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

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

I can't believe it! I can't fucking believe it! The press has the whole story. They know I'm a sentinel and Sandburg is trying to say he can explain this? I want to smack him or scream or, God, I don't know. How did this happen? Did I misjudge him that badly? Jesus. What the hell am I going to do? We're walking along this fucking dock and I don't have a clue what to say or do. I'm screwed.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" he asked me. Is he kidding?

"There's nothing to say, Chief. It's all been said. It's out. It's over. There's no going back," I replied. Dammit. "I just thought we had an agreement that I was going to read your thesis first."

"We did," he agreed fervently, still trying to reason with me. "Look, I didn't do this."

Who is he kidding? Who else could have done this? Nobody. That's who. He's the only one who knows, really knows. It's his damned dissertation. "Right. You didn't write the book and you didn't put my name all over it." God, I really want to deck him.

"Well, of course I did, but I was planning on changing your name and probably even mine to protect you," he said, as if there's still something to talk about here. Being reasonable. Wanting me to be reasonable. "I just hadn't figured out a way to do that without compromising the documentation."

The documentation? Well, we wouldn't want to screw that up, would we? Fine to plaster my name all over it, but let's not screw up the documentation. Does he hear himself? But all that still doesn't explain how the paper got out. Or why. "You said this Sid is throwing a lot of money in your face, right?"

"Yeah," he replied with a sigh, like he's sorry about it. Sorry? I'll give him 'sorry'. He really expects me to believe that the damned paper somehow flew itself to New York and into this guy Sid's hands. Does he think I'm stupid?

"All right, just to generate publicity for the sake of generating publicity without even having a deal because he wants to, what, toss it, uh, in your face, like a dangling carrot?" That's not how the business world works. No deal, no investment. It's that simple.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Stop. What are you trying to say? I was part of this from the start? You think that's what I'm about?" he protested.

Ah, the light dawns. Well, we don't call him Einstein for nothing. He's offended that I would think such a thing. No shit. What else am I supposed to think?

"Why didn't you say anything about this last night?" I demanded, sincerely wanting to know. God, how could he let me get sideswiped by those reporters? How could he not at least let me know what to expect? Because he couldn't face me, that's why. "It just looks like guilty conscience to me."

"I thought it was over," he exclaimed, still trying to claim that none of this was his fault. "My Mom was doing what she thought was right. She didn't know what it was about."

His mother? What the hell does Naomi have to do with any of this? What is going on? "How the hell did your mother get her hands on this? It was lying around like coffee-table reading?"

"No, look, don't you try to run some interrogation on me," he bitched. Like I care at this point. "You're not going to find some weak spot in me, all right? Look, I'm not a perp. I'm your friend."

With friends like this, who needs enemies? Enough. I've had enough. I can't listen to him anymore. I don't want to even look at him anymore. Well, I guess it answers the question of what happens after the diss gets published. He gets rich and famous and I get wasted. Shit. Everyone looks after number one. I fucking know that! I just didn't think…I thought he was different. And it's killing me, here, to know I was wrong. But, maybe it's just as well. I sure as hell won't have to worry about protecting him or wonder whether he'll be my partner in the future, not after this.

"Chief, you got a great opportunity here," I told him, sarcastically, as I turned and pointed at him, before walking away-getting away-from him. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime play. Go for the brass ring. Good luck, huh?"

He called after me, his voice caught between anger and sounding lost. As I paced away, I thought about his expression, the look in his eyes, when I told him to go for it.

It wasn't the look of a man who'd just gotten everything he ever wanted.

It was the look of a man who had just been condemned unjustly, but was going to die anyway.

Shit.

I can't deal with this. I can't deal with him or his mother or the damned press.

I've got a killer to catch.

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

The media hype caught us all by surprise. And, at first, I guess we thought it was a good thing. The secret was out and we could all deal with it. But it was galling to think they'd gone to the press without the courtesy of telling their colleagues, not to mention friends, first. So, we decided to give them a little of their own back, tease them a little. Make it fun to cover our own hurt and confusion and, well, I guess, anger.

But Jim didn't look like a happy camper when he stalked in-and was even less happy when H ragged him. "Hey, Jim, my wife's having lunch with the ladies across town. I wonder if you could put your ear out and tell me what they're saying about me."

"Yeah, she says your car's too small for her garage," he cut back nastily.

Now, saying something like that could hurt a guy. But I still thought he was teasing, you know? Maybe feeling awkward about not telling us?

Rafe chimed in next, "Hey-hey, Jim, Jim, uh, when are you going to start wearing, uh, tights and a cape?"

Ouch, I can see that might strike a sensitive note. And, yep, it did. Jim didn't even pretend he was playing nice when he shot back, "Uh... I don't know. You got some I can borrow, Peter Pan?"

I thought, maybe, I should try to smooth things over a little. Let Ellison know we were just funning him, that's all. So I ambled over to his desk, like this news about him being a sentinel and all was no big deal, not really. Yeah, right. "Come on, Jim, why don't you have a sense of humor about this whole thing?"

But he just sighed and looked pained as he asked, almost plaintively-and Jim's not a plaintive kind of guy, "Joel... let's just let it go. Give it a rest."

Something wasn't right here. He looked really upset. Not at all like a man who'd decided to share his secret with the world. I had to know. I had to ask why he'd never let us in on it. "Why keep it from us? Tell us what's going on."

"I-I-I got some work to do, okay?" he mumbled, turning away, almost desperate. "Could you excuse me?"

Holy shit. This wasn't his idea! He didn't want folks to know. Can't deal with talking about it. What the hell happened? How could the media have found out?

"Sorry. Okay, buddy," I mumbled, leaving him alone. But before I could get to the other guys, to tell them something was badly wrong here, Blair walked in and H was all over him.

"Hey, Sandburg, who's playing you on the sentinel TV show?" he teased, grinning broadly. "I know, Adam Sandler."

"Listen, I hear Denzel is playing me," I joked, trying to still believe that this wasn't as bad as I was beginning to suspect it was, but Blair looked sick.

"There isn't going to be a TV show, all right?" he stated, no 'if's, and's or but's' about it, as he looked toward Jim. Sandburg's face was stark and he looked devastated. I couldn't figure out how the other guys couldn't see it. But they were still teasing.

"Just a Nobel prize," Rafe called out. Well, that's what the media had said could be expected. Before I could even think about it, the whole office was bowing down toward Sandburg, chanting, "We're not worthy. We're not worthy."

Sandburg looked like he wanted to throw up or scream, and Jim just sat there, folding his hands like if he didn't, he'd punch something…and he just looked away. Blair looked at him, and I swear there were tears in his eyes as he turned and ran out of the bullpen. Shit. What the hell is going on here?

Simon came out of his office and barked at everyone who was standing around laughing. Yeah, we got Ellison and Sandburg good all right. Showed them they couldn't get away without clueing us in.

But, why do I get the impression they weren't clued in either? How could the media have printed all that stuff? And how could there even be talk about a possible Nobel Prize, if neither Jim nor Blair wanted the secret known?

I don't understand what's going on. But I think we'd better figure it out pretty damned quick.

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

Joel was the first one who clued in that there was something ga-ga about it all, but it wasn't long before we all knew there was nothing to celebrate and one very ugly mess to deal with. Jim couldn't stand to hardly be in the same room with Sandy, and Sandy looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. We don't know all the details, but we've gotten enough out of Sandy to know he never wanted this to happen and he couldn't feel any worse about if…well, he couldn't even come up with anything worse. And, poor kid, he doesn't have a clue how to fix it. And Jim, well, I could see it was killing him to be the focus of all the unwanted attention-to think Sandy had betrayed him. And that was stupid. As bad as it was, surely he knew it was stupid.

I tried to play peacemaker. Well, someone had to get them to try to build a bridge. We had a case we were working on and Zeller was no one to fool around with. We had to be focused. All of us.

"These Gunderson files are going to take days to go through," I said, making conversation as I looked from one to the other. This was ridiculous. "Although things might move more quickly if you two would speak to each other."

"There's nothing to say, Conner," Jim said, ever the iceberg. And he was wrong. There was so much to say that the air was thick with it, suffocating all of us.

"Sandy didn't do this on purpose," I tried to reason with him. Though why I'd have to tell him that, I surely don't know.

"Oh, no?" he shot back, then called to Sandy, his tone taunting, "Hey, Chief, let me ask you something. How did you intend to protect my identity and still keep your research valid?"

"I don't know," Sandy sighed, looking so sorry. But, well, maybe Jim had a point. It had gone a long way before something as basic as that had been addressed. Saying so wouldn't help now, though. I think from the look on Sandy's face, he'd already come to that conclusion himself.

But Jim couldn't leave it. He was just too mad, too hurt, maybe. "Ah! You don't know," he jeered. "That's a good answer, Chief. You couldn't have. You knew that and went ahead and wrote it down anyway."

Oh, God, why did I start this conversation? What had ever possessed me to think it might help? Now Sandy is angry and defensive, but arguing with Jim right now is not going to help anything.

"If I was going to help you understand your abilities," he shot back, "I had to track your development in a scientific manner and you know that, man."

It's not often that I think a robbery in progress is a good thing…but I did this time when Jim spotted it going down. At least it got us out of that wretched conversation before they came to blows.

How are we ever going to fix this mess? Or has it already gone too far?

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

I feel so badly about it all. I never meant to cause any trouble. I just wanted to help Blair, that's all. And now, it's all such a mess. I'm surprised Jim hasn't kicked me right out of his home. He'd certainly have every right to do so. I violated my son's trust. And I've maybe destroyed both of them-I've certainly put their friendship at grave risk. Blair stares at Jim with a look in his eyes that says he'd give anything to fix this but Jim won't even look at him, let alone talk to him. I can't believe Jim is still being civil to me-I think I'd rather if he shouted or raged at me, blamed me, not Blair. I did this. It's my fault.

But, maybe, since he is still at least talking to me, if not my son, I can repair some of the damage. I have to try. I've made tea. Maybe we can just talk about this calmly, like sensible people.

"Didn't surprise me to learn, Jim, that you had this... gift," I said tentatively, as I handed him a mug of tea. "I always sensed a special energy about you."

"Very kind, Naomi," he said so politely. So-distantly. "Thank you." Is he referring to what I said or is he just thanking me for the tea? I don't know how to read this man, but his aura is so dark right now, it scares me.

"I'm just...terribly sorry at how all this has...turned out, especially when I see what's happened to you two," I told him, meaning every word with all my heart.

"Naomi, I know you were just trying to help Blair," he sighed. He doesn't want to talk about it. He knows it's not Blair's fault, but I can tell he's blaming my son even more than he blames me. It's not right. And Blair looks like he's about to cry and trying hard not to. I've never known my son to not know what to say, to not have some words to cope with crisis.

"You two, listen to me," I said to them both, praying they would listen, that it wasn't too late. "You cannot let this tear apart your friendship."

But Jim doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't seem to want peace. "Thank you," he said abruptly, but still distantly, like it's taking everything he's got to remain civil. And, maybe, it is. Handing the tea back to me, he added, "Things happen, Naomi, you know? People change. You just got to go with it. This whole sentinel thing has just gotten too out of hand. I can't take this attention. That's not me. I just want to go back to the way things were."

"You can't just turn it off," Blair murmured wearily.

But Jim wouldn't even look at him. He was still looking at me, but at least he was acknowledging that Blair spoke, answering him-and he was beginning to sound desperate. "Sure, I can. There's got to be some way for me to let them go dormant. Some meditation you can give me or I can find somewhere to tune out and turn all this off. I'm just done with it."

"That's not who you are," Blair protested, but it seemed that was more than Jim could stand to hear. He turned to face my son then, and stalked over to confront him.

"Well, you tell me who I am, then 'cause I have no idea. At one point, I had a reputation of being a pretty decent cop. Now, people look at me and they-they perceive me as some goofball comic book character," he said sharply, almost shouting as he wheeled away and headed toward the door. Needing to get out of his own home because he couldn't stand to be there with us in it. "People are calling my father and my brother asking them what it's like to live with the freak. Now, how would you like that, huh? If I ever want to go back to being a good cop and live a simple life, it ain't going to happen this way. Your research is done, Chief. Why don't you just let it go?" Turning to me, he added harshly, "Thanks for the tea."

And then he was gone.

Blair just stood there, looking at the door and shaking his head. Helplessly.

I did this. Me. Naomi Sandburg. I just had to help. I couldn't leave things alone.

I want to go to my son, and hold him. But I don't think he'd welcome that from me right now.

And I can't blame him.

I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if there's any way to fix this.

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

Hell, I don't have the first clue how to fix this mess. The media are having a field day and because of them and this sentinel crap, Jim missed getting Zeller last night. All Jim wanted to do was ignore this disaster and get Zeller, but now the disaster has gotten well in the way of him doing his job. So we've got a killer on the loose, a popinjay union leader that Megan might just kill and save Zeller the trouble, a media circus, my best two detectives not talking to one another, the rest of my team walking around like they're afraid Mount Ellison is about to blow, which I'm only surprised hasn't happened yet, and the Chief, the Commissioner, the DA and IA all want answers. Answers I don't have.

When I talked to Jim when the news first broke, he didn't have any better idea than I do how to deal with this. We were caught flat-footed and we shouldn't have been. There was always a danger that his secret could come out. We've been lucky for almost four years that it didn't. It's not deniable, according to him, because it's all documented in the paper Sandburg wrote. And, typical Ellison, he wants to handle this all on his own. Even now, he doesn't want any help. Maybe, especially, now. I know he only wants to protect me. But, hell, I went into this with my eyes open. I'm not going to let him hang alone.

God, this couldn't have blown wide open at a worse time. Zeller is one of the most dangerous assassins in the world. None of us need the distraction of a media circus right now. We have got to decide how we're going to handle the 'sentinel' thing and get it out of the way, or at least in due process, so we can focus on our jobs.

"What are we going to do, Jim?" I asked when he came into the office. God, he looked wrecked. "By tomorrow morning, I have to have a full report on the Chief's desk and I don't know what I'm going to report. You know what this means? Every single case that you worked on is going to be brought up for review. That means the board of inquiry. IA's going to get involved…"

He shook his head and wiped a hand over his face before he said, "Captain, before we hear back from the review board or the brass tells us to go pack our bags, I'd like to go back to things the way they were before Sandburg, when I worked alone."

Oh, God. I'd seen this coming. He wanted nothing more to do with Sandburg. I knew enough to know it hadn't been the kid's fault, not really. But I'm not sure I can blame Jim.

"You talk to Blair about this?" I asked. It would make it all so much easier if Blair agreed-and knew how to turn off the senses, if that's what Jim wants. But, apparently, it's not that easy. Why am I not surprised?

"It's not his call, Captain," Jim insisted, rigorously formal. Never a really good sign. "This is my decision. His ride is over. I want to go back to being a cop, just a regular cop. And with this sentinel thing hanging over us, it's always right there and I...I'm tired of it. I just want out."

I wonder if that's possible? But he must know. He is the Sentinel, after all. "Well, maybe that's for the best." He probably doesn't even know how close he got to Zeller before the cameras blinded him and the media blocked his hearing and his approach to the assassin last night. He won't be very happy when he does know. But better he learns it from me than from anybody else at this point. "I got this picture back from the rally. Take a look. You were that close until your paparazzi got in the way."

Jim bent to look at the picture I'd pointed out to him as I turned to scan the bullpen, wondering if Sandburg was there. If we were ending this, we should likely do it now and get it over with.

But I don't see…

Jesus! What hit me? Can't get my breath…can't…

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

God, how could things go so wrong so fast? If Simon dies because I fucked up getting Zeller…dies because Zeller was gunning for me…I don't even want to think about having to live with that. And Conner? God, both of them innocent victims, caught up in a whirlwind of actions and reactions that neither of them had anything to do with or could do anything about.

When Simon fell-I remembered the vision of it happening when I was in the pool in Mexico. It was one of the scenes that had terrified me; that I had hoped never to see. Did that mean that this was inevitable? Or did it mean that if I'd paid attention to the visions instead of trying to forget them that I might have kept Simon from being shot? Could I have stopped it if I'd done something differently along the line somewhere?

The stark reality of it, the sick dread of thinking that he might die, has sure crystallized things for me somehow. Helped me see things more clearly. Killed my anger and my preoccupation about my problems and reminded me that there are things in life so much more important than whether the world knows about my senses or not.

Yeah, this tragedy has made it all pretty clear to me.

What happened to Simon and Megan wasn't Sandburg's fault. But I can tell, standing here beside him, that he thinks it is. That if the media hadn't swamped me last night, I would have gotten Zeller and Simon and Megan would be all right. He's right, but it wasn't his fault.

Oh, sure, he could have locked up his computer, but how could he know Naomi would have a handy publisher friend in New York? Or that she'd betray his trust in such a monumental way? That's got to cut him deep. She's the weirdest parent I've ever seen-ignores him for months on end-left him alone, for Christ's sake, when he was just a kid, so many times he probably can't even remember them all. And then she blows in and tries to order him about like he's still six years old, interfering in his life without the least idea of his dignity as a man. But she's been all he had and he loves her. Like I still love my mother, even though she walked away from me.

He tried to stop it. I know that. I should have known that from the beginning. If he'd meant the leak to happen, he wouldn't be standing here now beside me, as devastated as I am. He'd be drinking champagne and trying to figure out how to spend $3 mill.

But he hasn't gone away. I've accused him of outright betrayal of our friendship. And he hung in. I've ignored him and yelled at him. And he still hung in. I've walked away from him, walked out of the loft on him with the message that it's pretty much over, and he's still here. Trying to help. Sorry for what happened. So very sorry for what his mother has done.

So he's caught between her and me and blames himself, I know, as much as I blame myself, for the fact that Simon may well be dying. Shit.

One thing is crystal clear. Zeller is after me and it's up to me to stop him. I can't let anyone else be at risk. And, maybe…when it's all over, maybe if Simon is all right, and I can go back to the way things were before these senses came on line, maybe everything will work out fine…maybe Blair can have some kind of life back. Whether he wants it or not, he's famous now, and he'll be rich. He'll have his PhD and he'll have choices-choices that don't include having to risk his life by backing up a sentinel.

I'm so tired of it all. But I can't just walk away from it and go and hide in a closet somewhere. Somehow, someway, I've got to either deal with these damned senses or find a way to turn them off. And in the meantime, I've got to nail Zeller.

"No one was expecting this," he murmured, his voice low and tight, cutting into my thoughts.

"I should have been," I admitted bitterly. "I'm so off my game, Chief, with all this media crap. That bullet was meant for me."

"Don't...don't block out your senses," he asked-pleaded? "This is when you need them most and I can help you."

Like I'm going to risk him now? No way.

"Take a look at that man," I ground out, my voice hoarse. "That happened because of me. I don't think it's a good idea to be around me right now. The only chance I got of getting Zeller is if I'm on my own."

I could see he was going to argue with me but I just didn't have the energy. So I left.

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

Blair came home a little while ago, and told me what happened to Captain Banks and Inspector Conner. And that Jim has gone after the assassin alone, refusing his help. I can't stand this. He's sitting there on the sofa like it's the end of his world, and I'm so afraid he'll never want to ever have anything more to do with me. I know I'm not the world's best mother. I never have been. But I love him. I love him so much it hurts, and I don't know what I'll do if he never wants to ever see me again.

"Will you ever forgive me for making such a mess of things?" I asked him, needing to know. Knowing I was being selfish and self-centered, but I was just so scared of losing him.

"That's okay, Mom," he murmured, sounding so tired. I know he's trying to reassure me, but I can see he's devastated as he looks at the copy of his paper that he's holding. "We're all going to be fine," he sighed.

But, is that true? Is it even possible?

"Do you still love me even with all this?" I asked, wanting to hold him, to comfort him, and knowing I didn't have the right. Not now. Not after how I betrayed him. But I didn't mean it. I swear I wouldn't ever do anything to deliberately hurt my baby.

I guess he heard all that I didn't say. All my fears. How really, very sorry I am. Because he put down the paper and stood and took me in his arms. "I'm sorry," I whispered, sniffing back my tears.

"Oh, Mom. Come on. Don't be silly. Of course I do," he reassured me of his love. "Always. I mean, we were all doing what we thought was right. Right? Nothing happens in this universe randomly. It's all for a reason. That's part of what I was writing about," he went on, soothing me. Me. When I should be comforting him. "I always wondered if my work would ever amount to anything. If it's taught me one thing, it's taught me that Jim is right. I got it all. I got it all right here. The brass ring. And now I know what to do. So why don't you go call Sid?"

"Okay, sweetie," I told him. I'd do anything he asked to help fix this. Call Sid? I'd like to do more to Sid than call him. It's because of him that this has gotten so out of hand, so out of control.

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

Joel and I had just walked back into the bullpen, talking about the explosion and wondering whose body had been burned beyond recognition, when Rafe poked his head out of the conference room.

"Hey, guys," he called to us, waving urgently. "Sandburg's on TV. He's giving some kind of press conference."

What the hell? Joel and I followed him back and I saw the camera panning some room at the university. Naomi was standing there, looking very wan, and Blair was making his way to the podium. What's going on? He looked…I've never seen him look so grimly resolute. Like he was facing a firing squad.

The reporter's voice cut in, "Now we're going live…" And Sandburg started to speak.

"Hi. Thank you all for coming. I just have a short speech prepared here. Um..." he stammered, looking down at his cards before continuing with his formal remarks, his voice tight with the strain of maintaining control. "In our media-informed culture, a scientist receives validation by having his or her work published and after years of research there is great personal satisfaction when that goal is reached. However, my desire to impress both my peers and the world at large drove me to an immoral and unethical act. My thesis "The Sentinel" is a fraud."

Oh, God, what's he doing? I never wanted him to do this! But he was not done yet. He was still talking…

"While my paper does quote ancient source material, the documentation proving that James Ellison... actually possesses hyper-senses is fraudulent. Looking back, I can say that it's a good piece of fiction. I apologize for this deception. My only hope is that I can be forgiven for the pain I've caused those that are close to me. Thank you."

There were tears in his eyes. And he almost lost it. Ah, Jesus, Chief, what have you done?

I just stood there staring at the television screen, barely aware of the uneasy silence around me from the others, or the way they cast sidelong looks at me. They were angry; I could feel it in the air, heavy with their mutters and rasping breath, the pounding of their hearts. Why did he do that? He had it all and he threw it away. Everything he'd ever dreamed of…for me? Why?

I felt stunned. The magnitude of it. It was his life. All his dreams. His credibility and profession. All of it. Trashed in a few, strangled sentences. To protect me. To protect my secret. To honour our bargain and act with a kind of integrity that was staggering.

The look on his face…and he apologized for the pain he'd caused? After his mother betrayed his trust and that fucking publisher wouldn't take 'no' for an answer? After what I'd said to him? The way I'd been treating him? I couldn't take it in. What kind of courage did it take to destroy everything you'd stood for, represented, wanted…for a friend?

And what did he think he was going to do with his life now? Did he have any idea? Had he even thought about it, or had he just done what he'd believed necessary and figured he'd worry about himself later?

Without a word to the others, I left. I had to find him. Dear God…I never expected, would never have ever thought, never wanted…I had to find him.

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

I caught up with him at the hospital. I guess the doctor had just arrived with the good news, because the first thing Sandburg did was tell me that it looked like Simon and Megan were going to be just fine. But he was not meeting my eyes. Maybe he didn't know that I know what he just did, 'cause he was asking about whether we got Zeller.

"I don't know. Somebody probably got him. We still got Bartley to contend with. I don't know which one's worse," I answered, not wanting to talk about Zeller or Bartley. "I saw your press conference," I told him.

He cut me a quick look, and then shrugged, trying to make light of it. Trying to pretend it was okay. "Oh, yeah, you saw it? It's just a book…"

Ah, Chief. It was so much more than that. Don't you know I know that? "It was your life."

"Yeah, it was," he admitted softly, not looking at me. But he still tried to make it seem all right. He cut me another look as he said, his voice unsteady, "You know, you were right. I mean, uh, I don't know what I was expecting to do with it, and, uh...I mean, where do I get off following you around for three years pretending I was a cop, right?"

Ah, Jesus. He wastes himself, destroys his life and now is buying into my crap that what he's been doing for the last almost four years is worthless? 'Get off following me around?' What? Does he mean risking his life to back me up, to help me every way he could? 'Pretending to be a cop?' I can't stand it. I really can't.

"This self-deprecation don't suit you, you know," I told him. Wow. Now that's supportive. Jesus. Why did he hang around? Why did he do that for me? I gotta give him better than that. Gotta tell him the straight truth for once. "You might have been just an observer, but you were the best cop I've ever met and the best partner I could have ever asked for. You've been a great friend and you've pulled me through some pretty weird stuff."

God. He actually looked surprised at my words, even pleased, though sadness wais still pooled in his dark eyes and his skin was pasty white from strain and exhaustion. What have I done to this man? "Thanks," he murmured, but he could still hardly look at me.

"Are you ready to get busy?" I asked, holding out the olive branch. Holding my breath at the same time.

And he took it. God help me. He still hasn't given up on me.

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

When I came into the bullpen, I saw Blair in Simon's office, looking lost and so sad it shook me. I hadn't seen him since Zeller had rampaged through the office and he'd gone off to the hospital with Jim. And that had been more than a week ago. What was he doing in there?

"Hey, Blair, what you up to, man?" I asked, as soon as I reached the door, trying to sound nonchalant. Not sure I managed that. The look on his stone-white face scared me. It was too much like the look I'd seen in the hospital, months ago.

"I'm taking a last look around," he said with a shrug, a sad wistfulness in his eyes as he looked away. I didn't like the sound of that.

"Last look? You going somewhere?" I asked. The last time he'd looked this lost, we almost didn't get him back.

"Well, yeah. I cleaned out my desk over at Rainier. I thought I'd do the same thing here," he explained listlessly. And then he looked up at me with those eyes haunted by grief and sorrow and pain. He doesn't know that I know he's no fraud and it's all I can do, as he says the words straight to my face, not to slap them away, deny them, rage at them. "I'm a fraud, man. I don't think Simon's going to want me hanging around."

I nearly lost it. Nearly blurted out the truth, the truth we all damned well knew. He wasn't the fraud in this little scenario. He wasn't the one hiding who and what he was. The only lie he'd told had been in front of the cameras on national television.

I was saved from having to give it all away when the others arrived, Simon in a wheelchair pushed by Rafe, Megan in a sling and Jim with a cane, all coming straight from the hospital, with Naomi in tow. I guess one of them must've known he was planning to be here. H and Rhonda stood up, so there was quite a little crowd when Simon bellowed for Sandburg to come out of the office.

"Sandburg, that is not your office."

What? It's going to go down, here and now? In front of everyone? I knew what Simon and Jim had planned, we all did. But…I thought they'd ask him in private.

Blair didn't know what was going on. How could he? He looked so tired as he ambled out of the office, and I just knew he was wishing he could have escaped before everyone arrived. The kid didn't need this. Not like this.

"Hey, Simon, they let you out?" he replied, trying for a grin. Trying to act like everything was good, as I followed him out of the office.

"Nah, they threw him out," Jim teased. Well, he must be feeling pretty good. Teasing is not something Jim does in public, not often anyway.

"They didn't throw me out," Simon huffed, pretending indignation. "They said I was too cantankerous."

"You? No," Jim protested sarcastically and, I don't believe it. He pinched Simon's cheek! Would they just get on with it? They're having oodles of fun and the kid is dying here.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" Blair asked, surprised when he noticed his mother lingering at the back of the group. She rushed forward, lovely woman, to hug him, just bursting with sunshine and good spirit. She's relieved, I guess. Relieved that something might still be saved from the shambles she made of her son's life.

"I'd never miss this occasion, darling," she crooned, smiling widely as he stared at her, puzzled. Confused.

He doesn't know what's going on, you twits! Don't any of you get it? Tell him, for God's sake.

"Know what's great," Blair said, trying so damned hard to be positive, his voice shaking, low and almost inaudible, "everybody's safe and out and happy." If they don't tell him now, I swear I'll do it myself to put him out of his misery.

But will it? Is this going to be enough to fix this mess?

"That's not exactly why we asked your mom here," Simon finally began. "I understand you gave up your job at the university and I saw you over there in my office. So we decided you needed to do something to keep you under control."

Gave up his job? Gave it up? Who are they kidding? Could they make this anymore painful if they tried? I know they're doing their best. But, damn it…I'm not sure this is the right answer for Blair.

"You're, uh, you're finished in this department, Chief..." Jim said then, stone-faced.

I'll kill him. I swear. I'll kill him. The kid's broken. Does he have to grind Sandburg into the dust before he finally throws him a lifeline?

"Yeah well, I-I sort of...well, I figured that," Blair mumbled, stricken.

I was about to intervene when Jim tossed Blair the leather wallet. Finally. And said, "…as an observer."

"This is, uh...what is this? This is a detective badge," Blair stammered, looking up at them. "What's going on? I don't deserve this."

Well, I don't think they could have confused the kid anymore if they'd deliberately tried. I know this is supposed to be a great, wonderful surprise. But he's stunned. And he doesn't understand.

And what does he mean, he doesn't 'deserve' it? He's been paying his dues for years.

Oh good, now Simon's grabbing the badge away from him. That helps a whole lot.

"No, you don't, at least not until you go to the Police Academy and complete firearms training," Simon growled, but then added with a satisfied smirk as if everything was just fine now, "And if you do, Detective Ellison is looking for a permanent official partner."

Well, we surprised Sandburg all right. He was absolutely stunned and didn't have a clue of what to say as Jim hobbled over to stand beside him.

"Uh... yeah? So, uh...does this mean a paycheck?" Blair stammered finally, trying to make some sense of it all.

"Can you say 'back rent'?" Jim teased. But it was clear what he hoped Blair's answer would be. What we all hoped his answer would be. "Come on, what do you say?"

"Say something, Sandy," Megan encouraged softly.

"I'm still not cutting my hair," the kid replied, trying for bravado. He hadn't said he would accept yet, but Jim and Simon both looked like that was an answer as they laughed with relief.

"Ho-ho-ho..." Jim taunted, moving in on the kid.

"I'm not going to do it," Blair insisted. What? Cut his hair? Or be a cop? He hasn't really said. But Jim hasn't seemed to notice that. He's hearing what he wants to hear.

"That's what you think," Ellison asserted, hauling Blair toward him with his cane, and then, good Lord, pulling the kid into a headlock to rub the kid's hair as he exclaimed with great good humour, "They're going to love you at the Academy. Captain, I'm going to make a little Blairskin rug for you here..."

And Blair was protesting, but still trying to make it seem like he was having a good time here. "You're not going to scalp me! Forget it!"

And Simon was starting to sing, "We got to go down to the woods..."

Someday, please, just come and haul us all to the asylum and throw away the key…

Maybe Blair is okay with going to the Academy. And maybe all he wants in his life is to be Jim's partner. But he deserves more respect than this.

"I can't take this," H growled, his voice tight, riding over Simon's singing. "I'm sorry. But this isn't right. How many different ways does Sandburg have to die before we treat him with respect or acknowledge the truth?"

Turning to me, Henri sighed as he continued, "I just can't keep quiet anymore. I'm sorry. I know we agreed. But I can't do this."

Rafe nodded and so did Megan. There were tears in her eyes. I think-I think because we've been observers, for months now, we've seen what Simon and Jim haven't, can't or won't see. Blair isn't just an extension of Jim. And he's been suffering for months. Ever since he died.

And so has Jim, for that matter. Tense, losing his grip on his senses. Being less discreet. He must know we know with all the publicity and the way he and Sandburg had been acting, and he still hasn't acknowledged it. And that's not healthy. Surely he doesn't think any of us believed Blair's press conference?

H is right. The secret has been cloaked for too long. And this farce has gone on more than long enough.

Simon froze at H's words, and then bowed his head, while Jim looked up startled, giving Blair the chance to break away from him and try to regain some dignity.

The silence was heavy. The storm they thought was over may just be about to break.

"H is right," I said quietly, looking from Simon to Jim. "We know. We've known for months now. You are a sentinel. Blair's paper wasn't a fraud. And this isn't good enough."

Jim gaped at me.

"Whoa, hold on a minute," Blair intervened. Protecting him. Like always. "I don't know what you think you know but…"

"We know, Sandy," Megan sighed. "I found your notes when we were moving the furniture and your stuff back into the loft while you were still in hospital. Right after we got back from Mexico."

"Yeah, and we've all seen Jim using his senses," H added bitterly. "We just pretended to be deaf, dumb, blind and stupid because that seemed to be what you all wanted."

"Oh, God," he gasped, casting a quick look at Jim who was staring at the floor. But then Sandburg turned back to us. "Look, maybe you do know. But-nobody made me do what I chose to do in denouncing that paper. That was a professional, ethical action to protect my source. I don't regret it and I'd do it again. None of what happened is Jim's fault."

Oh, great, now Naomi is crying and Jim is shaking his head.

"Maybe I should just go," Ellison muttered, starting to move away, but Blair grabbed his arm.

"No, Jim," he insisted, not letting go. "This is where you belong, man."

Turning back to us, Sandburg told us fiercely, his voice cracking, "This isn't Jim's fault! None of it." He glared at H and then looked at all of us. "I won't have you treating him like it is. Like he's to blame, somehow, for it all falling apart. He didn't do anything wrong. You all saw what happened when the media found out. It was a circus! Jim couldn't do his job-and it would be dangerous for him, if the kind of criminals you all have to deal with knew how to use his senses against him. That paper was never meant to be public!"

"Chief, don't…" Jim tried to protest, mortified by it all.

"No, hang on, Jim," I intervened. "Blair's right. None of this is really anybody's fault. This isn't about fault or blame. It happened. And now we have to deal with it. Surely, if we all put our minds to this, there are other options. 'Cause, you don't really want to be a cop, do you, Blair?"

Blair looked at me and then at Simon and finally at Jim. Still holding onto Ellison's arm, he said quietly, his voice unsteady, "Honestly? Sure, I like teaching and I love anthropology, about learning how our societies work, but all I really want is to be Jim's partner. It's all I've wanted for a long time now. But-I can't. Not with the world thinking I'm a fraud. I'd have no credibility in law enforcement. I wish I could accept this. I'd find a way to-to do what all of you have to do as police officers. But I don't see how…"

"Well, then, we'll just have to figure out 'how'," Rafe cut in. "Because you're part of this team. Both of you. And we don't want to lose either one of you. So let's figure it out. How can we help make this right?"

Sandburg looked at all of us and at Jim. Finally, not knowing even if there was hope of any other options, he turned to Banks. I wondered if he was aware that Jim had slipped an arm around his shoulders or that Jim had raised his head and was looking at all of us with an expression of surprised puzzlement on his face.

Good Lord, didn't the man know without any shadow of doubt that we all want both of them to stay? That we'll collectively do whatever we can to help them? Apparently not. How sad was that?

"Simon?" Sandburg asked, his voice small, not really daring to hope. "Do you think it's possible? Is there any chance…"

Simon looked up, his face resolute. "We won't know unless we try. I'm not prepared to lose either of you without a fight. So, people, let's put our heads together and figure out our options."

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

We got some coffee and adjourned into the conference room while Rhonda covered the phones for all of us. We were prepared to wrestle with the problem for as long as necessary to come up with options we could make work. Sandy's mother followed us in, silent, sitting next to him. She looked…hopeful, I guess, is the only way I can describe it. No, more than that-like this was a lifeline she was holding onto. Rafe got up to the board to write ideas down as they came.

At first we just brainstormed, and Sandy insisted we had to put up every idea. Like the one in which he just walked away, which everyone groaned at and then shouted down. Jim then offered that they could both just walk away and start over together somewhere else. Which got the same reaction, well, sort of, except instead of Jim looking furious at Sandy for even suggesting he'd just wear this and disappear, Sandy gave Jim an odd look, like he was surprised. So, after we got the unacceptable ideas out of the way, we got down to business.

Sandy could go to the Academy. He could become a consultant. Jim could go public and Sandy could be reinstated at the university. Jim could stay silent but Sandy could sue the shit out of the university and Berkshire Publishing and things could back to the way they were. We could all quit and set up our own investigative agency. H came up with that one, and it was a lifesaver because things had been too intense and we all cheered and laughed at that idea. Well, we could, I guess but I wasn't sure I could get a green card for that, so they immediately booed down the idea-which left me feeling pretty chipper.

After we had the main options up, we started with the possible scenarios and assessed risks and viability.

Sandy could go to the Academy. Risks? He wouldn't be accepted, would be given a rough time, wouldn't have credibility there or when he graduated no matter how excellent a cadet he might prove to be. Viability? He would graduate regardless of the flack. But what then? Well, Jim could testify on a lot of their cases in court, but sometimes Sandy's testimony would be required. If he was still considered a fraud and a self-professed liar, even if we brought the DA's office into the circle, the defence lawyers would crucify him and a jury likely wouldn't believe him. Otherwise good convictions could then be at risk.

And then, though we hated to admit it, H made us confront the possible problem that Sandy might not get the backup in the field from other cops who didn't trust him and might well resent him. And that could be downright deadly.

Sandy pointed out that if he became a cop, even in the best case scenario, that people would wonder why MCU, and Jim in particular, would want to work with a liar and fraud. He insisted that would lead to people wondering about Jim, watching him. Other cops, the media…and the bad guys, would wonder if the much-denied paper was really true. He thought it was just too much of a risk to Jim's security.

But that assumed that Jim's secret was still a secret, as Jim so helpfully pointed out. If he stopped trying to hide his senses, then all the problems with this scenario would disappear. Sandburg started to protest, but Jim just held up a hand. "Do you honestly want to be a cop?" he asked.

Sandy swallowed. "I want to be your partner," he said firmly. Which didn't answer the question and we all knew it.

H came up with the idea that maybe we could somehow diffuse the impact of Sandy's press conference. We batted that one around for a while and decided that, yes that might be possible. We could say that the paper had always been intended as fiction and had been misrepresented by Berkshire Publishing-there was even something in Sandy's formal statement about it being 'a good piece of fiction'. And we could hold the line that Sandy had only held the press conference and gone the dramatic 'denial' route because our investigation was in a shambles and we needed to get the media off Jim's case in a hurry before the Iceman shot anyone else.

So, we moved into the idea of Sandy being a consultant instead of a cop but still assigned as Jim's partner. The risks were pretty much the same as for scenario #1, as was the viability of the idea, except the issue of Sandy's credentials became even more important. He'd really need his PhD to be a credible consultant with the department, the media, judges and juries. But we all knew the strength of this scenario over the cop scenario was that Sandy would likely be more comfortable in the role. Jim seemed to like it better, too. I think he figured he could still tell a consultant to 'stay in the truck', and hope said consultant would actually pay attention from time to time.

To get a PhD, he had to get back into the university. The 'reframing' of his press conference could help that happen, maybe. But Jim and Simon wanted to sue both the university and Berkshire Publishing. They'd acted without Sandy's approval. He'd never formally submitted the paper, so there was no basis for having terminated his doctoral program. We all liked that idea, actually, well, maybe all of us but Sandy-revenge is sweet and Sandy deserved some cash for 'pain and suffering'. But he contended that going the route of a lawsuit would bring the focus back on Jim and fuel further speculations.

Rafe asked what Sandy would do for a dissertation if he couldn't use the sentinel paper. I swear, the kid blushed as he cut a look at Simon.

"Well, um," he stammered. "I have another paper just about finished, in case it turned out I couldn't protect Jim's identity and needed a fallback option. It's called, 'Lives on the Line: A Study of the Law Enforcement Subculture in Modern Society'."

Simon gave Sandy a long, quizzical look. "You mean you actually wrote a paper on the 'thin blue line'?"

Sandy nodded sheepishly and Simon burst out laughing. "Okay," he spluttered. "So that makes this option viable. You can get your PhD, likely fairly soon. Only you, Sandburg. Only you would write two full doctoral theses, 'just in case'."

It was looking good. We had some real options going here. Everyone was smiling and a lot more relaxed by this point.

Joel looked up at the board and said, "I guess there's just one more option to work through."

Sandy cut Joel a narrow look as he immediately jumped in to say, "No, I don't think that's necessary. We've got enough…"

But Jim cut in quietly, but pretty firmly, "Yes, Chief, I think we do need to consider it."

"But, Jim," Sandy protested. "It's not necessary, man! And it could be dangerous for you."

"Maybe," Jim allowed, his expression carefully neutral. "But let's work it through."

So we attacked the last possible scenario. Jim goes public with his abilities. It had the advantage of clearing Sandy's name and reputation without question. But it did put Jim at some risk. H wondered if we could somehow minimize what became public-make it seem like, sure, the guy can see better than anyone else, but so what? I could see both Sandy and Jim seriously thinking about that possibility and nodding thoughtfully. It did mean, though, as Simon pointed out, that all of Jim's cases would be up for review and likely appeal. It would be a lot of work.

Rafe shrugged and said we could all help with the paperwork even if we couldn't do the court appearances-Jim and Sandy would have to handle them. The Chief, Commissioner and the DA wouldn't be best pleased, but if Jim's abilities were documented, then what he learned with his senses could, maybe, be admissible evidence. But that took us back to him having to be clear about what he could do, and Sandy really didn't like that, didn't like the risks. As for the senior officers and the DA knowing, well, they'd likely have to know anyway once we began our concerted campaign to clean up the mess-and once they knew and the circle of knowledge grew ever wider, the risks of full disclosure increased, so shouldn't we all get ready for that anyway? Wasn't it just a matter of time? With parts of the dissertation already widely publicized in the press, people would be watching Jim anyway and wondering-so, yeah, maybe it really was just a matter of time.

We'd been at it for three hours by then and were beginning to repeat earlier points or arguments when Simon raised his hand for attention. "I think we've beaten this to the ground in terms of what we could do and what might work or not. Now, how do we make the decision?"

"It's Jim's decision," Sandy cut in immediately, the look in his eyes daring any of us to contradict him. "These are his senses and it's his right to determine which way we go on this."

"It's your life, too, Chief," Jim replied. "I'm not the only one affected here."

But Sandy shook his head as he waved at the board. "There're lots of different ways I can be your partner, man. That's all that matters to me. The 'how'?" he shrugged. "I'll deal with whichever way we go on this."

Simon interjected, sounding weary and we all realized he still had to be hurting, "Tell you what. Why don't the two of you sleep on it and get back to us tomorrow?"

"Sounds like a plan, Captain," Jim acceded, nodding.

We all stood, well, except for Simon in the wheelchair, to head out. Rafe lifted a cloth in his hand, wondering whether to erase the notes on the board as he looked around the room. "You're right, Rafe," Sandy answered the silent question. "We can't leave that for anyone else to see."

As we began to move toward the door, Jim held up a hand and cleared his throat. "I just want you all to know," he said, his voice tight and moisture glittering in his eyes, "how much I appreciate your support on this. I was…wrong not to trust all of you long before now."

We nodded, accepting his apology. "Hey, that's all right, man," H said for all of us. "You have a right to your privacy. No hard feelings. But-it'll be better now. You won't have to hide from us."

Jim nodded and turned to go, but Sandy spoke then, an almost shy smile on his face. And I couldn't help but notice that he looked so much better. Like he used to look-before the fountain. Happy. "I want to thank all of you, too, for your support. For doing all this, being willing to back me up, so that I can stay. I've really loved working with you guys, all of you. You don't know how good you've made me feel."

Joel smiled back at him as he said quietly, "Oh, I think we can see that, son. You were ‘you' this afternoon. And you haven't been ‘you' for a long time now. I gotta tell you, it's good to have you back."

With that, the meeting broke up and some went back to the bullpen while others of us headed home, still on injury recovery leave.

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

"Blair," I said, as we neared the elevators. "I think I'm going to stay with Mary Rose tonight, and maybe for the next few days. I think you and Jim need some time to talk about all this without having me hanging around."

"Thanks, Mom," he said with a smile. "I appreciate that. And-I appreciate you coming today and being here for the discussion. I know that, well, this probably isn't…"

I put my fingers lightly over his lips and shook my head. "I'm just glad to still be part of your life, Blair. I know I haven't always been-complimentary about pi-uh-police officers. But these are good people; I can see that. I can also see that they love you and you love them. You do good work, here, and you make a difference. And, well-Jim needs you. I think you need Jim, too."

"Hey, Naomi," Blair grinned, teasing. "I think you're making progress on those listening skills we talked about."

"I hope so, sweetie," I nodded, solemnly, not teasing at all. It had been a hard lesson. But even I could learn.

Jim had been standing to one side, leaning on his cane and I knew he could easily hear what we'd been saying. I turned to him, my first chance really since the day he'd stormed out of the loft, to say, "I really am very sorry, Jim. I know words aren't ever enough, and certainly not enough to make up for the damage I've done, but I meant no harm."

He nodded and gave me a wry look. "We've all had to learn things as a result of Blair's paper being made public, Naomi. Maybe-maybe we'll all be the better for it, in the long run."

"I hope so," I told him. "I really hope so."

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

As we drove home in Sandburg's Volvo, my partner was unusually quiet. But a smile played around his lips and he was humming slightly, just under his breath. I figured he was dividing his attention between the traffic and the ideas we'd been playing with back in the conference room, already dreaming up the specifics of what would need to be done to make any one of them work.

Content with the easy silence, I let my own thoughts drift back over the day. I guess, deep down, I knew very well that the others had figured out the sentinel hype was likely true, but it had still shaken me to have it stated so baldly by all of them. H's words kept rattling around in my head. And I kept thinking how I couldn't believe how they'd offered their support, without being asked, because we were a team.

I knew that we were a team, at least on some level. I've always been part of teams. Sports when I was a kid. The army. I knew that in MCU we were a ‘team', but I'd not really thought about it. Mostly, the others worked their cases and I worked mine. I'd been a deliberate loner, cutting myself off almost completely before Sandburg came along. And even then, over the past three years, I'd held most of myself back from the others. Like I always did. It amazed me that they could get past the fact that I hadn't been straight with them for years. That it mattered to them that I stay. Oh, I hadn't had any doubts about them wanting Sandburg on the team even with the crap over the past couple of weeks. I knew they had never doubted him.

I just hadn't thought they'd actively choose to want me around.

That told me a lot about myself that I hadn't really thought much about-and it told me a lot about them.

When we got into the loft, Sandburg pointed sternly at the living room and ordered me to, "Take a load off that leg, Jim." Sounded like a good idea, so I hobbled over to my chair while he brought me a beer.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm good, how about you?" I replied.

He smiled and he tilted his head, pushing his hair back behind his ears. "Real good," he returned. "I'm just going to get something together for dinner. You've got some deciding to do."

With that, he turned and moved lightly across the floor, humming again under his breath as he pulled vegetables out of the fridge and started chopping and slicing them for a stir-fry. Maybe I should have been thinking, but instead, I found myself watching him. He kinda bounced, quietly chanting every once in a while, 'cha, cha, cha,' under his breath and then began humming again or whistling softly for a few bars. He was smiling unconsciously-and, well, he glowed.

He looked happy.

And I realized how long it had been since I'd seen him look genuinely happy.

And then I realized how long it had been since I'd felt the same way.

Which took my train of thought down a whole other track.

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

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

We didn't say much over dinner, and I think Sandburg was giving me time to think through the options at my own speed. I was thinking about them-but I was thinking about some other stuff, too.

As he was clearing the table, again telling me to go back to the living room, I reflected, "You said today that all you've really wanted for a long time now is to be my partner."

"Yeah," he nodded, looking up quickly before carrying the plates to the sink. Slipping them into the water, he shifted to lean against the counter to look back at me. "I can't really explain it, Jim. I always thought I wanted to teach and do research and publish, to further the learning of others. For most of my life, I thought that was my goal. But-finding you, working with you, changed all that. I like the immediacy of what we do-helping people who need it now. It's real, and it's important."

"I didn't know that," I mused, and then looked up at him. "I should have. For a lot of reasons." He just looked at me like he agreed. "Chief, I think we need to talk."

He grinned at that, surprised I think, but pleased. "Well, that's a switch," he teased. "But, hey, I'm always ready to talk, man."

"I know you are, Oprah," I teased back, standing.

"Just let me finish cleaning up here and I'll be right with you," he said, turning to wash and rinse the dishes, stacking everything to air dry.

In very few minutes, he carried in two beers and plopped down on the couch. "So-talk," he directed, waving a hand magnanimously.

I nodded and shifted to sit forward, wincing a little at the pull on the wound in my leg. Looking at the floor, I said, "I think I should tell you about the visions I had at the temple."

He stilled at that, and I heard his breathing hitch. He, too, shifted, curling to sit on one leg as he leaned forward. Waiting.

Taking a breath, I told him, "I don't remember them clearly, but it was pretty bad; lots of fragmented scenes of violence and people dying, or at least being hurt. And Incacha kept demanding me to tell him what I feared, asking me who I am." Looking up at him, I said, "You were in a lot of the visions, Chief. Some were of the past and I saw you…in the fountain. Some of the images I didn't recognize and they scared me because I assumed they must be visions of things in the future that hadn't happened yet, like Simon being shot-but that's happened now, and he's all right. Some were you smiling at me, encouraging me. I do know the visions of you kept me grounded. And I remember thinking that it was because of you that I didn't lose my mind in that pool, like Alex did."

Sandburg's eyes narrowed and he nodded, took a sip of his beer. I could see it was hard for him not to ask any questions or to comment, but he seemed determined to give me the silence I needed to think-and to talk.

Sighing, I blurted out, "I realized that what I fear most is you."

"What?" he exclaimed, not having expected that. "Why?"

"Because you control my senses; you control me," I replied, swallowing, my jaw tight.

"That's not true, Jim," he protested. "I may have helped you learn how to use and control your senses, but I've never controlled you."

"Yeah, in my mind, you have," I sighed. "I guess that's why I fought you on the tests. That, and because the tests always reminded me that I'm a freak of nature. Different. Not normal."

"Ah, shit," he muttered, before continuing. "We needed the tests, man. They were the only way we could both learn in a safe environment, not in the midst of some shootout. But I never realized-I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "No, I don't want an apology. You were doing all the right things. The problem was in my head. I know that now. And it persisted, I guess, because I always wondered what would happen when your dissertation was over. Wondered what I'd do then, when you were finished with me and moved on to live your own life."

"You've never really trusted me, have you?" he asked then, going to the crux of the issue. And I could see he was hurt.

I shook my head. "No, I guess I haven't."

"And now?" he asked, sounding weary, the light gone from his eyes as he watched me warily.

"H said something today that really hit me," I said then, frowning with the memory. "He asked how many different ways you had to die before you got the respect you deserved." Looking up at him, I said, "I realized then, what a fool I'd been. Every one of those times, you died for me or because of me, and yet, somehow, you always managed to come back to me. You have been here for more than three years, sacrificing your time, living through nightmares-dying for me."

"Whoa, hold on, Sherlock," he interjected, lifting a hand to stop me. "It's not like you forced me. I found you, remember? And I'm the one who talked you into letting me stay here for a week and then never moved out."

"I know," I replied. "That's the point, isn't it? You've been here for me since the moment you knocked me down in front of that garbage truck and saved my life. You gave up Borneo, and said it was for friendship. You jumped out of an airplane for friendship. And you've done everything in your power to show me that you are here for me. I was…I was too afraid to accept what you were offering. So, every chance I got, I challenged you on it, tested you and found you wanting, to prove my own twisted theory that nobody can be trusted. Sure, you may have made some mistakes along the line-but I was the one who kept pushing us over the edge. Even after the fountain, and what you went through after the fever, I was still ready to believe you'd betrayed me by releasing the dissertation publicly. I saw it in your face that day down by the harbour, when I accused you of that. I saw how much I'd hurt you."

When he just looked away, shrugging a little uncomfortably but not saying anything, I pushed, "I did hurt you, didn't I?"

He tried to brush it off. "I know you, Jim. I know every time you feel threatened or scared, you react with anger and defensiveness. I learned a long time ago not to take it all personally."

But he wasn't meeting my eyes. "But I did hurt you," I insisted.

"Yeah," he finally sighed, cutting me a fathomless look of pain. "You did."

I nodded. "I'm sorry," I said then, my voice tight. "You deserved better than that."

His eyes narrowed as he studied me and then a small smile curled around his lips. "Thanks," he murmured, and the pain dissolved and his eyes weren't darkened by shadows anymore. There was light in them again. Words. So hard for me. So essential to him.

I took a sip of beer to moisten my dry throat. Sighing, I confided, "I realized when Simon was shot, and Conner, that none of what happened was really your fault. That you were as much a victim as I was of circumstances that got out of our control. But despite how hard I tried to push you away, you wouldn't go. You never have."

He shifted then, at that, frowning. "That's not quite true," he said and then looked up at me. "When I heard you'd taken off for Mexico, I left…"

I waved that off. "You were sick, had a fever, convulsions…you couldn't help that."

"No," he shook his head. "I left deliberately." When I looked at him in confusion, he continued with a sad, reflective smile, "You never wanted to hear what happened with Gabe. So you don't know. It wasn't a miracle that time, Jim. Gabe told me that all I had to do was remember. He explained that when Dr. Jeffreys had said it looked like I was in a deep meditative state, that he was exactly right. I think, maybe, it was because I was already in such a deep state that the convulsions didn't really cause any damage."

Picking at the label on his bottle, he went on, "I hadn't felt so lost since I was eleven." Taking a deep breath, pushing his hair behind his ears, he told me, "I went back to before-before I was told that my mother had abandoned me, and had never wanted or loved me, and I was kicked out into the street to fend for myself. I put up a block in my head that wouldn't let me get to those memories-and also wouldn't let me learn anything that took me past that point in time."

"Eddie," I snarled, suddenly furious, wanting to do serious damage.

"Yeah, Eddie," he admitted. "I believed him at first. God, Jim-I was so scared. But I didn't know what else to do, so I went after her. And found out he'd lied to me." Heaving a shuddering breath, he blinked hard, and sniffed, unconsciously brushing his hand across his eyes. "Anyway, when I woke up in the hospital, and found out you'd left-I thought-I thought you still didn't want me to be your partner or friend anymore. I, um, didn't think I was welcome here anymore, either. So I felt pretty lost and abandoned. Stupid, huh? I'm twenty-nine years old. You'd think I could handle things better than that. But it was just such a vast emptiness, like I had no purpose anymore. I can't really explain it. Maybe it has something to do with this link we have, the Sentinel and Guide thing-but I felt I'd failed completely and that you were right to not want anything more to do with me. And that…that…"

His voice cracked and he couldn't go on, couldn't find the words to describe what that had felt like. I felt my chest tighten with a deep, sharp thrust of undiluted sorrow for what I had put him through. Clearing his throat, he added quietly, "I'm sorry. I guess I didn't trust you enough, either. So, I-took off. Lost myself inside my own head."

Hard to stay mad at Eddie when it was my own neck I wanted to wring at that point. Blowing out a breath, I asked, "So, Gabe, he, uh, just told you to remember and you did?"

"No," Sandburg shook his head. "Not exactly. I had to believe-I had to believe that you really loved me. Accept that you hadn't meant to leave me, not for good. That you'd always intended to come back."

When I didn't say anything, too choked up with self-disgust and the knowledge of how much pain I'd caused him, he went on, "You said that I keep hanging in, and don't give up. And I can tell you wonder why I put up with a lot of the crap you can dish out."

I licked my lips and closed my eyes, nodding. Yeah, I'd wondered that a lot.

"It's because I do believe you love me," he said. "You don't say it in words. But you say it in what you do. You do your best to keep me safe. You come after me when I'm in trouble. You've given me a home. You fuss over me when I'm sick. You've trusted me with stuff you haven't ever told anyone else. We have a lot of fun when we spend time together…here, fishing, grabbing dinner some place. And these last few months, and weeks, when sometimes it's been hard, I've remembered the guy who came after me in that park, and held me and told me I wasn't a freak. And told me that he would always be there for me. That's love, Jim. I heard it loud and clear. And you know what, man? I love you, too. You're not perfect, any more than I am. You've got some pretty deep scars. But you do your best and, for all your flaws, there isn't anyone I trust or respect or admire more than I do you. And even more than all that, I know that what we're doing here is important, man. I can make a real difference helping you so that you can help the people who need you, so that you help keep this city safe."

I sniffed and blinked back the burning in my eyes. "I'm scared you'll get hurt," I stammered. "Scared I won't be able to protect you well enough, and you might…"

"Die?" he offered, when my voice caught.

"Yeah," I breathed, looking away.

"Jim, you will always do your best, I know that," he replied. "Neither of us is immortal and we have no way of knowing what the future holds. You think I'm not scared of losing you? Hell, you're the one who goes up against the bullets, not me. You tell me 'Stay in the truck, Junior'," he mocked my gruff tones, and won a smile.

"Yeah, but you never do," I countered.

"'Never' is harsh, man," he whined. "I do sometimes. For a while." And then he added dryly, "But it's my job to watch your back, and that's hard to do from the truck,"

I nodded, trying to find my equilibrium, using the respite of humour he'd just given me.

"You never answered my question, though, and I really do need to hear the words this time," he said then, suddenly somber again. "I need to know you mean it, or we've got a serious problem."

"What question was that?" I asked, having forgotten, concerned by his sudden shift in mood.

"Do you trust me now, Jim?" he asked again.

Without hesitation, I replied equally soberly, "Yes, without any doubts."

"Then we're good," he said, seriously; and then he smiled as he added with typically Sandburgian confidence, "Whatever else comes at us, we'll deal."

I crooked a smile at him. He made it seem so easy. Stuff I'd avoided talking about like the plague and, then when we did talk, just a few minutes later, the clouds were gone, the sun was out, and we were 'good'.

"So, have you decided which of the scenarios you want to act on?" he asked, taking a swig of beer.

"I know what I have to do," I replied, and looked away.

"Uh, uh," he countered. "You don't have to do anything. You're thinking about revealing your senses, aren't you?"

I nodded wordlessly and took a gulp of beer. I felt parched, and I knew my heart had kicked up, as if I was running a race.

"Jim, if you're worried about letting more people know because it could be dangerous, you're right to worry, and I don't think making too much information available about your limits and tolerances is a good idea," he said, reiterating his position from earlier in the day. "It's not necessary to do your job-you've proven you can get the admissible evidence. But," he hesitated long enough that I looked at him, "if you're worried because you think people will see you as a freak, then…maybe we do need to talk about it. You are NOT a freak. You have amazing gifts that are damned difficult to live with. You use them to help people in trouble and to make this city safe. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, any more than I did when I was an eleven-year-old kid stuck in a twenty-nine year old body. You said you trusted me, Jim. Trust me, believe me on this, please."

"The guys at the station don't seem to think I'm…strange," I muttered then, thinking back about how amazed I'd been by their reactions.

"No, they don't, well, not because of your senses, anyway," he replied, grinning a little.

"Smart ass," I drawled. "Your mother doesn't think the senses are…odd, either," I added.

"No, she doesn't," he grinned brighter. "In fact, if you really want to know what she thinks of you…"

"Let's not go there, Chief," I cut in. "You told me about how she reacts to muscles and blue eyes…"

He laughed then, delighted I'm sure, to note that I was blushing. "Give me a break, Einstein," I growled. "She's your mother."

"Like that's the only reason you couldn't envision a relationship with her!" he crowed. "There's the small matter of sage, auras, meditation, bizarre ideas about the universe…"

"Hey, I got used to you, didn't I?" I teased back, pulling his chain.

And that made him sit up and blink. "Jim, she's my mother!" he blurted, suddenly serious and wondering if I did find her attractive…and not liking the idea much from what I could tell.

"I know," I assured him. Naomi was definitely not my type-even if she did have red hair. "Relax. One Sandburg in my life is quite sufficient and more than I deserve."

We both laughed then, the mood easy between us, easier than it had been in a long, long time. So I was able to ask the last question that had been haunting me since earlier that day, when he'd said he didn't see any way for us to continue to be partners…and I'd heard in his voice, and in the pounding of his heart, that he'd meant he couldn't see how we could even be friends anymore at that point.

"Chief," I asked, "what were you planning to do-if we hadn't offered the badge today, or had that brainstorming session?"

His eyes fell away and he shrugged. "At that point, I figured-I figured it was time to move on. With all that had happened, I couldn't see how I could even keep living here anymore without people wondering why you were putting up with me. Which would lead them back to wondering about the truths or untruths about my paper. And, well," he sighed. "I didn't honestly think you trusted me anymore. We need trust between us or this just can't work. I love you, man, but I can't help you if you don't trust me…and frankly, I couldn't keep taking the doubt and the shit that went with it."

"Were you going to talk to me first?" I asked curious, afraid I knew the answer.

"We hadn't been talking much, Jim," he admitted quietly, still studying the floor. "I didn't figure there'd be much point."

"I was afraid of that," I told him then, leaning forward, pinning him with my eyes. "Look at me, Sandburg, and listen up. No matter what ever comes down in the future, don't ever think I want you to leave or that it would be good for me if you left. If you ever do leave, leave for your own sake. Not for mine."

"I hear you," he said and smiled brightly.

"Can it, kid," I told him. "Remember, I know what that means. Don't ever take off without talking to me first, especially if you think you're doing me a favour. Give me a chance to give you my side, okay?"

"I can do that," he agreed with a candid look of promise. And then, looking around the loft, his face scrunched up thoughtfully.

"What now?" I asked him.

"Well, I was just thinking, we might need a bigger place…could get crowded when you get married and have lots of little sentinels."

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of beer, while he laughed at me. I thought how good that laughter sounded, and how long it had been since I'd heard it echoing in the loft.

‘Little sentinels'. Right. Sentinels were quiet, well-ordered creatures. It was the little guides that would make all the noise and take up more space than they were allotted.

But, that was okay. Quiet and well ordered could also be lonely and boring. And besides, I'd discovered years ago that I liked the sound of the rollicking laughter of guides.

And I reflected that that could be the indicator that I needed to watch for. When my Guide stopped laughing, that was when I'd know we were in trouble and needed to do something about it.

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

The next morning when I woke up, Sandburg was already busy in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Given that he wasn't inclined to be the first one up every morning, I figured he was anxious to hear my decision. Yawning, I stretched to loosen stiff muscles. I'd been up a good part of the night, staring out over my city, thinking about my choices and grappling with the decisions I knew I had to, even wanted to, make. Of course, my emotions, ever hesitant to commit to anything risky, had kept me awake long past the making of the decisions in question. When I headed downstairs, he looked up, reading me with a clarity no one else had ever mastered.

"You've decided," he said. "Care to share?" he asked as he poured me a cup of coffee and held it out.

I took a sip and then set down the mug to pull plates out of the cupboard, and glasses, then filled them with juice, taking them to the table. "Uh huh," I replied, waiting while he served up the eggs and moved to the table while I topped up his coffee and brought the toast.

When we were both seated, I told him, "It's a series of decisions, actually. First, we're going to sue the ass off Berkshire Publishing and Rainier."

"Uh, Jim," he began to protest, but I held up a hand.

"They deserve it," I told him. "Sid whathisname acted without authority, against your express wishes and continued to do so despite your repeated direction to him to stop. Rainier acted precipitously and without just cause when they terminated your teaching fellowship and your participation in the doctoral program."

"But I don't want…" he tried again to interject, but I cut him off.

"Don't worry. We'll settle for the opportunity to defend your other dissertation and whatever funds you need to pay off all debts from now until you retire. Remember," I added, aware that I wasn't really playing fair, but they owed him, "you told me you'd back me on my decisions."

He narrowed his eyes, not happy with the reminder. I guess he hadn't thought I'd go for that option. But, reluctantly, he nodded.

"Okay, next, you and I have to figure out how much we can say about my senses without giving away the whole game," I told him.

"Jim, you don't have to…" he objected, throwing up his hands and looking like he was really ready to argue this time.

"I know," I cut in. "But I'm tired, Chief. I'm tired of hiding and tired of being scared of being found out. I'm tired of what you have to do to cover for me. I just tired of it. I have to really accept these senses, accept they are part of who I am. It's time. Beyond time. You've shown me that. The guys showed me that yesterday. But I need your help to do it and maybe we can minimize the damage."

Sandburg studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed as he thought about what I'd said. It was really no more than he'd been telling me for years and we both knew we didn't have to give the whole game away. "You got it," he vowed in assurance of his support. "Whatever I can do to make this easy, I will."

I'd never doubted that for a minute, not after everything else he'd already done over the years. Finally, finally, I had ‘got' the fact that I could trust him with my life-with my soul, if it came to that. But, when it came right down to it, it wasn't my life that I was worried about.

"And then, I think we want to go for the consultant option," I said thoughtfully. "But you have some say in that, you have to-it's your life. I just think that being a consultant would meet our needs without you having to go through all the stuff at the Academy."

"I wouldn't have to cut my hair," he grinned cheekily.

"No, and you could probably also take some classes at Rainier," I observed. "If you wanted to still do some teaching, that is. I'm sure whatever final arrangement we come to with them won't cause any hard feelings or close off that kind of opportunity."

His expression softened. "Thanks, Jim," he said then, taking the point that I really did want him to be happy, too. But then the cheeky look came back, "Just don't think that this means you can tell me to stay in the truck."

"Yeah, well, a man can dream," I muttered, not surprised that he'd seen right through me and knew very well why I preferred the consultant option. But, digging into the eggs, I couldn't resist a smirk when I heard him snicker.

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

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

"Yes, sir," I murmured as I jotted down the notes as Captain Banks indicated all that he wanted to be sure was underway by the time he arrived later that morning. He shouldn't have been coming in at all. Injury recovery leave was usually spent at home. But I smiled, knowing it was in a good cause. I'd just have to make sure I got him to go home again before he overdid it and exhausted himself.

"Uh huh," I acknowledged, as he relayed that he'd spoken to Detective Ellison and that he and his partner, Blair Sandburg, would be in around the same time, ten a.m. give or take a few minutes. Detective Ellison was also on injury recovery leave. But then, as my glance drifted around the office, I noted that an injury hadn't stopped Inspector Megan Conner either, who had already arrived to clear her desk of reports that had languished there since she'd been shot ten days ago.

"Got it," I confirmed, jotting another note. "I'll see what I can arrange, sir." When it seemed he'd finished, I concluded the call. "All right, sir, I'll see you later this morning."

He wanted me to begin pulling all of Ellison's case files for the past more than three years, since the Switchman case. I looked at the pile of files that I'd retrieved from our own cabinets last night after getting the lowdown on the meeting in the conference from Rafe. The remainder of the outstanding files had been requisitioned from Records and would arrive by late afternoon. "Check," I grinned to myself.

Next, he'd wanted me to ensure that the detectives not on injury related leave, about half of our remaining strength, were finishing up reports on closed cases and generally getting their calendars cleared except for immediate cases. I happened to know that H, Rafe, Joel and even Megan worked late the night before and had all been in by seven a.m. this morning, busily at work doing just that. Since crime seemed to have taken a bit of a holiday, we were enjoying a brief respite from the usual havoc, so the current workload was down enough to let them get caught up. Captain Banks had also wanted to ensure that the conference room would be available to him all day. I'd already taken in a box of donuts and the coffee would go on fifteen minutes before he was due to arrive. "Check and check," I smiled.

Finally, he'd wanted me to arrange appointments with the Chief and the Commissioner as early as possible, later today or tomorrow. I sent messages to my two colleagues, Sherry and Linda, who had already cleared time in their bosses' schedules and were just awaiting confirmation of the times set for early and mid-afternoon. "And check," smirking as I hit the send button confirming the times.

The members of MCU weren't the only ones who hoped we'd find a way to keep Blair Sandburg around. Some of the old, hard-line cops who didn't know him well and were offended by his youth or his hair might not have cared much, but most of the administration staff who had worked with Blair on a regular basis as he took charge of the mundane matters of incident and case report compilation, forensic analysis requisitions, evidence inventory and the like, had come to appreciate him and we all wanted him back as soon as possible.

And most of us hadn't needed to see the headlines to know about Detective Ellison's enhanced senses.

Take his clothing for instance. Soft materials, washed in unscented soaps, showed he had to be careful of skin irritations. Or his hearing? Detective Ellison never missed anything that was said anywhere around him. What? Is it our fault the uniform and detective staff are too busy to pick up on the fact that he hears conversations from a floor away, telling Sandburg a report is ready in forensics when he's still in the evidence lockup, or gives Blair a heads up that witnesses are coming before they're off the elevator? He always notices new perfumes, and sneezes if they're too strong…so we've mostly stopped wearing artificial scent in the building. He doesn't like overly spicy or hot foods when lunches or dinners are catered to allow the team to work through breaks…foods that most of us would consider pretty mild. And he can read notes on a desk, like forensic findings, upside down from across the room. Better than half the time, it seems he knows what the results will be before the tests are even done.

Detective Ellison is an impatient man, and he gives himself away in little things everyday. You just have to be paying attention. And we had been, ever since a bunch of us had been taken hostage more than three years ago by Garrett Kincaid and his lot. We were grateful, to put it very mildly, that Detective Ellison and Captain Banks had saved our lives…and we wondered how they'd done it. Requisitions for doors blasted open, a new motorcycle and so on had to be processed by human hands. Our hands. Surveillance tapes, like of the two of them emerging from the manhole, and Ellison warning Banks that someone was coming on the other side of the closed door into the building before anyone could possibly know, had piqued our attention when we reviewed them for cataloguing.

So we'd watched, and listened to the usual rumour mill gossip of incidents out in the field. And figured out that the very pleasant and cute Blair Sandburg seemed to have something to do with the tall and attractive Detective Ellison hearing and seeing better-and covering for him with interesting obfuscations when anyone chanced to notice. We had a log going for our own amusement of all the different excuses Blair made. Currently, the one about how Ellison ate all those carrots and hence had great eyesight and the other one about how he'd worked in Covert Ops and either a) had picked up enhanced listening techniques or b) how to track perps through mazes of filthy alleys or rained out forested paths with ease, were tied for the 'most overused obfuscation award'. We'd also been keeping track of any tales of how Ellison seemed to freeze up for no reason until Sandburg touched him or spoke to him. We didn't quite know what that was until we'd read some of the newspaper stories about the so-called fraudulent dissertation a couple of weeks ago. 'Zones' they were officially called. We were just glad to know there hadn't been any gossip about such incidents for almost a year. They'd sounded dangerous.

So, they wanted to keep it a secret. Fine with us. It was our secret that we'd known for so long. But we hadn't been happy with Blair's press conference, or what too many of the uniformed officers, especially, had been saying about him afterward. We were pretty sure there hadn't been any lies in that paper, however illegally it had been quoted. I'd put copies of the references on copyright law, that Wendy had given me earlier this morning, on Jim's desk. When word of the team 'conference' yesterday afternoon and my subsequent request for time for the Captain with the Chief and the Commissioner had gotten around, Wendy had figured we might be ready to use the information.

I checked up on the status of the supply requisition for a new desk, chair, phone, computer and sundry other items. It took forever to get those things through the purchasing process, so I'd put it in originally a month ago. Well, Jim had said Blair was almost finished with his diss in a conversation with Joel around that time, so I figured Blair would need permanent office accommodation-he wouldn't be an unpaid observer once he got his doctorate. I wasn't sure of how the name plaque should read, though, so I'd requisitioned both. One that said 'Detective Blair Sandburg', and the other, Blair Sandburg, Consultant (name over title). I figured I could get the PhD added later at the engravers next door, as soon as it was confirmed. The way things were shaping up, I expected the Captain would want all the arrangements in place by the end of the week and would likely tell me so later today or tomorrow. It looked like I'd be able to meet that deadline. The purchasing order had gone out and delivery was expected within the next couple of days.

"Hey, Rhonda," Rafe called over. "Was that Captain Banks?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "He'll be in around ten, as we guesstimated, and he says Jim and Blair will arrive around the same time."

I finished up the grocery list I'd started during the call with Captain Banks and slipped it into my purse for reference when I hit the store after work.

It would be good to have Blair around full time. And maybe he'd get some rest if he didn't have to work at the university as well as play the part of unpaid observer here. We all worried that he never seemed to get enough sleep.

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

I gotta tell you, it's been one crazy week, man. While most of us have been sorting through files to summarize evidence acquisition and procedural process trails in case a bunch of appeals start coming in on Ellison's cases, Hairboy and Jim have been working with Simon to take on the big guns, like the Chief and the Commissioner inside the PD, and Berkshire Publishing and Rainier outside. Trust Sandburg to come up with a strategy that might leave us all clean. Must admit, I felt pretty good when he told us it was my idea, that we somehow make the whole Sentinel thing sound like it wasn't such an all-fired big deal, that got him thinking about how we might 'mitigate the circumstances' as he put it, with a little creative obfuscation.

Cap'n Banks looked a little singed around the edges when he got back from the first meetings with the Chief and the Commish a week ago. Guess they weren't too happy to find out they'd been outta the loop for the past three or more years. But-bottom line, how bad can it be to have a guy with super-senses on the Force? So, they dealt with the surprise and they kinda liked Hairboy's idea. Leaves them smelling like roses, if it works.

Weird stuff has been happenin' around the PD over the last few week. We keep hearin' about it in the gym and locker room downstairs. Seems a lotta guys are havin' a bitch of a time lately with the admin systems. Leave requests are getting lost, records are misplaced, shifts are getting screwed around, orders for take out meals are botched, reports're getting chewed up by the photocopier, or they are routinely assigned the lemons from the auto pool-irritating shit that's annoying as hell and takes hours sometimes to fix, but nothing really important, like evidence actually getting lost or forensic reports getting held up that might slow down an arrest.

The interesting thing is that all this sudden run of bad karma keeps happenin' to the same jerks. Like the universe finally decided to sit up an' bite 'em for their attitudes. What do I mean? Well, it just seemed odd to Rafe and me, when we thought about just who was havin' so much trouble lately, that it was the same guys havin' all the bad luck. It was weird, is all I'm sayin'.

But, hey, we're detectives, right? So we figured it couldn't really be all coincidence-detectives don't really believe in coincidences, ya know? Before long, we began to notice the common trends, like it's always admin or support systems that get screwed up around these twerps, like the whole PD processing infrastructure decided to get a hate on for them all at one time. And then we noticed that, aside from the troubles they were havin', that what they most had in common was the way they bitched about Sandburg behind his back or were nasty right to his face.

And we thought that was a very interesting commonality.

Rhonda overheard us talkin' about it yesterday, and she just sorta snickered, looked all pleased and shit. Well, we were on her like a dirty shirt, and told her to come clean, that we were onto her. Like that would impress Rhonda. She just laughed in our faces. Ah, she just shrugged and turned back to her computer, but she did give us this coy look as she told us how pleased she and some of her admin colleagues in the building were that Sandburg was still around an' it looked like MCU was tryin' to sort things out for him.

Oh, that's the other thing. While all those yo-yos are having so much trouble with systems and such, I must say MCU has never had things go so well. Everything we need or want from Evidence to Forensics, to Records, to Personnel, to the DA's office…well, it's like the skids are greased, man. Smooth sailing all the way.

Like I say, we're pretty good detectives. We've figured it out. Now all Rafe'n me are trying to decide is whether to clue in the idiots who're havin' such a hard time. Likely all they'd have to do is ease up on Sandburg and their lives would go back to normal.

But, it's kinda fun seein' those twerps suffer.

We figure we'll just sit back and enjoy the show for as long as it lasts. Cause it won't last long-once Sandburg gets wise to what's goin' on, he'll likely have Rhonda put out the word to lighten up on the fools. Hairboy's so damned fair, he figures they got reason to be down on him. Take yesterday, for example. Sometimes, I swear that kid is either a saint or has the patience of Job. Whatever. We were all coming in the front entrance, headed toward the elevators, when Ellison must've heard something that really ticked him off. I mean, he was ready to do someone some serious damage. I think it was Jenkins, personally. The guy has spent near thirty years in uniform, failing every promotion board that comes along, and he still figures he's brilliant. Go figure. Anyway, Jenkins was laughin' it up with some of his buddies, and it's my bet the laughs were at Sandburg and Ellison's expense.

Jim, well, he all of a sudden spins around, and I swear, he was growling. Man, you do NOT want to get in his face when he's THAT mad. But Hairboy just planted himself right in front of him, like a terrier barking up at a bull mastiff. I gotta give the kid credit. He does not do 'intimidated', not by Ellison, not by anyone. And he's the only one besides Simon that can get Jim to back down when he's really mad.

"Let it go, Jim," he said sharply though he kept his voice low. He'd put his hands up, like if he had to, he was ready to push Ellison back and away from the twerps.

"I'm tired of hearing crap, Sandburg," Ellison snarled, his eyes flashing dark, but he stopped movin' toward the idiots in question.

"They don't know any better," Hairboy snapped back. "Dammit, Jim," he said, "they don't even know me. All they know is what they read in the papers or see on TV. If some of the people who know me best believe I let them down, how the hell do you expect those guys to see it any different? You know, like my colleagues at Rainier, for example. I've worked with them for years and they believed the worst with no trouble at all. Now, that hurts, man. Who cares what those bozos over there think?" He shouldered Jim to move him back to the elevator and just kept on a'talkin', not really noticing the look on Ellison's face. "Who can really blame these guys if they think I'm some kind of a liar and fraud? Hell, they're just quoting me!"

But Jim, he looked like he'd just taken a roundhouse punch to the jaw. Hairboy didn't mean nothin' personal by his comments, I'm sure. All the same, nobody knows Sandburg as well as Ellison does, and he sure figured the kid had sold him out, at least at first. An' the kid's only been quoted as sayin' he was some kind of liar and fraud because he'd been keeping Jim's secret. Ellison threw a look back over his shoulder at Jenkins and his crowd, and he looked kinda sick. Maybe it's finally comin' home to him just how bad he likely hurt the kid with his doubts, and just how ugly those doubts were.

Anyway, I heard that the uniforms Jenkins sent through the departmental laundry service and was expectin' back that afternoon all somehow got lost. Word is, he's still tryin' to track 'em down. Damned shame for a bothersome inconvenience like that to happen to such a sterling member of our Force. Likely cost him a bundle to replace 'em short term so's he's got something to wear the next time the car he's using from the motor pool breaks down an' he's stranded in the rain, like he was the day before yesterday. Havin' a run of bad luck is Officer Jenkins. Yep, it's a damned shame.

Rafe just gave me an odd look, wondering why I'm snickering away to myself, I expect. Ah well, the fun'll likely be over soon as the press conference is done; leastwise, I don't expect that the resentment will be so public, no more, anyway. Those dumbasses can get away with their nastiness when nobody knows what's goin' down or why Sandburg's still workin' with us, but after today, well, if they still don't like the kid, they'll have to pretty much keep it to themselves or they really will look like the fools they are. An' I must say, some of us will be at lot less tolerant of the attitude.

Speakin' o' which, I guess it's time we headed down to the media briefing room. It's Showtime!

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

"Hey, Don, you have any idea what this is all about?"

I looked around to answer one of my print colleagues, Angie Nash, and shrugged. "Just got the media advisory like you did. So far as I know, there's nothing big going on. Crime's been slow since they took down the Iceman."

We shuffled to the front of the briefing room, exchanging chitchat, trying to suss out if anybody had any big stories in the works-like any of us would ever give anything away if we did-but it was a game and it passed the time until the room gradually filled and the hour arrived for whatever it was the Cascade Chief of Police was going to share with us on this rainy day.

But, I have to say, I didn't expect to see the whole Major Crimes team follow the Chief into the room…and they had that Sandburg kid with them. That was odd. I'd heard the kid was still hanging around with the cops but hadn't given the rumours much credence. Frankly, I was surprised the ever-impatient Ellison hadn't done the academic ride-along some serious damage given the hassle over the fraudulent dissertation a few weeks ago.

After checking to make sure my camera guy, Sam, had the film running, I settled back to hear what the Chief had to say.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press, thank you for being here this afternoon," Chief Barrows began. "No doubt you're wondering why I wanted to speak with you today. Well, a few weeks ago, you were all involved in an unusual situation that required extraordinary measures. I would have liked to sort it out before now, but Captain Banks prevailed upon me to wait until he and members of his team could recover from wounds suffered at the hands of Klaus Zeller, known in some circles as the Iceman. As this briefing progresses, I'm certain his reasons for wanting to be present will become clear to you."

Looking at my watch, I wondered if he was ever going to get to the point. Amazing how many words could be used to say absolutely nothing. Oh, hold on, what's that about Sandburg?

"Given that Mr. Sandburg performed a significant service to the Cascade Police Department to end what can only be described as an unfortunate confusion of facts, I've asked him to share the truth of the infamous Sentinel paper with you today. Mr. Sandburg…"

Well, this should be a little more interesting. Have to say, the kid looks better than he did a couple of weeks ago on the national network.

"Thank you, ah, Chief Barrows," Sandburg started, clearing his throat and looking at his little cue cards. Seems the kid gets nervous when confronted by the bright lights of media cameras.

"A few weeks ago, I announced that my paper, The Sentinel, was a fraud and, looking back, a good piece of fiction. Well, how good a piece of fiction it was is certainly debatable, given that it was mistaken as a serious academic dissertation." Looking up, he grinned a little, as he noted in an aside, "I hadn't been going for the dry as dust academic tone, so I guess it wasn't really very good fiction after all." He won a few chuckles and grinned a little brighter, then sobered as he returned to his formal speech. "The truth is, my mother inadvertently thought The Sentinel paper was my formal dissertation document. Since I've been attending Rainier University for something like a dozen years now, she was understandably hoping my PhD might be just over the horizon and decided to help the process along by sending the document to a friend of hers for a little critical feedback. The thing is, my real dissertation paper is called, 'Lives on the Line: An Examination of the Law Enforcement Subculture in Modern Society'."

He looked up again, shrugged diffidently and muttered, "Well, I guess that sounds more like an academic study, doesn't it? Anyway, things got out of hand from there. Based on what my mother told him, Mr. Sid Graham of Berkshire Publishing thought the Sentinel paper was factual, and got pretty excited about it. I tried to tell him it was never meant to be published, but he must've thought I was being humble or something. The next thing I knew, he'd released sensationalized 'excerpts' in the hopes of building interest in what he assumed was an academic paper that would soon be published."

Sandburg leafed through some documents he'd carried to the podium and waved a couple of sheets of paper in the air. "I have here, and there are more copies available if any of you want one, a statement given to the media in New York by Berkshire Publishing this morning. And, I quote, 'Berkshire Publishing deeply regrets having misconstrued the document entitled 'The Sentinel' by Blair Sandburg as a formal research document that was academically sound. We hereby acknowledge that the author, Blair Sandburg, never released the manuscript to us and indeed, demanded that our copy either be destroyed or returned to him. He repeatedly declined offers for the publication rights, insisting it was not what we believed it to be. It is unfortunate that we did not heed his direction. As a result of our inopportune action in promulgating some excerpts from the manuscript, albeit to generate publicity and consumer interest, we have brought considerable embarrassment to Mr. Sandburg and his colleagues in the Cascade Police Department, not to mention ourselves at Berkshire Publishing. We officially apologize to Mr. Sandburg for our involvement in this unfortunate situation."

So, they're now trying to suggest the paper was fiction all along? Why bother and who the hell really cares anyway? Why do I think we're getting a snow job here? Still, an official and public apology is rare and the kid must've had them by the short hairs. Wonder what kind of settlement he got in addition to the apology in lieu of a formal lawsuit for misrepresentation and violation of author's rights?

Clearing his throat once more, perhaps sensing the incredulity of his audience, Sandburg carried on, "This might have been a small and easily addressed situation, but for the fact that the confusion resulted in the impairment of Detective Ellison's capacity as a law enforcement officer at a critical time. The media excitement about the Sentinel paper compromised Detective Ellison's ability to capture Klaus Zeller before he assaulted and nearly killed several people. It became clear to me that something had to end the craziness and the confusion before someone actually did get killed. So-I 'created' another news story around the paper and I apologize to all of you now for having misled you into believing the work was a deliberate fraud. But, that was more newsworthy than simply saying my mother sent the wrong paper to her friend, Sid."

Well, this sounded unlikely in the extreme. And I have a limited tolerance for bullshit. "So, you're now telling us that you wrote a poor example of fiction, but you used Detective James Ellison's real name. I find that an extraordinary story, Mr. Sandburg-and not quite credible," I told him, breaking into his speech.

He sighed and nodded. "I can understand your disbelief, Mr. Haas," he replied. Blushing a little, he swallowed and admitted, "During my work at Rainier, I have pursued the legends of tribal watchmen or sentinels; it's a kind of personal obsession, I guess. My Masters thesis was on the subject of enhanced sensory perception as it relates to mythical roles and current realities. The mythical watchman or sentinel was responsible for the safety and security of the tribe. In our modern day world, people with enhanced sensory perception end up working for perfume companies or wine or coffee companies-necessary roles, certainly, but not very heroic. But, when I began working with the Cascade Police Department as fieldwork for my thesis on the law enforcement sub-culture, I noticed that a lot of cops, er, law enforcement officers, have much better than average abilities to see and hear and smell than the rest of us. In part, I guess it's required for the nature of their work, and in part, the training they receive enhances their natural abilities. But, I started thinking how neat it would be to have a modern day sentinel working with the police department, and how that would be a natural outgrowth of the ancient, mythical, tribal roles. Anyway, as a form of mental relaxation, I started writing this whimsical account of how such senses could be used in police work. I imagined the kinds of tests I'd use to benchmark the abilities in question and then dreamed up ways in which those abilities would be an asset in the field. Like on stakeouts for example, or tracking a suspect in the dark. I mean, a real sentinel would be like some kind of human crime lab, right? But, I gotta tell you, I feel like ten times a fool to have had my obsessive notions about the possibilities of sentinels in modern society made public for the whole country to see. I also very much regret that I caused considerable inconvenience and embarrassment to Detective Ellison. For a while, I didn't think he'd ever speak to me again because he had no idea of what this paper said, or that it had been sent improperly to Berkshire Publishing. He was completely blindsided by the media, and I'm really sorry about that."

"Uh huh," I grunted skeptically, looking from him to Ellison. "Why did you use Detective Ellison's name if it was all fiction in the first place?" Ellison was doing his well-honed impersonation of a stone-nothing there to determine what he thought or felt about the whole business.

Again Sandburg blushed, even more deeply and looked about sixteen years old as he took a deep breath and lifted his head, for all the world like a kid about to face the most embarrassing moment he could ever imagine. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Well, you see, in the last three years, I've been riding around with Detective Ellison while I did my research. And, um, I have to admit, I didn't expect to be particularly impressed with the pi-, er, police. But, you know, you'll likely think me naïve, but these men and women really do put their lives on the line everyday. They really do care about keeping us safe, at whatever risk to themselves. And it's hard, after a while, after seeing that it's not just a sometimes thing but an every day commitment, not to really admire them, all of them. But, I, ah, especially came to admire Detective Ellison, and I have tremendous respect for him, for what he stands for. I think you probably know he's been named ‘Cop of the Year' more than once?" When I nodded, he went on, "Yeah, well, anyway, it struck me that he embodies what I always thought a sentinel would be. He does have better vision, hearing and olfactory senses than I do, than most average people do, but so do most police officers, as I've already noted."

Sandburg hesitated as he set down his cue cards and cast a quick, sidelong look at Ellison, before continuing more softly, as if he was sharing a secret with us. "I guess the truth is, Detective Ellison is a kind of hero to me and well, when I began to imagine what a modern day sentinel would be like, I figured a sentinel would be like him. I mean, he is like totally committed to the safety and security of this community and everyone who lives in it. It's really the only thing that truly matters to him. I've seen him risk his life so many times to save other people or to apprehend dangerous criminals-I gotta tell you, it's a little mind-blowing to see that on a regular basis. That's a really awesome commitment, man. Really awesome. He's exactly how I always imagined a sentinel would be. Anyway, the paper is all about my personal passion and speculation, you know? And when I wrote it, it just seemed, I don't know, natural to me to use his name-I mean, it wasn't like anyone was ever going to see it, right? It's as simple as that, and I really feel bad about it-and pretty dumb, now that the whole world knows. I mean, most of us don't have our hero worship plastered all over national TV, you know?"

"Did any of your colleagues know you were writing this little bit of fiction before it was released by Berkshire Publishing?" I demanded, seriously wondering if anyone could be quite this innocently ingenuous. The kid looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, all wide-eyed and sincere. Sure the story hung together, and sure Ellison was a fine and upstanding example of the perfect cop, but Sandburg was almost too credible. Still-if he was snowing us, it was a performance worthy of an Academy award…and I'm not talking about the police college, if you get my drift.

"Um, yeah, actually. After I was drowned about six months ago, I went through a period of, ah, brain dysfunction. While I was in the hospital, some of our friends were helping sort things out at the loft. I, um, rent a room from Detective Ellison. He offered it to me when the place I was in burned down and I was pretty much homeless. I'm grateful to him for that for all sorts of reasons, and it sure helped with my formal research to be able to ask him questions and follow up