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

"Stay in the truck, Chief," Jim directed briskly as he tossed his partner his cell phone. Sandburg's cell had been destroyed in his recent dip in the ocean when he'd jumped from the helicopter to help capture Ventriss. He'd been so pissed about the student who had raped a fellow student and murdered another man - not to mention buying term papers and generally acting as if his money gave him carte blanche through life - that unimportant matters like cell phones hadn't even registered. Neither man had had time to buy a new one since.

"But…"

"Stay in the truck!" Jim grated with a hard flash of cold blue eyes. There was no time to convene the Ellison/Sandburg debating society on this one. Roger Rossner was a cold-blooded killer with a penchant for blowing things up and Jim didn't want his partner anywhere near the guy. They'd set up a sting operation and knew that the arsonist for hire had a contract on this building and that he was likely to strike sometime this week. Jim only intended to circle around the building to ensure no innocent victims were at risk - like the watchman who'd died in the last fire-bombing, shot in the head with a .45 caliber weapon before the fire had had a chance to kill him - or the three homeless people who had died of burns in the one before.

He also wanted to run a quick listening check as he walked the perimeter of the building to determine if Rossner, himself, had shown up yet - and the chance was good that the ruthless bomber was already there or would be before the night was over. It was exactly the kind of weather the guy preferred. His incendiary materials were uninhibited by rain, and the foggy, stormy darkness was perfect to obscure his getaway. So, Ellison and Sandburg were staking the place out, just as they had the four previous nights. There was no sign of the black SUV but that didn't mean Rossner wasn't in the neighbourhood. The place was just too damned big, with too many possible entrances and exits, to risk spooking Rossner before backup arrived - and no way did Ellison want to lose him this time. They needed to catch him the act.

"Yeah, fine, and call for backup if I see anything suspicious," Sandburg muttered, aggrieved. "Don't do anything stupid before the cavalry gets here," he added sharply even though Ellison was long gone, loping in a half crouch through the shadows along the side of the dilapidated warehouse. There was no doubt in his mind that Jim could still hear him, but the grumble was more for effect than seriously meant. He knew Jim well, and trusted his judgment. He also knew Ellison wanted this guy and wouldn't take any chances that might let the criminal slip away before the net was in place. Punching the speed dial of the cell, he called in to report that they were on site and to let Simon know that Jim was conducting a reconnaissance on foot. Banks assured him that the uniforms would be there in under five minutes as soon as they gave the word.

Sitting back against the seat, Sandburg shivered as he peered out the windows of the truck that were already beginning to fog up. It was another cold and wet Cascade night, with a heavy, not quite icy drizzle that had started just after dusk. He sniffed in disgust as he reflected it had been raining on and off every day for the last couple of weeks. Even bundled up, with a dark blue woolen hat pulled down low over his forehead and ears, thick mitts on his hands, and both a sweatshirt and a sweater under his heavy coat, he still felt the chill. Rubbing his arms, tense and alert, his jaw tight, Blair knew that part of the chill he felt was from trepidation as much as the miserable late fall weather. It was like a game of cat and mouse, only this mouse was armed to the teeth and knew the enemy.

While he waited, he couldn't help going over the facts of the case in his mind. In the last four months, there had been eight serious fires, seven of them costing lives either in the buildings that had been blown or in neighbouring establishments. It was suspected that Rossner had been busy throughout the whole of the northwest for years, sometimes venturing further south along the Pacific coastline, but he'd been careful and smart. It hadn't been until the Fire Department and Homicide had bowed to public pressure and the direct orders of their respective Commissioners, that the case had been kicked up to Major Crimes, three weeks ago. Since then, Jim had gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb, his special sensory capabilities on full focus, 'dials full up', as Blair had teased, even as he remained close, keeping Ellison grounded so that he'd not zone when in periods of such intense concentration.

"Human Crime Lab Extraordinaire," Blair muttered to himself as he reached over to turn on the ignition and crank up the heat and defroster, casually discounting his own active role in the research and correlations of sparse information.

And, in Sandburg's not so humble opinion, Jim had done good. Real good. As Blair waited, hunched in the truck, shivering, he tried to distract himself by listing off the bits and pieces of evidence Jim had found that they then started to weave into patterns:

· A partial tire track with samples of mud that could be traced to the sand flats on the coast, fifty miles south of the city.

· The peculiar chemical signature of the inflammatory ingredients, and a watch on the businesses that sold such materials along with other building and contract supplies in the area around the sand flats.

· The type of structures that were routinely hit, and the pattern of the hits.

· Searches of classified ads for obscure, suggestive advertisements.

· A deeper analysis of the insurance claims and particularly the adjusters…including examinations of their financial records, some of which showed suspiciously generous deposits not long after insurance had been paid out on one major fire or another.

· Crosschecks of witness reports and a follow-up on a mysterious black SUV that had been noticed in some of the target areas before the fires had broken out.

· A drive down to Calinas, the small village near the sand flats, and an informal stakeout on one of the cottages out there by the sea where the owner had a black SUV.

· The owner of said SUV and cottage had turned out to be a guy who did private contracting for lots of business people, like insurance adjusters and factory or warehouse owners, so did business with the same firms who supplied the inflammatory materials. All suggestive, all circumstantial, but it had given them a name. Roger Rossner, former military demolitions expert, semi-retired and ostensibly living comfortably on his pension. Very comfortably.

And now they also knew what the probable suspect looked like, having managed to capture several telephoto shots of him while they'd staked the cottage out. Rossner was a big man, over six feet tall, in his late fifties. He had a thatch of dirty blond, graying hair, a weathered face and brown eyes that for all their depths of intelligence seemed coldly flat and empty. Blair shivered again whenever he thought of those eyes, and not from the damp chill of the night. They didn't have enough to get an official search warrant of his residence or the shed in back, though Jim had picked up the scent of the chemicals they were watching for. Nor had they wanted to spook the guy by talking to anyone who knew him on his home turf. It had become a bit of stalemate, and Jim had been frustrated by having to wait until the guy struck again.

They'd almost got him at the last scene, based on a probability model Blair had devised to predict the next target, and Rossner seemed to know the net was tightening or at least the bombings stopped after that. The media hadn't helped, hyping his crimes and tagging him as 'The Torch' - an unfortunate slander, in Sandburg's opinion, of the noble comic book character with the same moniker. Newscasters delighted in reporting that Detective James Ellison of the Cascade Police Department's Major Crimes Unit, three-time winner of Cop of the Year, was on the case and would no doubt soon be making an arrest. Jim had grimaced and rolled his eyes when he'd seen that on the local news, and had cursed bitterly when it got picked up nationally. This bastard was arrogant and such publicity could only make it a duel in his mind, a game to beat the crack detective; Jim didn't need that kind of complication.

Blair didn't need Jim to be under that kind of threat.

Ellison had snorted derisively when Sandburg had expressed his concerns when he'd been the first one to make the analysis that the media could end up making this personal - a kind of grudge match where the master criminal pitted himself against the master detective. But the anonymous note with the cut out letters spelling out in black bold print, 'BOOM!' sent to the private and personal attention of Detective Ellison, MCU, Cascade PD, hadn't done much to quell Sandburg's concerns.

"I'm telling you, he's after you, man," Blair had warned grimly, his eyes dark with concern.

And Jim had to reluctantly agree that maybe his partner's assessment had some merit.

So, they set up an irresistible scenario to provoke action in a controllable situation by engaging the cooperation of Joshua Markham, a local businessman. Markham was planning to have an old warehouse on the docks demolished anyway…contracting with an arsonist to have it done legally at no real cost seemed a good deal to him, and he got to pretend he was civic-minded at the same time. Contact had been made using the ad Sandburg and Ellison agreed was likely the anonymous post office box link to Rossner. A series of negotiations had begun, the crafty firebug using a cell phone that bounced through satellite connections all the way to China and back, taking the long way through Europe, so there was no chance of a trace. But the deal had been struck and this warehouse was the target. The only thing that Rossner hadn't been willing to commit to specifically was the date, only going so far as to confirm the job would be done by the end of the month…which was now only two days away.

Nervously, Blair's gaze flickered up and down the alley Jim had parked in, choosing the same spot he had every night of the last week. It was next to one corner of the warehouse, deep in the shadows and the truck was camouflaged, sort of, by a row of big metal dumpsters, while still permitting visual surveillance of a good part of the external structure. Theoretically, at least. Unfortunately, with the rain and fog, visibility was next to nil. Sandburg shivered again as he shook his head. He hated this part; the waiting, knowing action was inevitable. Oh, he didn't hate it as much as the action itself, when Jim was literally in the line of fire, but the waiting stretched his nerves and gave him too much time to imagine all the things that could go wrong.

"C'mon, man, where are you?" he muttered, but he knew Jim had not yet had enough time to walk the perimeter of the building. This was just the preliminary check for possible innocents, to ensure the area was clear. Rossner wasn't likely to show for another couple of hours yet, if he turned up at all that night. Part of his MO was that he didn't hit until after the witching hour.

"I gotta tell you, Jim," he murmured again, confident that his Sentinel could hear him, "I got a bad feeling about this."

The cell phone buzzed and he flipped it open. "Sandburg," he replied, his voice low.

"Sandburg, get Ellison," Simon snapped, his tone harried and urgent. "We just got a call that Markham's body was found - shot in the head."

"Dammit!" Blair cursed, now absolutely certain that the setup was blown and the mouse had just become the hunter. "Ah, sorry, Simon…he should be just around the corner, coming this way. I'll let him know."

"Fine, keep your heads down," Banks ordered briskly. "Backup is on the way."

The 'stay in the truck' order now moot, Blair started talking even as he was opening the truck door, intending to race along the alley to give Ellison backup, such as it was, given he wasn't a real cop. But the rules of the engagement had just shifted and Rossner was likely lying in wait. Jim was good, but even he didn't have eyes in the back of his head. Given how long he'd been gone, he'd either be coming around the corner of the building any second, or he was already in trouble. If Rossner had been stalking them instead of the other way around, he'd know about the stakeout, where Jim usually tucked away the truck and the routine walkabouts. True, they'd arrived a little earlier that night than usual, but only by about fifteen minutes, and Rossner could be taking a bead on Ellison's back as he slipped silently through the shadows.

"Markham's been murdered, Jim," he called out sharply, not caring if Rossner heard him - the need to warn his partner overrode all other considerations.

As he began to move away from the truck, heading toward the far corner of the block-long building, he saw Jim step briefly out of the shadows at the far end to wave Sandburg back as well as to indicate he'd heard the warning, loud and clear. Blair paused in relief, but his eyes scanned the tops of the buildings around and behind Jim, searching the shadows…

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

Ellison stopped walking to concentrate his attention on the same survey of his immediate environment, his senses on full alert, his own instincts telling him that this had gone from a setup to a trap. Cautiously, he started back to the truck, cutting a quick glance back at Blair to ensure his partner was turning back to get under cover. Though he wasn't entirely surprised, he grimaced to see that, to the contrary, Sandburg was waiting for him; indeed, was edging slowly closer. Much as Ellison appreciated his partner's concern on his behalf and Sandburg's determination to give him the best backup possible in the circumstances, he'd be a lot happier if the kid was inside the vehicle with his head down. Jim was just about to yell at Blair, to tell him to go back to the relative safety of the pickup, when all hell broke loose.

From the dumpster at the far end, next to the truck, there erupted a tremendously powerful explosion that burst blindingly white light and searing heat into the night. The shock wave of the blast caught Ellison and blew him backwards, his fully open senses of hearing and sight automatically shutting down just as Sandburg had painstakingly taught him to do in situations of sudden overload, leaving him momentarily deafened and blinded.

His last memory of that night, just before the wall of sound and light hit him, was the horrific sight of Sandburg being flung toward him, like a helpless rag doll, as the dumpster behind him along with the truck went up in a roaring sheet of bright orange flames - a nightmarish scene straight out of Dante's Inferno.

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

"Mmnngg," Ellison moaned against the pain that flared through all his aching, strained muscles, bruised and abraded skin, and very sore head.

"Easy, Jim," Simon soothed, though the gentle calm of his voice was belied by his rigidly composed features and anxious eyes. "Just, uh, turn it down. You know how, I know you do."

The words were right but the voice was wrong, as well as muffled somehow, and there was no steadying touch on his arm. Alarm flared, stronger than the pain, undeniable and urgent. Ellison struggled against the dull heaviness in his head that wanted to drag him back down to sleep as he fought off the pain, having no time now for it. Swallowing convulsively against the scratchy dryness of his mouth and throat, frustrated by the way the light burned his eyes when he blinked, he struggled his way back to consciousness.

"Sandburg?" he rasped, squinting reddened, irritated eyes as his gaze sought Simon's. "Where?"

"He's alive, in ICU," Simon answered, direct and to the point. He knew there was no purpose to be served by avoidance.

Relief that his partner was alive mingled with fear at the guarded look on Simon's face. Afraid to ask, needing to know, Jim rubbed at his ears to clear away the blocked feeling that was muffling sound, as he demanded, "How bad?"

"Not as bad as it might have been," Banks replied, his shoulders slumping wearily as he looked away. Sighing, he turned his attention back to Ellison's intent glare as he continued, "His layers of clothing, the thick hat and mitts, all protected him from the worst of the initial blast. He got badly singed but the rain helped to smother the sparks that caught on his clothing and hair."

"What else?" Jim prompted, knowing full well that people weren't kept in ICU because they'd been 'badly singed'. He disregarded his slightly impaired hearing, unsurprised by it given the loud explosion and knowing the effects were most likely temporary, compensating for it by turning up his sound 'dial'.

"Cracked ribs, broken arm, inhalation burns, not too serious but he's on a respirator," Simon continued. "He banged his head pretty hard - hasn't woken up yet." There, that was the worst, the most dangerous injury, Simon thought grimly, his lips compressing tightly for a brief moment before spelling it out clearly. "Sandburg's in a coma, Jim."

Ellison grunted and began to push himself up, thwarted by stiffness and a residual dizziness that slowed him enough that Simon had a chance to push him back down before he was even fully sitting up. "Slow down, Jim!" Banks snapped, not quite at full bellow volume. "You've been semiconscious yourself for almost twenty-four hours."

"I need to see him," Jim ground out, furious at being held down, more angry at the weakness that let Simon get away with it.

"Fine, you can see him, just not this minute," the Captain hedged. "Let me get them to call your doctor. Once you've been given the okay, I'll take you to him myself."

Ellison glared at him, wordlessly seething at the delay, but Simon hoped he could take silence as acquiescence and turned to the door. However, no fool, he turned back to check and caught Jim again trying to struggle up. "Either you stay put," Simon growled, pointing a stern finger, "or I'll have you restrained. And that's an order. Are we clear, Detective?"

With ill grace, Jim hesitated but then gave a short, sharp nod as he turned his head away. Clutching the anger and the pain to him like a lover, he fought to use them to hold his anxious fears at bay. Whether he closed his eyes or kept them open didn't seem to matter - all he could see was the image of Sandburg being flung high by the blast, the sheet of flame rising behind him.

Respirator. Head injury. Coma.

It had been a trap and he'd missed it, hadn't sensed the bomb, and it had caught the wrong man. Wouldn't have caught anyone if Jim hadn't insisted that Sandburg stay with the truck. Why the hell hadn't he sensed the bomb, dammit? He'd been so close…he should have sensed it. Guilt warred with fury, fear with pain.

Guilt and fear won, combining to form a vise that tightened around his heart and made it hard to breathe.

"Ah, Jesus, Chief," he grated hoarsely past the lump in his throat while he fought the burn in his eyes.

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

Much as Jim struggled by the force of will to remain conscious, his body mutinied and took his will captive, silencing it by the simple expedient of dragging it back into the darkness of unconsciousness. So it was almost noon the next day before he was awake and alert enough, long enough, for the doctor to permit him to be wheeled down to the Intensive Care Unit. As good as his word, Simon was the one who took him.

Sandburg was in a corner cubicle behind a wall of glass. Though his burns weren't serious and were already healing well, they were extensive and warranted precautionary isolation care to avert any chance of infection. When they tried to restrict Jim to looking at his partner through the glass, he growled menacingly. Only his concern to not disturb Sandburg restrained him from yelling his head off at the imbeciles that thought they could keep him from his best friend any longer. Simon, ever tactful when required by circumstances beyond his control, mediated a solution, which involved them both gowning up with masks and gloves, so that Simon could support Jim into the room without the help of the wheelchair.

Lapsing back into grim silence, while Banks worked out the details and then helped him don the long, wraparound surgical gown, Jim kept his gaze trained on Sandburg. His partner lay perfectly still but for the measured rise and fall of his chest as the respirator pumped oxygen into his body. EKG leads were hooked up to a monitor in the corner that no doubt also connected with the nurses' desk, and the contraption on his left index finger tracked his blood pressure. But for a linen cloth that covered his loins, the bandages that tightly wrapped his chest and back and the cast on his left arm, his skin was bare, most of it sorely reddened with angry second degree, and some first degree, burns. His hair had been singed, Jim could smell the burned residue, but most of it looked to be intact, a halo of burnished curls on the pillow. Swallowing, Jim focused in on his partner's heartbeat, letting out his breath when he found it steady and strong, if a bit fast.

"He's waking up," Jim murmured as Simon steadied him into the room, one strong arm around his back, and guided him to a chair by the bed.

Startled, Banks looked from Jim to Blair and back again. He couldn't detect any change from the last time he'd looked in, just over an hour before. "How can you tell?" he asked quietly.

"His heart rate is up," Jim replied, his voice tight with hope. "It's usually slower when people are under deep."

Nodding, Simon moved to drag the other chair over to sit by Jim. "That's a good thing, then," he observed, also wanting to hope this nightmare would soon be over. Already on the way to the warehouse after Markham's body had been found, more than a day before, he'd seen and heard the explosion, and had been sick to arrive and find both his men down. He hadn't been able to tell if Jim was zoned or unconscious, and the soaked, burned scraps of Sandburg's clothing had sickened him. He'd been furious and frightened - and he'd cursed Rossner and his own helplessness in equal measure while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. "They say, the sooner the patient wakes up from a coma, the better the prognosis."

"Yeah," Jim grunted as he reached for Sandburg's hand, glad it wasn't burned so badly he couldn't hold onto it. "C'mon, Chief," he called softly. "Time to show me those baby blues, okay?"

When Sandburg remained still and silent, Jim closed his eyes briefly, fighting the nausea that roiled in his gut and the fear that continued to fill his chest. His jaw rigid, his eyes cold, he asked with a tone of deadly calm, "What are we doing about Rossner?"

Banks sighed. "Nothing much has changed; it's all still circumstantial. But now that he's gone after a cop, the administration is taking it personally. I got a warrant to dig into his finances, to search his residence and vehicle and there's a 'round-the-clock' tail on him. We'll get him, Jim. He won't get away with this."

A cop, Jim thought bitterly, shaking his head, knowing that he was the 'cop' Simon meant. After all, Sandburg wasn't a cop, was he? Just another innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. They'd be lucky if the brass didn't pull his observer pass - as they'd threatened to do after the last time Blair had been hurt, hell, murdered. Only at Blair's own insistence that he had no intention of suing, as he had asserted every other time he'd been hurt, and he had signed piles of official waivers, had the higher-ups backed down. Sandburg had held to his story that he was working on his dissertation and needed to ride along for his research.

The same dissertation he'd told Jim he had enough material to write three times over, more than a year ago.

"C'mon, Chief, wake up," Jim called again hoarsely, tightening his grip. "You're scaring the hell out of Simon."

Banks snorted and shook his head. Yeah, right. You're scaring the hell out Simon, Banks thought with mingled compassion and derision. But he didn't say it aloud as he laid a strong, supportive hand on Ellison's shoulder. He figured, if the kid had heard the comment, he'd see through the pitiful obfuscation, too.

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

It was another three hours before Sandburg finally struggled up through layers of black cotton to a semblance of consciousness, and from his hiss and grimace of pain, it was pretty clear he would have preferred to still be out cold. He could feel the respirator clogging his throat, and his skin stung like he'd gotten a bitch of sunburn - he wondered vaguely if he'd fallen asleep on a beach somewhere. Did sunstroke require a respirator? Gradually, he became aware of the pressure of someone gripping his hand, and he smiled faintly, reassured. It was Jim, he could tell. Jim was okay…

Wondering where that thought had come from, and more about the surge of relief that came with it, he tried to remember what had happened, why he'd thought Jim might have been hurt - and why he was in a hospital - again. Too tired to figure it out, he finally decided it would be less work to wake the rest of the way up and let Jim just tell him what had happened. Blinking, he moaned a little at the harshness of the light and the way the room tilted around him. Swallowing hard against the sudden threat of nausea, he tried hard not to fight the respirator, knowing that would only make things worse. His memory flickered and then flinched away from how he knew that bit of hospital trivia-he didn't like to recall being dosed with Golden and going nuts in the PD Garage, trying to shoot 'fire people' with Jim's spare gun, until he'd collapsed.

The grip on his hand tightened and he flinched in pain, so that it loosened very quickly. Frustrated, he blinked away the tears of strain from the light and again tried to look around the room. Keeping his head still, he moved his eyes slowly to let them focus so that the dizziness and nausea wouldn't be so bad. He saw Simon first, standing stiff and looking very worried, and then he found Jim, sitting beside him and, yep, holding his hand. Weakly, he returned the grip, the only reassurance he could give what with his mouth being out of action. Frowning a little in concern, he took in the abrasions on Jim's face as he noticed that his partner seemed to need Simon's help to stand and stay standing by the side of the bed.

What the hell had happened?

Blinking again, he saw Jim's lips moving but he couldn't hear the words. Not funny to torment a guy when he's down, he thought bemusedly, thinking Jim was teasing him, playing games. But the anxiety deep in Jim's eyes didn't go with a humorous prank and he frowned again, trying to understand what was going on. Vaguely, in frustration, he tried to wave the hand Jim wasn't holding toward the respirator, but his arm was so heavy and it hurt to lift it. He wanted to signal that he'd really like to be rid of the tube in his mouth so that he could ask what was going on or tell Jim to speak up, or something, but couldn't come up with a way to get that message across. And Jim was still talking as if he was trying to explain something but though Sandburg tried to concentrate, he just couldn't make out the words.

Too weary to make sense of it, Blair slipped back to sleep.

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

"Something's not right, Simon," Ellison grated as his boss pushed his chair back to his room on three floors above. The staff wouldn't let Jim stay with Blair for more than ten minutes at a time, citing that they both needed rest, so Ellison was grateful to have even been present when his partner woke, however briefly. Not that the gratitude got in the way of his irritation to be told his time was up a few minutes later.

"He's just waking up from a coma, Jim," Banks replied stoically, long used to Ellison's moods and not taking them personally. "Give the kid a break. Once he gets a little more rest and that tube comes out, you'll see - he'll be fine. Or as fine as he's ever been."

"Not funny," Jim growled, not in the mood for Sandburg jokes. Simon rolled his eyes as he rumbled a "Sorry," as he reached to push open the door to Jim's room.

"It was his eyes," Jim muttered as Banks helped him maneuver back into the bed. "He didn't understand a word I was saying…he wasn't connecting."

"He was barely conscious and confused," Simon sighed. "He'll be better the next time he wakes up. Relax, Jim. You're both alive, not too badly hurt - give him a little time."

Jim shook his head, sincerely hoping that Simon was right and he was being overly concerned. But the confusion in Sandburg's eyes haunted him. Something wasn't right.

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

For the next twenty-four hours, Sandburg was asleep far more than he was awake, but the doctors were encouraged that it was normal sleep and the fears they'd had about a possibly serious head injury dissipated. And, Blair's burns were healing so well that the isolation order had been lifted. But, Jim was frustrated because each time he visited seemed to be 'nap time', so he couldn't assure himself that Blair was as fine as they seemed to think, though he tried to take solace from the confidence of the medical practitioners. As Sandburg's designated 'Emergency Contact', Ellison insisted upon his rights about being kept well informed of his partner's condition. When he learned that they planned to remove the respirator late that afternoon, he made a point of telling the nursing staff he'd be back then, figuring Blair would certainly wake up when they pulled that invasive tube out of his throat.

Jim was relieved to feel much stronger than he'd been the day before so that he no longer needed the wheelchair to get around. In fact, he felt well enough to be released from the hospital if he could convince the doctor that he was fine despite all the bruises and a lingering stiffness. Once he was released, he could argue his rights to spend as much time as he wished at his partner's side. Pulling on his robe, anxious to finally be able to talk with his best friend, Jim headed downstairs. But, the elevator doors had not yet opened before he knew something was definitely wrong. Sandburg's heart rate was through the roof. Very worried, his own bruised and aching muscles forgotten, Ellison pushed through the doors as soon as they started to open and jogged down the corridor to Blair's room. He could hear the doctor ordering a sedative as he turned the corner and pushed open the door.

"Listen to me!" Blair was croaking desperately, his rough voice barely more than a whisper that it seemed no one was paying the least bit of attention to - the doctor and two nurses were all too busy reading the machines, worried about the explosive increase in his heart rate and blood pressure, and his hyperventilation that was getting worse as he struggled to get their attention. He'd reached the point of physical agitation, and they were actually holding him down as one turned to leave to get a syringe full of happy juice.

"Back off!" Jim bellowed, furious at their behaviour and the frenzy of terror he could see in his best friend's eyes.

"Detective, you'll have to leave…" the doctor tried to order, recognizing Jim, but backed off and shut up at the dangerous light in Ellison's eyes as the detective moved swiftly into the room - in full 'intimidation mode' that was no less impressive for all the fact that he was in his robe and pajamas. Gabbling a little, trying to regain control, the physician stammered, "He became agitated when we removed the endotrachial tube. Panicked. It's not uncommon…"

Jim could hear Blair rasping in pleading tone, "Jim…" as the kid desperately held out his hand toward his Sentinel, and Jim grated, "Shut the hell up and listen to him!" to the doctor as he took Blair's hand and leaned over him, his other palm on Sandburg's brow. "Shh, easy, buddy, just breathe, okay? I'm here and we'll get this sorted out."

But Blair's eyes just widened in renewed panic, and he panted even more desperately as he held onto Jim's hand as if it were his only lifeline. One of the nurses wordlessly passed Jim a brown paper bag, which he quickly bunched up to place over Sandburg's nose and face as he said firmly if kindly, "You're hyperventilating, Chief. Here, breathe into the bag. Relax, okay. You're fine."

Blair puffed obediently into the bag, his eyes locked on Jim's face, eyes wide with such fear that it approached terror. Gradually, though, his breathing evened out. "Get me some ice chips or something for his throat," Jim snapped to one of the nurses.

"I have some here," she replied quietly, holding out the cup of ice fragments that was standard operating procedure when respiratory tubes were removed.

"Thanks," Jim acknowledged, reaching for a calm that the throbbing muscle in his jaw belied. Putting the bag aside, he took the small plastic cup and finger-fed Sandburg one chip and then another as he said, "Don't even try to talk until these melt."

Blair blinked hard and took a deep breath, wincing at the pain of it, but he stopped trying to talk and just held Jim's hand tightly until the ice had melted. In the silence, Jim stroked his partner's hair back from his forehead, as he said quietly, "You're going to be okay, you hear me? You've got some burns and bruises, a broken arm and ribs, but nothing that can't heal. Relax…"

Blair watched him intently, a frown of concentration on his face. Finally, he licked his lips, his voice still hideously raspy and weak as he whispered, "Jim-I can't hear you."

"What?" Ellison demanded, and then shook his head as he raised his voice, "Must be the effects of the explosion, Chief…sometimes they take a few days to wear off. The blast was pretty loud."

But Blair shook his head, his eyes on Jim's mouth before they lifted to his friend's eyes. "Can't hear…anything," he grated hoarsely, his voice catching with fear. "Nothing. Jim, I'm scared…"

Nothing? He couldn't hear anything? It had been two days since the blast had almost blown Blair to Kingdom Come. Sure, the shock of the blast could dull hearing, make it seem like he was in a deep well, everything muffled, like Jim's hearing had been dampened when he first woke up…but nothing?

Jerking his gaze to the doctor who hadn't yet left the room and was monitoring Blair's still elevated vital signs, Jim demanded, "Did you hear what he said?"

"Sorry, no," the doctor replied, defensively. "His voice is too faint, no one could make out…"

"He said he can't hear anything…nothing!" Jim cut in with abrupt impatience. "What's wrong with him?"

Startled, the doctor moved to the other side of the bed, cupping Blair's face to capture his attention and turn Blair's head face him. "Mr. Sandburg," the doctor enunciated clearly, "you say you can't hear anything?"

"Or for the love of…" Jim muttered, as he turned to the nurse who was still there and demanded, "Do you have a pen and paper on you?" Busily, he began writing as the doctor turned and ordered a consult with an ear and hearing specialist, as well as an MRI and another skull series.

When the doctor left, Jim turned back with his note and handed it to Blair who squinted at it. "Glasses," Jim muttered, "Sorry." He rummaged around in the bedside table and found the spare set Simon had thought to bring in earlier, having known the pair Blair had been wearing the other night were smashed in the explosion.

Sandburg took them gratefully and then looked at the note. You were caught in an explosion two days ago. You had a severe concussion and only woke up yesterday for short periods of time, but you seem fine now. You've got fairly minor burns, cracked ribs and a broken arm. The hearing loss is just a short-term result of the impact of the blast. They have a specialist coming to see you, and more tests.

Blair nodded as he read and visibly tried to calm himself. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Jim, scowling at the spectacular bruises on his friend's face. "You okay?" he rasped, sentinel soft.

"Yeah," Jim said, then remembered to nod as he took Blair's hand. "I'm fine."

But inside, he wasn't fine. He was sick and scared to think that maybe Blair was hurt really badly.

"Rossner?" Blair whispered, wincing with the effort to speak.

The nurse having left the note pad with him, Jim wrote out, Under surveillance. Don't worry, we'll get him. Blair nodded as he read it, and then leaned back into his pillows with a sigh. It hurt to talk, and he couldn't hear. His breathing hitched as he again gripped Jim's hand hard, conveying his fear.

"Don't buy trouble, Chief," Jim murmured as he reached to stroke his friend's brow, realizing Blair couldn't hear him, but would understand the sentiment. The words were as much for his own benefit as Sandburg's anyway. This was only temporary. Blair was going to be fine.

Had to be fine.

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

Blair tried not to panic, tried really hard. His skin felt dry and papery, tight and itchy so it was hard to rest, as if rest was something he could even begin to contemplate. His left arm ached, as did his ribs, and he had to be careful not to turn or shift his body too suddenly or spasms of pain added to his misery. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the utter silence. He'd never experienced anything like it before, and for the first time was conscious of the way sound informed everything. Sound was a backdrop to being alive, like the drawing in and exhalation of breath, or the timbre of his own voice. The scratch of fingernails on the sheet that covered him, the hum and beep of machines that monitored his vital signs, the swish and footfalls of the nurses as they padded up and down the hall outside his room, the low hum of the heating system, the soft announcements on the hospital intercom system…all things he could no longer hear. Just as he could not hear the doctor's voice, or Jim's - oh, God, he longed to hear Jim's reassuring voice.

They moved him to another room now that he no longer needed to be in Intensive Care. He couldn't hear the voice of the orderly who waved him onto a gurney, and wasn't sure where he was being taken. He couldn't hear the squeak of the wheels or the whoosh of the elevator doors, or the ping when they opened again. He figured out what was going on when he was waved onto a freshly made bed - and he tried to see the move as a good sign, that he was getting better.

But the silence was overpowering, relentless. It stretched out with no end, infinite. There was no way around or under or over it. It just was. He wanted to scream, and would have, if he weren't in a hospital where he'd disturb others. Scream his heart out, just to see if he could hear something of his own fear, and not just feel it eating him alive. He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't rest, because when he did, the whole world was gone and there was only infinite black silence. He wouldn't know if someone approached until they touched him, would have no warning. So, he had to stay awake, afraid to be so vulnerable. The exhaustion magnified his discomfort and his terror, until it was all he could do to hold on and go through the CT scan and MRI, and the endless auditory tests that he could only respond to with increasingly desperate negativity - he could hear nothing. They tried various devices, hearing aids he thought, to increase the volume of sounds but nothing helped. Nothing!

Blair tried to tell himself it was only temporary, just the effects of the hideous, earth-shattering blast that had numbed or bruised his eardrums. They were damaged, that was all. They'd heal. It would just take some time, just a little more time. Please, God, this couldn't be the way life would be for all the minutes and hours and days and years to come!

He could still speak, he knew that, though the knowledge was an intellectual reality, as he could not hear himself. And, once or twice too often, he noticed the staff wincing when he spoke to them, lifting their hands to their ears and one wrote a note to tell him he was shouting at them. He'd been mortified…and suddenly realized he had no idea how to control the volume of his voice when he couldn't hear himself speak. So, he was increasingly nervous of talking, unsure of how he sounded, if he was enunciating or slurring his words, shouting so loud it hurt others to hear him, or whispering so softly that they were unsure of what he was trying to say. It was unnerving, and frightening for a man who loved words, and who needed to communicate in words to be himself, to be whole. It was beyond sickening for a man who loved all that life and the world had to offer, loved the sounds of the earth, the voices of others, singing, music, birds chirping, wind rustling in the trees, the laughter of children, the ringing of bells, even the sound of steady traffic in the city that spoke of life and motion, horns honking, warnings of danger like alarm bells, or the annoying ring of the telephone. Gone, lost, sucked into an infinite eternal void…

It was a kind of hell.

Dear God, it couldn't be forever…

So he continued to summon up smiles for the nurses, the technicians, for Simon and Jim, but he couldn't bear to see any others from MCU, though their desire to visit him was made very clear. It was too awkward to try to visit like this, and it was only temporary, right? In another day or two, he'd be able to visit properly. He continued to hold onto hope, and was grateful when Simon brought two palm pilots to his room, so that his visitors could 'speak' with him by typing in their messages for him to read. It was even kind of fun to play with the gadgetry and he wondered idly how much they cost as they'd be handy for keeping notes to himself or to be in contact with Jim when he was away from his desk. He'd never realized just how useful it was to be able to transmit wirelessly to others in the same room. It sure beat passing paper back and forth, or even typing on the laptop and letting others read the message. Blair snickered to himself, though, as he recalled his perennial problem just remembering to keep a cell phone charged and handy…a new little machine that could send email across town as easily as it sent it across the room wasn't likely something he'd remember to carry around.

But, Jim, especially, was worried when he took to using the little handset to fashion his own words. However, Blair quickly typed in his explanation that it was only because, for now, until he got better, he couldn't trust his own voice, couldn't regulate it and didn't want to be shouting unconsciously and disturbing others. He continued to banter with them electronically, telling them to enjoy the peace and quiet while they could because it wouldn't last forever. And they teased him back because, as he could see in their eyes, they also needed to hope that this was just a temporary thing, not permanent, not for a lifetime…

For three days, three interminable days, the mysterious silence went on as he underwent test after test. Three days…and three virtually sleepless nights, until his body defeated his will to remain awake and alert, with eyes wide open to watch the world around him. Finally, exhausted he'd slip into a restless sleep to dream of a world with sound, filled with voices and laughter and music…

…only to awake again to the silence.

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

Jim was there when Dr. Matthias, the hearing specialist, arrived to convey the results of all the tests. Conscious of his patient's right to privacy, the physician suggested that Ellison leave, but the detective only tightened his grip on Sandburg's shoulder and Blair indicated he wanted Jim to stay.

Sighing, Matthias nodded and handed a sheet of typewritten paper to Sandburg. Taking it, Blair struggled to focus his attention on the words, holding the paper angled so that Ellison couldn't read it with him, needing to know first, before sharing whatever it said with his best friend. Jim's jaw tightened, but he waited, seeming to understand Blair's need and simply stood tensely by his friend's side, one hand reassuringly gripping the younger man's shoulder. Sandburg had been watching the specialist closely, had read all the nonverbal messages of eyes filled with compassion, the absence of any smile, the stiff way the doctor held his body as if readying for attack - and he knew instinctively that the news wasn't going to be good. Very afraid to read the message that he now gripped tightly in his trembling hand, his throat dry, he took a deep steadying breath and looked down.

The hairs and attendant cells are quite fragile, and easily damaged. In a concussive blast like the one you survived, hearing is lost because the shock and/or volume of sound kill the hair cells. Since you cannot hear your own voice, or any other sounds despite the magnification of sound with aids, it's clear that these hairs have been destroyed in your case. Examination indicates that your eardrums are badly traumatized, and the small bones may have been shattered as well. However, even with that degree of damage, if the hairs were intact, you would at least be able to hear your own voice through 'bone conduction' - that is, the sound of your voice would travel through the bones of your skull; that vibration can also stimulate the cochlear fluid and hair cells. But, you can't hear your voice, so I'm afraid the diagnosis, as well as the prognosis, is clear. Damaged hair cells do not regenerate.

Blair went very still, his face expressionless and pale, as he absorbed the message. Jim, shocked by the look on Sandburg's face, needing to know how bad it was, reached to pull the document from his partner's lax fingers to read it quickly - and then he sank onto the chair beside the bed, his hand fumbling to grip Sandburg's arm.

It was a long moment before Blair could bring himself to look up at the doctor, and even then, all he could do was mutely shake his head. No, he had no questions. To have questions, you needed to be able to think, to react - to even begin to imagine the future. But all that was beyond him in that moment. He felt numb, wanting only to believe that there had to be some kind of terrible mistake, but the compassionate sorrow in the doctor's eyes told him that it was the truth - the wretched, immutable truth. Vaguely, he was aware of the doctor's lips moving, but he didn't take it in, didn't care what else the man might have to say. Finally, after briefly gripping his shoulder in sympathy, the specialist turned away and left the room.

Blair blinked as he tried to assimilate the information, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. A few seconds. That's all it had taken to rob him of his ability to hear - a few terrible seconds that could never be undone. Trembling, he turned to Jim, needing comfort and reassurance, but all he could see in his friend's eyes was guilt - and worse, pity. Something flared in Blair then, the fear and anger he'd been holding at bay for days finally erupting; he pulled his arm from Jim's grip as he blurted, his voice breaking with the pain of it, "I don't want your pity, and I can't deal with your guilt, man. If that's all you've got, then get out! GO!"

And then Sandburg rolled over onto his side, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as he panted for breath and struggled for control. What did it mean? Beyond the fact that this silence was absolute and unending? What about his work at the University? Oh, God - what about Jim? How could he continue to work with Jim? Anger quickly gave way to despair as a sob built in his chest; an ever-growing bubble of hopelessness that rose to his throat, choking him, now that all hope had been stripped away. Tears burned in his eyes as they gathered remorselessly, despite his efforts to blink them away, and spilled down his cheeks. With a low moan, he stopped fighting the wrenching grief of it, and shook as he let the sob break and the tears fall, stricken by the realization that he couldn't hear himself weep.

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

Ellison was in shock - a knife could not have cut him so deeply as had the unvarnished words on that flimsy piece of paper. He'd felt dizzy and had had to sit down, shaking his head as he tried to recover from the massive blow that had rocked his world. Reaching out to grip Blair's arm, he'd only been able to think about how this was his fault for having had Blair with him that night, and then for leaving him unprotected in the truck rather than take the kid with him when he checked out the warehouse. His fault, and now Sandburg would pay for the rest of his life for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Blair had only been there because he'd wanted to be of help. Jim thought he might lose his breakfast, little as he'd been able to eat so fraught with worry had he been. But he'd forced himself to eat, just as he'd forced himself to believe that the damage wasn't permanent; had refused to even consider what the reality of Blair's life would be if the injuries were untreatable. But, now, after reading the clinical words and hearing the doctor's cool, deliberate judgment, the hope he'd grimly held to was gone and he could barely face Blair, so certain was he that Sandburg would blame him for this.

But Blair's stricken words blasted him out of his own well of horror and forced him to see that this wasn't about him. Wasn't about his guilt or even his grief to see his best friend so badly hurt. This was about Blair, and about what happened next - about helping and supporting Sandburg, no matter what.

So, when Blair pulled away, Jim stood up, uncertain of what to do. Words, damned words, never his strong suit, were useless now. But when the younger man turned away to roll onto his side and curled up into himself, shaking like a leaf, Jim quickly moved around the bed to face him. And when that moan of utter despair tore through his partner's soul, and Sandburg began to weep as if something inside was dying, Jim reached out to grab him and pull him into a strong, tight embrace - holding onto Blair as he wept, giving him a foundation in a world that had just shattered into pieces around him.

Jim bent his head, tears in his own eyes when Blair clutched onto him like a lifeline, hoarsely whispering his name, over and over, and then Blair raspily admitted he was scared, and that he didn't know what he was going to do…

Ellison shook his head wordlessly. He didn't know what they were going to do either, didn't know what was required or what would help. But as he stroked his friend's back and tried to soothe Blair with his touch, he vowed to himself that whatever was needed, Sandburg was not going to face this alone. Gradually, Blair quieted, the tears spent.

But Jim continued to hold Blair safe and secure, reluctant to let him go. It was in those moments of wordless communion that Ellison realized that touch, always important to him, was now almost his only, and certainly most important, means of really letting Sandburg know how he felt about the younger man. Sure, he could write out words, but they lacked warmth and tone to give meaning and nuance when they stood on their own. Words alone, printed on a screen or page, though necessary, could never convey the profound depth of personal emotions, let alone the unconditional commitment, Ellison felt toward his friendship and partnership with Sandburg. Words could be forgotten, misused and mistrusted - but Ellison desperately hoped that the immediacy and power of his touch, of his strong embrace as a bulwark against the world, would say more than faltering words ever could about Sandburg's place in his life. In the silence between them, Jim hoped Blair 'heard' certain messages loud and clear - that Blair could always turn to him, trust him and lean on him for the help and support Sandburg was going to need in the days and weeks and months, even years, ahead.

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

Once the tidal wave of emotion had receded, and Blair was able to slow his breathing, he was humiliated to have broken down like a baby. God, sure it was terrible news, but he felt a fool for having fallen apart. Little shudders rippled through his body, as he took deep, centering breaths and tried to wrestle with his new reality. Embarrassed by his outburst of emotion, he attempted to move apart from Jim, but his partner wouldn't let him go, not yet. So, supported by the warmth and the strength of that embrace, resting within it, he began to tally up the blessings of his life to find a way to face his new reality. He was alive. He could still speak if he had to. He could think and reason, his mind was intact, so he could still function. Lots of people went through life deaf. It wasn't the end of the world. There were things he could learn, like the doctor had indicated, sign language and lip reading that would help him communicate again. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't impossible, either. He swallowed hard, trying desperately to come to terms with the silence, to accept it and not rail futilely against it. Fighting it, denying it, resenting it, none of that would do him any good, and he knew that, though it was hard to quell the anger, hard not to feel it was all so massively unfair. He had to try to hold onto his calm and his determination to move forward, to find a way to accept the emptiness…

But - he didn't know how he could continue to ride along with Jim, how he could be of any use as his Sentinel's Guide, and that thought threatened to unman him again. So, he pushed it away to be dealt with later, when he was stronger, when he'd had time to think it all through.

"Sorry, man," he said, hoping his voice was soft and not shouting, again struggling gently to free himself. "I'm alright, you can let go…"

Jim loosened his grip enough to slip his hands to Blair's shoulders as he leaned back to gaze down into his best friend's eyes. The sorrow there, overlaid with determined courage, choked him and Ellison had to look away lest he lose his own fragile control. Sighing, he reached for the palm pilot on the bedside table and typed in, No matter what, Chief, we're in this together, every step of the way. Understand?

Blair read the message and nodded. "Thanks," he whispered, barely a breath of air, so painfully uncertain of what he sounded like now, wanting to be easy on Jim's ears. But he wasn't really sure how Jim could help him with this. Nor was he sure that a man who could hear the fragile flap of a butterfly's wings, or the sound of his partner's heartbeat, could ever begin to truly understand what the quality of silence really meant. Poignantly, Sandburg reflected honestly that he didn't really know himself, not yet - but he had the rest of his life to find out everything there was to know about living in a silent world.

Suddenly exhausted, he rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling while Jim sat beside him, firmly gripping his arm, a silent message of support and friendship, the only kind of message he could now 'hear'.

But as silent as it was, the message was strong and absolute, and for that, Blair was grateful beyond the capacity of words to express.

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

Sandburg's first priority, even before he was released from hospital, was to cajole even a short session with a speech therapist. He desperately needed to know he could rely upon his own voice, that he was still capable of fulfilling the responsibilities of his teaching fellowship, so that he wasn't in any danger of becoming dependent on welfare. Technology would help him receive messages from other people and he'd max out his credit cards if necessary to buy a supply of palm pilots for his classes, so that his students could still pose him questions; and for his office, so that he could still counsel others. But he needed to be able to talk with some degree of confidence.

The therapist, Judy Tessler, agreed to see him, though she could only spare fifteen minutes of what she'd intended to be her lunch break. Middle-aged with short, salt and pepper hair, a robust woman a good couple of inches taller than Blair, she projected a crisp manner of good common sense that was reassuring.

"Come in, Mr. Sandburg," she enunciated clearly when she looked up at the knock on her office door and then waved to give a visual signal of her greeting as she gestured toward a chair on the far side of her desk. As Blair entered, she studied the young man with hair pulled firmly back, noting his weary pallor and large, troubled eyes as well as the slight anxious tremor in his hands. He was dressed in jeans and a loose fitting flannel shirt worn outside his belt, sleeves rolled up, his left arm in a sling, even though she knew he was still a patient and had expected to see him in a robe and slippers. So - a man who was taking charge of himself, desperately trying to convey a sense of normalcy and structure in his life. Good, she could work with courage, which she hoped she was seeing, and not denial. She'd also noted that he'd opened his mouth as if to respond to her greeting, but then hesitated, uncertain, and fear flashed in his eyes. Her lips tightened, wondering who had castigated him for shouting when he'd not intended to, so that now he was afraid to speak at all. Well, that was the first thing to address or he'd render himself mute as well as deaf.

He'd come prepared and as he sat, he reached out to hand her a palm pilot, to ease their communication. She thought it a useful tool and a sign of thoughtful preparation for their meeting, but she was wary of him becoming dependent upon it. Taking it but setting it aside for the moment, she held his eyes with her own as she gestured, pointing at him, then moving her fingers in a talking signal, before drawing a question mark in the air before waving at her office, she asked, "Tell me, why are you here?"

He swallowed and took a breath, looking like a deer in the headlights as he replied, his voice raspy from disuse and so soft she could hardly hear him, "I can't hear myself talk anymore, and I need to know I'm not shouting…"

"Why?" Judy asked again, drawing another question mark in the air.

"Because I'm a teacher, and I need to give lectures and counsel students," he explained, flushing a little with nervousness. "My voice is my most important tool…"

"No," she replied, shaking her head and making a fast slicing motion, and then pointing first at her head and her heart and then at his, "our most important tools are our minds and our hearts." But then she smiled and nodded as she added, "But I understand."

He frowned a little in confusion, not quite getting her message, but taking encouragement from her softening features, he smiled tentatively and shrugged self-consciously. Ah, so he was the type to try to fake it until he understood, she thought, reaching for the handset as she typed, If you don't understand something, say so. There's no shame in needing clarification.

He read the note and sighed, nodding with a slightly chagrined expression. Busted. And he'd only been there for less than two minutes. Looking up at her, he asked, "Can you help me?"

Judy nodded briskly as she stood to move around beside him, tapping in a message as she moved. The muscles and vibrations in your throat will let you know if you are speaking softly or at a normal level or shouting. I'm going to show you, but you must be willing to shout to notice the difference. Don't worry, this office is soundproofed and you won't disturb or alarm anyone.

He read the note and nodded, a real smile dancing on his lips this time as he lifted eyes filled with hope. Standing in front of him, she took his right hand, the left still bound in a cast, and placed his fingers over his larynx, while she gestured with her other hand, indicating that he should say something.

"I'm not sure what to say," he replied, nervous, wondering what he was supposed to be feeling with his fingertips.

Nodding, the therapist briefly tapped in, That was a whisper. Now try to shout, as if you're trying to get someone's attention.

Blair paused for a moment, closing his eyes briefly and taking a breath. Then he called out, "Hey, I'm over here!"

And then he smiled brilliantly, the light of comprehension glowing his eyes. Judy grinned back as he babbled, no longer shouting, but more than a whisper as he experimented with different volumes, "I can feel it…the vibrations in my fingertips and the muscles work differently, closer to my jaw, when I'm shouting!" All the while, he held his fingers to his throat, excited to learn it was this simple to know approximately how loud his voice was.

"You're a quick study, honey," she murmured to herself, pleased.

"But…" he paused, worried again, "Am I enunciating clearly? Or am I slurring words?"

Leaning against her desk, Judy picked up the palm pilot to answer. You have been talking for your whole life, so you know how. Properly forming words has become unconscious for you, so your mouth, lips and tongue just do what they need to do. You speak clearly, if quickly, so don't worry about word clarity. Just talk as you always have…over time, though, your diction may slip, so check in with people to see how you're doing. If they say you're starting to slur words, come back and see me and I'll help you with that. Okay?

"That's it?" he replied as he finished reading her message. "As easy as that?"

She nodded with a reassuring smile as she tapped out, Just try not to whisper - you have a beautiful voice, so don't be afraid to use it…let people enjoy it.

He blushed as he read her note, pleased. "Thanks, Mrs. Tessler. I needed to know that I can still speak," he said then, his fingers on his throat to monitor his modulation as he looked back up at her.

When are you going to begin speech reading and sign training? she tapped out.

"Next week," he replied orally. "I have my first appointment at the Institute for the Hearing Impaired on Tuesday."

She studied him, reflecting on the anxiety that again flooded his eyes, but also upon the determined set of his jaw and voice tone. He was scared, but he was game. Touching his shoulder, she pointed first at his eyes and then drew his gaze to her lips. "Watch the mouth when people talk to you," she said aloud as he concentrated on trying to understand.

Again turning to the palm pilot, she tapped in, Watch the movement of lips, the teeth and tongue and think about how your own mouth is working when you talk. Watch, as well, expressions and body language to pick up clues and it helps if you have some idea of what the conversation is about. You'll soon pick out basic words and phrases, but don't get discouraged when it takes a little while to do this without thinking consciously about it. Lip reading is not as easy as the term suggests, and as various TV shows would have us believe. Many sounds look alike, for example, //p, b, m// all look the same on the lips, as do //sh, ch, j// and //t, d, n, l//, which are also easily confused with //s and z//; //k and g// look the same and are almost completely invisible, 'hidden' in the throat, //h// is invisible, and //r// is almost so. So - lip reading is more 'speech reading' using the context of body language and subject matter - and it takes time to get comfortable and confident with it. Encourage people to keep talking to you, even when they write out what they are saying. Also, encourage people who are closest to you, family and friends, to learn sign. There are two different versions of sign that you'll learn about as you go along. It can be a lot of fun once you get the hang of it. Many people treat it like the 'secret codes' they played with as kids - that same kind of excitement - and pick up the basics very easily.

He read her note thoughtfully, hesitating for a moment, and she was pretty sure he was worried about needing to ask others to learn sign with him. The independent ones always thought it was some kind of burden they were imposing on other people to accommodate their special needs, which was why she pointed out that it wasn't all just hard work but could also be enjoyable to learn something new. He nodded finally, if a little reluctantly, and then looked back up at her.

"I really appreciate your help," he said then, his voice tight with emotion. "Thanks for fitting me in."

"No problem," she said, mouthing the words clearly, and then she tapped in one last message before giving the handset back to him along with one of her business cards, which had a TDD number imprinted upon it. "You are going to be fine, Blair," she verbalized as she wrote. "But there will be times when you will get very frustrated, and so might others who need to write out what they want you to 'hear'. The TDD number on my card is for a telephone device for the deaf…get yourself one of those as soon as you can and call me to let me know how you're doing."

"I will, thanks," he replied, reading the message and then taking the card from her as he stood, holding out his hand to shake hers. "I really mean, that - thanks. At least I'm not…not so scared to talk now."

His honest and open sincerity touched a cord deep inside and she felt a lump form unexpectedly in her throat. There was something so brave about him, in his eyes maybe, and yet so very vulnerable. Surprising herself as much as him, she ignored the hand he was holding out and moved to hug him quickly but tightly. Pulling away, she kept a hand on his shoulder and moved with him toward the door, giving him a warm smile to send him on his way.

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

Blair's ribs were still sore, his left arm was in a sling, and he felt utterly exhausted, but he was more than ready to get out of the hospital. He hadn't confided his fear of closing his eyes to Jim, but somehow, he just thought he'd feel safer and be able to rest better once he got home to the loft. Jim was taking it all badly enough without also being bothered by neurotic fears. Or at least that was the excuse Sandburg gave to himself for not being particularly forthcoming about how the silence weighed upon him, like something huge and physical and impossibly heavy.

So when Jim arrived early the next afternoon, just after lunch, Blair was dressed, his few belongings packed and he was more than ready to get into the mandatory wheelchair with nary a complaint. Ellison looked pleased to see him so happy to be going home. The bright smile almost looked normal, if one ignored the shadows of uncertainty in the huge sapphire eyes and the lines of exhaustion etched into a too pale face.

"Ready to go?" Jim asked, and then tried not to flinch at having unconsciously voiced the question, as if Blair could actually hear him.

But, his fingers on his throat as he slipped off the edge of the bed, Sandburg replied enthusiastically, "Man, I am like SO ready to go home!"

Jim was becoming used to what was fast becoming a compulsive gesture, and understood completely why Blair was monitoring his voice volume. But he would have liked the kid to just relax around him, to just talk and not worry if he was shouting or whispering or whatever. The important thing to Ellison was the sound of Sandburg's voice and he didn't want his best friend to be self-conscious around him. Still, he let it go, figuring that it was one important way in which Blair was taking back some measure of control and building confidence in his new reality of silence.

Neither man spoke until they had reached the entrance, and then Blair thanked the nurse before she turned to go. She smiled back but didn't say anything, knowing he couldn't hear anyway, but Jim noticed the shadow of a frown on Blair's face when she wordlessly turned away. Sandburg looked up, catching his expression of perplexity, and explained quietly, almost sadly, "People need to still talk around me, Jim. Just cause my world is silent, doesn't mean everyone else's has to be. And I have to learn how to lip read. I can't if no one talks to me…"

"Okay, buddy," Jim replied, wondering if Blair could understand him at all. Gesturing with his hands 'to wait', he continued, "Wait here and I'll go get the car."

Blair nodded and sank down on a bench near the entrance. But he was surprised when Jim drove up in his Volvo. It was the first time he realized that Jim's truck must have been damaged in the blast.

Once they were on their way home, Jim got the first taste of how hard this was going to be. In the hospital, they'd used the palm pilots, but when he was driving he couldn't tap out messages at the same time. Even if Blair was looking at him, he knew the kid couldn't lip read yet, so rambling on about stuff would just be frustrating for both of them; and when Blair was looking at something else, there was no way to get his attention except to touch him. So, Jim flipped on the radio and surreptitiously kept an eye on Sandburg as he drove home.

What he saw with his quick, sidelong glimpses made him ache inside. Sandburg was watching the world like a starving man stares at a banquet table, longing to dive right in but afraid to touch. His head was tilted, as if he was trying to hear the normal sounds of the street, unconsciously struggling against the impossibility of that ever happening again - and he looked sad, so very weary and sad. Swallowing hard, his jaw clenched, Ellison was unaware of the sorrow in the depths of his own eyes.

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

When they got home, Jim said, as he mimicked laying his head down on his palm-pressed hands, "Chief, you look wiped out. Why don't you lie down for a while?"

But Blair shook his head, understanding the gesture and what Jim was likely saying. "No, I'm fine, Jim," he replied quickly, his fingers at his throat. "Really. Let's put on the television, maybe have a beer?"

Jim frowned at the idea of a beer and pointed at Blair's ribs and arm as he asked, "What about pain meds? Can you drink?"

Knowing well his roommate's concern about mixing even beer with meds, catching the drift if not the words, Sandburg replied, "I've got some meds if the pain gets too bad, but I'm okay. A beer would be good."

Jim nodded as he turned toward the refrigerator to pull out two bottles while Sandburg eased himself down on the sofa. Twisting off the tops, Ellison studied his best friend, and shook his head. Blair didn't look like he'd slept since he'd awakened five days ago, and much as Sandburg tried to act as if everything was just fine, even normal, his heart was tripping along at too fast a rate to be healthy. Crossing the floor, Jim handed his partner one of the bottles, noticing the slight tremor in Blair's hand, and then picked up the remote to click onto the afternoon's basketball game.

Settling in his own chair, though he seemed to be engrossed in the game, Ellison was monitoring Sandburg closely. Gradually, the younger man relaxed as he found he didn't need sound to watch the plays and his heart settled down as he eased back against the cushions of the couch. After a while, Jim got up to shake a bag of chips into a bowl which he brought back to set on the coffee table, in easy reach for both of them. Blair was apparently engrossed in the game, but was almost eerily silent - very unlike the way he'd been… before. Sighing, Jim sat down and settled back, trying to allow his own tension to ease.

When the game finished with another disappointing loss for the Jags, Jim automatically changed the channel to catch the news. It was a minute before he noticed Blair's heart rate had hitched up again and he cut a quick look to see Sandburg hunched tightly, his eyes glued to the screen as he watched it with an intent expression of frustrated concentration.

"Damn," Jim sighed, a hollow feeling in his gut. Blair couldn't hear the newscaster, couldn't possibly understand what was being said, and sure couldn't hear the disembodied voices over the shots of the President speaking at some event, followed by a huge smash up as a result of fog in New York City, and the cut away to the most recent bombing in Jerusalem. Feeling sick, he snapped off the television and Blair jerked at the sudden loss of the picture, looking around quickly to ensure the lights were still on, and then he turned to Ellison, awareness growing in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Chief," Jim grated, unable to sustain eye contact as his gaze fell away. Damn it, he couldn't even apologize, couldn't explain why he'd just shut off the TV. Simple, every day communication, the give and take of their banter, just plain didn't work anymore. Jim couldn't remember when he'd felt so helpless, so lacking in any idea of what to do, well, except for those terrible minutes by the fountain at Rainer, but the detective flinched away from those memories.

He heard Sandburg sigh, and then his roommate said, "Jim, put it back on. Just cause I can't hear it, doesn't mean you can't watch it."

His jaw tight, Ellison clicked the television back on. Chewing on his lip, he decided that the next day, he was going to get a television that provided closed captioning. It wasn't much, but maybe it would help. Blair got up to fetch his pack by the door, and then went to his room. Jim bowed his head, his fists clenched as he fought the burning in his eyes. Losing it, getting all emotional, wouldn't do Sandburg any good.

Once the news was over, he shut off the television and went into the kitchen to pull the take-out advertising brochures from one of the cupboard drawers. Going to Blair's room, he knocked unconsciously on the open door, but Sandburg didn't look up from his computer screen. Moving into the room, Jim lightly touched Blair on the shoulder, sorry when his friend jerked in sudden surprise. Both of them were embarrassed then, but Sandburg recovered first.

"Sorry, man," he said, his fingers at his throat. "I was just, uh, startled. Did you want something?"

Trying to ignore the compulsive gesture as he held out the two food delivery menus, Jim asked, "Pizza or Chinese?"

"Pizza would be good," Blair said with a small smile, appreciating the gesture of being asked though he knew it was no big deal really, nothing more than they'd done dozens, maybe hundreds, of times before. But he could sense Jim's feeling of awkwardness about having had to come into his room to use the pamphlets as props to pose the question.

Jim nodded as he turned to leave the room, thinking they were going to have to find a way to communicate that was faster and simpler than having to write every damned thing down. His gut roiled as he reflected on how often in the past Blair had badgered him to talk, to express himself. Now that Sandburg couldn't hear a word he said, he found himself wishing he'd talked more to the kid when he'd had the chance. Fury flared inside, impotent anger, that there was nothing he could do to make this right, nothing but wish to God that if the damned bomb had had to harm one of them that it could have been him.

Blair watched Jim go, easily reading the lines of tension in his best friend's body, and then sagged back in his chair. It was so hard to adjust, hard for both of them.

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

After they'd eaten, they headed again to the living room and this time, Jim had the palm pilots in his hand as he plopped down on the sofa beside Blair instead of moving to his usual chair across the room. He handed one to Sandburg, and then tapped in, We need to figure out how I'm going to communicate with you and what you need.

"Okay," Blair replied as he read, his fingers again on his throat.

Jim winced at what was becoming an all too familiar gesture. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to gently remove Blair's hand from his throat. Sandburg looked confused by the gesture, and immediately protested as he pulled his hand away from Jim's grasp to again place his fingertips against his larynx as he said, "You don't understand. I have to do this. The speech therapist, Mrs. Tessler, showed me how I can monitor the volume of my voice this way."

Sighing, Jim shook his head. Turning back to the gadget in his hand, he wrote, I do understand. But, this is your home. I don't want you worrying about how loud or soft you're talking here. I want you to relax here. I can hear a whisper and a shout won't bother me. I just want to hear you talking, okay?

Blair read the message and then looked up to meet Jim's earnest gaze. A tremble swept through him and he had to swallow hard, his jaw tight as he fought the emotion that suddenly surged through him. Home. A place to relax. A place where he didn't have to fight the silence but could just be. A place that was safe. Blinking hard, he swiped at his nose as he sniffed and then murmured (he hoped), his hands resting on his thighs, "Thanks, Jim. I appreciate that."

Ellison graced him with a soft smile of gratitude and then spontaneously threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders to draw him into a quick, sideways, hug. Bereft of words, he resorted to dropping a light kiss on Sandburg's brow, and then released him, just as quickly as he'd grabbed him.

Though surprised by the spontaneous and unexpected gesture of affection, Blair was smiling through tear-glazed eyes as he sat back and lifted the palm pilot. "So, 'talk' to me, man," he said.

Nodding, Jim bowed his head to laboriously tap out a long message with the small pick. First thing tomorrow, we'll go to the dealership to pick up my truck, and then we need to buy some new equipment for the loft. I want to get a new TV with the closed caption option, and we should get a phone with the TDD option I've heard about. I need to fix the smoke alarm, too, so that it'll blink the lights when it goes off. What else do we need to buy? And, how do I learn to talk to you? Can I take the sign language training with you? Or do we buy a book or something and you teach me?

"Oh, whoa, man!" Blair muttered as he read. "I can't afford a new TV right now, cause I need to buy a bunch of palm pilots for my classes, and that'll max out my credit card. I need to get on the 'net and see if there're programs that help with the costs of all this stuff…"

Jim touched his arm to get his attention and he looked up to see Jim shaking his head as he pointed to Blair and then moved to point at the television and phone and then to himself.

"I can't let you lay out money just because I can't hear…" Blair began, but Jim's expression darkened, his jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed in barely suppressed anger. "What?" Sandburg blurted. "What's wrong?"

Spitting out a frustrated curse, Jim again punched out his message, irritated that this form of communication took so damned long and was so inefficient. You got hurt on the job, backing me up. I'll damned well help out any way I can so don't give me a hard time about it.

"Jim, this wasn't your fault," Blair replied.

Sure in hell wasn't YOUR fault, Chief, came the reply.

Sighing, Blair closed his eyes and then immediately opened them again, unable to take the darkness and the silence at the same time. "Okay," he finally replied, "but I'll pay you back for my half as soon as I can."

Jim looked away, wanting to fight about it but it was too hard to argue when he had to pick out his words electronically. Nodding tightly, he decided he just wouldn't accept Sandburg's money the day he tried to 'pay his half'. Turning back to Blair, he waggled his fingers in the air as he lifted his brow in a questioning look, reminding Sandburg of his questions about learning how to sign.

Blair smiled, his eyes twinkling, as he teased, "You're pretty good at this non-verbal communication stuff, Jim, but then, I guess I already knew that."

Ellison whacked him lightly on the head, and then waggled his fingers again with the same interrogatory look.

"I've got an appointment next week at the Institute for the Hearing Impaired," Blair replied. "I'll ask about lessons, okay? And, thanks, Jim, I appreciate you wanting to learn."

Jim rolled his eyes and then began tapping again. When's the appointment? I'm going with you. As soon as we both learn more about how to deal with this, the better.

"Jim, look, you don't have to rearrange your whole life to accommodate me. This isn't your problem…" Blair began to protest as he read, worried about how much of a burden it looked like he was going to be.

But his words were cut off by Jim's fingers on his lips - a light pressure, not harsh, but effective in stopping his words. Lifting his eyes to Jim's gaze, Blair was shocked to see the depth of pain in the sky blue eyes. Jim's lips were moving, but he couldn't begin to make out the words and he shook his head helplessly, not understanding. Jim's mouth stopped moving and an expression of poignant sorrow flashed across Ellison's face as he took a deep breath and bit his lip. Swallowing, he turned to again begin tapping out a message, a long one, as Blair waited.

Finally, he hit the send button, and waited while Blair read the message, watching the younger man intently as he gripped Sandburg's shoulder. A slow tear trickled down Blair's pale cheek, almost hidden by the curls that had fallen forward when he bent his head to read. When Blair's gaze left the gadget in his hand to stare into space as he swallowed convulsively, Jim shifted to face him and reached to tilt up his chin and gently turn his face so that he could see it fully. Unconsciously, Jim's thumb moved to wipe away the errant tear and when Sandburg's eyes lifted to his own, he whispered, "Please?"

Sandburg nodded as he replied, "Thanks, Jim." He hesitated a moment, his gaze dropping away, and then continued softly, "I'm sorry, but I'm scared, man. Really scared. I'm afraid to even close my eyes because then it's dark as well as silent and I feel like I'm absolutely helpless…as if someone could approach and I'd never even know it. I can't explain it. It's just all so empty, the world feels empty, but at the same time so full of stuff I'm completely unaware of and the silence just goes on and on - It surrounds me and I feel so lost, so alone…"

Once again Jim touched Blair's face to lift his chin, fingers solid against his friend's cold cheek. When the troubled eyes, dark with emotion, lifted to his, Ellison held Blair's gaze, trying to convey what he felt - that Blair wouldn't ever be alone so long as he was there. He shifted his grip, so that he was holding Sandburg's shoulders firmly and then he gradually drew Blair toward him into a hug, moving one hand to hold Blair's head against his shoulder while his other hand stroked Sandburg's back. At first, Sandburg stiffened against him, but he wouldn't let the kid go, so finally Blair relaxed, his eyes closing as he wrapped his arms around Jim and held on. Safe. Silent tremors shook his body while Jim held on, rocking him a little until he quieted. And still Jim wouldn't let go, so Blair rested against him, relaxed his need to be ever-vigilant and, in his exhaustion, finally slipped off into sleep.

Jim leaned back against the support of the sofa, and shifted his grip a little to hold Blair more comfortably in his arms. Bowing his head to lay his cheek on Blair's tousled hair, he closed his own eyes and listened to his Guide's soft breathing and steady heartbeat, unaware of the tears on his own face.

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

The next morning, Ellison called Simon to confirm his day of leave still wasn't a problem, and then after they'd eaten, they set off by cab to the Ford dealership. Sandburg had thought that maybe Jim's truck had been in the repair shop at the back for some bodywork, so he was surprised when they pulled up in front. But, maybe the truck was going to be brought around to them. He followed along as Jim waved to a salesman and the three of them headed to the middle-aged guy's office. Jim signed some papers and the balding man handed him a set of keys. Frowning, Sandburg thought that they looked different from the keys Jim usually carried for his old blue and white pickup.

Heading back outside, the salesman led them to a brand spanking new, midnight blue, Ford Expedition. Blair's mouth dropped open in surprise as he looked from the vehicle to Jim. "What happened to Sweetheart?" he asked, his voice unconsciously loud.

Jim turned to face him, a wry look on his face. The older man threw up his hands as he mouthed, "Boom!" and then shrugged.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Sandburg replied, looking devastated. "You loved that old truck!"

An odd expression flitted across Jim's face, astonishment mingled with sorrow, as he reached to give Sandburg a quick, one-armed hug and ruffled his hair. "It was just a truck, Chief; nothing really important," he murmured, wishing Blair could hear him. Not important at all in the scheme of things. A truck could be easily replaced, not like a friend who might so easily have been killed - or the friend's hearing that had also been destroyed by that damned bomb.

Blair didn't hear the words, but he felt the message. He nodded as they separated, and he then noticed the salesman looking at them strangely. Jim must have noticed something too, because the two older men exchanged some words and then the stranger looked at Sandburg with a pained expression of pity in his eyes. Feeling a stab of resentful irritation, Blair turned away with a shrug. He didn't want anyone's pity, dammit. Didn't want anyone, let alone perfect strangers, feeling sorry for him.

Jim shook the man's hand and then the two of them climbed into the new vehicle. Blair whistled at the leather seats and console that looked like something from a science fiction fantasy. "Very nice," he said with a grin as he rubbed a hand along the dash. "Try not to crash this one anytime soon, okay?"

Chuckling, Ellison reached out to give him a light smack, but with the skill of long practice, Blair ducked away, laughing. Shaking his head, Jim started up his new truck and steered in out of the busy lot and onto the street, heading to their next stop - the electronics store.

Half an hour later, while Jim selected the new television, Blair got an armload of palm pilots. They met at the cash register, but when Blair reached for his wallet, Jim lightly grabbed his arm, shaking his head when wide eyes looked up into his. Ellison handed over his own credit card, chewing on the inside of his lip while he refused to acknowledge Sandburg's embarrassment.

"Jim, I could have paid for those," Blair said as they drove around to the loading dock for the boxed up television.

Ellison, his hands full of steering wheel and no palm pilot handy, just shrugged.

Their next stop was the Washington Telephone and Telecom shop to pick up a TDD unit. After they'd been shown how to use it, and realized it only worked directly when Blair could connect with another unit, Jim picked up two more, one for his desk at MCU and another for Blair's office. The clerk dutifully explained that sets on either end of the call weren't required. An operator would process the verbal communication into written language and send that to the TDD handset as well as reinterpret written responses orally back to the caller - but Jim wanted better security than that. Too much of what they might have to say to one another really couldn't be trusted to a third party, however impartial, objective or discreet. Maybe either the PD or Rainier or both would reimburse the costs for an instrument that was now necessary as 'reasonable accommodation' for a disabled staff member, but Jim didn't really care. The important thing was to be able to communicate with Blair. When the saleswoman pointed out cell phone options that included the capacity to receive or send printed messages, Jim picked up a couple of them, too, for both of them.

"Man, you'd think it was Christmas or something," Sandburg muttered as they climbed back into the SUV.

Christmas? Jim thought, feeling suddenly so sad that it filled up every crevice inside. Getting your hearing back would be 'Christmas', Chief. But I guess we don't get miracles like that anymore.

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

Blair cut Jim a look as his partner steered them back toward the loft. Thinking back over all the stuff Jim had bought, Sandburg felt almost overwhelmed with turbulent emotions. He didn't want to be dependent, especially now when he felt so vulnerable. But the look on Jim's face when he'd tried to pay, and the firm strong grip on his arm, had made it pretty plain that his friend hadn't wanted to argue about it, not in the stores anyway. But over the vague irritation, another emotion swelled. Gratitude. So much gratitude that Jim wanted to do this, do anything and everything he could to help. As if he were family, someone whose needs were something personal to Jim, too. Family. They were close, sure, but Sandburg would never have dreamed that Jim would act like this, like it was a simple imperative that he do whatever was necessary to make Blair's burden easier to bear. But, close behind the gratitude, anxiety pressed in. Was it really that Jim felt they were like family? Or, was it that Jim felt guilty for what had happened and was doing all this because he felt he owed Blair somehow?

Family, helping out of love, was good. But actions motivated by guilt were bad, very bad - and led to other bad things like resentment. Sandburg sighed. Damn, he wished they could talk to one another. There was a hollowness in his belly as he remembered Jim's frustration at how difficult it was to 'talk' now and he ached to be able to hear Ellison's voice. A wry, bitter smile flitted around his lips as Sandburg thought about all the times he'd tried to get Jim to open up, to just talk to him and Jim had pushed him away. It was ironic, now that Jim almost desperately wanted to talk, Blair couldn't hear him anymore.

Rain suddenly pelted the truck, runnels of water shimmying on the side windows while the wipers flipped back and forth monotonously. Sandburg stared at them, almost mesmerized by the mechanical clearing of the windshield, thinking how odd it was to not hear the swish and slap, the slight squeak of rubber on glass. Who knew he'd miss the sound of windshield wipers? Crossing his arms to hold in his grief, swallowing hard at the sudden lump in his throat, Blair turned his head to stare out at the dull, rain-swept street. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it - ever stop being ambushed by odd moments like this when it hurt so much all over again to know he'd never hear another sound for the rest of his life.

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

Insistent banging on the door woke Jim early Sunday morning. Groggily, he looked at his watch and saw it was only 7:45 am, but even so he was chagrined that he'd not heard anyone approach. He'd just been too deeply asleep and it hadn't helped that he'd not dropped off until almost 4:00 am. He just hadn't been able to stop thinking about the profound sadness on Sandburg's face, and in his best friend's eyes, since they'd been given the news about Blair's permanent loss of hearing. Hadn't been able to quell the guilt that threatened to choke him. Sighing, he got up and pulled on his robe, calling out, "I'm coming!"

But as he shuffled down the stairs, his olphactory sense kicked in and he froze. Sage and thyme? Oh, God, it was Naomi. Calling again to buy time, "Just give me a minute," he scrambled to write a note and dashed to Blair's room to wake his roommate. When Sandburg startled into wakefulness, Jim thrust the note in his hand and turned back to the front door.

"Good morning, Jim!" Naomi chirped brightly with a brilliant smile as he stepped back to allow her entry. She had a single carryon bag over her shoulder, and she looked a little rumpled.

"Hello, Naomi," he returned wearily, his throat dry at what he had to tell her before Blair stumbled out of his room. He would have much preferred to have more time to break the news to her gently, and he sure wished there'd been time for a cup of coffee to bolster his energy and concentration.

"I've only got a half hour, at most," she burbled on. "I'm just passing through, coming back from Tibet and on my way to a retreat in Oregon, but I thought I'd route through here and surprise my baby." Looking around, she asked with wide eyes, "Where is Blair?"

Forbearing the urge to point out it wasn't even 8:00 am yet on the one day in seven set aside for rest, Jim relieved Naomi of her bag and set it on the floor. "Still in bed. He'll be out in a minute. Naomi," he continued, licking his lips as he sought in vain for the words to soften the blow, "I have some bad news. Blair's been hurt, in an explosion."

She blanched and whipped around, evidently intent upon dashing into his room, but Jim caught her arm. "Wait, you need to know," Jim told her quickly, "he's deaf, Naomi. Completely deaf."

Horror filled her green eyes as she stared up at him, her mouth agape. Finally, stuttering a little, she gasped, "But-only temporarily, right? He'll be fine…"

But Jim shook his head, pain filling his own eyes. "No, I'm sorry. It's permanent," he told her bleakly.

For a moment, she just stood there in stunned silence. And then she shook her head, as if trying to clear it before looking back at him, accusation now written in her eyes. "It's your fault, isn't it? He was working on something with you and you failed to protect him!"

"I'm sorry," Jim murmured again miserably. He couldn't argue - he did believe it was his fault.

But the words had scarcely left his lips when she slapped him hard across the face, and then was shrieking at him. "Sorry? You're sorry? Oh, that's just GREAT! You're 'sorry'. One sorry son of a bitch is what I say. Damn you! I told you, years ago, I told you he'd get hurt if you didn't stop dragging him along behind you! But did you listen? No, oh, no. Not the great Jim Ellison! Not the cop of the year, year after year after year. You just have to go after the really dangerous ones…oh, who cares what you do? But you took my baby…"

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

Blair blearily looked down at the note, his heart sinking as heavily as the Titanic as he made it out. Naomi is here.

"Oh, God," he muttered as he rolled off his bed to haul on jeans and a sweatshirt, fumbling a little as he cursed the cast for making him awkward and slow. He hastened out of his room in time to see Naomi smack Jim hard, staggering the tall man. Shocked by the scene, unable to hear, all he could tell was that his mother seemed to be yelling at Jim, waving her arms and pushing at his chest with a rigid finger, while Jim just stood there, looking utterly destroyed.

Racing to the entryway, Blair grabbed Naomi's arm and twisted her away from his best friend. "What's going on here?" he demanded, his eyes dark with confusion and anger.

She stopped yelling and cupped his face tenderly with her hands as her eyes filled with tears. Her lips moved, though he couldn't know what she was saying. And then she was clinging to him and weeping as if her heart was broken.

Blair held her in a tight hug as his stricken gaze lifted to Jim's. Ellison shook his head sadly, his face pale and his eyes haunted. And then he slowly made his way to the counter to pick up a palm pilot. Laboriously, he tapped in the words, I told her. Not the details, just that you're deaf now. She's only here for a half hour. Between planes from Tibet to Oregon.

Returning to Blair, he held up the gadget so that Blair could read it and then he turned away to put on some coffee.

Blair murmured, "Shh, Mom, hey, it's not the end of the world. Shh, please don't cry."

Sniffing, she pulled back from him and brushed the tears from her face. Casting Jim an evil look, she snapped, "You've finally done it. I hope you're satisfied. You've hurt him so badly he can't be healed this time."

Blair didn't understand the words, but the furious expression on his mother's face and the look she was directing toward Jim told him enough. "Mom, stop. This wasn't Jim's fault!" he exclaimed. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad luck. Blaming him is wrong."

She turned back to Blair, again laying a hand gently on his cheek, her lips compressed in a thin, angry line. Shaking her head with frustration, she sighed, "I love you so much. I can't stand to see you like this. I'd give anything if you hadn't met this cop, or if you'd just finish your dissertation so you could be somewhere else, teaching, and safe. Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry this happened to you."

Blair looked confused at the stream of words and lifted his head to glance at Jim, wordlessly asking for help.

"He can't hear you, Naomi," Ellison said quietly. "You have to write your words down for him."

"I don't need you to tell me how to communicate with my son," she ground out, cutting him an ugly look but she broke away from Blair's embrace to snatch the palm pilot from Jim's hand.

Blair sighed as he followed her toward the kitchen and reached out to squeeze her arm. "Mom, look," he said, his voice deliberately as calm as he could make it, "I can see you're angry with Jim. But don't be. He's doing everything he can to help me. And I'm grateful to him…"

"Grateful?" she spat out as she tapped furiously, and then handed the gadget to him.

Blair's jaw clenched for a moment as he read - finding the idea that he 'had to be taken care of,' as if he were a helpless child, objectionable in the extreme. But he knew his mother was only trying to help, in her way, so he looked up at her with compassionate eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't go with you. My job is here. This is my home now. Jim's going to learn sign language and, well, I'm fine here. Really. Hey, why don't you stay for a while? You can go to Oregon later."

"Home? Here? With him?" she grated, shaking her head. But when she caught her son again looking over at the man she despised for help in understanding her, something snapped inside. How could Blair still look at that man with such trust and concern? How could he not want to come with her immediately, be with her, let her care for him? How had that damned cop managed to alienate her so far from her only, much beloved, child? Suddenly, she felt lost and empty, betrayed somehow. None of this made any sense. It was all so wrong.

Pulling away from Blair, she shook her head as she stared at her son, but her words were for Jim. "Congratulations, Detective. It seems my son looks to you for help rather than me now, despite what you've done to him." Blowing out a breath of defeat, she swallowed, her voice breaking as she turned to pick up her bag, and said hoarsely, "The cab's waiting downstairs. Tell Blair I'll send him an email as soon as I find an Internet café in Oregon, but it might be some time as the retreat is in a remote location. Tell him…tell him I'm sorry but I can't stay. I can't…"

And then she was gone.

Blair stood as if bereft, his hands lifted toward her even as she turned away and the door slammed behind her. Jim bowed his head, squinting and blinking against the burning in his eyes, struggling to breathe slowly. He wanted to rage at Naomi for breezing in, upsetting Blair and breezing right on out again, but he couldn't. He felt too responsible, and too helpless to do anything to make anything better, to blame her for her very natural anger. But when he looked up and saw Sandburg just standing there, looking devastated with tears glimmering in his eyes, Jim moved around the counter and took his friend in his arms. Blair had to know that his mother might have just walked out in anger, but his friend was still right there, and would always be there, for him.

Blair stood stiffly in Jim's arms, trying to come to grips with the fact that his mother had just walked out on him, angry and hurt that he'd chosen to face his life rather than run away from it with her. He knew he'd made the right decision - but that didn't stop the pain of knowing she couldn't bear to stay and deal with him as he was now.

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

There was another very bad moment later that evening, when Jim finally got up the nerve to break the news to Sandburg that he wouldn't be allowed to drive until he was retested, had the Volvo's mirrors checked to the code for hearing disabled drivers, and updated his insurance coverage. Jim added the fact that Blair had a broken arm meant that he really shouldn't be driving anyway until the cast came off - certainly, he should wait to be tested until he was healthy. Once he received his new license, he'd also receive a state card to be handed to police if he was stopped, indicating he required questioning, assistance and the reading of his rights in a manner that he could understand.

"What?" Blair had exclaimed, his eyes flashing with astonished denial when he finished reading the note. "I'm deaf, not blind! Why can't I drive without being retested?"

Aching inside, Jim punched in the message on the palm pilot that had virtually taken up residence in his hand. You won't be able to hear sirens or horns or alarms like at railroad crossings…that makes you a risk on the road and your safety awareness of that has to be verified. Sorry, Chief - it's the law. And your insurance rates are likely to go up, at least for the first year or two. Look, I'll drop you off at Rainier in the morning and pick you up later, no sweat.

Blair stared at the message in his hand, feeling as if the world was closing in on him. He couldn't drive? Until his cast came off and he could be retested? That meant he couldn't do the grocery shopping when Jim was too busy on a case, couldn't just head out on an open road when he felt a need for space, would be limited to going where buses and his feet could take him, unless he wanted to spring for expensive taxi rides, for weeks. The fact that it was the cast on his arm that was more the problem than his lack of hearing didn't really register. He didn't have to be retested because of the damned cast. And his insurance rates were likely to go up? Damn - he could barely afford the coverage he had now.

Anger flared and surged up, swamping him as he bounded off the sofa and threw the innocent palm pilot hard against the brick wall, smashing it, as he quivered with helpless fury. Wasn't it enough that his hearing had been taken from him? God DAMN it! Now he couldn't drive, at least for a while. And it was another monetary cost he couldn't really afford. What else was going to blindside him next? Furious, he stood shaking as he stared sightlessly at the wall, his heart hammering and his jaw gritted against the urge to scream in rage at what had happened to his life. But screaming held no release when he couldn't hear it. Panting for breath, trying to regain his increasingly fragile grip on his emotions, he clenched his fists and shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Dimly, he knew he was over-reacting, but he'd been fighting off the anger for so long that his rage hadn't needed more than a slight spark to be ignited.

Jim rose to go to him, not sure what to do. He could understand the rage, and had wondered when it would surface, because Blair had to be angry at everything that was happening, but this was disproportional to what amounted to a minor inconvenience. He'd never seen Sandburg like this, standing so silent, shaking with fury and underlying fear, like a cornered animal.

Jim reached out to grip his roommate's arm, but Blair shook him off, not wanting comfort, unable to receive it. There was no comfort, no solace…just this stinking, horrible reality of a life made silent and curtailed every which way he turned by that silence. Gradually, Sandburg got his temper under control as he hauled in deep, cleansing breaths. Finally, he headed toward his room, calling over his shoulder, "Don't worry, I'll take the damned bus!" before he slammed the door.

Jim heard Blair pound his fist against the wall of his room, the muffled, "Oww, damn it, that was stupid," and then the creak of the futon as Sandburg threw himself down upon it. Sighing, Ellison cleaned up the bits of broken palm pilot and tossed them in the trash. Wearily, he ran his hand over his head and kneaded the base of his neck as he reflected on how Sandburg had taken it all so far. There'd been denial in the hospital, when he'd refused to even consider that his hearing loss would be permanent until the specialist had killed all their hopes. Grimacing, Jim admitted to himself that Blair hadn't been the only one in denial. And there'd been fear and sorrow, great sorrow, that Blair had tried to hold inside but had finally shared the other night. He'd been withdrawn since his mother had left that morning, unwilling to accept solace. But there'd been no anger, not until now, and that had been unnatural. How could he not be angry? How the hell did he seem to just accept it without blaming Jim or the Fates or without even mentioning Rossner's name? So, the anger was good - it had to come out, be dealt with. Shaking his head, Jim figured the counselors at the Institute would be able to help Blair work it all through. But, how could the kid ever accept it - ever learn to live with the silence as if it were normal?

Grinding his teeth, Jim wondered when and how he'd be able to let his own anger go…or if he'd ever be able to accept what had happened to Blair without feeling sick all the time.

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

Standing in front of his first class of the day, Sandburg hoped that he didn't look as desperately nervous as he felt. Once everyone was seated and was looking expectantly at him, some frowning as they took in the fading bruises and burn on his face as well as the cast on his arm, he licked his lips as his fingertips lifted to his throat. "I was hurt a week ago, and as a result, I've lost the ability to hear. To put it bluntly, I'm completely and permanently deaf. So…I've brought these palm pilots," he explained with a gesture to the gadgets on the table beside the lectern. "I'll pass them around the room, and if you have a question or comment, ask for the nearest one, type it in and hit send. The 'to' addy for my set is written on the board behind me. Just wave your hand in the air to signal me that you've sent a question or comment."

They stared at him, eyes wide with shock and from the open mouths, he suspected a few had commented in shock. Swallowing, he began to hand out the handsets, and then returned to center front. "Okay, today we're going to talk about the importance of ritual in the expression of spiritual beliefs…"

As he carried on, he became less self-conscious as he got caught up in the subject. It was hard to remember to keep one hand on his throat when he was so used to waving his arms in gestures to emphasize his points or just to clown around, but he managed, glad that he'd thought to ditch the sling. He still roamed the classroom, his palm pilot in his hand, as he posed questions and encouraged discussion, though that was really hard to follow - but some exceptionally alert and empathetic students helped by tapping in notes to let him know what others who were caught up in the debate were saying. When hands waved at him, he checked his palm set, and answered the question or reflected on the comment offered. It wasn't ideal and sure didn't lend itself to spontaneous free-ranging discussion with several people in the class at once, but it wasn't as bad as he'd feared it might be. The kids were taking it all like troupers, adapting to meet his need more readily than he'd thought they might and helping him when they could. Finally, the exhausting hour was over, and he told them, "Okay, read chapter six before our next class. My office hours are the same as usual."

They dropped off the palm pilots on the way out…or at least, most of them did. With a stab of bitterness, he noticed he was one gadget short and wondered who'd decided to take it home. Grimly, as he gathered up his notes and stuffed them along with the remaining supply of palm pilots into his backpack, he guessed that was something else he'd have to get used to. There were some people in the world that didn't hesitate to take advantage of the disabled…some people who could live with the shame of that. Wryly, he figured it might even be a compliment of sorts - maybe the petty thief hadn't even thought about his disability, maybe they'd just stolen from him like they'd steal from anyone, given the chance. Shouldering his pack, he told himself it didn't matter. The main thing was he could still teach - he'd just proven that. So his life at the university could continue.

And that realization gave him a surge of much needed confidence that brought a relieved smile to his face.

Now, he thought, the smile fading, if I can just figure out what to do about my life as the backup to an over-achieving police detective and Guide to a Sentinel, things will be great, or at least as great as they'll ever be again.

When he finally got home later that day, he whipped up a stir-fry and sipped on a beer while he waited for Jim to come home. They hadn't talked about what Blair's injury meant to their partnership. Sighing, Sandburg wished with all his heart that he could think of a way to make it work. But how could he give Jim the backup his partner needed if he couldn't hear Jim's commands, or questions, or even his answers when Blair tried to figure out whatever problem might arise with his senses? Tapping out messages on a palm pilot wouldn't work in a dark alley in the middle of some bust.

He was still pondering the problem, pretty much knowing it was hopeless but unable to face the finality of that assessment, when Jim came in. The detective looked tired and irritated, his face lined with frustration, as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door. Blair had risen to get a beer for him and as he handed it to Jim and then also passed him a palm pilot, he asked, "What's wrong? You look like you'd like to punch someone out."

Jim's jaw muscle flexed but he took a sip of beer and then tapped in, Rossner ditched his tail and disappeared over the weekend. Nothing we're trying is turning up a sniff of him, dammit.

Blair winced as he read the message. He knew how badly Jim wanted Rossner, especially now that it had become personal for the detective. The younger man nodded and then pushed his fingers through his hair. "He'll turn up eventually," he replied dispiritedly. Catching the criminal might make Jim feel better, but it wouldn't bring his hearing back. And thinking about Rossner just flamed the rage that Blair was trying so hard to keep locked down. He hated the man, hated him with a cold fury, for what Rossner had done to him. But anger and hate wouldn't get him anywhere so he shut it away as he changed the subject. "Look, dinner will be ready in about ten minutes. Why don't you have a shower and relax a little."

Wearily, Jim nodded as he headed past Blair to the bathroom, lightly squeezing his partner's shoulder on the way. "I'm going to get him, Chief," he growled aloud. "I promise you that," he vowed, needing to hear the words even if Sandburg couldn't.

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

The next day, Jim drove Blair to the appointment at the Institute for the Hearing Impaired. The first thing Ellison noticed, when they walked into the simple, plainly furnished lobby, was the almost eerie pockets of wordless noise in the large, open reception area. Sure, the people behind the reception counter spoke to each other as needed, and answered the telephone, but they were just as apt to speak silently with their fingers. And in the waiting area, sitting around in old plastic chairs or standing in small groups, some folks were chatting away with their hands, adults as well as children, but some of the kids were a lot noisier than Jim was used to in other reception areas, like the hospital, or his doctor or dentist's offices. Jim wondered if the kids even realized that they were making noise as they kicked with bored monotony at the legs of tables and chairs. And then, thinking about how Sandburg couldn't recognize the volume of his voice, the detective wondered if some of the kids were shouting to take advantage of whatever limited hearing they had, or if they just didn't know how very loud they were.

Uncomfortably, as they waited their turn at the reception counter, he noticed that many of the deaf, when signing with their fingers, were making unconscious sounds, grunting and tongue clicking, and he wondered if they were aware that their voices were engaged, even if no words were formed. It appeared that they used their whole bodies in expressing themselves as they grimaced or made broad gestures in an exaggerated pantomime of emotion and ideas. It was a little unnerving to watch and to hear.

Frowning thoughtfully, he didn't know what he'd expected. Complete silence, maybe? But he found that a room full of deaf people was not nearly as quiet as he would have supposed. Finally, they reached the counter and a young woman with short, very straight, black hair looked up, smiling as she signed and spoke at the same time, "Hello. Can I help you?"

"Uh, hello," Blair replied to what he presumed were her words, fingers at his throat, wondering if she could hear or if she was reading lips. "I'm Blair Sandburg and I have an appointment. This is my friend, Jim Ellison."

Nodding amiably in recognition of his name, she waved toward the elevator and handed him a card with the name and location of the counselor he was scheduled to see as she said aloud. "You're scheduled with Kerry Castleman, up in Room 302. Mr. Ellison, perhaps you'd like to take a seat and wait here."

Jim stiffened at the suggestion but Blair hastened to interject when he saw her waving Jim back toward the chairs in the waiting area, "No, ah, I'd like Jim to come with me. We're roommates and so we both need to learn as much we can…"

Smiling in understanding, warmly this time as she approved of Jim's interest in being part of Blair's adjustment, she simply nodded and waved them both to the elevator.

Upstairs, they found Room 302 across from the elevator, the door standing open. Blair knocked reflexively, but the thirtyish man at the desk didn't look up, and Sandburg realized he probably couldn't hear. Uncertain of what to do, he paused in the doorway, but Jim gave him an encouraging push, so he walked in until they were both standing in front of the desk. The dark haired man looked up, starting a bit in surprise and then smiled as he stood, holding out his hand. "Mr. Sandburg? I'm sorry; I didn't hear you come in. I'm Kerry Castleman."

Though Blair didn't hear the words, he caught the gist of it, and as he shook Kerry's hand, he said, "Please, call me Blair," Kerry nodded and then cast a curious look at Jim. Sandburg made the introductions, explaining that Jim wanted to sit in on their meeting because he, too, was interested in learning sign language.

"That's fine," Kerry nodded with a smile as he waved them to the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Once they'd settled, he passed Blair a note he'd just finished, and Sandburg read, with Jim reading it from his chair. I see from your referral that you were injured in an explosion. Sudden hearing loss is a difficult adjustment, and you likely find communicating with others frustrating.

Jim nodded as he replied, taking care to enunciate his words carefully, "Yes, you could say that. I'd really like to learn sign as fast as possible…"

Blair, not hearing Jim replying, talked at the same time, "It is hard. We've been using palm pilots…"

Kerry seemed to take the dual responses in stride, his eyes darting from one to the other. He didn't miss the pain in Ellison's eyes when he glanced at Blair, knowing his partner hadn't heard him talking, and he was a bit surprised that the older man had been able to read the note from where he was sitting. "Alright, we'll go over the class schedules and get you set up with times that work for you both," he said aloud for Jim as he wrote another note for Blair. "It'll take a few weeks before you feel any degree of comfort with sign, but I assure you, it will help. Blair, I also want to set you up with speech reading sessions as soon as possible. Once you can interact with people around you, you'll feel better. The fact that you can speak makes it so much easier." He passed the note to Blair, who had been watching him speak to Jim and feeling oddly resentful. They were talking about him and it bugged him that he couldn't hear what was being said. But he relaxed when he saw the note and realized Kerry was just letting Jim know what it said.

"Are you, uh, reading our lips or can you hear us?" Blair asked, feeling awkward.

"A little of both," Kerry replied as he wrote out his words. "I can hear some things in the lower sound register, so I can make out some of your words." While Blair read that, the counselor pulled out some brochures and handed them over, clearly the schedule for sign and speech reading sessions. Sandburg and Ellison both examined the schedule. There were early morning sessions that wouldn't conflict with his classes at Rainer, so Blair pointed to them. When Jim nodded, Blair confirmed the times verbally with Kerry and that they'd start with the session scheduled for beginners on the following Monday; and then he chose a time immediately after the sign sessions for training in speech reading. Figuring that was it, Blair made to stand, but Kerry waved him back to his seat. Puzzled, Sandburg asked, "Was there something else?"

Nodding, Castleman said as he wrote, "Oh, yes, quite a bit more. I have information on the next sheets I'll give you about adjustment counseling that's recommended, and some basic suggestions for handling people who don't know you can't hear. You also need to talk about what's happened to you with someone who can help you come to terms with the changes in your life. What do you do for a living?"

The counselor handed Blair the note, and followed up with a folder full of documents.

Replying to the note, Blair explained, "I'm a teaching fellow in Anthropology at Rainier. The University has a reasonable accommodation policy, so there shouldn't be any problem about my job. I can still teach and counsel students."

"That's good," Kerry said as he scribbled another note, and then picked up a book to pass along with it. "Here's a basic guide to sign language, so you both can familiarize yourselves with the two different 'languages' between now and Monday. You'll need to tell the therapist which version you want to begin with."

While Sandburg was reading the note and flipping through the book, Jim said, "Blair also works with me. I'm a police detective and he's studying the closed society of law enforcement for his PhD dissertation. He really needs to be able to keep riding with me."

"When you go out after criminals?" Kerry asked, evidently surprised by this latest information. "I don't know if that's a good idea. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never…the dangers…"

Blair had looked up and realized they were talking again. "What?" he asked, looking from one to the other, worried about the frown on both their faces.

Jim pulled his palm pilot from his pocket and tapped in, Blair leaning closer to read it as he wrote, I just told him about you backing me up for your closed society diss. He doesn't think it's a good idea for you to ride with me.

"He's right," Blair said, his face bleak. This wasn't how he'd imagined having this 'conversation'.

Jim gave him a narrow look, and then tapped in, I need your help, Chief. This doesn't change that.

"Let's talk about this when we get home, okay?" Blair replied, casting a look at Kerry who was watching them closely. "Jim and I are roommates as well as friends and partners," he explained.

The counselor looked from one to the other. Finally, he started writing again as he said, "I'd suggest putting the dissertation activity on hold at least until you can work out your communication barriers. When do you want to see a therapist about adjustment issues?"

Blair read the note and sighed. He didn't have to look at Jim to feel the tension emanating from the man sitting beside him. "Um, I think I'd rather wait to see someone after we can communicate more easily, either until I can read sign, if the therapist uses that, or I can lip read."

It was pretty clear that Kerry didn't think that was a good idea, but the set of Blair's jaw and the repressive look in his eyes indicated that protesting the decision would be a waste of time. Nodding reluctantly, he wrote, All right, it's your decision. Call when you're ready. In the meantime, here's a list of social services that are available to you. And you might want to join the group of hearing impaired students at the university-they get together to exchange information, socialize, stuff like that.

Blair took the note and another folder of information. Once he'd read it, he nodded, castigating himself for not having remembered that Rainier had a club of sorts made up of the hearing impaired students on campus. Passing the note to his curious partner, Blair stood as he said, "Thank you for your time today and all this information. I really appreciate it."

Castleman nodded as he stood to shake hands with both of them before they left.

On the way home, Blair leafed through the book on the two sign languages, and frowned thoughtfully as he reflected aloud, "This sign stuff is a lot more complicated than we thought, Jim. The version preferred by the deaf themselves has it's own grammar and structure that are different from the version of sign learned by people who can hear. It's not just a matter of learning how to finger spell words."

He glanced up to gauge Jim's reactions to that bit of news. His partner just shrugged and Blair understood. However hard or difficult, it was something they had to learn as quickly as they could, or Blair didn't have any hope in hell of playing an active role as Jim's Guide.

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