to believe it.

********************

I was wrong.

God, so wrong. If I'd acted then, maybe things would have turned out differently, but I didn't know, really didn't understand how deeply wounded Sandburg was. But, dammit, I should have called Simon and Ellison right away instead of sitting here like a stupid lump.

I was afraid, you see. Afraid if I left him, he wouldn't be there when I got back.

So I stayed, gripping his limp hand. Not letting go. When a nurse came in a while later, I told her he'd been awake, and she tried to rouse him again…but he wasn't responding. Frowning, she checked his vital signs. Shook her head.

"What?" I demanded, every muscle in my body tense with dread.

Licking her lips, she shook her head again as she brushed his brow lightly and then took his pulse. "His blood pressure is down a little," she replied finally, and then took his temperature. I could feel it, too, in his hand. A fever was building.

After that, there was a flurry of blood tests, and a doctor came in. Sandburg was given a shot of something …a different antibiotic, I think. I'm not really sure. There were limits to what they'd tell me. I wasn't a relative, after all.

I wasn't the one who held his power of attorney.

Within another hour, I could hear the congestion in his breathing. Thick and heavy, his breath hitching. The fever had risen and despite the tepid baths, the medication they were giving him and finally the ice packs they placed on and around his body, the fever rolled off him in waves, building higher and hotter.

I did try to track down Jim and Simon then, when it was only too clear the kid was sinking. I didn't have the first clue about where to begin trying to find his mother.

But it was already too late. They'd caught a flight to Mexico. Without even coming by the hospital first-they'd just gone. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't fucking believe it…

Two hours after that, he convulsed for the first time.

It was only the first of many convulsions that terrible evening and night.

His breathing was so congested by midnight that his lips were blue and he was finally put on a respirator; after the third convulsion, they hooked him up to an EEG monitor. We were bathing him constantly now, trying to bring down the fever. I helped. Had to help. Had to do something. I couldn't just stand there and watch. And I flat out refused to go when they tried to make me leave the room. I know, I'm usually pretty easy-going and cooperative, ‘phlegmatic' my wife tells me, but I'm a big man and nobody makes me do what I don't want to do-and my badge stopped hospital security in their tracks. I wasn't leaving the kid alone with folks who didn't know him, and that was that.

Bathing his limp, burning body, listening to that respirator breathe for him, being helpless when he convulsed…I was shaking, I'm not ashamed to admit it, sick to death that we were going to lose him.

H told me later that Megan was so spitting mad at being left behind on her own case, that she took off on the next plane to Mexico. She's more like Jim than she likes to admit. Action, going out after the bad guys, is always easier than waiting and worrying…

By morning, I didn't know whether to call them or let them do what they had to do. By the time they'd've reached Mexico, he'd been convulsing for hours, and the doctor looked bleak when he studied the brain waves. Blair was in a deep coma, his brain function depressed. From the stiffness of the doctor's expression, and his sigh as he turned away, I could tell…

It was too late. The damage had already been done.

I guess I sat there for a long time, just looking at the kid. Numb. God…he was so young, so bright, with the whole world, a whole life, in front of him. Special in ways I could feel but could never begin to put into words-special enough to have been brought back from the dead. The fever had finally dropped, the convulsions had ended, and he was lying there looking like a bruised and broken angel. The waste of it …the tragedy…

I brushed his damp hair back from his brow, and then went down to the hospital chapel. Sitting there, I tried to get hold of my emotions. I hadn't felt like this since my son died, years ago. Angry…so angry. My chest ached so bad, was so tight, I had trouble taking a breath. The sadness welled up and filled me until I shook with it.

"God damn it," I ground out.

And then I cried.

********************

In the absence of any family to demand 'extraordinary measures', what with Naomi only God knew where and Jim someplace in Mexico, the doctors determined that maintaining the support of the respirator was pointless. I was with Sandburg when they came to act on that decision, and I protested-loudly, very loudly. Hell, I was shouting at them that they couldn't just give up on him. They couldn't! He deserved better!

They were patient with me, understanding, I guess, that I was the closest thing the kid had to family right then, as they explained that given the trauma of the drowning, and then the infection and fever, the convulsions-his system just hadn't been able to cope. The coma, the depressed brain activity all signaled to them that the man Sandburg had been was gone. Surely, they said, I wouldn't want him to live like he was, on a respirator and unaware forever. Surely that was no quality of life, no mercy to him. He wouldn't want that for himself, would he?

That's what finished me. No, Sandburg wouldn't, ever, want that. The kid was the definition of vibrant life-just seeing him, being with him, made people around him feel more alive. He wouldn't want his spirit chained to a body that was never going to wake up.

Devastated, I asked for a few minutes alone with him and, kind people that they were, they granted my request.

I stood there by the bed, stroking those wild, beautiful curls back from his face and wishing with all my heart that there was something I could do to save him. There'd always been a light inside Blair that glowed from his eyes and his smile, and filled a room when he walked into it-that fueled a boundless energy and optimism. He always seemed younger than he really was, and somehow innocent, though he'd handled situations that would have unnerved older, more experienced men…and given his childhood, innocent he could not have been. It was his enthusiasm and his energy that gave him a youthful air-and his openness to people and ideas, his unwillingness to judge or condemn, his everlasting hope in the potential of people and for our society, that made him seem innocent. And brilliant? I've never seen a mind that held so much or could correlate information faster. The kid thought at light speed…maybe because of that light that lived within him.

How could all that be gone?

"I don't know if you can hear me or not, Blair," I murmured finally, my voice cracking with the grief of letting go. "But…I don't want you to leave, you hear me? I want you to stay. I think we need you in this world and it's too soon for you to leave us. I really believe that this is your decision, more than the doctor's or the help of the machines. They are going to remove the respirator because they don't think you'll live without it-they think you're already gone. I can't…I just can't accept that. Don't want to, I guess. If you can hear me-if you still care for us, please don't go."

I was weeping then, and had to brush the hot tears from my face, and take a breath before I could go on. Squeezing his hand, stroking his brow, I told him then, "But if you do decide you want to go, then…that's all right. It's your decision, Blair. I know you're tired…and I know you're hurt. But, please…give life another chance? Please, son…I really don't want you to go…"

They came back then, and I had to step away from the bed while they turned off the equipment and removed the tube from his throat.

He surprised them.

He kept on breathing.

I hung my head and blew out a sob, grateful to hope that maybe he'd heard me and decided to hold on after all-at least for a little while longer.

They moved him out of ICU and into a small room at the end of a hallway on the medical ward, just a small out-of-the-way cubicle where he could die quietly. H, Rafe and I took turns being with him, trying not to believe it was a deathwatch but I guess none of us really expected he'd ever wake up again.

He didn't wake up…

…but he didn't die, either.

********************

It took me two days, but I finally managed to track down Simon and tell him what was going on with the hope that he'd have Ellison on the next plane home. But Jim had taken off into the jungle after that damned Alex Barnes, Megan right behind him. Simon was organizing back up with the local authorities to fly in on Megan's transponder signal. He planned to head into the jungle the next morning and, hopefully, they'd get Barnes and the canisters and then they could all come home.

I didn't give him all the details. What was the point? There wasn't anything he could do about it in Mexico. But I did tell him that Sandburg had taken a turn for the worse and it wasn't looking good. I told him to get Jim back just as soon as he could. I think the tone of my voice probably told him how very bad it was.

********************

Simon called Rhonda a little while ago to leave word that they'd be back on the late evening plane via Los Angeles, and said that they'd all come directly to the hospital. Seems Jim tracked Barnes down to some ancient temple in the jungle. Sounds like it must have gotten pretty hairy for a while, what with some local drug lord also tracking Alex Barnes for the canisters. But, the local bad guys had all been either killed or incapacitated by Jim, and whatever had happened in that temple, Alex Barnes had come out of it in a catatonic stupor. I nodded as I listened to Rhonda's report on the phone in Blair's room, but I gotta say, it all sounded remote and didn't really register with me. As for Alex Barnes, who cared if she was alive or dead or a vegetable? What had she ever done in the world to warrant a moment's sorrow or grief from anyone? Or to be remembered except with bitterness and loathing?

H, Rafe and I decided to be there at the hospital when they arrived. By calling in all my IOUs down at the station, I'd wangled back up in MCU from Homicide and Vice. Rhonda, bless her, agreed to hold the fort, though I knew she wanted to be with us. But that let the three of us take turns covering all the shifts both at work and with Sandburg over the last few days, making sure he wasn't ever left alone, that there was always someone there to talk to him. I just had this feeling that if he was left alone that he'd slip away…and the other two guys agreed with me. Don't ask me why we were so sure of that…it just seemed that whatever thread was still holding him to life was too fragile, too uncertain, to take for granted. We decided that when the others got there, I'd take them down to the chapel, to explain what had happened while they remained with Sandburg.

So, when I heard the sounds of many steps hurrying down the otherwise quiet corridor just before midnight, I knew they'd finally arrived and left the room to meet them in the hall so they wouldn't just rush in. They needed to know what they were going to see.

Needed to understand how very bad things were.

I firmly closed the door behind me, standing foursquare in front of it, my arms crossed.

They were coming fast, three-abreast, as if despite their rumpled and exhausted appearance, each was driven by their own fears and needs to see that Sandburg was in better shape than my message had allowed them to believe. They were doomed to be disappointed. Ellison was half a step in the lead, pale and haggard, the look on his face hunted, focused on one thing…getting to Sandburg.

I held up my hand, and said firmly, "You can't go in…"

"The hell I can't!" Ellison snapped, as if he was about to plow right through me.

But I'd had enough…and in my mind, my heart, this bastard was the reason that kid in there was dying. Blaming him wasn't rationale, was purely emotional, I know that. But I firmly, truly, believe that if Ellison had been there when Blair had awakened, none of the rest of it would have happened.

I grabbed his collar with my fists and lifted him to me, throwing him off-balance, as I snarled harshly into his face, my voice venomous, "What…leaving him to die wasn't enough? Now you want to go in there and finish it? Is that it? Damn you, Ellison! Do you have any fucking idea of what you've done?"

"What…" he stammered, shock in his eyes as I forced him to focus on something other than his mission to get to Blair. I guess he's not used to seeing my dark side.

Simon moved in and put a hand on my fists, saying quietly, "Let him go, Joel."

But I was far from ready, or able, to calm down and be reasonable. Shooting a disgusted, furious, look at each of them, retaining my grip on Ellison's collar, I shook my head.

"You, all of you, left him here for days…a few more minutes won't make any difference now. You're all coming with me and you're all going to listen to what happened before you barge in there!" I growled, not backing off. "I don't know what he can sense, if anything-but I will NOT have you all rushing in and becoming hysterical. He doesn't need that. He's suffered enough. AM I CLEAR?"

Ellison nodded as if he were in a daze or caught in some nightmare he didn't understand, and I could feel his muscles slacken, so I let him go. "How bad…" he mumbled, squinting, as if trying to clear his thoughts.

"To the chapel," I said, waving my arm back down the hall. "There's a small room off the side of it. It's the one place we can talk with some privacy. MOVE!"

They moved, though Simon had to grab Jim's arm to drag him along.

********************

The chapel itself was empty, just a few soft candles burning, so I waved them to the pews rather then trying to cram all of us into the small side chamber.

"Joel, what the hell…" Simon began, but I held up a hand cutting him off.

I thought I was ready for this, ready to tell them-but tears clogged my throat at the memories and I had to pace a bit, marshalling my breathing. Finally, I turned to them. Simon was looking alert and alarmed, Megan just plain scared-and Ellison looked like he was facing a firing squad. As well he might.

"When I got to the hospital and heard what had happened at the fountain," I said to Simon and Ellison, while Megan hung her head, remembering that day, "I couldn't believe it when I heard the two of you had taken off searching for some evidence of where Barnes had gone and left the kid to wake up on his own! What the hell was wrong with you? Jesus, there are two thousand cops on the force…couldn't you just trust us to do our jobs? And maybe I missed the memo, but the last I heard, Mexico was a long way out of our jurisdiction!"

It was a rhetorical question and I didn't expect an answer-waved it off with no little disgust when it looked like Simon was going to explain. Ellison looked like I'd just sandbagged him. Nice time for his thinking to click back into gear and realize what he'd done. In my anger, I couldn't resist adding, "Especially after you'd kicked him out of the loft…did the kid even know if he had a home when he was murdered in that fountain? He sure as hell looked lost when he woke up."

Jim winced, and even moaned a little, bowing his head and wrapping his arms around his body. I wish I could say I felt compassion for him, but I didn't.

"I found him in ICU and sat with him, so he wouldn't be alone," I picked up the thread of my report then, knowing my voice was raspy with control. "He woke up about an hour later and the first thing he asked was where you were," I told them, my eyes boring into Ellison's, who had again lifted his head, watching me as I reported on Sandburg's condition. "I had to tell him that you and Simon had gone off to look for Barnes, that she still had the canisters, as if I actually believed no one else could have gone after her; that it was a suitable reason for his partner to have left him behind with no word, no warning and evidently no apparent concern."

Ellison's eyes flickered away again and my voice cracked. "The look in his eyes, the sheer, wretched anguish at having been abandoned…"

"Joel…" Simon cut in, warningly. I knew he was trying to tell me that there was no point in this, that I was heaping guilt on Ellison that the man didn't need-but they had to understand.

I shook my head, rejecting the cautionary note. "But that wasn't the worst," I grated, pummeling them with words. "The worst was the look of acceptance in his eyes, as if he didn't deserve anything more, and shouldn't have expected anything more…and then the hopeless, lost, empty look of resignation before he turned away."

I had to stop and take a breath, and bite my lip against its trembling. Sniffing, I swiped impatiently at the wetness on my face. "He let go of my hand," I reported, hoarse. "He deliberately let go…and then he faded away into unconsciousness. His temperature spiked within the hour, and then he convulsed and convulsed-nothing anybody did seemed to help. We bathed him, and they gave him medication-got him on a respirator-but nothing helped. Dammit. Do you understand? I think he wanted to die!"

Silence hung like a shroud in the chapel, broken only by the sound of raspy breathing as they cringed away from me and struggled to control their emotions. "I tried to call you, but you'd already left the country-you didn't even stop by the hospital to check on him before you took off! Did you even spare him a moment's thought? Did you care at all about what was happening to him? When I tried to reach you," I said, turning to Megan, "you'd gone, too. What is it with the three of you? Did you want revenge that badly? Or was it just that you couldn't face the miracle you'd been given?"

They just all shook their heads, wordless in the face of my rage and grief. "I hope to hell you're glad you caught the bitch, because you sure paid a heavy price to get her personally," I sighed, feeling empty all of a sudden, deflated.

"He's dying," I told them, then. "They…they removed the respirator two days ago because they didn't think he'd be able to breathe without it and he'd slip away. There's…there's brain damage." Looking away, blinded by tears, I whispered, "I begged him to hold on. I don't," my breathing hitched, "I don't know if you can work another miracle-but God knows, that's the only thing that's going to save him…"

********************

Sweet Jesus, I thought, looking from Joel to Jim, wondering which of them looked worse. I'd never seen Joel so blind with anger or look so hopeless. And Jim-Jim looked like he'd been beaten within an inch of his life, barely hanging on, verging on total collapse.

"And you were lusting after that bitch while he…" Megan snarled, her eyes flashing, fury sparking to over-ride and deny her grief.

"Conner!" I intervened sharply, too late. Jim had been shattered by Joel's words and now he looked like he'd been bludgeoned and might well go down for the count.

"I didn't…" he mumbled, his face dropping into his hands.

"I saw you…" she raged bitterly.

"What?" Joel demanded, confused as he looked from one to the other.

"I saw the two of them on the beach, practically rutting!" she spat.

"Conner, ENOUGH!" I snapped, but she was not to be denied, having bottled it up too long.

"And then you protected her when we could have brought her down at the ambush…and even at the temple!" she hissed. "We could have been back here days ago if you hadn't…"

"What are you talking about?" Joel demanded, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

"He protected her, lusted after her-the bitch that murdered Sandy," Megan seethed, tears glimmering in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around her body and rocked with the pain of her rage and guilt for having been a party to it all. "Protected her when he should have been bringing her down!"

Visibly trembling, ashen, Jim held up his hands, a curious gesture of surrender as he grated, "I was insane…I can't explain it…and now's not the time." Pushing himself up, swaying a little, he muttered hoarsely, "I have to see Sandburg…"

I stood quickly and reached to steady him. Megan looked away, rigid with anger, fighting the grief, trying to deny what Joel had said, feeling her own guilt for having followed us. Joel just looked at Jim and shook his head, infinitely sad and more than a little disgusted, his own rage evidently spent.

Jim tried to pull away as he headed toward the doorway, but I held onto him and went with him, the others following us. Wordlessly, we took the elevator back upstairs and made our way down the long corridor. When we got to the closed door, Jim paused for a moment, as if gathering his last remaining shreds of strength and then he pushed his way inside.

Ah, God, how do I describe that first sight of the kid-so pale and still, the hollows under his eyes so dark he looked bruised, his hair lank and tangled. He seemed almost ethereal, his breath so shallow I wondered if he was even still alive, and I felt my heart lurch, my breath caught in a gasp of denial. From where they'd been sitting on either side of the bed, H and Rafe silently stood from their chairs to move back toward the walls, ceding space to Jim.

Ellison stumbled, and then he sank onto the chair beside the bed, his head cocked a little and I knew he was listening to Sandburg's heartbeat and his breathing. Reaching out, he took the kid's hand and then laid his other palm over Sandburg's brow.

"Ah, Chief," he sighed-and I could hear his heart breaking…

I had thought that nothing could ever be as bad as it was at the fountain, but this was worse. Then, we'd been fighting to save Sandburg, scarcely having time to think, only aware of the horror. Jim had been wild with denial, frenzied in his efforts to bring Blair back, unwilling to accept that we were too late, that it was over-and Sandburg was dead.

Those were some of the worst moments in my life-followed by one of the absolute best, that blinding flash of light and then Jim crying out that he heard a heartbeat. Dear God, it had been a miracle.

Fools that we were, we thought that was all that was needed, that the kid would be okay. We'd all forgotten, I guess, that from Sandburg's point of view, Jim had thrown him out of the loft and out of his life. That he'd been alone when he'd died-and he would have had no knowledge of Ellison's insane desperate denial of his death and outright refusal to accept it-or any way of knowing, but for those few bleary minutes in Emergency, that we were all desperately glad to have him back. And how could he know even then? Jim told me on the plane down to Mexico that he'd choked up, and hadn't been able to express what he'd felt. Like that was a surprise, I thought wearily then…and again, now.

No wonder Sandburg had felt abandoned, bereft of any hope, when he woke and found out Jim had just taken off and left him behind…the last thing he might really remember was Jim telling him that the trust between them had been destroyed and that Jim didn't want to work with him anymore-that their partnership, even their friendship, was over. Normally, the kid would have dealt with it and found a way to cope. He was strong and resilient. But then? Weak and probably disoriented? Maybe remembering what it had been like to die alone in that damned fountain? Exhausted emotionally and physically? He hadn't had anything to fight back with when the fever attacked. I don't pretend to understand this Sentinel and Guide mumbo-jumbo but I do know that one draws strength from the other, and alone, they are both diminished. Maybe, alone, they can't even survive. God-what a wretched thought that is…

Because, if that was true, then by leaving without making absolutely certain that Blair was okay and understood the chasm between them had been breached, then we'd wasted the miracle we'd been given. We'd left the kid to die.

Why had we gone? Why had I allowed myself to be swept up with the need to go after Barnes personally, to stop her? Why hadn't I insisted that Jim return to the hospital instead of setting out on that mad and disastrous escapade to Mexico? It sure as hell was a long way outside our jurisdiction. Oh, sure, we'd gotten her and the damned canisters. I don't know what happened in that damned temple. I only know that her brain was Swiss cheese when she was carried out of it, and Jim looked shell-shocked when it was over. When I told him that Joel had called to relay the message that Sandburg had taken a nose-dive, Jim had just stared at me for a long moment, the most stricken look on his face that I have ever seen-and then he collapsed.

Conner had been taut with rage, completely unsympathetic to Jim's evident and overwhelming despair when I finally revived him, and I guess I couldn't blame her. Jim's behaviour toward Barnes, his protectiveness and…lust…toward her had all been completely inexplicable, and frankly downright sickening whenever we thought about what she'd done to Sandburg. But there was no time to think about any of it, no time to get answers in the middle of that damned jungle. I got us all out of there and on the first flight back…praying the whole time that we wouldn't be too late. Jim was a basket case all the way home, barely functional and completely unresponsive. He hadn't zoned-he just seemed totally wrecked.

Listening to Joel's words down in the chapel, blasting and biting into us like a spray of deadly weapon's fire, I knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that if Sandburg was indeed lost that we'd lose Ellison, too.

And now, all I could feel was immeasurable pity as I listened to Jim calling softly to Blair, his voice ravaged with emotion, eyes red with unshed tears-and Sandburg just lay there. The others were holding up the walls and watching wordlessly, waiting-hoping-for another miracle. I could barely swallow as I swiped tears from my own face.

How many miracles can anyone hope to see in one lifetime?

Jim was begging now, pleading with Sandburg not to go. It was terrible to see-terrible to hear. Ellison's voice cracked, and he kept saying he was sorry, so sorry, and then he begged again, pleaded with the kid to wake up, to come back…and he stood to cup Blair's face, like he did at the fountain. Desperate. So desperate.

But this time, there was no bright, blinding light.

I didn't know how much more I could take, to be honest. Waves of rage at the waste of it, at our stupidity, washed over me, followed in their turn by waves of sorrow and guilt…and then I just felt like I wanted to hit something, anything…it was just so damned pitiful…

I was about to leave, and order the others to come with me, to give Jim some measure of privacy in his spiral into utter and absolute devastation. I knew there was nothing I or anyone else could say to save him, and I couldn't just stand there any longer, helplessly watching both of them slip away into the darkness.

But then Sandburg sighed, and moaned a little. His head turned toward Jim's voice.

Holy Mother of God, I thought, scarcely daring to believe what I was seeing. The tension in the room was palpable, electric, as everyone stiffened to attention, holding their breath, watching, and scarcely even daring to blink…

Sandburg took a deep breath, and then another. He frowned as if struggling to hear, to wake up…

His lashes flickered, and he sighed again…and Jim just kept calling to him, calling him back…

********************

"Blair…please," I rasped as he weakly shifted in the bed, his ashen face turning into my palm as he blinked and squinted into the light. "That's it, buddy…come back, please come back…"

"Hmm?" he mumbled, blinking again, trying to focus. Gradually, his eyes cleared, but something was wrong; I could feel it.

His heart picked up and he gave a little gasp, his eyes clouding with confusion.

"Blair?" I called, wanting him to say my name.

But his eyes shied away from mine, flickering around the room, and he stiffened as he saw all the others staring at him so intensely.

"What?" he murmured, his voice raspy and dry with disuse; he licked his lips, shaking his head a little as he refused the water I held to his lips-and he pulled his hand away from mine. "Where am I?" he muttered, looking lost and worried. "What happened?"

"You've been sick…" I stammered. What could I say? 'You died and then almost died again?' Somehow, I didn't think that would hold the reassurance he needed to hear. "You're in the hospital."

He raised a hand and rubbed his temple, wincing against what looked like a hell of a headache.

"You okay?" I asked. I had to ask-had to know.

He grimaced, and then peered at everyone again, seeming to shrink into himself as he pulled the sheet up toward his throat as if it was some kind of shield. "I don't remember…" he mumbled. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," Simon assured him, studying him intently. "Do you remember your name?" he asked then, and I cut an irritated look at him. What the hell kind of question was that?

"Yeah-Blair Sandburg," my partner replied, but he sounded lost.

"You're okay, Chief," I assured him. "You're going to be just fine." He had to be fine. I couldn't bear to even consider any other alternative.

Swallowing, he flicked a quick, sideways look at me, no recognition in his gaze. That look was worse that a punch to the gut.

"Chief?" I murmured, shaking my head a little, not understanding the wariness in his eyes.

"I'm, ah, sorry, mister, but I don't remember you," he muttered then, blushing in embarrassment. Cutting a look at the others, he added, "Not any of you." Taking a breath, trying not to show how afraid he was, but I could sense it in his rapid heartbeat and the hitch in his breathing, he asked unsteadily, "Did-did my Mom leave me with one of you?"

"What?" I gasped, blinking, trying to make sense of the question.

"Blair…how old are you?" Simon asked then, frowning, his voice strained.

"Um, twelve…almost," he murmured, looking up at Simon, fear in his eyes. "Where's my Mom? What happened to me?" he asked then, shivering a little, more afraid when no one would meet his eyes. That wide, questioning gaze came back to me, and I could tell he thought something had happened to Naomi, and that the thought terrified him.

"Shh," I reassured him, taking his hand again in my own. "Your Mom's fine. She's just not here right now…"

"Oh," he replied, a defensive look shuttering away other emotions, but not before I saw a flash of sorrow-and abandonment layered with weary acceptance and he seemed diminished somehow.

Was that what Joel saw before Sandburg let go?

The look terrified me, and I gripped his hand as I stammered, "It's all right, Blair. Please…it's all right. You're not alone."

He looked away, embarrassed I think that I'd seen the fear and lost look in his eyes before he'd shut the feelings away. Nervously, he pushed his fingers through his hair, and then froze. Slowly, he pulled a strand of long curls toward his eyes and his lips parted in shock. He blinked, and then looked at his hand and the hair on his arm-and then felt the stubble of beard on his face. "Whhhaa…?" he gasped, utterly shocked. "This isn't…I'm not…"

"Easy, easy," I tried to soothe him, as his eyes, wide with panicky fear, came back to mine.

"I'm not…I'm not a kid anymore," he gasped, breathless. He shook his head, as if he thought he was having a nightmare and could shake it off. His eyes filled with tears of outright terror and he started to shake so hard that his teeth chattered.

"It's okay," I chanted, "Everything will be all right. You…you're staying with me-and you aren't alone."

I didn't know what else to say. I could hear the others murmuring in shock, breathy whispers of grief and helplessness a counterpoint to the hammering of his heart and the fast, shallow hyperventilation as he gasped for breath.

How did you tell an eleven-year-old kid that he was really twenty-nine years old…and he'd forgotten eighteen years of his life?

He swallowed convulsively, trying so hard not to panic, but everything was out of control and he didn't understand-he was surrounded by strangers, and he was so desperately afraid. A sob broke loose, and then another.

I couldn't stand it. I pulled him into my arms, stroking his hair, holding him close though he tried to pull away. "It's all right," I soothed, knowing it wasn't. "Easy, kid…breathe…just breathe. You need to rest…and then I'll explain everything…"

He stopped fighting and started to cling to my jacket instead, a bulwark against chaos. Gradually, his trembling eased, the tears dried up and he sniffled. I was looking at Simon, wondering how in hell I was going to explain to Sandburg what had happened to him-but it was only too clear that Simon had no answers.

Finally, he was almost slack in my arms and I eased him back, to look down into his face. He was starkly white, his eyes dark with horror. "I've been in a coma, haven't I?" he whispered. "For a long time…"

I closed my eyes and bowed my head, overcome with a grief I could scarcely contain. Even believing, feeling he was only eleven years old, the kid was fucking brilliant-faced with inexplicable facts, devastated by them, believing he was essentially all alone in the world, he'd still managed to come up with the only explanation that made sense to him, that made sense of the absence of memories.

I took a shuddering breath and nodded, opening my eyes to look into his as I stroked his hair. "Yes, you were, for a little while," I murmured. "You need to rest now, and we need the doctor to come and see you. Don't worry about anything right now. I…I promise you. I'll take care of you."

He looked at me for a long moment. Swallowing, he asked, his voice very small, "Who are you?"

"Jim," I replied, my throat tight with tears I couldn't afford to cry, not then, not in front of him. I'd betrayed him too often lately and I sure as hell couldn't afford to fail him now. "My name is Jim."

********************

Eleven years old? I thought, shaking my head. Was he serious? But then I cursed myself for even daring to think Sandy would pull such a stunt. God, look at the kid-he's terrified. And Jim. I don't know what the hell is going on with that man, or why he treated Barnes like he did in Mexico, but there's no doubting that what's happening to Sandy is killing him.

"All right, people," Simon sighed, his deep voice a hoarse rumble. "Maybe we should let Blair get some rest." As the others filed past him into the hallway, he asked, "Jim-I assume you'll be staying here until the doctor has a look at Blair?"

Jim nodded numbly, still holding Sandy loosely in his arms, looking down at the kid with tear-glazed eyes.

Remembering the loft and the boxes in Sandy's office, I murmured, "Jim, if you give me your keys, I'll get the guys to help sort out the loft, and bring his stuff back from his office…"

Ellison looked up at me, surprised I think that I was no longer raging at him like some kind of vengeful harpy. But I couldn't sustain the rage in the face of the tragedy that was happening. "Let us help," I whispered.

He nodded and fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulling out his keys and handing them to me. "His office…?" he muttered, not really able to think clearly.

"It's alright, I've got keys to it from University Security," I assured him. Turning to Sandy, I touched his shoulder lightly, rubbing a little, as I said, "Don't worry. Everything Jim said goes for all of us. We love you and you're not alone. I'll see you again soon."

He swallowed and gave me a shallow, uncertain nod. And then I remembered that he didn't have a clue who I was, who any of us were. "My name's Megan," I told him, "and this is Simon," I added as I left the room.

The others were clustered in the hallway, staring at the walls or the floor, unable to find words to express what they felt about what they'd seen or about Sandburg's current state.

"I'm going to need everyone's help," I told them, holding up Jim's keys. "Ellison clearly expects to take Sandy home, and right now, the loft is a wasteland. We need to get the furniture and other stuff moved back in, as quickly as possible."

I think they were grateful to have something concrete to do. Certainly, none of us wanted to go home and be alone with our thoughts, haunted through the rest of the night by the realization that Sandy was…wasn't the same. Might never be the same. When Simon came out of the room, he agreed to help, too. He said, in that dry way he has, that he just needed to stop by the nurses' desk to tell them Sandburg had awakened and they might want to let his doctor know.

********************

Megan and Simon headed to Rainier to load up the boxes of Blair's belongings and bring them back to the loft, while H, Rafe and I shuttled furniture and boxes from the basement back upstairs. I have to admit that I was inordinately grateful that the unpredictable elevator was working. At one point, grunting as he maneuvered the heavy bookcase into the elevator, to lean on the equally heavy sofa we had positioned vertically against the far wall of the small box, H muttered under his breath, wondering how Ellison had managed to move everything out by himself. Having no idea, I just shrugged.

It took hours just to get everything back into the apartment, and then we still had to unpack and probe our collective memories about what had been hung where on the walls. Good thing we were all detectives, schooled in observing environments and tucking away small, seemingly irrelevant details. As we unpacked, we found that things had been stuffed into boxes hurriedly and haphazardly-and there was some breakage as a result. Simon began the inventory of what needed to be replaced while Rafe made a list of what to pick up at the supermarket in the morning-the shelves and refrigerator were as bare as old Mother Hubbard's cupboards.

Rafe and H staked claim to the kitchen, while Megan took on Blair's bedroom and Simon and I restored the living room to its former appearance. I worked on the bookcase, hooking up the electronics before replacing books, pictures and knickknacks, while Simon dealt with the television, straightened furniture and began hanging stuff on the walls…like that ugly old mask of Sandburg's-my throat tightened as I shied away from that thought, trying hard not to wonder if Blair would ever remember how he'd gotten that mask in the first place, or what it represented.

None of us were talking much-none of us wanted to speculate on the kid's condition. We were trying hard to be glad he was alive and talking.

Trying really hard not to think about what it would mean if he never got to be more than eleven years old for the rest of his life.

It was sometime after dawn, and we were all losing steam as exhaustion smothered us, relentless and refusing to be ignored forever, when Megan wandered out of Sandburg's room with an old book in her arms. The leather was cracked and some of the pages looked loose. She was also clutching one of Blair's perennial notebooks in her hand and there was an odd look on her face.

"Simon," she said, her voice strained, her eyes narrowed a bit as she looked up at him, "what does it mean that Jim's a 'sentinel'?"

Banks looked like he'd just been pole-axed.

********************

Son of a bitch! I thought, aghast at Megan's question. I'd forgotten all about Sandburg's journals! Dammit! I should have been unpacking his stuff myself regardless of how unbearable I thought that task would be.

"Sentinel?" I asked, all innocent, wondering if anyone there would buy it. H and Rafe had turned from the kitchen cupboards and Joel was just staring at me, shaking his head. Nope, I guess I wasn't being very convincing. Maybe sinking down into the chair because my legs wouldn't hold me up had been the giveaway.

Turning back to Megan, Joel asked the obvious question. "What are you talking about? What's a 'sentinel'?"

Frowning, Megan looked from the notebook in her hands to the ancient, battered text in her arms. "I found this stuff in a box along with other notebooks and cassette tapes. From what I can make out, 'sentinels' are people with naturally occurring enhanced senses that used to protect their tribes in more primitive cultures. It looks like Sandy was, I don't know, helping Jim get to understand and better control his senses. One of the notebooks records the results of tests to see how far and well Jim can see…and this one deals with his hearing, and 'piggybacking' his hearing to his sight. It's very weird…but, maybe, it explains a lot."

She looked back at me, as did all the others. What the hell could I say? This was Jim's secret, and Blair's-not mine. "Jim's not psychic at all, is he? This is something else entirely…" she added, her voice soft, questioning.

"Simon?" Joel prompted. "What do you know about this?"

"Yeah, Captain?" H added. "Sure explains why Hairboy has been riding with Jim all these years-makes a lot more sense than that stupid 'thin blue line' paper he's supposed to be writing."

"Explains why Blair has been living here, too," Rafe mused thoughtfully.

"And it explains some of the weird stuff Jim can do," Joel interjected. "Like he's always able to hear things that others can't, and he seems to know what the lab is going to say about evidence before the reports come back."

"Like hearing Sandy's heartbeat at the fountain," Megan murmured, frowning with concentration.

Wearily, I took off my glasses and rubbed my face. These were my people, my team. I couldn't lie to them.

And I couldn't tell them the truth.

Damn.

I looked away and rubbed the back of my neck, trying to figure out what to say. I guess my silence was all the confirmation they needed. They're detectives, and damned fine ones at that. They didn't need anyone to connect the dots for them.

"Jim doesn't want anyone to know," Rafe stated then, flatly, as if it were obvious.

"Probably feels like some kind of freak," H said, a tone of resignation underlying his words.

"Sandy wouldn't ever lie to us unless it was to protect Jim," Megan added, biting her lip.

Joel sighed and then said, "Put the books away, Megan. So far as anyone is concerned, you never found them and we don't know a damned thing."

"But why wouldn't he trust us?" H protested. "Hell, we're his colleagues!"

Joel shrugged. "You know what Jim's like," he said then as if very tired. "The man's so private he'd rather die than admit there's something about him that's…odd or different."

"Especially if he doesn't know how to control them," Megan added thoughtfully, again looking at Sandburg's notebook. "He hates not being in control."

They were hurt, I could tell, that Ellison hadn't trusted them. But they were doing their damnedest to try to understand. I was proud of them. Very proud.

"We owe it to Sandburg," Rafe said then, his expression solemn. "He's kept Jim's secret all these years-he wouldn't want to think that it was because of him that we found out. Joel's right. You have to put the books away."

"And we can't ever admit to Jim that we know," Joel added with a quick cutting look at me.

I closed my eyes and nodded, grateful that they understood, that they'd spared me having to say one word about any of it.

"But…if what I've read is true," Megan questioned, sounding worried, "Jim really does need help. The notes say he 'zones'-and that seems to mean that he loses track of everything around him when he focuses too hard or too long with one of his senses. Sandy says in his notes that he needs to 'ground' Jim, with a touch or with his voice…or by stimulating one of the other senses. If Sandy can't help him anymore-what are we going to do?"

"We do what we have to do if it's ever necessary," Joel said steadily. "We just try not to let him know that we know what we're doing…"

Once again they all turned to me. Sighing, I shrugged and nodded, and then got up to finish hanging the mask on the wall.

Behind me, I heard them all get back to work as Megan walked quietly back into Sandburg's bedroom.

And I heard Joel say softly, "It's okay, Simon-we understand that you couldn't ever let us know what was going on. It's okay."

I know I went still for a moment, my hands holding the mask as I bowed my head. Inexplicably, I felt like weeping, my eyes filling with moisture and my throat all clogged up. "Thank you," I finally managed to choke out, hoarse with emotion.

Taking a deep breath, I went back to work.

But I couldn't help thinking about Jim, and how hard it was going to be for him without Sandburg backing him up, covering for him--helping him make sense of his senses. Bitterly, I thought about how I'd teased the kid about not wanting to know anything about it, about the ‘Sandburg zone'-and I can't begin to tell you how much I wished I could find myself back in that zone.

Dammit, I thought, having to bite my lip to keep it from trembling. I felt so bad for the kid. He'd always, only, ever tried to help. Only ever gave his best. And now…

I couldn't think about it.

I'd fall apart if I did.

And, after all is said and done, I am the 'Captain'.

Captains aren't supposed to fall apart.

Not in public, anyway…

********************

********************

A nurse had blown into the room just after the others had left, and then stopped in her tracks, just staring at Sandburg, her mouth slightly agape. Shaking herself visibly, she pulled herself together and moved to the bed to check his vital signs and pose the routine questions.

"So…you decided to wake up?" she observed with forced cheerfulness, taking his pulse. She was only too evidently shocked to find him awake, and seemingly alert. That had clearly not been the expected outcome.

When Blair just stared at her, she asked with a hard won professional detachment, "Do you know your name?"

"Blair Sandburg," he murmured and swallowed.

"Do you know what day it is?" she asked then.

"No," he replied, his voice quavering a little, but he forced himself to go on with a painful honesty, "I don't even know what year it is…"

Frowning, she looked from him to me.

"He thinks he's eleven years old," I explained.

"No, that's not right," he interjected, studiously sincere, trying his best to be as rational as possible in the face of the impossible. "I feel like I'm eleven years old, and I can't remember anything since then…but I know I'm a lot older than that." He reached up unconsciously to again touch the bristle of beard on his face. "I don't remember what happened to me…"

God, he sounded so lost, so confused and scared. And he was trying to be so brave it broke my heart.

"Oh," she said, not quite knowing what else to say. Biting her lip, she added, "You've been ill, with a high fever, and unconscious for a few days. The doctor will be in to see you in the morning and will no doubt have a few tests that will need to be done…"

"Do you think," he asked, faltering a little before continuing, "…do you think this is permanent?"

Her expression softened then, in compassion for the fear in his eyes and his poignant uncertainty. Brushing his hair back from his brow in an oddly maternal gesture, she answered as honestly as she could, "I don't know, Blair…let's see what the doctor has to say tomorrow, okay?"

He swallowed and nodded, looking down at the sheet as he picked at it nervously. He trembled when she turned to me, and said, "Visiting hours are long over-you should be heading home."

"No," I replied, squeezing his shoulder and I could hear his breathing hitch. In relief? I'd like to think so, anyway. "Blair's understandably pretty upset by all this. He's my roommate and my best friend-I don't want to leave him alone right now."

Relenting, she nodded. "All right," she allowed, but turned back to Sandburg. "You've had a hard time of it. You need to try to rest."

He nodded again, uncertainly, but wouldn't meet her eyes. Rest? How the hell could the kid rest with what was happening? With all the questions, and the fears, he must have? He looked wan and exhausted, but too enervated to rest.

I found myself watching him pick at a rough spot on the cotton sheet as my mind flinched away from the enormity of what had happened-and my guilt for the role I had played in bringing him to this. And isn't that typical? I thought bitterly. Avoiding what I didn't want to face, like the weird visions of a spotted jaguar and nightmares about killing a wolf that morphed into Sandburg. Because I didn't trust the visions, didn't want to have them-didn't understand them and couldn't control them.

No more than I'd been able to control the irrational feelings I'd had. Sensing a dangerous, deadly, unseen and unknown enemy, but not telling Sandburg. Not trusting him. Because I smelled the threat on him and couldn't stand it. Because in my mixed up, muddled paranoia I thought he was betraying me. Frightened that I'd end up killing him for a betrayal that made no sense and had no real basis in anything but my knowledge that there was an enemy in my territory. Driving him away with no explanation or warning.

And then it had become clear what he'd done. Befriending her! Putting his damned research ahead of our friendship, our partnership! I had wanted to shake him or slug him…how could he do that! It hadn't mattered that he was sorry. He'd betrayed my trust-had made me a thing, something to be studied and compared to another thing. Not his friend, not his partner…just another lab rat to be observed for his goddamned dissertation. I couldn't even stand to look at him. It hurt too much. God, I'd trusted him with everything that I was…and he had betrayed me. Made me feel like the kind of freak that my father had feared I'd be labeled so many years ago.

I couldn't get past it, didn't think at the time that I'd ever get past it, until after Alex had almost killed me, and I realized what I had done in my paranoia and hurt. I'd left him alone and vulnerable with that she-demon stalking both of us. Memories swirled, sickening, horrifying memories of Sandburg floating face down in the fountain. Of cold, flaccid lips and blue skin…of the silence in place of that sure and steady, necessary, heartbeat. Nausea roiled in my gut and I had to clamp my jaw and swallow hard to force it back.

I'd gotten a second chance. I didn't understand it. More of those inexplicable visions of a dead shaman and animal spirit guides, whatever the hell they were. A power surging through me that scared me, but that gave me back my friend. My partner. My Guide.

And how did I react the first time I saw him conscious in the hospital afterwards? Did I grab him and hold him close, and tell him how I felt? Did I tell him I was sorry for having doubted him? For having reacted without thought and only out of blind, hurt emotion and instinct? When he wanted to talk about the vision we'd shared, about what it meant that he had died and between us, and our spirit guides, we had somehow worked a miracle and gotten his life back, did I allow that conversation, encourage it, understand his need?

Of course not.

I didn't want to think about the fact that he'd been dead. Didn't want to deal with visions I didn't understand…didn't welcome the mysterious and find it wonderful like he did. I didn't hug him… hell, I didn't even touch him. And I could hardly look at him-because of my guilt and my fear of the power we'd unleashed. No, I just shut him down and told him to get some rest.

And I walked out-driven to find Alex Barnes. Driven by an instinct I didn't understand and couldn't resist. Walked out assuming he knew our fences were mended, that we were okay again…that he'd be coming home. Assuming he knew how damned grateful I was that I hadn't lost him.

More of those visions in Barnes' burned out apartment. An irresistible urge to go to Mexico, to find her. To stop her? Hell, yes. She had enough nerve gas in those two canisters to kill a million or more people. I had to stop her-she'd murdered my Guide! Left him unconscious, floating face down to drown in knee-deep water. I wanted to kill her.

So what happened on that beach? What madness drove me to lust after her? To want her so badly I was blind with the need of her? God, when Megan called out and broke the spell, I nearly vomited at what I had done. But I still couldn't stop her, couldn't shoot her…frozen and stunned, only able to watch her run away. Damn I needed Sandburg then, to make sense of it.

Or during the ambush, on the edge of the jungle? Why the hell did I warn her, need to protect her? Because she was another sentinel? Her? A sentinel? No way. She might have had the senses but she sure in hell didn't have a shred of integrity or the least impulse toward protecting anyone but herself.

But I was driven to chase after her by instincts gone wild. Unthinking-just acting. Part of me knew, even then, I should never have made that journey after her without my Guide, but I couldn't stop myself. And then Incacha sent me to the temple, leaving Megan behind, unguarded, at risk. Damn it. Those bastards could have killed her. She had every right to despise me.

And then the visions in the pool. Terrible visions of blood and death-and Incacha shouting at me, demanding to know what I feared. Swirling, confusing, dizzying, horrible visions…and Sandburg. Smiling, looking hurt, dead…and alive again.

And I knew then what I feared most. Loss of control. Being dependent upon another person to function, to survive. I feared Sandburg and his power over me. I saw clearly, for the first time, that he was both my greatest fear and my salvation if I'd let him be-if I surrendered to him.

Alex Barnes lost her mind in those pools, went insane.

I found my sanity. And his name was Blair Sandburg. My best friend. My partner and my Guide. The one person in my life I could trust with my life. I'd finally figured it out.

And then Simon told me…told me…

I was spiraling, losing myself in that knot of cotton that he kept picking at, and in the too loud sound of his fingers scratching at it…falling…

"Jim?" he whispered.

And his voice pulled me back, as it always had. He didn't even know what he was doing and he was still grounding me. Saving me from my own senses.

I guess he felt me jerk back into awareness. I'd forgotten I still had a hand on his shoulder and I felt him flinch as he cut me a frightened look, not understanding that I'd almost zoned.

"Sorry," I muttered, "I was…thinking…"

Yeah, right. Thinking about me and not him. Willfully not thinking about the possibility that the most brilliant mind I'd ever known had been irreparably damaged. Willfully avoiding the question of whether my best friend might have been all right if I hadn't abandoned him to chase after Alex Barnes.

He watched me warily but then his gaze shifted away as he murmured, "You told the nurse we were best friends…"

"Yeah, we are," I replied quietly. "We have been for more than three years now."

"How old am I-really?" he asked, still not looking at me.

"Twenty-nine," I told him.

His eyes flew wide open and he looked at me, stunned. "Twenty…" he gasped.

"Easy, Chief," I soothed, gripping his shoulder a little harder. "I know you don't remember, but we'll work it out."

His gaze darted around the room, like a frightened bird, and then came back to me. "Who am I?" he whispered, trying so hard to make sense of what was happening to him.

"You're Blair Sandburg, son of Naomi, teaching fellow at Rainier University, working on your PhD dissertation in Anthropology. You're my best friend, my roommate and my partner…"

He pulled back from my grip on his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me. "Partner? Roommate?"

And I sighed. This was Naomi Sandburg's little boy, who had grown up in communes in an environment of 'free love'. He might only feel eleven years old, but I doubted if this kid had ever been allowed any innocence at least in so far as intimate human relationships were concerned. "Your place burned down almost four years ago and you moved into my spare room temporarily," I explained quietly. "But, we got along all right and it made sense for you to stay with me since you were helping me work on some stuff…you just never…" I almost said 'moved out', but that wasn't quite true, was it? "You always seemed happy enough with the arrangement."

"What do you mean we're partners?" he demanded then. "Are you a professor or something?"

"No, I'm a cop-a detective," I told him, and I could see it only confused him further.

"The others who were here…they're cops, too, aren't they?" he asked then. When I nodded, he muttered something about that explaining why they were all giants, even the woman.

"Megan," I said and he looked at me oddly, not realizing he'd softly murmured the thought aloud…or at least not loud enough that I could hear him.

He frowned in thought, his agile mind turning over the bits of information, but he shook his head. "I don't understand…it doesn't make any sense."

"I know," I agreed, but I didn't think this was the time to go into it all. He looked wiped out, fighting the need to sleep as he grappled with the mystery of who he was and what had happened to him. "Look, I'll explain everything, I promise. But the nurse was right. You really need to get some rest."

"What if…what if I don't get better?" he asked then, his eyes averted.

"Let's not jump to those conclusions just yet, okay?" I asked, for myself as much as for him. "We need to see what the doctor says, and what the tests show…"

"But…" he began.

I cut him off. The last thing he needed right now was to wonder what would happen to him if this were, God forbid, permanent. "But, regardless," I said firmly, "You'll be coming home, back to the loft…where you belong."

"But…" he tried again.

"No 'buts', Junior," I insisted. And I meant it. "If we find out your memories are gone for good, we'll make new ones. You're the smartest person I ever met-it'll be damned shame if you have to relearn everything you already learned once before, but you can do it, if you have to. We'll work it out, Blair."

He thought about that for a while, and then rolled over onto his side, toward me. "I wish I could remember you," he murmured, sounding lost.

"I'll remember for the both of us," I told him. "Now-go to sleep."

A wan smile played over his lips as he studied me. "You know, you look pretty wrecked, Jim. Maybe you should sleep, too." He hesitated and then offered softly, "Maybe you should go home."

I shook my head. "Not until we hear what the doctor has to say, Chief."

He relaxed a little at that, and sighed as he unconsciously curled closer still. I reached out to stroke his hair. "Go to sleep, Blair. I promise, I'll be here when you wake up."

He blinked up at me, his lids heavy with exhaustion. Finally, with a deep sigh, he let his eyes close. Short minutes later, he sighed again as he slipped into sleep.

Watching him, I wondered how I was ever going to explain what had happened to him…why he'd gotten so sick that he'd almost died-again. Trembling with the memories and my fears about what the future might hold for him, I began to ease my hand away from his head, but he reached up in his sleep and curled his fingers around my wrist, holding my hand in place.

Unconscious, innocent trust.

I bowed my head and felt the hot prick of tears in my eyes. Would he ever trust me again when he finally found out what had happened? I fought the lump in my throat and forced back the sob that threatened, covering my mouth with my hand.

But I couldn't stop the guilty, grief-stricken, tear that trickled down my face.

When all is said and done, this was my fault-and I knew it. I'd betrayed our friendship, denied it, abused it, over and over again in the last few weeks. I'd failed in my role as his Sentinel.

Why the hell was he the one who had to pay the price of my failure? I could wallow in guilt for the rest of my life, but it wouldn't change the fact that I had, in my blindness, my rage, my fear-I had left my Guide vulnerable, and in leaving him had destroyed his life.

********************

********************

A female, Afro-American lab tech pushing a portable EEG machine arrived before 8:00 am, waking both of us. Stiff from having fallen asleep on the chair sometime during the night, I rubbed grainy, tired eyes, wondering what the hell I was doing in a hospital…and then I remembered. And felt nausea cramp in my gut.

Gritting my jaw, determined to hold onto my control for the kid's sake, I looked at Sandburg who was silently watching the technician, a thin middle-aged woman with short, grizzled, graying hair, shake out leads and then he endured having them stuck in place on his temples and other key spots on his head.

"What are you doing?" I asked, wondering why so many hospital staff forget that patients are scared, and often don't know what the hell is going on and need some kind of explanation when they are rudely awakened for some test or other. Okay, I wanted to know what was going on, so sue me.

"Dr. Jeffreys, the neurologist, wanted this set up first thing so that he can assess the readings when he comes in later this morning," the impersonal woman replied. But when she actually glanced into Sandburg's wide eyes, she seemed to soften a little. "This shows us the activity in your brain," she explained. Patting his shoulder almost absently when she'd finished hooking up the leads and had turned on the machine, she murmured as she turned to go, "I'm glad to see you woke up after all."

Sandburg blinked at her words. He hadn't known until then that there'd been any question about him waking up. He took a deep breath, swallowed and then flicked a look at me as he said quietly, "Maybe you should tell me what happened. How long was I out of it, and why?"

"Sandburg-Blair," I stumbled, "the short version is that you almost drowned about a week ago, and you got an infection in your lungs. The high fever led to convulsions…"

I stopped when he winced and cursed myself for my lack of bedside manner. I was scaring him.

"And the long version is…?" he asked softly, looking worried.

"Complicated," I replied, looking away. "Look, I promise I'll tell you everything, but later…after we know what the doctor has to say, okay?"

His eyes narrowed as he studied me, and I thought for a minute that he was going to demand the details there and then. Well, it wasn't as if he didn't have a right to them. He was the one trying to deal with the loss of almost twenty years of memories and the sense of still being eleven years old. But he clamped his lips shut and looked away, and I had the impression I had just failed a test. Though he didn't move, I could feel him withdraw from me.

"Talk to me, Chief," I encouraged, reaching out to touch him-but he flinched away.

"About what?" he asked, sullen…angry.

I shrugged and pinched the bridge of my nose. It was a good question. He'd told me what he wanted to talk about and I'd just cut him off. Licking my lips, I sighed, "I don't know-how about what you do remember? Where were you when you were eleven? What's your most recent memory?"

I wasn't sure he was going to answer at first, but then he spoke, low and clipped, "Some trailer park outside of Tucson. My Mom had just left to go to a retreat in Sedona…"

"She left you?" I exclaimed. I'd known Naomi had dragged Sandburg all over God's green earth, but I didn't know she'd ever left him behind.

He cut me a defensive look as he challenged, "Yeah, so what? It's not like it's easy for her having a kid trailing along behind her all the time. Sometimes she has to do adult stuff and I'd just be in the way. No big deal. She always comes back."

I gaped at him, blinking as I tried to assimilate all the messages that I wasn't sure he knew he'd just given me. And then I remembered what he'd asked when he'd first awakened. Had his mother left him with one of us? Left him with people he didn't recognize. Dear God.

"Who did you stay with when she was away?" I asked.

He sighed and shrugged. "Whoever was handy; in Tucson, it was a guy named Eddie that we'd been living with for a couple of months."

"How often did she leave you?" I asked then, wishing Naomi was close enough to shake.

"What's with the third degree, Kojak?" he snapped back, crossing his arms as he hunched away, curling toward the far wall. "It's not like it's any of your business. According to you, that was a long time ago."

That often. Shit. He was used to being left behind. Used to being in the way, a burden. Used to wondering if he was wanted. And I'd done the same damned thing to him.

"Chief…" I began, wanting to make peace.

"Why do you call me that?" he demanded, cutting me off.

"I-it's just…it doesn't matter," I replied lamely. There was no reason.

"Yeah, well, my name is Blair," he huffed. "When your name's all you got, you appreciate when people use it."

Swallowing, I sighed. "Okay, Blair. Can we stop fighting now?"

He shrugged and just kept staring at the wall.

Sagging back against the chair, I pushed my fingers through my hair. "Look, I'm scared, too," I said then, not knowing what else to say or do. Whatever tentative link we'd established last night had just gone down in flames.

He stiffened and then mumbled, "Yeah, well, I guess anybody'd be scared to think their thirty-year-old roommate just became the son they never wanted. Shit, man…don't sweat it. I don't expect you to take care of me. I'm not your responsibility."

"That's not what I meant!" I exclaimed, standing to move around the bed to see his face, but he just rolled the other way. I reached for his shoulder but he shrugged me off. "Dammit, Sandburg…I'm scared for your sake! This has got to be hell for you."

"You can't really miss what you don't remember," he muttered back, but his voice was unsteady. I closed my eyes and listened to the hammering heartbeat that gave the lie to his attempt to appear tough and able to face whatever came on his own. At that moment, he was just a scared kid, who didn't know what was going to happen to him or if he'd ever get better. But it was all too evident he was used to coping with whatever happened without a whole lot of help from anybody. What kind of childhood had he really had? The little he'd ever said made it sound like one big holiday, traveling from one exotic place to another. Evidently, there was a lot he hadn't said.

Just then Dr. Jeffreys walked in and introduced himself as the neurologist on Blair's case. Blair pulled himself up into a sitting position, his back against the frame of the bed, all of his attention focused now on the doctor. Jeffreys studied Sandburg, checked Blair's pupils and reflexes and shook his head. "I must say, Mr. Sandburg, you are a surprise. I never expected you to wake up."

"Yeah," he sighed as he bit his lip, "I got that impression from the technician who wired me up this morning."

Nodding, the neurologist's eyes narrowed as he asked, "I understand that you don't remember approximately twenty years of your life…and that when you woke, you thought you were eleven years old. Is that still what you think?"

Sandburg looked at him owlishly and shook his head. "Not exactly. Given the evidence to the contrary," he replied with a vague wave at his body, "it's pretty clear that I'm not eleven years old. Jim says I'm really twenty-nine. But…to be honest? I still feel eleven."

"I see," Jeffreys nodded, sagely, as if he knew what was going on. I had to wonder if he really did or if he was bluffing. He shifted away from Blair to read the long printout from the portable EEG and then he studied the wavy lines on the screen, rubbing his chin, pondering whatever it was he was seeing.

Blair held himself tensely, trying his damnedest to appear calm, but his heart was hammering in his chest and his breathing was rapid and shallow. He watched Jeffreys but didn't say anything-and then I understood. He was afraid to ask.

"What do you think?" I asked for him, for both of us. "Is this a temporary condition?"

Jeffreys looked at me and frowned. "I'm sorry…are you a relative? I'm not sure I should be discussing Mr. Sandburg's condition with you."

"I'm Detective Jim Ellison, Blair's best friend and we share an apartment. I have his power of attorney," I explained, trying to stay calm. 'Condition' didn't sound promising.

"Ah, I see," he nodded, suddenly brisk. Looking from me to Blair, he at least did my partner the courtesy of talking to him directly. "Your EEG is abnormal. Certain critical functions appear very depressed, almost as if you were in a deep meditative state, which is clear you are not. I'm sorry-but from what I can determine at this time, given the parts of your brain that are affected, your condition is likely to be permanent."

Blair paled; a small, muted moan of protest escaped his lips, and this time he didn't pull away when I gripped his shoulder. I felt like I'd just been punched in the gut-and couldn't begin to imagine how those words had affected him. He seemed completely stunned, so again, I asked for him, "But-Blair can learn again, right? I mean-I wish it wasn't necessary, but he's really brilliant. He can, I don't know, 'catch up'? With help? Right?" God, please, I wanted to shout, don't condemn him-please don't do this!

Jeffreys sighed and actually looked very sad. I guess cops aren't the only ones who have tough jobs. Then he shook his head. "I'm really very sorry, but from the evidence of current brain activity, the sectors of the brain impacted and the functions that are grossly depressed because of the extent of the damage from the fever convulsions, no-I don't believe Mr. Sandburg can learn, certainly not well enough to function at the post-graduate level, which is what I understand he was engaged in until now."

The kid literally sagged at that, like a balloon losing its air. I glanced down at him, cut deep by his pallor, and the way he blinked hard to clear the glaze of moisture from his eyes as he stared into space. I felt dizzy and had to take a couple of deep breaths, fighting the explosion of pain in my chest. Swallowing, I shook my head, in denial I guess. "You don't know Blair. You have no idea of what he is capable of," I protested.

The doctor's lips thinned as if he was biting back words, but then he just nodded. "Perhaps-I would not discourage either of you from trying, but I caution that the frustration may be severe." He drew a card from his pocket and seemed to hesitate between us, but then handed it to me. "I would suggest that both of you pursue counseling with Dr. Marion Reynolds. This is a very, very difficult adjustment."

Blair's eyes flashed as he looked between the doctor and me. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about me like I'm invisible," he grated. "Jim is NOT responsible for me."

Dr. Jeffreys sighed. Turning to Blair, he explained, "At this time, Mr. Sandburg, you have the mental competency of a minor. There is no reason, eventually, why you cannot be rehabilitated into supportive living arrangements, and even have a simple, uncomplicated job. But, for now, either a parent, or Detective Ellison, who holds your power of attorney…"

"What's that?" he demanded, not understanding.

"It means I can act for you legally when you aren't competent to act for yourself," I explained, feeling sick. I'd never wanted this. Never imagined a conversation like this could ever happen.

"You mean, you have power over me, my choices-you can force me to do what you want," he demanded, clearly not liking the situation at all.

"Basically, yes," the doctor answered before I could say anything.

"Blair, this doesn't have to be a confrontation. You're my best friend. I respect you," I said, trying to soften the message. But why would he trust me? I was a stranger. Hell, worse, I was the one who'd done this to him, whether he knew that yet or not. I'd survived that damned pool by holding onto him-but when he'd needed me, I was nowhere to be found.

"Yeah, right," he muttered.

Turning back to Jeffreys, I asked, "When can I take him home?"

Jeffreys glanced again at the EEG monitor and said quietly, "Now that he has fully awakened and is alert, there is really nothing we can do for Mr. Sandburg here. Again-I urge you to pursue outpatient follow up for various competency and intellectual potential assessments and transitional counseling-Dr. Reynolds' office can arrange all of that. Mr. Sandburg's chest infection is well under control and there is no real reason to keep him in hospital any longer. I'll sign the papers permitting you to take him home today."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. I wanted to get him home.

I wish I thought that he wanted the same thing.

Dr. Jeffreys took his leave and left us with a heavy silence.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice tight. God, how inadequate those words were for what I felt, for the horror and tragedy of what had happened to Blair Sandburg.

He sat hunched against the bed frame, his arms crossed and his knees pulled up…his head bowed so that his hair hid his face. "He can't be right," Sandburg finally said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I want to be a scientist, man. I've dreamed of going to university. I want to be an anthropologist and understand people and societies. He can't be right!" His voice broke and his shoulders shook as he lifted one hand to cover his mouth, trying to hold back the sobs.

My own vision blurred and I couldn't do anything but sit down on the bed and pull him into my arms-and hold him while he wept. I'd just witnessed the demolition of all the dreams of the best man I'd ever known-and I didn't have the first clue about how to comfort him.

There was no way to make this right.

"You're not alone, Blair," I told him, my own voice hoarse and husky with emotion. "I swear to you-you'll never be alone."

Simon walked in just then, looking absolutely exhausted, I guess to bring me back my keys and to drop off clothing for Blair before he headed home. When he saw us, and the understanding of what it must mean crashed into him, he sagged against the wall and his face crumpled. Neither of us said anything, we just looked at one another while I held Blair against my chest. I shook my head.

He crossed his arms and curled a little against the wall, as if he'd just been shot or stabbed. His bit his lip as a tear silently slipped down his face.

********************

Blair was embarrassed when he realized Simon was there and had seen him crying. I guess he hadn't learned yet that it's not a bad thing for boys to cry…or if he had, he didn't believe it when he was eleven. It's a tough age, not quite a child, not yet a teenager. In-between and awkward. And he was stuck there.

Once he'd stopped crying and I'd wiped the moisture from my eyes, he got dressed while I spoke with Simon in the hall.

"The doctor says this is permanent and it'll never get better-that he can't learn," I said bleakly. "God, Simon-I can't take it in. I can't believe it…"

Good man that he is, Simon wiped his eyes and said, "Sandburg at eleven was already brighter, and probably knew more stuff, than 90% of the population. We have no idea what his potential is yet and nobody has the right to write him off. Whatever he needs, Jim, or you need, we'll be behind you all the way."

"Thanks, Simon," I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. I couldn't begin to explain what I was feeling. Guilt, grief, devastation… the words don't even come close to describing how God-awful I felt. But beyond all that, I had this need to protect Sandburg and take care of him-to give him the best life I could.

Simon squeezed my shoulder, told me he'd tell the others and then left. Watching him walk slowly down the corridor, I thought he looked like he'd aged twenty years. Turning, I went back into the room and found Blair dressed, sitting dejectedly on the bed.

"Ready to go?" I asked.

He nodded wordlessly and followed me out-didn't even protest when they made him ride downstairs in a wheelchair. I flagged a taxi from the queue and took him home.

********************

When we got back to the loft, he followed me upstairs and into the apartment. He stood uncertainly, looking around as I took his jacket and hung it up.

"Welcome home," I said, meaning it. And it was only then, as I looked around and remembered how it had been when I'd left for Mexico, that I realized how much work our friends had done during the night to make it a decent home to bring him back to and I felt a wave of gratitude toward them all. What would the kid have thought if I'd brought him home to the barren emptiness that it had been?

He nodded and moved to the balcony to look outside, while I went to the kitchen to cook a simple breakfast, my throat tight when I saw that someone had stocked the cupboards and the fridge. I had no idea when he'd last eaten-and wasn't sure he was hungry, but I didn't really know what else to do. So I scrambled up some eggs, made some toast and coffee.

"Coffee all right with you or do you want tea…or milk?" I asked, suddenly uncertain.

He shrugged. "What did I usually drink for breakfast?" he asked.

"Coffee," I said. "But, you don't have to if you don't like it yet…"

He sighed. Lost. A child in a man's body, with no idea who he was any more. "I'll try the coffee," he finally said.

Setting the loaded plates on the table, I asked, "You feel like eating?"

He smiled a little and shook his head. "Fine time to ask," he observed wryly, but then nodded. "I could eat."

Afterward, I showed him to his room and he looked curiously at the laptop on the desk. "What's that?" he asked.

"Your computer," I replied.

His brow quirked. "Computer? That? I know how to use a computer? I mean…I knew how?"

"Oh, yeah, and later today or tomorrow, I'll show you how it works," I assured him.

"Cool," he murmured. I wanted to weep. In the midst of all the shit, he was still Blair-give him something to learn and the guy was intrigued. It was ingrained into his personality. But what if the doctor was right, and he just couldn't learn any more? What would that pain do to him?

He looked at some of the artifacts he had in the room, on the desk, the bookcase and the wall, and then picked up one of the heavy textbooks. "You said I was working on my PhD?"

"Yeah," I sighed, unable to look at the wonder and sorrow in his eyes.

"I liked it, didn't I?" he murmured then, his voice soft, not really needing an answer. At eleven, he already knew he loved to learn. He put the book down on the desk and stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and I couldn't help but see his gesture as a deliberate statement to himself that he didn't have the right, somehow, to touch those books any more. He sighed a little and looked around the room again. Trying to get his bearings, trying to make sense of his life. "How did we get to be friends, Jim?" he asked then, cutting me a quick, almost shy look. "I mean, I can see we're pretty different."

"You saved my life the day I met you," I replied-and that got his attention.

His head whipped up and his mouth dropped open. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope," I replied and smiled at him. "C'mon back into the living room. It's time I told you more about…you. And me, I guess. About our work together."

Intrigued, well that was Sandburg…I was caught by the sense that he was still the same person, maybe not the exact same man, but his essential motivations, interests, beliefs and values would be the same. I remember in a course once, when the military was trying to shift its culture to one more welcoming of diversity, that we'd been shown this film, called, ‘What you are is what you were when'. It was a grainy, black and white three-hour monologue by this frenetic but actually quite interesting and amusing guy. I guess that's why I remember it. Anyway, the bottom-line message was that we are all essentially shaped by the time we are ten years old. Our values and beliefs, our core personalities, the way we interact with others and the world. Sandburg was stuck at eleven…but he was still essentially the person I'd known. According to the guy on the film, we only really change after that if we are hit by a devastating emotional experience that requires us to change and we want to change as a result of it. I thought about that as I moved into the other room, and wondered if what had happened wouldn't maybe, ultimately, change me in more fundamental ways than it had Sandburg. All this had happened because of my inability to deal with anger, threat and control issues…but I was going to have to do better. I was going to have to be more than I'd been to help him now.

Anyway, 'intrigued', Blair followed me into the living room and unconsciously chose his regular spot on the couch, folded his legs up underneath him for comfort and pushed his hair back behind his ears, giving me his full attention. He even looked eager, like a little kid, hardly able to wait to hear how he had saved my life.

"Blair," I asked, not entirely sure where to begin, "have you ever heard of 'sentinels'?"

"Sentinels?" he repeated, sitting back, his eyes going unfocused as he accessed memories. "You mean like tribal watchmen?" he asked for clarification.

"Yeah, like that," I agreed, encouraged when I saw recognition of the idea flash in his eyes.

"Uh huh, last year when Naomi and I were in Central America. We spent some time with one of the tribes in the mountains in Paraguay. There was this old guy, a shaman, and he didn't seem to mind spending time with me, telling me stories. He told me about the tribal watchmen, who sort of looked out for, protected, the community…they'd literally stand watch on the perimeter. It's a neat idea, and when I got back where there were libraries, I looked it up and found out that it's a pretty common concept. In the ancient Hebrew texts, the Book of the Apocalypse and the Book of Enoch, they say the watchers were sons of God, angels sort of, who mated with mortals and their offspring were called ‘sentinels'. They usually have some special skill. Like, for example, if the Greek hero, Hercules, was the son of a ‘watcher' who was known as Zeus, his special skill would have been his strength. Mostly though, they seemed to have better senses than the rest of us, to stand watch, to listen for danger, to smell changes in the wind…like that."

I know I was gaping at him because he gave me this funny look. "What?" he demanded, fidgeting, uncomfortable.

"You're brilliant," I stammered. "You are so fucking brilliant, it's scary sometimes. How did you learn all this stuff? They don't teach it in schools."

"Oh, well, um, I didn't spend a lot of time in regular schools," he said diffidently, looking away. "We were always on the move, you know, and so I kinda just picked up stuff on the way, and went to classes when we were near a school, for a few months, here and there…"

"Then how did you learn?" I asked again, frowning a bit in wonder.

Shrugging, he licked his lips and explained, "Well, I always liked to read and there are libraries practically everywhere where you can read for free." Smiling fondly, he bobbed his head as he reported, "Mom said I taught myself to read when I was three, but she's probably exaggerating. Anyway, I learned about geography because we traveled a lot, and then I'd read about the place that we were, its history and stuff. And I liked hearing peoples' stories, so I'd ask them how they got to be there, about where their ancestors came from and stuff like that. It was the stories they told, and talking to people like that old Shaman, that made me want to study anthropology, cause there's a lot of wisdom, you know? Things people have learned that we've forgotten, 'cause we move so fast now and we think the old ideas and myths aren't important anymore." He stopped and looked away, embarrassed as if he'd revealed too much, or maybe hiding his sorrow that he'd not be pursuing those studies now, thinking about what he'd 'forgotten'.

Clearing his throat, he continued, "Naomi was always into the environment and I figured if I was going to be in protest marches with her, I should know what we were protesting. So I talked to the people with us, and her, and read about air and water pollution…which led me to want a better idea of what a healthy earth would be like, so I ended up learning about plants and animals, water systems and the atmosphere. And I always thought the universe was really interesting, amazing. I mean, there're billions of stars and planets out there and, well, we can't be the only ones who are aware of it all-that would be scary-so I ended up reading articles and books on the big bang, especially by that guy, Stephen Hawking, you know? Didn't understand everything I read. Some of it was pretty complicated. But I got the gist of it. So…I learned something about physics and inertia and stuff like that. Mom taught me some things specifically, you know, how to meditate almost as soon as I could talk, and see auras and access the body's energies through the chakras and how to link with the energy of the earth. And I know they don't teach that in schools, cause whenever I'd try to talk about it to the other kids, they pretty much thought I was nuts."

"How did you get into university if you never went to regular schools to get the marks and diplomas you'd need?" I wondered.

What a stupid question. He just froze and then said very quietly, "I don't know. I don't remember. But every couple of years or so, Naomi would take me to whatever school was nearby and browbeat them into giving me their standard tests and then get a certificate or something from them, to prove I was learning, I guess…"

"I'm sorry, Blair, that was a dumb question. I just forgot," I said.

He shrugged and gave me a wry grin. "Well, we're in real trouble, man, if I can't remember stuff any more and you're just naturally forgetful," he teased. When he'd got me to chuckle over that, he straightened and said, "I, uh, guess I've been talking a lot. People tell me I never shut up. But you were going to tell me how I saved your life…so, um, I'd really like to know."

"Yeah, right," I replied, also straightening. Looking at him squarely in the eye, I said, "I'm a sentinel. Nobody but you and Simon know that…"

"You're kidding!" he exclaimed in wonder and natural enthusiasm. "Really? What kind of gifts do you have?"

"I can see, hear, smell, taste and touch a whole lot more than average people can," I told him. "You told me I was kind of a human crime lab, perfect for my job as a cop."

He leaned back against the sofa, his mouth slightly agape. "Wow," he breathed, and then his eyes went out of focus again as he thought about that. "Cool," he murmured softly, but then frowned. Looking back at me, he reflected, "But…that's gotta be pretty uncomfortable some times. I mean, bright lights, the loud sound of sirens all the time, itchy clothes…the stink in rotting alleys…yech." He curled his lip in sympathy. "How do you stand it?"

Shrugging, I told him, "I thought I was going crazy, until you found me. I didn't have a clue what was happening to me. I guess I'd repressed them and then when I was working a long, isolated, stakeout, they came back on line. You taught me how to control them by imagining a dial in my head for each one, and turning the dial down when the impact is too extreme."

"I did that?" he blurted, looking astonished. Then nodded. "Good, I'm glad if I was able to help. But that's really not like saving your life or anything…I mean, it's just visualizing stuff like you do in meditation."

"Believe me, kid, that help alone was a life-saver," I assured him, "but you did a lot more than that. When I focus too hard on one sense, I lose track of everything else. You call it ‘zoning'. Anyway, when I left your office, I got distracted by this red Frisbee flying through the air and stopped dead…in the middle of a street. I would have been run down by a garbage truck, but you came out of nowhere and tackled me, pulling me to the ground so that the truck passed over top of us. You really did save my life."

He shuddered a bit at the description of what he'd done. Swallowing, he shook his head. "That had to be pretty scary," he mumbled.

"More for you than for me…I didn't have a clue what was going on until it was over," I replied. "You acted very bravely that day-and you've been very brave many times since. Simon, my boss, the Captain of the Major Crimes Unit, agreed you could be a civilian observer and ride along with me, to help me with my senses, and that's what you've been doing for the past more than three years, while you kept up your work at university at the same time. You're my Guide, Chief."

"Guide?" he echoed. "You mean like the watchman's companion…the one who watches the watchman's back?"

"Exactly, but you also have given me hundreds of tests to help me work out how to better understand, use and control my senses."

He went quiet again as he thought about that, looking down at the floor so that I couldn't read his eyes. Finally, he asked, his voice very soft and worried, "But you don't need a guide any more, right? You do okay now on your own?"

"No," I answered. "I need a guide. Oh, I do a lot better now in normal situations because of what you've taught me, but I still need a guide."

Swallowing, he looked up, his eyes dark and wide with concern. "What are you going to do? Who can we get to help you now?"

"I like the Guide I've got, Chief," I told him. "I don't want to make a change…and I don't think a change is really possible. There's a mystical thing to all this that I don't understand, but it's like we're connected -we belong together. Like Fate or something."

"But…but I'm no good any more," he stammered. "I can't do what I used to…I can't remember any of that stuff. You could get hurt…"

"It's all right," I soothed him, lifting my hands in a calming gesture. "You have dozens of notebooks in a box in your room about all the tests and everything you learned and taught me. You can read through them…"

"But the doctor said I can't learn, that I've forgotten how to process or something, or maybe I just can't remember new stuff…" he was on the edge of hyperventilating. Scared. For me. Jesus.

"I don't think he was right," I replied flatly. "Learning is a part of who you are, how you, I don't know, interact with the world."

He took a deep breath. "We'd better find out fast who's right about this, you or him. Shit, Jim…I'm scared for you. I don't want to screw up…"

"You won't," I told him. "A lot of the time, it's just the sound of your voice or your touch that is enough to bring me back from a zone."

"That's not really good enough, man," he argued, pushing his hands through his hair. "I mean, what if I died-you said I almost drowned. What would you have done? There's gotta be a way for you to get a new guide."

He looked up and something on my face must have shocked him, because he went all still. "I screwed up, didn't I?" he whispered. "I did something dumb to almost get myself killed. That's why you won't tell me what it was, isn't it? I'm sorry-whatever I did, I'm sorry."

I shook myself and protested, "No! You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't your fault."

"What happened? Why do you look so-sick-whenever you think about it?" he demanded.

He really did need to know, had a right to know. But if told him the whole story, would he ever be able to forgive me? He'd lost his life because I couldn't deal with my emotions and fears…

"Jim, tell me what happened," he asked, a pleading note in his voice.

I looked away. Swallowed. Rubbed my neck. Sighed. "I will," I said finally. "Just, not today. There're some papers you need to look at first. Your notebooks on the tests you gave me-and the first chapter of your dissertation on me. They'll help you to understand me, how I react to things. I-I wasn't all that happy about some of what you wrote about me in the chapter, but-I know you were right."

He looked scared and confused, and no wonder. I was throwing a huge amount of information at him, and still not explaining some of the most basic things he needed to know about what had happened to him. "Look, spend the rest of today reading some of that stuff-and if you have any questions about it, if there're things that you don't understand or don't make sense to you, ask me and I'll do my best to explain. And then, tomorrow, I'll tell you what happened. Okay?"

He nodded and moved to get up off the sofa. "Show me this stuff, Jim. I really need to read it."

After I got him settled in his room with the box of notebooks and cassettes that was under his bed, and the copy of his dissertation chapter, I had a shower and went up to bed. I felt like I hadn't slept in a month and I just really, really needed to crash.

His heartbeat was the same, and his breathing. He still mumbled softly, unconsciously, when he was reading and concentrating hard, as if holding a conversation between himself and the ideas, and the sound of the pen scratching on paper was the same. I'm ashamed to say I let the ordinary, routine sounds soothe me, and allowed myself to believe that maybe things hadn't changed all that much…that it was more like amnesia than something stranger and a lot more complicated than memory loss.

********************

I woke to the inviting scent of a casserole in the oven mingling in the air with the smell of fresh perked coffee. Blair was in the kitchen, chopping up something. Wrinkling my nose, concentrating, I caught the earthy smell of mushrooms…he was likely making a salad, too. It had grown dark while I slept and glancing at my watch, I saw that it was after seven p.m.. Rolling out of bed, I pulled on jeans and a loose sweatshirt and headed downstairs.

"You didn't have to make dinner, Junior," I called out, noticing his still damp hair and realizing he'd had a shower. I was glad he was making himself at home.

He looked up, tilting his head a little and I realized I'd once again forgotten to use his name. I wondered if the 'older' Blair had minded all the nicknames.

"Well, it was getting late, and I was getting hungry," he replied with a shrug and a half smile, going back to preparing the salad. "Besides, I have to pull my weight around here if I'm going to stay."

Was it just me or did he keep giving me loaded sentences? 'If'?

I puttered around behind him, checking out the food cooking in the oven, pouring a coffee and sipping it. It was good. For someone who didn't drink it, apparently, he knew how to make it. "Smells good," I observed. "So you know how to cook."

He laughed at that. Dumping the sliced mushrooms onto the greens in the bowl, he pushed his hair behind his ears as he turned to the sink, washed his hands and then a tomato before turning back to the island to slice it up. Talking all the while, "Cooking is a survival skill, man. And I kinda like it. Naomi, well, she's a pretty good cook when she remembers it's time to eat, but I learned early that food was not one of her priorities. And, well, when you're crashing with other people, they appreciate it if you're not just a freeloader. If you don't have money to buy food to contribute, well, you do other things, like cook, to help out."

"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.

"Nah, it's all under control-should be ready in a few more minutes," he replied good-naturedly. Waving to the table, he said, "Take a load off and relax."

As I pulled out a chair and sat down to face him at the counter, I wondered how much to push to find out more about what his life had been like-he'd been pretty defensive in the hospital earlier, but seemed more relaxed now. "You said you moved around a lot and stayed with 'whoever was handy'…"

He stiffened, and bent his head to his task of slicing the tomato.

"Look, I'm not being critical here, or anything, I'm just c