'If You Go Down to the Woods Today…'

"If you go down to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise," Simon crooned with great good humour.

"Uh, please, stop," Blair requested quietly, once Jim had finally released him from the headlock, and he lifted his hand in an unconsciously vulnerable gesture to quell the singing and merriment. Nervously raking back his hair, he looked at all of his very dear friends and beloved mother, and regretted the confused expressions that replaced the smiles and laughter. But it couldn't be helped. His gaze dropped momentarily as he struggled to order his thoughts and emotions and, when he lifted his eyes, he smiled sadly. Waving toward the badge in Simon's hand, he said unsteadily, "I never would have expected this truly generous offer, not after all that's happened. You've, uh, really blown me away with your friendship and, well, your trust in me."

Licking his lips, he reached out to grip Jim's arm loosely as he gestured at the rest of them. "You've become family to me; Jim's the big brother I never had. And I love all of you; I always will. But…but I can't accept this."

"What?" Ellison gasped.

"Why not?" Henri called out.

"Oh, Sandy," Megan sighed.

Simon's lips thinned as sorrow filled his eyes. Joel bowed his head, while Rafe crossed his arms. Naomi looked like she might be on the verge of tears.

"Don't get me wrong," Sandburg replied hastily to their various exclamations. "I would love to keep working with all of you. What you do is so tremendously important. But I don't have the courage to be a cop, to make the kinds of decisions that you have to make every day. And I think we all know that my continued presence here would only be a really huge hassle for everyone. I don't…don't have the personal credibility to be a law enforcement officer."

"Blair, Jim has told us everything," Joel said into the heavy, uncomfortable silence. "We all know the truth now; most of us had guessed a lot of it long ago. You're no fraud, far from it."

"Damn straight," Brown growled. "Hell of a brave man, more like."

Sandburg swallowed at that and bowed his head, blinking hard. "Thanks, Jim," he murmured huskily with a quick look up at the man who had become the best friend he'd ever known. "I appreciate that." Clearing his throat, he said more strongly, "It's good that you all know. Jim has wonderful gifts, but they can also be a terrible burden. He's learned a lot and has great control now, but sometimes it's still hard for him, so I'm really, really glad to know that you'll all be able to support him, if and when he needs you."

"Sandburg," Banks intervened, his voice low and slow, "what are you planning to do now?"

Heaving a sigh, Blair summoned up a wan smile. "Well, I've got my Masters and that's worth a lot. There're lots of jobs I'm qualified to do, I just haven't quite settled on one particular direction yet. It's all been happening so fast, you know? But I'll be okay. You don't have to worry about me, though I really appreciate everyone's concern."

"Chief, there's got to be a way to work this out," Jim said then, having finally found his voice. "We can talk about this."

Once again Blair bowed his head, shaking it slowly. "I wish there was, but there isn't, Jim." Lifting his gaze to Ellison's eyes, reading the worry for him in their clear depths, he was deeply touched. "Think about it, man," he went on, his tone gentle and cajoling. "If I kept working here, backing you up, it would take the media about a nanosecond to start asking questions, making guesses and assumptions - and look what happened last time." He gestured to Simon in the wheelchair, Megan with her arm in a sling, Rafe with the bandage on his brow and, finally, Jim's cane. "People got hurt, almost killed, because you couldn't do your job with the cameras in your face all the time. It drove you nuts; you know it did. And it was dangerous, for you, for everyone. I won't stand by and let that happen again. I can't. I fixed it as best I could and I have no regrets about doing so, none. What happened with the diss was…an accident, more than anything. Nobody meant any harm. But it did happen and can't be undone. For your sake, mine, everyone's…it's time for me to get off the rollercoaster. I've spoken to a woman I know in Legal Aid, and I'll deal with Berkshire Publishing and Rainier, but quietly and with no publicity."

"I'm sorry, Blair," Simon said then, wearily. "I would have liked to keep you on the team. You did a damned fine job, especially for a civilian who was never trained for the role. We'll miss you."

Jim cast his superior a dumbfounded look as if he couldn't believe Banks was giving up so easily. When he gazed around at the rest of the silent group, he saw that Megan and Rhonda had tears in their eyes, Brown and Rafe looked pissed off and Joel looked deflated, older somehow. Naomi had turned away, one hand covering her lips.

"Thanks, Simon." Sandburg sighed sorrowfully but, trying to rally his ragged emotions, he straightened up as he continued, "I guess that's it. I left my observer's pass on your desk, Simon. I just want you all to know that…" His voice cracked and he compressed his lips as he swallowed the tears that threatened, "That you've all been so wonderful. I won't ever forget the way you welcomed me and made me a part of this team, or that you offered me a chance to stay. And now, I guess…well, I guess I should get Jim home and the rest of you need to either go home, too, to recuperate, or get back to work before Simon starts bellowing - and we know that wouldn't be good for his healing lung, now would it?" He gave them a reasonable facsimile of his trademark grin and then moved forward and bent to hug Banks, before turning to each of them in turn, to embrace them all as he made his way toward the exit.

Jim frowned and looked to Banks, who was swiping at his eyes. Catching Ellison's clear signal to do something, Simon shrugged helplessly. The kid had thought it all through, very clearly so far as he could see, and there didn't seem to be a whole lot more to say. Not many days ago, Jim had said himself that he was ready to work without Sandburg's support. It wouldn't be easy, and they'd miss the kid, but Ellison had shown in the last few months that he really did have good control now. He'd been working less and less with Sandburg for some time. Blair was right. He had his own life to live and he sure in hell didn't owe any of them anything more than he'd already sacrificed to ensure things in MCU could return to normal, or what passed for normal. Still, he sighed as he shook his head, deeply regretting the price Sandburg had paid for his loyalty to Ellison.

More than a little disgusted, Jim grimaced and began to hobble after Blair, who was talking quietly in front of the elevators with his mother.

"You're sure you'll be okay, sweetie?" she was asking, subdued and clearly anxious about her son.

"I'll be fine, Mom, don't worry," he assured her with a hug. "You go ahead and have a good time in Katmandu."

Katmandu? Jim huffed silently and shook his head. It seemed Naomi was doing her usual hit and run routine, heading off somewhere to process and continue her endless quest for enlightenment. Still, he wasn't sorry she was leaving. It would make it easier to talk with Blair when they got home if she wasn't flitting around, bemoaning the lack of sage to clear out the negative vibrations and making them all tea.

They took the elevator down together, Naomi getting off on the main floor to hail a cab to take her to some friend or other. And then they exited in the basement, to head to the underground garage. Jim was surprised to see his truck in its usual slot, having expected Sandburg's old jalopy.

"I thought I would be picking you up at the hospital," Blair murmured as he headed toward the passenger side to unlock the door. "With your bad leg, I figured it would be easier for you to get into the truck than to scrunch down into the Volvo."

Jim nodded and accepted Blair's help to slide into the seat, grimacing as his leg twinged, but grateful that Sandburg had thought about what would be most comfortable for him. Blair closed the door and went around to the other side. Getting in, he said quietly, "I really am grateful for the offer and your willingness to keep working with me, Jim."

Not quite knowing how to respond, Ellison nodded again and looked away. Truthfully, he didn't know what to think, let alone say. Jim had been sure that Blair would accept the offer to go to the Academy and stay with MCU as his permanent partner. It pissed him off that the kid so blithely rejected what would have been such a perfect, long-term solution. Sandburg had the makings of a great detective and he'd liked the work, he'd said so himself more than a year ago. But, though it shamed him, part of him was sorely relieved, even glad that there'd be no more media attention and that the circle who knew about his senses could be kept small. Still, he wasn't as convinced as Blair seemed to be that he didn't need Sandburg's specialized and intuitive help anymore. He felt more than a little rejected that his partner had made the decision to give up working with him without ever discussing it; and that made him feel defensive and very irritable. He didn't like to think he was dependent on Sandburg or anyone else. He was a damned good cop and didn't need anyone to help him do his job - but a small voice inside told him otherwise, a voice he didn't want to hear.

As they drove along the busy streets toward home, neither man spoke. Glancing at Sandburg, Jim was struck by how tired and pale the kid looked. He'd been through hell over the last week; that was for damned sure. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time that he sort out his own life. But what was he going to do? Keeping things quiet meant that he would have to live with his notoriety locally. What kind of job did he think was likely to get? Jim's lips tightened, once again feeling a twinge of guilt for what Blair had done. Ellison would never have asked the kid to crucify himself, let alone so publicly. Sure, he'd been upset by the circus and feeling like the whole world knew he was some kind of freak, but that hadn't been Sandburg's fault. Not really. He could have been more careful with the document, but Naomi had made it clear that she'd gone into Blair's laptop to find the file without his knowledge. He couldn't blame Blair for thinking his work was safe and secure inside their home.

Sighing, tired before the conversation they needed to have even started, Jim absently massaged his sore leg.

"Turn your dial down, Jim," Blair murmured quietly as he pulled into the parking spot outside the loft. He got out and moved around the truck to help Ellison slide out, lending his shoulder for support. When Jim was standing solidly, Blair closed and locked the door, and then handed Jim the keys. When Ellison turned to hobble toward the entrance, Sandburg caught his arm and held him back. "I'm not going in with you, Jim."

Not understanding, Jim looked around. "What? You've got an errand or something? If it's just shopping, don't worry about it. We can order in dinner."

"No, you don't understand," Blair replied, his voice hollow, his eyes dark with sorrow. "I moved all my stuff out, most of it into storage until I figure out where I want it sent. What I need for now is in the Volvo. I'm leaving town. My, uh, key is on the ring with the truck keys and I've left a check for the last of the rent on the table upstairs."

"What are you saying? That this is it? You're just going to take off?" Jim demanded, completely stunned. When they'd left the station, he figured he'd have time to come up with another option to keep the kid as his permanent partner. They needed to talk, sort things out. It couldn't end like this - couldn't just be over.

"Yeah, pretty much," Blair replied with a shrug as he looked off down the street, the expression in his eyes unreadable. "There's not much hope of a job here in Cascade. Not right now, anyway. It's better if I just go."

"Jesus, Chief, can't we talk about this or something?" Ellison gaped. While he was in the hospital, he'd known that Blair had cleared out his office at Rainier, but the younger man had given no clue to the magnitude, or immediacy, of his plans. This wasn't right; couldn't be right. "You could have a good job here. You know that. I don't understand - "

"Jim," Sandburg cut in with a sigh as he looked up at his friend, "I went over this with you and everyone else downtown. I appreciate the offer and that you want me to stay, I really do. That means…" His voice caught and he had to stop to look away again and blink. The wind caught his hair and blew strands over his face; impatiently, he pushed it back behind his ears and turned back to Ellison. Swallowing, he went on, "I can't stay. I'm sorry. For your sake as well as mine, it's time for me to move on. Too many people would ask too many questions if I hung around with you any more. And I need to find my own way now; figure out who I am again and what I'm going to do with my life."

"Where are you going? For how long?" Jim asked, reaching for straws. Maybe the kid just needed some time; maybe this wasn't the end.

"To the future, man," Blair replied with the ghost of a smile. "For the rest of my life. The past is done, Jim. There's little that I'd change if I could, and I'll always treasure the memories of the years with you. It's been a hell of a ride. But you're okay now. You don't need me anymore and my presence could only hurt you. Your life is…is what you want it to be now. Your future is secure. I…I need to find my future." He took a deep breath and rushed on, "Look, I've stocked up the cupboards and the fridge, so you should be okay until your leg heals. It's getting late and I need to hit the road." Moving forward, he gave Ellison a quick tight hug. "I'm really going to miss you, Jim. You be careful and let the others help you when you need it, you hear me? I don't want to have to be worrying about you," he whispered, his voice catching again, nearly breaking.

And then, before Jim could think of anything more to stay or any way of stopping him, Sandburg turned and loped across the street to his car. He hesitated a moment before getting in to look back and then he slipped inside. When the engine caught, he looked up at Ellison one last time for a long sober moment, and then he drove away.

"Sonofabitch," Ellison cursed under his breath, in helpless anger, as he watched the Volvo turn a corner and disappear. But still he stood and watched the empty place where it had been, feeling suddenly, unexpectedly, utterly forlorn and more than a little lost. He tightened his jaw against the ache in his chest and covered his traitorous, trembling lips with one hand as he blinked rapidly to clear the burn from his eyes. And then anger surged again, that Sandburg had just taken off with no warning, little better than his mother at the cut and run game. After all the years, after sharing a home, he just…left. Like that. A quick hug and an 'I'll miss you', and not even the decency to say he'd be in touch. Well, hell. Turning away from the street, leaning heavily on his cane, Jim stomped into the loft, thinking he should be used to it. Eventually, everyone left. Damn.

As he viciously punched the elevator button and fumed while he waited for it, Jim told himself bitterly that he'd learned a long time ago that he didn't need anyone. But by the time the elevator finally arrived, that annoying little voice inside was telling him, quite bluntly, that he was a fool.

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

Blair made it out of Cascade and as far as Interstate 5, but he pulled off at the next exit and drove into the parking lot of a small, cheap motel by the highway. His hands were shaking too badly to drive and his mind was certainly not on the road; he was a hazard looking for a place to have an accident and he knew it. Taking a breath, he grabbed his knapsack from the seat beside him and went inside to get a bed for the night.

Once in his nondescript but adequate room, he threw himself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling; his thoughts were tumbling all over themselves, just as they'd been doing ever since he'd pulled away and left Jim standing on the side of the street. Was this a mistake? Should he have taken the offer of going to the Academy and been glad of it? He respected cops and had really liked helping Jim with his cases, but carrying a weapon was so not his scene. In all honesty, he really didn't have the kind of courage it took to face maybe having to kill someone someday, regardless of how it could be rationalized as self-defense or necessary for the greater good. If he'd wanted to be a soldier or a cop, he could've gone down that road a long time ago. He'd long gotten past the lessons of his childhood where cops were seen as the jack-booted enemy, but the 'peace and love' messages were engrained too deeply in his soul to start being someone he wasn't.

God, he was going to miss them all, though, Jim most of all. Miss belonging somewhere; miss doing work that was truly important and worthwhile. The early years, especially, when he'd been so excited about finding Ellison and helping him learn how to understand and manage his senses, had been the best years of his life, bar none. It had been a nonstop natural high, fueled by adrenaline and the rush of assisting Jim with cases - and by the terror, he thought with a wry grimace. Terror that he'd fail Jim; but Ellison had shown such confidence in him, such willingness to try anything, however crazy, that might help and, somehow, the ideas had kept flowing. But there'd been other moments of a different kind of terror, Sandburg recalled as his memories skittered across the surface of his mind. Moments like being in that warehouse with Lash, which would always remain one of the absolute worst, most frightening experiences of his life. But one of the all-time best, too, once he'd calmed down, sobered up from the sedative and could think straight, because Jim had successfully applied what Blair had taught the older man and had come after him; had saved his life.

Jim.

Blair had meant it when he'd said that Jim had become the big brother he'd never had. And Jim had given him the only steady and stable home he'd ever known. It nearly killed him to walk away from all that, all that it meant - God, he'd never hurt inside like he was hurting now. Rubbing his eyes and turning on his side, his arms crossed tightly and his knees pulled up, Sandburg swallowed hard against the tearing ache in his chest. He'd told Naomi that he'd had it all, had it all right there, and he knew he had, for a while. Until it all went to hell in a handbasket. The ache wasn't all sorrow at the grief of leaving. A lot of it, most of it, was the deep, deep hurt that when the chips were down, despite everything and all their years together, Jim still hated his senses and didn't trust Blair not to screw him royally. It was the knowing in the very fabric of his soul that as much as he loved Ellison like a brother and would have done anything for him - hell, had pretty much given up everything to protect him - Jim didn't feel the same way. Never had, maybe 'cause he was older, or maybe 'cause he already had a brother with whom he was repairing relations - or maybe just because Jim just didn't trust anyone, not completely. Who knew? Maybe it was because Jim found him annoying as hell, and had only been putting up with him out of need, and that need was pretty much gone. Jim hadn't really needed him for months, maybe as much as a year.

But then why had Jim been willing to keep working with him? Out of gratitude? Ellison had said he thought Blair was a damned fine cop, regardless of never having been trained. And he'd seemed sincere when he'd referred to how Blair had helped him with some pretty tough stuff. But you couldn't build a partnership on gratitude - a lifelong partnership needed trust; unconditional and unswerving trust. Had it simply been a kindness, knowing Blair had pretty much trashed his academic career and what passed for his life? God, pity? Well, that was worse than gratitude. Or guilt maybe, that keeping his secret safe had to cost so much? Shit. Guilt made pity look good.

Sandburg sighed and tried to shift the focus of his thoughts. He'd told Jim that was all in the past and it was time to move on. And it was. But to where, exactly? He'd been so busy clearing up the detritus of his life that he really hadn't had time to think about the future. Well, now he had the time. Plenty of time. All the time in the world. What did he want to do with his life now? What did he want it to count for?

But when he tried to focus on the future, the thoughts that had been flooding his mind mercilessly seemed to go on a coffee break, leaving nothing but a void behind. Puffing out his cheeks and then blowing a long, slow breath, Blair waited for inspiration to hit. And waited. And…nothing. Snorting, he rolled back to stare at the ceiling to see if suggestions were written in the plaster; nope, apparently not. Okay, so long-term planning wasn't on the agenda. How about - which direction to take in the morning? South, to California? Southwest to Arizona, maybe soak in the vibes of Sedona and replenish his energy? East, maybe, to disappear in one of the big cities? He had enough money to drift for a while, but not forever. Still, picking up odd jobs to supplement his income wouldn't be all that hard to do. He had time to decide where he wanted to go; all the time in the world, he thought again, bleakly.

Briefly, he toyed with the idea of heading to Mexico, to study the temple ruins near Sierra Verde, but his throat tightened and he roughly pushed the idea away. He couldn't keep working on sentinels. Been there, done that, got the Cascade PD sweatshirt. It was over. Time to move on. Time to get a life.

It had grown dark, thunder rumbling in the distance, while he pondered life and the question of his future without much to show for it. Too weary to think anymore, too worn out by the memories and regrets, he got up to undress and then crawled into the bed. Forcing his eyes to stay shut and his lungs to take deep, relaxing breaths, he told himself he could decide which direction to take in the morning. Flip a coin or something.

It wasn't like it really mattered.

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

Thunder cracked with the explosive power of a bomb going off on the roof, snapping Blair awake with a gasp. Listening to the rumble growl and then subside, and then noticing the sharp pinging of rain blown against the window, he sighed and rubbed his face; just the thing to make this day's drive truly a joyful experience. Grimacing, he crawled out the bed and, after a quick shower to wake himself up, Blair dressed and dashed out to his car. It was raining so hard that he was almost soaked by the time he'd unlocked it and tossed his gear inside. "Cold and wet is my world," he muttered with a shiver, wishing the heater worked. Sniffling, he pulled out to the road. Man, he did NOT feel like driving on the freeway in this shit; too much like navigating a muddy carwash every time a transport rumbled past, making it impossible to see a damned thing.

Shaking his head, looking down the road in the other direction, he realized it was actually a small, state highway. Shrugging, he thought, What the hell? and turned away from the Interstate. He wasn't going anywhere in particular, so what did it matter what highway he was on? Might as well take the chance to see a little of the backcountry; it would be a quieter drive and, on a day like this, that was a definite plus.

Before long, the long and winding road was climbing up into the mountains, a dark tunnel through a thick pine forest, and the asphalt surface slick with rain. At least the trees blocked the powerful wind that had been buffeting the Volvo unmercifully, making it a physical challenge to keep from drifting across the centre line. His windshield wipers slapped monotonously, scarcely equal to the task of keeping the drenching downpour at bay, tiresome and increasingly irritating, as he peered through the gray unnatural twilight of the endless storm.

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

The next morning, Jim clicked on the coffeemaker and turned to lean on the counter, his arms crossed, while he waited for it to perk. Disconsolately, he stared at the runnels on the outside of the glass door to the balcony, as the wind whipped the rain into almost horizontal sheets of nearly solid water. It had been raining hard all night, a constant drumming on the skylight and roof, accompanied by the low bass of rumbling thunder and the sharp, blinding shards of lightning. And, from the look of it, it was going to rain all damned day.

Grimacing, Ellison chewed on his inner lip as his gaze flicked around the loft. The weather didn't usually bother him. It rained or it didn't. But he felt restless, unsettled and the incessant whine of the wind, the hammer of billions of raindrops and, he winced, the relentless cracking explosions of thunder, weren't helping. God, one evening without esoteric chatter about the mating rituals of pygmies in deepest darkest Africa, one night of not being lulled to sleep by the click of laptop keys and the rhythmic beat of another's heart, and one morning of getting up without seeing a rumpled, cheerful grin broken by the predictable yawn that dimpled darkly unshaven cheeks, and he was bored, disgruntled and…lonely.

Pitiful; absolutely pitiful. He had peace and quiet, the loft to himself, his privacy all his own again - and it was irritating as hell.

Snorting, he turned to pull out the cereal and tipped some into a bowl. He added milk, poured his coffee, grabbed a spoon and went to the table where he'd already put the morning's paper. He'd been alone before and liked it just fine. He'd get used to being alone, and liking it, again.

He'd barely finished eating, his appetite not helped any by the headlines or the sorry stats on the Jags, when the phone rang. His heart leaped, treacherous thing that it was, but he let his legs join the party as he lunged to grab the handset. He only barely stopped himself from shouting, 'Chief?' and, instead, grunted warily, "Yeah?"

"Well, a cheerful hello and good morning to you, too, Detective," Simon drawled. "Who dragged you out of the wrong side of the bed?"

"Uh, hi, Simon," Jim muttered, rubbing his hand over his face, his heart sinking back down to its new home in his gut. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," Banks admitted. "I'm bored. Recuperation isn't what it's cracked up to be."

"Tell me about it," Ellison grated as he rubbed his aching leg. Lunging for the phone hadn't been the best idea he'd ever had.

"I wondered if you and Sandburg had a chance to figure out some things last night," Banks went on, his voice studiously casual as he revealed the real reason for his call. "What's the kid going to do now?"

Jim bowed his head. It was inevitable that people would ask; equally inevitable that he'd have to tell them. He'd just thought he'd have a little more time before he had to say hollowly, "He's gone, Simon. He dropped me off at the loft yesterday and hit the highway."

"Already?" his boss exclaimed. But evidently he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yeah," Jim mumbled into the lengthening and uncomfortable silence.

"You okay?" Simon asked then, concern deep and rich in his voice.

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?" Ellison almost snapped back, immediately defensive. Why did everyone assume he needed a babysitter, for God's sake?

"Uh, well…good," Banks replied, not sounding at all convinced, and then sighed. "I guess he figured there was no reason to stay."

"Guess not," Jim agreed, short and clipped.

"You ever want to talk about this, Jim," Simon offered, recognizing the too-familiar defensiveness with another, more long-suffering sigh, "you know you're not alone."

Jim's gaze wandered the loft and his jaw tightened. The fact was, he was alone. That was the point. But he replied neutrally, "Thanks, Simon. I'll keep that in mind."

He'd scarcely ended the call when the phone rang again. "Hey, Jimbo!" Brown pealed down the line. "Is Hairboy handy?"

"No, he's not," Ellison replied tightly.

"Oh," Henri hesitated, made wary by the tone. "I just wondered if he wanted to shoot some pool later. Let him know I called, okay?"

And what am I, chopped liver? I play pool, Jim thought, but didn't bother to point that out. He'd never been all that sociable. "He's not living here anymore," Ellison reported flatly. "He left town yesterday."

"What? You gotta be kidding me! And you didn't stop him?" Brown exclaimed, obviously not happy with the news.

"What? You wanted me to cuff him to the coffee table?" Jim snapped back. "He's all grown up, H. The man makes his own decisions."

"Yeah, right. I hear you," Brown sighed. "I'm sorry he's gone, Jim," he added before hanging up.

Twenty minutes later, Megan was on the phone. "G'day," she chirped. "Is Sandy there? I wondered if he wanted to…"

"Sandburg has moved out," Jim grunted, cutting her off. "He's left town."

"He's what?" she demanded sharply, and then challenged, "Well, that's a bit odd, isn't it? I mean - to go so soon? Where'd he go?"

"To the future," Jim told her, irritation clear in his voice. "And that's a direct quote."

"Oh," she murmured, suddenly subdued. "Well, bollocks. I'm sorry, Jim," she added before she hung up.

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

Sandburg's stomach grumbled in counterpoint to the thunder and he sighed. He should have checked the map to see what towns existed up ahead and how far, or eaten in the dive next to the motel. But the smell of grease had turned him off the night before and didn't do much for him first thing in the morning, either. Ah, well, he'd gone without food for longer than a day. Consider it a fast, he told himself philosophically. A cleansing ritual as part of leaving your old life behind and the process of reinventing who you are.

Who I am, his thoughts echoed then, drearily. He felt so…empty inside, hollow and insubstantial. Who the hell am I now? I'm not a doctoral student anymore; I don't have a teaching fellowship. Not a cop tagalong. Not shadow to a sentinel. Who the fuck am I now? Perversely, the question provoked a memory, and his gut twisted as he recalled Lash chanting, "I can be you." Snorting, Sandburg shook his head. "Why would anyone want to be me?" he asked aloud. "Hell, I don't even want to be me anymore."

He was beginning to seriously wonder where this little highway went and, more importantly, if there were any gas stations in his near future. As the gauge dipped closer to empty, he shook his head. He really didn't need to be stranded in the middle of nowhere in a raging storm. But, with relief, he saw the glare of lights ahead and gratefully pulled into a service station. He filled up the tank, loped inside to the restroom and then grabbed some milk, juice, bottled water, the most appealing of a totally unappetizing selection of Saran-wrapped sandwiches, and some fruit from the cooler before paying and heading back out into the miserable weather. He pulled over to eat the bland turkey and wilted lettuce on semi-stale bread concoction, one of the apples and then drank the small carton of milk.

And then he headed back onto the highway.

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

When the phone rang again, it was early afternoon and Ellison scowled at it, no longer leaping at it in the hopes of hearing Blair's voice saying his damned car broke down and asking if Jim could come get him. Resignedly, he answered, "Hello?"

"Hi, Jim, it's Joel," the older man replied. "How're you and the kid doing?"

"I'm fine, Joel, thank you," Jim replied civilly, though his teeth ached from being so tightly locked together. "I'm assuming Sandburg is equally fine."

"Assuming?" Taggart echoed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he took off yesterday for parts unknown," Ellison reported for, what, the fourth or fifth time that day. "He's moved on." It occurred to him that Rafe was the only one who hadn't called, most probably because Brown had gotten to him before he could check on the kid. With an uneasy feeling, he also belatedly realized that no one from the University, none of Sandburg's so-called friends, had called; guess they didn't associate with self-proclaimed liars and frauds, he thought with an unconscious grimace of regret and no little guilt.

"Ah, damn," Joel sighed softly, hearing the sorrow under the brusque, irritated tone. "We'll miss him," he added before offering, "If you need anything, you let me know, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," Jim replied wearily before terminating the call, no longer irritated, just feeling empty.

When thunder exploded overhead, he winced and swore. Cold and wet is my world, echoed in his mind and he bowed his head, wondering when his heart had decided to take up residence in his throat.

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

Two hours later, the storm still hadn't let up and Blair was being to wonder if it was a metaphor for life, his anyway. But he was fast getting tired of his own misery. "It's an adventure," he told himself sternly. "Enjoy it for pity's sake. You're young, got your health, a graduate degree - the world has not ended. Get a grip and grow the fuck up." He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and raked his hair back off his face. Life went on and life was good. The universe worked in mysterious ways, and who knew what was waiting around the next corner? Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, he forced himself to grin, albeit wryly. Life went on. It could be good again, maybe, if he could truly bring himself to leave his past behind with no regrets and gave the future half a chance.

And this damned storm would eventually end.

Instead of fixating on how rotten he felt about leaving so much that he had dearly loved behind, Blair allowed himself to remember why the times had been good. A genuine smile curled on his lips as he recalled the fun it had been to work with Jim, and how amazing it had all been. He'd been lucky to find his Sentinel, to have the experience of living his dreams so fully. His natural sense of gratitude and abundance at the magic and mystery of life began to reassert itself, and he dared to believe that he would be okay. He'd really helped Jim; he knew that, and felt truly good about that. Ellison could manage on his own now, and he'd be okay, not a victim of his senses. Blair sincerely felt he'd been in the right place at the right time to fulfill some part of what his destiny in this life was supposed to be. So, maybe 'destiny' had some other good notions in mind for the rest of his life.

The Volvo sped down around a long curve and onto an old, rickety wooden bridge that was long past need of repair if not outright replacement, and Blair was on the long structure before he realized that muddy water was flowing fast and deep across the roadway. He blinked and cut a quick look to the side, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he eased up on the accelerator before he started to hydroplane, when the bridge suddenly shifted, tilted, broke apart - and fell out from under his car.

"Oh shit!" he cursed, terror blooming in his belly, as the vehicle tilted sideways and slammed down into the raging torrent. His head banged so hard against the side window that he momentarily saw stars and nearly panicked, thinking he was about to pass out. Grimly, nearly frenzied, he fought off the darkness, because if he didn't, he knew he'd die. The Volvo was already under water and he had to get out of it, or he'd drown when it finally hit bottom and the water pressure outside was too great to force the door open. Dammit, he'd already drowned once in this life, and there was no way in hell that he wanted to go that way again.

Fear created a pure surge of adrenaline that cleared his head and kicked his fright or flight response solidly into overdrive. Without really thinking about it, he snapped off his seatbelt, took a great gulp of air, and shoved open the car door. Water immediately poured in, the force of it driving him half into the passenger seat. Using the gearbox for leverage, he gripped the steering wheel and hauled himself forward against the raging current and the heavy pull of gravity. Fumbling for another hold, he gripped the doorframe, and would have cursed if he'd had the breath to waste when his jacket caught on something, holding him captive. His jaw clamped rigidly closed, his lungs already beginning to scream for air, he shrugged out of his coat and pushed off from the seat. He banged the back of his head sharply on the doorframe but, with a painful wince, he kept going.

Once free of the car, he didn't fight the current but went with it, kicking hard as he angled toward the dim light of the roiling surface. His reaching hand broke clear and then his head. Gasping, coughing, he dragged in blessed air as he struggled to stay afloat. His sodden clothing and heavy shoes were a drag he couldn't afford, so he shucked off his shirt and frantically toed off his shoes. When his waterlogged jeans impeded his ability to kick effectively, he stripped them off, too. He'd worry about being cold once he was sure he was going to be alive long enough to feel it.

He felt like a piece of flotsam, completely at the mercy of the powerful, angry river that pushed him along at an alarming rate. Desperately, he tried to get his bearings. The water was freezing, and if he didn't get to shore soon, he never would. Spotting a broken tree branch, he struck out toward it and, once he'd caught hold, he clung to it for dear life to keep his head out of the surging water. Kicking hard, he angled toward the tree-shrouded, rocky shore and sobbed with weak relief when his feet touched the pebbly bottom.

Heedless of the sharp stones cutting his socks and feet to ribbons, shivering uncontrollably, he stumbled and slogged his way out of the water that tried to drag him back into the main current, and he lunged to grab hold of boulder, to give him an anchor to cling to, as he fought to keep his balance. Finally, he managed to half crawl out onto the slippery bank and he sprawled on the earth, as if embracing it, panting for breath. Shards of pain lanced through his head, and his gut rebelled with a sudden, sick cramp. Hastily, he shoved himself up onto his knees, his hands braced on the muddy ground as he gagged and heaved, emptying his belly. Groaning miserably, he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawled away from the noisome mess.

Cold rain lanced down, an almost solid wall of tiny, battering pellets that stung his unprotected body, distracting him, making him feel disoriented. His head was pounding so hard he could hardly see and, when he tried to stand, dizziness sent him crashing back onto his knees. Weakly, he pushed his lank, soaking wet hair out of his eyes and looked around dazedly for anything that might resemble some kind of shelter. Numb with cold, he crawled toward the trees, trying to get out of the rain, but a sharp burst of white-hot pain seared through his head, and he crumpled to curl on the ground, moaning, until darkness claimed him.

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

Ellison spent a second restless, nearly sleepless night. The storm had finally passed, though he could still hear thunder rumbling over the distant mountains. His skin was annoying the hell out of him, too sensitive, and he couldn't get warm. The walls seemed to be closing in, the loft suddenly suffocating and he had a profound urge to just go outside and breathe the clean air, but it was the middle of the night and there was nowhere to go. But he felt twitchy, achy and anxious and just couldn't settle, couldn't relax. Wearily, he rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the headache that had started up the afternoon before. Nausea curled in his belly and he grimaced against it, forcing himself to take long, slow breaths. Despite the fact that he could hear every damn sound from the street outside and the building around him, the loft itself was too quiet.

Muttering a curse, he turned on his side and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was going through withdrawal. Which was just plain stupid. It wasn't possible to be addicted to another person's presence, like some kind of drug. Was it? He sighed and rolled over onto his back to stare up through the skylight.

He found himself wondering where Sandburg was.

And profoundly wishing the kid had never left.

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

Dimly aware that a new day had dawned, Blair wondered if he was dying and figured with a shaft of profound sorrow and regret that he probably was. He tried again, as he had before, more than once during the long, bitter, stormy night, to crawl up under the trees. They seemed so close, but remained further than his strength could take him. His head pounded relentlessly, like a blacksmith endlessly hitting hot steel with a heavy sledgehammer, sending sparks flying to sear his brain. Nausea twisted again, inciting another wretched cramp, but he had nothing left in his stomach so the violent dry heaves only compounded the agony of his aching head. His whole body felt like one huge bruise, aching from the accident and from fighting the strong river's deadly embrace. He was beyond cold, shivering uncontrollably on the muddy earth, rain still stinging his skin.

Blearily, he remembered times when he'd been scared of dying in the past. When Lash had him bound in chains and was pouring that drug down his throat. But Jim had saved him. Or when he really had died, drowned in the fountain outside his office by Alex. But Jim had brought him back from the dead in a miraculous merging of their spirit guides that still left him awestruck and so very grateful.

Jim.

Jim wouldn't be coming for him this time. Nobody would. No one knew where he was or that he was hurt.

Tears of despair blurred his hazy vision as he wondered why he'd been brought back from the dead only to die alone and virtually friendless in the vast wilderness. He knew with hopeless desolation that it was highly unlikely that even his body would ever be found, once the animals and the elements were done with it. He thought of his mother, then, and his heart broke for her and her grief in never knowing what had happened to him; her inevitable but fruitless hope that someday he would miraculously reappear. But he'd had his miracles. He'd found his Sentinel, and his Sentinel had brought him back from the dead. God, why? What was the point? What had he born for, if only to come to this ignominious end?

But then he thought of Jim again, and he felt a certain peace. Maybe he'd been born to help Ellison understand what he was; to aid him in learning to control and manage his extraordinary and wonderful senses, so that his friend could fulfill his own destiny as the Sentinel of a Great City. It wasn't a bad reason to have lived. It was, in fact, a wondrous reason, and Blair felt a measure of gratitude warm his soul for having been given such an opportunity and for having done his best. He was even able to summon up the wry thought that dying was one sure way to leave his past behind, though it was just a little more complete and irrevocable than he'd planned.

He moaned again, as the terrible pain reverberating through his skull burned hotter and raged unchecked. But he didn't know when he convulsed; was only briefly aware of the balm of darkness that once again ghosted down around him…

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

It was late afternoon when Ellison caught the scent of Simon's cigars and his friend's distinctive tread in the hallway, and he sighed. Unlike times past, he couldn't be bothered to get to the door ahead of his boss, to open it before Banks knocked. He didn't feel like having company, though he resigned himself and went to answer when the knock came, expecting that Banks was seeking out his company to relieve the boredom of convalescence. But, when he opened the door, his boss's demeanor shocked him and he didn't know what to think when he saw Simon's solemn, deeply sorrowful visage, his eyes red-rimmed as if he'd been weeping.

"Come in," he urged, waving toward the living room. "What's wrong?" Unable to imagine any other reason for Simon to look so utterly devastated, he added softly, "God, don't tell me something has happened to Darryl?"

His head and shoulders bowed as if by a nearly unbearable load, Banks moved slowly into the living room but, at Jim's words, he turned and shook his head. "No, Darryl's fine. Jim…I think you should sit down. I have some pretty bad news."

Frowning in confusion, Ellison narrowed his eyes as he gazed at his friend and crossed his arms. "Someone from MCU get hurt in a bust or something?" he asked then, his gut tightening in anticipation of a hard emotional blow.

Simon tilted his head, and his eyes lowered to the floor as he thought about the question and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he murmured. Swallowing, he took a breath as he lifted his gaze to Ellison. "Jim, I don't know how to say this, except straight out. I'm so damned sorry." He took another breath, and then said hollowly, "Sometime yesterday, an old bridge on one of the state highways in the mountains washed out in a flash flood caused by the heavy rains. Late this morning, the wreck of Blair's car was found in the river when they dredged for any possible victims. Given that Sandburg's license and registration indicated he resided in Cascade, Highway Patrol called our police department for assistance in identifying relatives - it didn't take long for the news to filter up to Major Crimes."

Jim's face blanked of all expression as he stared at Simon for a long moment, trying to make sense of Banks' words. He felt numb, not able to take it in. Blinking finally, he shook his head and lifted a hand as if to stave off an attack. "I don't understand," he stammered, fear beginning to curl in his belly. "You're saying Sandburg was in an accident? How is he? Where is he?"

Simon looked away, and shook his head as he bit down on his lower lip. "Blair's body wasn't found, Jim," he replied tightly, his voice hoarse. "He's presumed d-drowned."

"No," Ellison snapped, shaking his head sharply. "No, that can't be."

Moving to grip Jim's shoulder, Banks tried to navigate his friend toward the love seat, but Ellison pulled away, his hands again up to fend off being touched - to deny the need for comfort. Simon frowned in concern but he straightened his shoulders, as if he felt someone had to be strong; someone had to deal with reality. "I'm sorry, Jim," he said again, maddeningly. "When Joel called me with the news, I thought I should come and tell you personally. Do you have any idea how we can contact his mother? She'll need to be told."

But Jim was still locked in denial. "Simon, no. We need to find him first," Ellison insisted, as he recalled the murmured conversation between Sandburg and Naomi days before. "There's no point in trying to track her down in Katmandu, of all places, until we know something about how badly hurt he might be." Licking his lips as he looked distractedly around the loft, he muttered, "I don't have a clue, anyway, as to how the hell we'd find her there."

"Blair's dead," Banks tried again to get Jim to face the inevitable truth. "His vehicle was under thirty feet of water, trashed from the impact of hitting the river at some considerable speed when the bridge collapsed. There's no way he could have survived that."

"If his body wasn't in the car, then he got out," Jim retorted, the shock wearing off and the need for action suddenly imperative. "Where exactly did this happen? I need to get out there, find him. He could be badly hurt." Whirling away, he began to rummage in a kitchen drawer and then pulled out a map, spreading it on the island. "Show me where the bridge was," he ordered impatiently.

"Jim!"

"NO, Simon," Ellison spat back. "Damn it! If I believed it every time there was a crash and no bodies found, you and Darryl would still be in Peru! He's not dead until I see that for myself. Period."

Banks gaped at the vehemence, and then he thought about what Jim had just said. A flare of hope sparked in his chest; hope that his mind said was ridiculous and tried to deny but, once ignited, his heart would not listen. Moving to join Jim in the kitchen, he turned the map around and squinted at it as he bit his lip. Finally, he pointed, "It would have been right about here."

"Fine," Ellison said as he folded it up. "I'll let you know when I find him."

"Hey, c'mon, you can't go out there alone," Simon exclaimed. "Your leg isn't healed yet." Banks hesitated but a moment, and then offered, "I'll go with you."

Surprised into a smile, Jim nevertheless shook his head. He gripped his friend's shoulder as he declined, "You're still recovering from nearly dying not quite two weeks ago. It's rugged country, Simon - you'd hurt yourself trying to do this."

Frustrated, Banks' jaw tightened, but then he blew a reluctant breath of agreement. He'd be more burden than help. "Alright," he agreed. "But you still can't go alone. You'll be concentrating your senses, trying to hear or smell him - you'll zone if you go out on your own. So, Joel or Conner; her shoulder has healed enough that it shouldn't be a problem. Which one will it be?"

"Simon, I - " Ellison tried to protest, but Banks raised his hand imperiously.

"Choose, or I'll sic Search and Rescue on you, and you know they'd only slow you down," Banks commanded.

Looking away, not pleased but knowing Simon was perfectly serious, Jim thought about it. "I'd rather take Joel, but I don't honestly think he's up to this kind of rugged search. It'll have to be Conner, if she'll come and she thinks her shoulder is up to a trek in the wilderness."

Simon was already moving to the phone. As he picked it up and punched in the number for MCU, he said, his voice gruff with emotion, "Joel said the whole crew was in shock when they heard, most of them crying like babies. She'll jump at the chance to maybe find him."

"Oh, I'll find him," Jim vowed grimly as he headed upstairs to his room to change and stuff the essential clothing and supplies into a light shoulder pack. "Don't you doubt that for a second."

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

The rain finally ended in the mountains, but the air remained chilled and damp. Birds came out of hiding, some of them landing on and around the still figure curled in the mud. They plucked at his hair for their nests, and flew off well satisfied with their find. Small animals crept out to sniff, made wary by the scent of a predator. The raspy breathing was enough to stave off their hunger lest the large, if sleeping beast, should waken and hunt them instead, but they lingered hopefully.

A gray wolf loped out of the misty forest, yipping and growling to drive off the curious birds and animals. When they scattered in sudden alarm, the wolf prowled toward the body and then sat beside it, lifting its muzzle to the sky to howl, long and despairingly.

From somewhere high on the cliffs above, a big cat roared furiously, and the wolf flicked a look at the black jaguar restlessly prowling back and forth on the ridge. Whimpering miserably, the wolf laid down beside the comatose man, to keep a lonely vigil over him.

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

Simon had been right; Megan had jumped at the chance to head out with Jim to search for Sandburg though not, perhaps, for the same reasons as Ellison. As they drove up to the location of the washed-out bridge, Jim uncomfortable in the unaccustomed passenger seat, he could feel anger rolling off her in waves. She looked at him as if she despised him and, when she spoke at all, her comments were clipped, brittle and cold. Their few exchanges were confined to their search strategy; they had agreed that they would search downriver, paying particular attention to curves in the bank where debris got caught in the eddying water, with the understanding that the current would have eventually born Sandburg into one of those areas. Jaw tight, shoulders stiff, she glared at the highway as she pushed heavily on the accelerator, as maniacal behind the wheel as Ellison was himself. He could understand her sense of urgency, but he didn't understand her anger. Fear was what he felt; cold, implacable fear, that they'd be too late - that it was already too late. Too caught up in his own anxious thoughts, he let the silence ride for the more than six hours of their drive until it was a tangible, oppressive thing between them, like a vicious carnivore laying in wait to attack.

It was getting dark by the time Megan pulled up on the shoulder near the wreck of the bridge's stone footings. Wordlessly, she slammed out of the car and stomped to the trunk to haul out their knapsacks. Both had packed light; a change of socks, a blanket each, and Jim had a warm pullover, socks and sweatpants for Sandburg in his kit. Megan carried their rudimentary medical supplies. Four bottles of water each and some 'power bars' for nourishment. They had dressed alike, both in jeans and boots, both with warm pullovers over tighter fitting T-shirts, light but warm all-weather jackets and gloves; and they both sported ball caps, the brims effective in minimizing the glare of the sun during the day. She had eschewed her sling, deeming it more trouble than it was worth, and had tied her wild hair back to keep it out of the way. Cutting a thin look at his leg as he limped to join her, she tossed him his pack, and banged down the lid of the trunk.

"You want to wait until it's light?" she asked tightly.

"No," he replied. "Can you keep up in the dark?"

"Yes," she snapped back, heading past him to slide down the bank to the river's edge.

"What is your problem?" he finally demanded, irritated by her rancor.

"My problem?" she muttered. "That's a bloody good one coming from you."

He frowned as he followed her more gingerly down the steep, rocky incline, grimacing with impatient frustration at the sharp pull from his healing wound. Shaking his head, he wondered if it was that time of the month, and decided that reticence, in this case, was probably the better part of valor. Getting into one of their typical heated exchanges would only slow them down. Once he'd gotten to level ground, he paused; his eyes went out of focus as he tilted his head and strained to hear Sandburg's heartbeat.

"You'd be better to use your sense of smell, don't you think?" she snapped, impatiently. "Hearing's not likely to do much good."

Becoming seriously annoyed with her attitude, Jim stiffened. The muscle in his jaw throbbed as he turned cold eyes to meet her equally hard gaze. "He'll have been in the river and his scent will be obscured by the mud and muck. And it's been raining for days - it will have washed away anything on the ground if he wandered into the forest," he grated, hating to explain but recognizing that, for this journey at least, she was acting as his 'guide', however limited her help was likely to be. "His heartbeat is the best beacon to detect and follow."

Rolling her eyes, she retorted bluntly, "It's damned hard to hear the heartbeat of a dead man."

"Dead?" Jim exclaimed, suddenly hot with fury. "He's not dead, dammit!"

Waving him on to set the pace with his wounded leg, she shook her head disparagingly. "You really just can't accept it, can you, you poor dumb twit," she sniped. "'Course that would mean having to accept some responsibility, and we certainly wouldn't want poor Jim to have to do that, would we?"

Unwilling to stand and argue, anxious to be on the hunt, Jim pushed past her, setting a fast pace but one he knew he could maintain over the long haul. It wouldn't do Sandburg a damned bit of good if he foolishly overextended and found himself unable to walk. "Responsibility for what?" he called back coldly, over his shoulder.

"For what?" she snorted, her voice rising in disgust. "How about for the fact that he was out here in the first place because of your bloody pride, and the fact you were too damned stupid or stubborn to ask him not to leave."

"Look," Jim grated, even as his eyes raked the growing darkness, the dim light of the moon and stars more than enough for him to lead the way. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I wanted him to stay. We offered him a badge so he could be my partner permanently. Leaving was his idea."

"A badge," Megan huffed. "You drongos ever stop to think about the fact that Sandy would hate to carry a weapon and might never recover from having to kill someone? Oh, no, certainly not. He should have bloody jumped at such a magnificent offer, beside himself with everlasting gratitude to be welcomed into the fraternity. You and Simon, both, have to be the biggest pair of dickheads I've ever met, Jimbo. Maybe if you'd used half a brain and suggested a job he could do with a clear conscience, he might have accepted. Maybe if you hadn't sprung it on him, like a pair of schoolyard captains offering him a vaunted place on your team, and given him a chance to even think about it, there might have been some chance. God. Men."

Jim opened his mouth to argue back - but he couldn't. He winced and gritted his jaw as he swallowed the words that it was damned good offer, one that wouldn't have been easy to pull off, because he knew she was right. Sandburg had never been comfortable around weapons or violence, though he could handle it when he had to, and was nobody's patsy or doormat. And they had sprung it on him. Nor had they considered other options, or given him a chance to suggest other possibilities that might have worked. And pointing out that 'it wouldn't have been easy' only brought him up against that godawful press conference and Blair's self-annihilation to protect his secret. Quietly, he reiterated his only defence, "I was pretty clear that I wanted him to stay if that's what he wanted. I didn't ask him to go. Didn't ask him to…to deny his paper."

"Yeah, right, mate," she muttered. "You treated him with more contempt than you would the worst felon, washed him in anger and rejection, blamed him for what wasn't his fault - but no, you didn't ask him to deny the paper. You didn't ask him to destroy himself. You don't ask for much, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he cut back.

He could almost feel the heat of her rage as her eyes bored holes in his back. "Well, let's see," she began sarcastically, no longer able to hold her fury inside. "You didn't ask for your senses; senses that any other cop would kill to have, to help them solve crimes and protect their communities. But, no, you didn't ask for them. In fact, it's obvious that you resent them and are ashamed of them; otherwise it wouldn't have to be such an all-fired secret. You didn't ask for Sandy's help, either, did you? After I figured it all out, I asked Simon how the hell the two of you had managed to even hook up together - I mean, you are a fairly unlikely pair of partners. He told me that Sandy found you, because he'd been searching for a sentinel. And I heard you myself have a go at him about how you had a 'deal' - he got to write his thesis in return for working with you to help you understand how to control them. Bet you never even thanked him, ever, for saving your sanity and probably your life - why would you ever thank him? After all, you never asked for a friend that any sensible person would cut off their right arm to have. And you had your much vaunted 'deal', after all. Bloody, prideful jerk. You took him for granted; just expected him to put you first and everything else second. And let's see - oh, yeah. You didn't ask him to leave. You really are a wombat, Jim, if you think that. What the bloody else was he supposed to do to protect you? If he'd stayed, the press would have been all over the both of you, wondering why you'd put up with a liar and a fraud who told such tall tales about you - and they'd be soon wondering if maybe those yarns were true. No, Ellison, you don't ask for a damned thing. You just expect it will all work out your way. God, no wonder he shot through; you didn't make it possible for him to stay."

Her words landed like blows, merciless and crippling. By the time she was finished, he felt almost physically ill. God, he wanted to deny her hard judgment. It hadn't been like that; couldn't have been as one-sided and as unconsciously arrogant and cruel as she made it all sound. Of course he was grateful for Sandburg's help. But he tried to remember the last time he'd said, 'thanks', and all he could remember was Blair chiding him for not saying 'thank you' for the gift of the white noise generator two years before. As he studied the river's current in silence and continued to stride resolutely through the darkness, his hearing on maximum to get any hint of Sandburg's familiar heart beat, he found himself thinking of all the things Blair had done for him over the years, starting with pushing him under that garbage truck only moments after he'd slammed the kid against the wall and had walked out on him in disgust. Or when Sandburg had given up the chance to follow his revered mentor on the field trip of a lifetime to Borneo, because it was 'about friendship'. Or all the countless hours Sandburg had given to go out to crime scenes, to ride around on investigations, to sit in on stakeouts, to write and process the lion's share of the paperwork. He'd bitched when Blair had been late. Complained when the kid worked on marking papers in the truck. Sniped when Sandburg's typing on his laptop into the wee hours of the night sometimes kept him awake.

Sure, he'd taken a lot of it for granted. Sandburg was studying him, was going to get his PhD out of it. But he must have thanked Blair, right? When the kid pulled suggestions out of the thin air to sort out the sensory overload, to help him focus? He had expressed his appreciation and gratitude, hadn't he?

But it was true that he constantly bemoaned his senses - even after almost four years, in the loft when he was yelling about being exposed, he'd said he felt like a freak and had wished he could turn the damned things off. But Sandburg always winced when he said anything like that - Blair thought they were an amazing gift. And they were, when they were working; which was most of the time, now, because of what Sandburg had taught him over the years.

He would never have agreed to that hateful press conference. But it wasn't like they'd been talking, or that Sandburg could have asked his opinion of the idea. Jim knew himself well enough to know that, at the time, he'd've likely snapped a 'whatever, take the money, be famous, have a nice life,' response. Hell, that's pretty much what he had said when Sandburg first tried to explain what had happened, when they might have talked about what to do to mitigate the diss-aster. And he hadn't thanked Blair for what he'd done. Nor could he pretend there hadn't been time. He could have said something when he was telling Blair what a good cop he inherently was, and he acknowledged that Sandburg had helped him with some pretty tough shit - that was 'thanks' wasn't it? And he'd also acknowledged that Blair had trashed his life - but he hadn't actually come out and said 'thank you' straight up and unvarnished.

Because he hadn't asked for such a sacrifice?

Or because it made him feel guilty and sick about what Sandburg had given up for him, to protect him?

A hell of a reason not to say, 'thank you.'

His gut clenched, and he started to understand Conner's anger, even her loathing. He started to feel it himself.

They tramped for an hour without another word between them. When he called a brief halt to once again focus his hearing more precisely, letting the input of his other senses fade for a bit, she pulled out a bottle of water and sipped at it. Vaguely, he was aware she was studying him, squinting in the darkness; probably watching to see if he was zoning, he thought impatiently, finding her scrutiny a distraction. Frustration surged in his chest - there wasn't much danger of zoning on a sound he still couldn't hear, no matter how hard he tried. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. A heartbeat was a subtle sound. He could pick it out across a crowded room, separating out its unique signature from the sounds of other hearts. But the rush of the river acted like a white noise generator, blanketing other sounds, as did the perpetual rustle of leaves in the slight wind. It didn't mean the heartbeat wasn't out there - it only meant his sense of hearing wasn't good enough to make it out. If Blair was with him, if he could feel Sandburg's hand on his back or arm to ground him, or the kid's voice guiding him on separating out and setting aside the useless noise around him, maybe - but his heart clenched. God, he had to find the kid! Had to. Couldn't imagine doing this, using his senses, straining to make them work for the whole of his life without Blair there to help him, to guide him. And he sure as hell wouldn't accept that he couldn't hear the heartbeat because it wasn't there to be heard.

"Take a whiff of the wind," she suggested again, her anger making her deliberately cruel. "It's blowing from downstream."

"I told you," he grunted, "smell isn't our best bet. His natural scent will be merging with - "

"The scent of a rotting body is pretty damned distinctive," she cut in brutally.

Furious at her insistence that Sandburg was dead, he whirled around to face her. "What the hell is it with you?" he shouted. "I'm telling you, he's not dead. Why the fuck did you bother coming out here if you are so goddamned certain that there's no hope?"

"Well, I sure as hell am not here for you, that's for damned sure," she hissed back. Blowing a breath, obviously struggling to contain her simmering rage, the bulwark she knew she'd been using against grief, she said tightly, "I'm here for Sandy." Looking up at the star-spangled sky, blinking hard, she said brokenly, "He loved you. It would…would break his heart to think you were out here alone, in danger of zoning, because of him. I'm here because he'd expect me to be here, to help you. It was damned near the last thing I ever heard him say, remember? When he asked me, all of us - to bloody help you."

She lost it then, a sob breaking from deep in her chest even as she bit her lip to stop its trembling and Ellison could see tears on her cheeks, tiny diamonds sparkling with reflected moonlight. Jim reeled at the pain in her voice; at her absolute conviction that Sandburg was dead, but that she honoured Blair so greatly that she'd do this, be here despite her animosity and the fact she clearly blamed him for the kid's death - a death he just could not bring himself to accept. But he was so afraid…his own eyes blurred and he had to swallow hard. Taking a breath, he stepped toward her slowly and, when she didn't flinch away, he gripped her shoulder gently. "He's not dead, Megan. We're going to find him," he offered quietly but with renewed and resolute confidence.

She turned her face away and scrubbed at her wet cheeks. "How can you believe that?" she demanded hollowly; the fight had gone out of her and her voice was ragged with grief. "If the accident didn't kill him, the river would have drowned him. Even if by some miracle he managed to make it to shore, it's been more than a day. It's cold and wet and he'd've been hurt. He'd've died by exposure by now."

"I believe it because Blair's not a quitter," Jim replied firmly. "I believe it because his life simply cannot be over, not like this. Not now."

When she turned back to face him, her expression was sad but thoughtful. "Because you brought him back to life six months ago, you figure there had to be a reason? That it wouldn't make sense for God or whoever to give him back, only to take him away now?"

Uncomfortable with putting the supernatural stuff into words, Jim simply nodded and muttered, "Yeah, something like that." Taking a breath, he went on more strongly, "And also because he's just about the strongest, most determined man I've ever known. And because he loves life, however tough it gets. He would not surrender his life easily. He'd fight and scrap and just…just hang on, because that's who he is."

Sniffing, she remembered how Sandburg had kept up in the Mexican jungle, though he'd had to feel utterly exhausted at the time. She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose and nodded; despite any of the very tight spots she'd seen him in, he never had given up. And she'd heard some pretty hair-raising stories from the others about how the funny little hippie stayed the course, though everyone had bet against him sticking around past his early, very up-close and personal encounters with a mad bomber, a murderous white supremacist, a rogue CIA agent and even a psychotic serial killer. But he didn't quit; he never had. Even in leaving, he was still doing what was necessary, regardless of how much she knew it had to have torn him apart. And she remembered his boundless curiousity, his endless enthusiasm and sheer joy and wonder at the miracle and adventure of life, his unflagging and unfailing energy. She nodded again, more firmly - and, for the first time, she felt the whisper of a desperate hope that, just maybe, this search wouldn't end in abject grief.

Looking at Ellison with more of her usual asperity, she demanded, "So what the hell are you doing standing here, wasting time? Let's get moving, Jimbo. Wouldn't want to keep Sandy waiting any longer than necessary."

He smiled then, and slapped her on the back. "Now that's the right attitude," he commended as he set off again into the darkness.

Hours later, the night had begun to lighten into dawn, the trees emerging as gray shadows, and the river gradually became more substantial than quicksilver reflection. Jim stopped again for the umpteenth time to listen and Megan, as she'd begun doing after they had spoken so candidly, moved up to lay a light hand on his back in an effort to help ground him. At first, Ellison thought this attempt was going to prove as frustratingly fruitless as all the others but, then, he caught something. Blinking, he tilted his head toward the direction of the faint, indistinct sound and closed his eyes - and he held his breath as he shut out everything but that distant…

"JIM!" she yelled and pounded him fiercely on the back, startling him out of the zone. "Bloody hell! Don't DO that," she scolded.

"I've got him," he rasped with breathless excitement and relief, as he set off in a fast, if limping, run.

For a moment she gaped at him and then, a blinding smile lighting her face, she raced off after him.

Ten minutes later, he was finally able to link sight with the slow pulsing throb of Sandburg's heartbeat, but he staggered to a halt, stunned to see the wolf standing watch and sick at his friend's deplorable condition. Blair was curled on the wet ground, as if huddled against the cold, his bare skin scraped and bruised, bleeding from innumerable shallow wounds and grazes, his disheveled hair hiding his face. The wolf lifted his head, his incredible blue eyes unblinking as they held Ellison's gaze, as if to demand what had taken the Sentinel so long to come to his Guide's aid. But when Megan stumbled to a halt beside him, the spirit guide yipped once and ceded his place, turning to lope to the forest's edge. The animal looked back once and then slipped into the shadows, vanishing from sight as it forsook the semblance of substantiality it had assumed to keep predators at bay.

"Was that a wolf?" Conner gasped, alarmed as her gaze raked Blair, seeking any sign that he'd been attacked or mauled.

"Yeah," Jim blinked and cut her a fast look, clearly surprised that she'd seen the creature. "It's Sandburg's spirit guide."

"Strewth!" she exclaimed softly, gaping a little at the spot where she'd last seen the wolf before following as Ellison strode quickly to his friend's side.

Dropping to one knee, Jim carefully turned Blair and supported his head and shoulders against his chest. "Damn, he's freezing," he muttered, and Megan immediately pulled out the clothing and blankets. Together, they swiftly got him dressed and covered and, while Ellison checked him for injuries, Megan hunted up deadfall.

"How is he?" she asked quietly as she built and started the fire to add some measure of warmth.

Jim shook his head, frowning with anxiety. "His lungs sound badly congested; might be pneumonia," he replied, his throat tight with the realization of how close Sandburg must have come to drowning. "And he's suffering from severe exposure. I can't rouse him," he added hollowly. "There're a couple of bad lumps on his head."

Nodding, she pulled from her backpack the satellite directional locator that Simon had pressed upon her. After switching it on, she flipped open her cell phone but swore under her breath when she couldn't get a signal, "Bloody damn mountains!"

Jim's jaw tightened in frustration, but his head snapped up at the loud call of a hunting cat. High above them on the ledge of a looming cliff, he spotted the black jaguar. Megan had noticed his sudden alert stance and followed his gaze, but couldn't see what had attracted his attention. "What?" she demanded.

"I'll have to climb up to the ridge - it should be high enough to get a signal," he replied flatly. Shifting his gaze back to her, he added, "It won't take me long. Keep him as warm as you can and keep trying to wake him."

"All right," she agreed, as she moved to take Blair into her arms. Though she was a bit reluctant to let Jim go on his own, afraid he might zone, there was little other choice. She watched Ellison lope away, biting back on her instinctive encouragement to hurry, knowing the Jim needed no such urging. Turning her attention back to the young man lying so still against her, deeply worried about his shallow rasping pants for breath, she firmly cupped his cold cheek. "Sandy? Can you hear me?" she called. "Sandy?"

Grimly, she thumbed open one eyelid and then the other, her gut clenching when she saw that his pupils were seriously dilated and slightly uneven. Her eyes burned and she blinked sharply as she trembled with fear for him. "Please be okay," she whispered as she hugged him close, in part to warm him as best she could, but more to comfort herself with the fact that he was at least still alive.

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

Unwilling to take the time to find an easy route to the heights, Jim simply began to free climb as soon as he reached the base of the nearby, nearly sheer, ridge. Keeping his hearing tuned to Sandburg's heartbeat to ground himself, he opened his sight to find even the smallest holds for his fingertips and the toes of his boots. The granite was still very wet and slippery; it took all of his considerable skill and concentration to cling to the wall of rock as he inched his way up. Driven by desperation, only too aware of how badly in need of medical help Sandburg was, he forced himself onward, biting his lip against cramping muscles, blinking against the sweat that stung his eyes. Still, he was as careful as he could be, and he warily tested each new grip to ensure the rock wouldn't crumble but would hold his weight - not so much out of fear that he might fall and kill himself as out of the knowledge that Blair's life depended upon him completing the climb as quickly as he could. Several times, his boots skidded on the slick stone and he hung from his fingertips, the muscles in his hands, arms, shoulders and back shrieking in protest but, resolutely, fighting back the panic that nipped at the edges of his mind, he stoically found the next niche, and the next…and the next.

Twenty hair-raising minutes later, he hauled himself onto the ledge where he'd seen the jaguar and laid there for a long moment to catch his breath. And then he rolled onto his knees and pulled out his cell phone to punch in the number for the emergency rescue service. He blew out a long sigh of profound relief when he heard the line engage and ring, swiftly requesting an airlift out when he got a response. As soon as he'd given the coordinates and received assurance that help would arrive within the hour, he terminated the call. Before beginning the torturous climb back down to the river, he called Simon to let him know that they'd found Sandburg and he was alive, but badly hurt, and to report that it would probably be at least three hours before they'd get to the hospital.

Then he turned to make his descent, a journey more perilous and tortuous than the climb had been. But when Ellison heard Sandburg's heart rate suddenly begin to race erratically, he let himself drop the last fifteen feet and then turned to lunge through the forest. He could hear Megan muttering fearfully, "Oh, God, Sandy, please…please…don't…" as he raced into the small clearing by the river and saw Blair convulsing weakly in her arms.

"Jesus," he gasped as he stumbled toward them and fell to his knees to help her support their friend just as Sandburg's body again slumped into limp lifelessness but for his husky, laboured breathing.

Megan looked up at him, her eyes haunted and dark with fear, her face pale. "He's convulsed twice since you went to call for help. It's bad, Jim, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice catching with grief.

Nodding mutely, he gently took Blair from her and folded his comatose friend tightly against his chest, his cheek resting on the damp, dirty curls. Sandburg's heartbeat slowed to a steady, but now slightly irregular beat and Jim bit his lip, feeling helpless and very afraid. Taking a breath, he murmured hoarsely, "A chopper's on the way. Should be here in a half hour or so."

Megan sat back on her heels, her lips tightly compressed to stop them from quivering. Watching Jim, she knew that if she had ever doubted his genuine love for the man in his arms, she'd been wrong. Ellison looked utterly devastated, as if he was barely hanging on - and the sorrow and guilt in his eyes nearly broke her heart.

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

They strapped Sandburg securely into the steel basket that had been lowered from the hovering Search and Rescue helicopter and, as the winch was strong enough, Jim rode up with his friend. Though Blair was too deeply unconscious to fear the swinging ride, Ellison could not bear to let him make that ascent alone. Megan would have preferred to go with them, but she undertook to get their gear back to the car and would meet Jim at the hospital as soon as she could. But she stood, rooted to the earth and motionless, watching the chopper until it disappeared from view, before turning away with slumped shoulders and bowed head to begin her solitary trek back to the ruined bridge.

High above, Jim grimly fought the roar of the engine and the high-pitched whine of the blades to listen past the ear-splitting noise and retain his sense of Sandburg's heartbeat. He and the rescue worker worked swiftly to get oxygen flowing through a mask over Blair's face, start an intravenous drip, and bundle him as warmly as they could under layers of wool blankets. His skin was cold, waxy and pale with shock, his breathing too shallow and rasping as he lay so scarily still during the whole of the more than two-hour flight back to Cascade - the closest centre with adequate medical facilities. Jim crouched over him, holding his friend's hand and stroking Blair's brow, his chest so tight with tension that he found it hard to breathe. The journey seemed a kind of hell, endless…

When they finally arrived, there was a flurry of activity as Sandburg was transferred onto a gurney on the roof of Cascade General, and rushed inside to the elevator. Jim kept pace, hastily briefing the emergency physician on Sandburg's injuries, unresponsiveness and convulsions. Nodding tightly, the doctor ordered an immediate series of x-rays and a CT scan of the skull and chest. Other possible injuries could wait for later diagnosis and treatment. Vital signs were taken and monitored, blood samples drawn and a quick examination of reflexes undertaken. All the while, Ellison stood rigidly in a corner, out of the way but adamantly refusing to leave Blair's immediate vicinity, exercising his right as the designated next of kin with Sandburg's power of attorney to approve whatever treatment was required.

It was almost an hour, in which Blair suffered another seizure, before the doctor turned from her study of reports and x-ray films to discuss next steps with Jim.

"There is evidence of pneumonia in the lower lobe of his right lung, and scarring of the lung tissue - "

"He drowned about six months ago," Ellison interjected tightly.

She nodded, her expression solemn. "That may complicate his recovery, but I've started him on a wide-spectrum antibiotic and we'll see how he responds." Pausing, she shifted to gaze at Sandburg before continuing quietly, "He's also suffered severe trauma to the skull. There is a hairline fracture in the temporal region and deep bruising there, as well as of the occipital lobe at the base of his skull. We have to take him into surgery immediately to reduce the pressure of slow bleeding on the brain." Turning back to Ellison, she told him, "I've alerted the Operating Room and called in Dr. Drew Reynolds, a neurosurgeon. As soon as he's prepped, we'll be moving him upstairs."

Jim's throat was dry and so tight he had difficulty forming words. "How bad…" he stammered, and then paused, needing to swallow. "The convulsions…" he tried again, but his voice cracked before he could finish his question.

Her eyes narrowed with compassion as she lightly gripped his arm to steady him. "The seizures are a result of the pressure from the bleeding and the swelling of his brain due to the severe concussions he suffered. But it's too soon to know what damage, if any, has been suffered. We need to take this a step at a time. He's deeply unconscious now and he probably won't wake up, if he wakes up, for days. Dr. Reynolds may well artificially sustain the coma with medication, to give his brain time to heal. The staff will give you the consent forms for signature, and then I'm afraid we can only wait to see how he responds. I would strongly advise you to go home and clean up, rest. It's going to be a long, hard few days."

Jim stared at her. "If he wakes up?" he echoed, trying to grasp what she was saying, not wanting to hear it. He trembled and ducked his head and then shook it. "He's going to be okay," he grated, needing to believe that. She only squeezed his arm mutely and then moved away to oversee Sandburg's preparation for brain surgery. A nurse had already shaved small sections above his left ear and at the base of his skull, and the doctor swiftly intubated him to ensure there'd be no respiratory complications if he seized again on the way to the OR.

Jim raked his fingers through his short hair and watched wide-eyed, pale and shaky and very, very scared.

When they wheeled the gurney out into the hall, he followed until a nurse held him back at the elevator, sending him to the Admissions' Office to complete the paperwork. In a daze, he limped out of the Emergency Unit, unaware of Simon's presence in the waiting lounge until the taller man moved into his line of sight and caught him by the arm.

"Jim?" Banks asked tentatively, as he regarded Ellison's evident state of shock with no little concern. "How is he?"

Lifting his haunted eyes to Banks' dark gaze, Jim licked his dry lips and then tightened his jaw to swallow the thick lump in his throat. "He's, uh, in a coma," he replied hollowly, his expression stark with dread. "They've taken him to the OR for brain surgery. They, uh, don't know…don't know if he'll wake up."

Simon gripped Ellison's shoulder as he turned his face away, his eyes pressed shut, and took a deep breath as hope turned to sour despair in his belly. Biting his lip, he shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm sorry, Jim," he rasped. "God, I'm so sorry."

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

Long before the delicate surgery was over, the rest of the Major Crimes' team had shown up in the dreary waiting room outside the 'no admittance' doors to the OR. All but Megan, who was somewhere en route, perhaps not even yet back at the car by the broken bridge. Big, tough men sat slouched in despondency or paced with anxious tension. Silence hung like a pall over the group of detectives and their Captain, and they consumed countless Styrofoam cups of bitter coffee as the hours trickled by.

Jim sat in a corner, hunched over with his face in his hands, his thoughts locked into an endless whirl of bits and pieces of memory that ripped at his heart and tore at his soul, leaving him sick and utterly disgusted with himself. He didn't need to see the way the others looked at him to feel their anger and their pity. They blamed him, all of them, and well they might, for it was his fault that Sandburg had been on that damned desolate road. If only he had done so many things, or even one or two things differently, Blair wouldn't have been caught in the flash flood that had destroyed that bridge. Wouldn't have been anywhere near it. Would have been home and safe.

So many wretched memories that twisted his gut and tightened his chest with despair and guilt. When had it all gone so wrong? Right at the beginning, maybe, when he'd only grudgingly agreed to accept Blair's help because he hadn't had any other choice? When he'd slammed the kid against a wall in fear and anger, too stubborn and willful to listen? Or when he'd lied to deliberately hurt the ingenuous young man who'd just saved his life, telling him that a young woman he was interested in had said he was a dork, when she'd really said he was 'adorable' and how much she wished he'd ask her out? Was it resentment at having to be dependent? Had he unconsciously blamed Sandburg all these years for the trouble he had with the damned senses? Or was his heart so shriveled, his soul so warped, that he'd simply been incapable of gratefully and wholeheartedly accepting the support and the friendship Sandburg had unfailingly offered?

But despite all that, they had become friends, the best of friends. Sandburg pushed and prodded, laughed and teased, blew up when necessary, ignored his moods when they weren't important. Blair listened and conjured up solutions to weird sensory spikes and reactions; the kid had simply been there, always there, to give support, to amuse, to apply his extraordinary mind to the challenges of the day. And somewhere along the line, Sandburg had become part of Jim's life, integral and intrinsic, like the broad bands of crimson and gold that illuminated a tapestry and gave it depth, texture and richness.

Was that it? Had he just taken the kid for granted? Assumed he'd always be there, while one dark corner of his mind dreaded the inevitable day when Blair would choose to move on? Was that why he'd gone off to Clayton Falls alone? Or why he went ape-shit over the draft chapter of the diss more than six months ago? Was almost losing Sandburg at the fountain at Rainier what had made that impending loss so much more real, the fear that much keener? Was that why he'd become increasingly cold and remote over the last few months?

And did he get so angry over the sudden notoriety of the unlawfully released excerpts because he'd needed to be angry - because the diss was done and that meant Blair would be moving on and Jim just couldn't deal with that reality? Was that why he'd refused to listen to any explanation, walked away from any discussion about how to deal with it all? Walked away before he could be abandoned? God, like some spoiled two-year-old who wasn't getting his way?

Jim's throat thickened and his lips quivered at the memory of the press conference telecast. Why the hell hadn't he stopped it then, before it had gone so far that Blair felt he'd no choice but to leave? What would be so damned terrible about people knowing about his senses? Jesus, as much as they were sometimes painful and unpredictable, they were also the gift that Sandburg always claimed them to be. Unique and amazing and so precious in his line of work; talents he'd drawn on and come to rely upon to do his job to the best of his ability. What the hell was wrong with him that he'd allowed the kid to give up everything to protect him and his desire to keep them secret?

How could he have let Blair just drive away?

Megan's angry words ricocheted through his thoughts, her fury and disgust lashing him over and over as he replayed their conversation in his mind. God, how could he have been so blind to not see what she saw, what no doubt all the others saw? When had he become so rigid and unbending, so sanctimonious in his own view of the world, so narrow and cold? So like the father he remembered from his childhood and youth?

Jim felt frozen inside, icy with fear and grief, stiff with guilt and despair, by the time the neurosurgeon finally appeared, looking weary and stoic. When he looked up and saw that controlled expression, Ellison's heart clenched, afraid to hear what they were about to be told.

"He's in a coma," the middle-aged man said briskly and without preamble, "and I'll keep him unconscious for the next couple of days, at least. We won't really know the extent of any damage until he eventually wakes up."

"But he will wake up," Jim countered. "Right?"

The surgeon pursed his lips as his gaze dropped away. "I hope so," he sighed. "But it's too soon to know for sure. For now, it's a waiting game. I should warn you…individuals who have been so deeply unconscious, who have suffered repeated convulsions from pressure being exerted on the brain, are often not the same people they once were when they wake up."

"You're saying he might have permanent brain damage," Simon grated, stricken.

"I'm saying he might not be the man you knew," Dr. Reynolds reiterated.

Then, despite again being told that he should simply go home and rest, Jim refused to leave until he was allowed to see Sandburg. Reynolds shrugged, too tired to argue the point and they were told to go to the visitors' lounge outside the Intensive Care Unit to wait.

As they made their way along the hospital corridors, Simon said firmly, "We need to try to find his mother."

Jim nodded tightly. "I'll call the State Department when I get home. All I know is that she was planning to go to Katmandu. I don't know if she's left or already there, but I'll try to find her."

Half an hour later, Ellison was permitted entry to the closed ward to see Blair for five minutes. Jim stood for a long moment at the foot of the narrow, raised bed as he silently stared at his friend. Warm blankets covered Sandburg to his shoulders, as he was still suffering from exposure, and a respirator covered the lower half of his face, while a wide bandage that circled his head covered his brow. Various wires linked leads affixed to his head with the EEG monitoring his brain waves. About all that was visible of his friend was one arm with an intravenous needle in the back of his bruised hand, his sunken, half-shuttered eyes and the mass of tangled curls tied loosely above the bandage. His heartbeat, monitored by the beeping EKG machine, was slower than usual, but at least it was regular again.

Slowly, Jim moved along the side of the bed and he reached to grip Blair's wrist. "You're safe, Blair - you did everything right to survive and now you just have to wake up," he murmured, hoarsely. Then, his tone more desperate, he added, "But you've got to give me another chance, Chief. You hear me? You've got to wake up and give me a 'do over', so that this time I can get it right. I want to fix everything that went wrong between us. Please, kid, give me that chance."

When the nurse came to tell him it was time to leave, Jim wanted so badly to resist, but he knew there was little point. Blair was deeply unconscious and heavily medicated to keep his brain inactive while the internal swelling from the severe concussions dissipated; there was no way the younger man could perceive his presence and there was nothing Ellison could do for him. So he nodded tightly to show he understood and lightly stroked Sandburg's still too cool cheek. "I'll be back soon, Chief. I promise," he murmured and then turned to leave.

Out in the waiting room, the others stood as he came through the double doors, their expressions anxious.

"He's unconscious, just like the doctor said he'd be," Ellison told them quietly, his gaze averted. His jaw tightened as he cleared his throat and straightened his slumped shoulders. Lifting his eyes to Simon, he asked, "Could you give me a lift home? There's nothing anyone can do here for now, not so long as they've got him so heavily drugged."

"Hairboy would have a fit if he knew all the stuff they were pumping into his system," Brown rumbled, his voice husky. Joel nodded and brushed at his eyes, while Rafe looked away, sniffing as he brushed his nose.

Their very evident anxious sorrow nearly broke Ellison's fragile control, and he felt his chest tighten as his eyes burned. He had to take a shuddering breath before he could sigh, "Yeah, he would."

Simon moved forward to grip Jim's shoulder. "Come on. You need to clean up and get some rest."

They all left then, a sad, subdued group, each man lost in his own thoughts - and each of them wordlessly praying that Sandburg would be okay.

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

Jim showered when he got back home and then made himself a cup of coffee. Moving to stare out the balcony window while he drank it, he pondered all that he had to do to convince Sandburg to move back home when he got out of the hospital. The possibility that the kid might never wake up simply didn't bear thinking about. Blair just needed a little time to heal, to rest from his ordeal, and he'd be fine. Had to be fine.

Returning to the kitchen to refill his mug, Ellison pulled a pad of paper and a pen from a kitchen drawer and moved to sit at the table. Methodically, he made his list of what needed to be done: find the storage company where Blair had put his stuff and get it moved back into the loft; get his room back to normal; check with Legal Aid to find out who was handling his lawsuits against Berkshire Publishing and Rainier, and get a status report; if need be, contact his father's lawyer to push things along. Talk to Simon about his senses. There had to be a way of sharing the information with those who needed to know without creating a media circus; and they needed to brainstorm other possibilities for how to keep Sandburg on the team in a role he'd be comfortable with - possibilities that would give the kid legitimate choices. Chewing on his lip, Jim thought about Blair's car. The Volvo would be a total wreck, but maybe some of the gear he had packed in it could be salvaged; he had to contact Highway Patrol and find out where the vehicle and its contents had been taken. Using Sandburg's Power of Attorney, he could begin work on the insurance claim, so that would all be handled by the time Blair woke up. He'd need to know that he could replace his wheels and laptop as soon as he wanted.

Sitting back in his chair, Ellison looked around the loft, wondering what else he needed to do to make the place as welcoming and warm as possible for when Sandburg came home. When his gaze landed on the kitchen cupboards, he made a note to get in a supply of the herbal teas Blair liked and a package of the algae shake mix. Turning to examine the living area, he noted the absence of candles and added them to the shopping list, along with incense for the kid's room; that made him think of shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste and a new toothbrush, as well as razor. Clothing? Blair had been almost naked when they'd found him, so he'd lost at least his jacket, a shirt and jeans, and his sneakers. Jim knew he'd have to see what could be salvaged from the wreck before he bought much more than that. Some help would be appreciated, like having a new jacket to wear home from the hospital, but Sandburg was a proud, self-sufficient man and wouldn't accept more than what was absolutely needed.

When he finished the list of things to do, he got fresh linens and made up Blair's bed, and then he put the afghan back on the sofa. Looking up at the clock, he was surprised that it was still the middle of the night - time had no meaning and everything since he'd heard about the accident seemed to blend together. As restless as he was, as much as he felt drawn back to the hospital, Jim knew he had to get some rest; he hadn't slept during the last two anxious nights. So he hauled himself off to bed.

It was hard, though, to relax enough to sleep. His memory kept replaying the sight of Blair lying curled on the muddy earth, and seeing him convulse in Megan's arms. And watching him lying so still, his head wrapped in the bandage, so deeply unconscious he needed a respirator to keep breathing. Once again, Jim felt the weight of responsibility and guilt. Sandburg had only been on that road because of him - his failure to deal with his own senses; his fears of being labeled a freak; his reluctance to admit his need not only for a Guide but for the friendship they shared, so that he'd let Blair sacrifice himself and then drive away.

Vowing to himself, as he'd promised Sandburg hours before, that he was going to make things right, he rolled onto his side and forced himself to do the deep breathing and relaxation exercises Blair had taught him years ago. And, finally, he slipped off to sleep.

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

As soon as he woke just after six AM, Ellison called the hospital to check on Sandburg's status. Upon being informed that there was no change in his friend's condition, nor was any change anticipated for the next twenty-four hours, he sighed and thanked the nurse. He switched on the coffeemaker and then picked up his 'to do' list. It was too early to call storage companies or Legal Aid, but the State Patrol was open twenty-four/seven. It didn't take long to track down Sandburg's wreck and to arrange for his possessions to be shipped express to him, c/o Cascade PD. He had a quick breakfast and, after pacing restlessly, he grabbed his jacket and headed back to the hospital.

Gratified that the ICU did not have fixed visiting hours, Jim followed the nurse inside the closed ward and then made his way to Sandburg's cubicle. Though it was small progress, he was relieved to see the heavy layer of blankets had been removed and Blair's temperature was back to normal. But the kid was still on the respirator and hooked up to a variety of wires and tubes. It was disconcerting to see his eyes half-open but dull and unseeing; there was no way to pretend that he was simply asleep.

Once again, Jim stroked his friend's cheek and gripped his wrist. "I wonder if you can hear me," he mused softly, wishing that some part of Sandburg would know he was there - and know that he cared. "I've arranged to get your stuff salvaged from your Volvo and it's being shipped back to Cascade, but I'm afraid your car is a write-off. Don't worry; we'll get you a new one as soon as you're up and around. Same with your laptop, if it's so waterlogged it'll never work again." Sighing, feeling helpless, Jim shook his head. "Dammit, Chief, I feel real bad, you know? If I'd just done something or said something, you'd never have been on that damned bridge - you wouldn't be laying here now, so hurt." His voice caught and cracked, and he bowed his head as he swiped at his stinging eyes and sniffed. "God, you've got to be okay, Sandburg. You don't deserve any of this. Hell, after all you've done for me…" Again he choked up and had to clear his throat before he could continue hoarsely, "I'd rather it was me in that damned bed."

His time with his friend ended all too soon for his satisfaction, but he left without complaint and then drove over to Simon's place. It was still early, just after eight AM, but he was pretty sure Banks would be up.

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

"Jim, I wasn't expecting you," Banks said, surprised when he opened the door, still in his robe and slippers. "Come on in. You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks, that would be great," Ellison replied as he followed his boss into the kitchen.

Once they'd settled at the table, Simon began, almost afraid to ask in case Jim had come bearing bad news, "So…how's the kid this morning?"

"The same," Jim sighed. "Maybe a little better. His core temperature is back to normal." Banks nodded gloomily as they sipped at the hot coffee; Sandburg's 'core temperature' wasn't the problem. Ellison's gaze skittered around the kitchen and then he took a deep breath. "Simon, we need a better solution than offering Sandburg a badge. And, uh, I think it's time that we figured out how to let people know about my senses."

Banks' eyes widened in surprise. "You sure you want to do that?" he asked with a frown.

"Well, I don't want to take out a full page ad," Ellison replied tightly. "But if Blair is going to be comfortable staying in Cascade, and credible working with the PD, we're going to have to come up with something eventually. Maybe we can admit that I've got enhanced senses, even put on a bit of a demonstration for the media - take the mystery and hoopla out of it and just make the senses seem kinda, I don't know, normal but a little better than what most people can see or hear or whatever." Sighing, his lips thinned and then he added quietly, "I can't live with the sacrifices he's made just because I'm uncomfortable with people thinking I'm some kind of freak. Conner…well, she blew up at me when we were looking for Sandburg. Pretty much told me I was an ungrateful bastard and any sensible cop would be dancing with delight to have the edge my senses give me. And she's right. It's time I…I stopped being a jerk about it all."

Simon's eyes narrowed as he studied his best detective. Leaning back in his chair, wincing a little at the pull in his chest and back from his healing wounds, he observed mildly, "I've never really understood why you felt so uncomfortable about people knowing what you can do. Sure, it's different, unusual, but you've never struck me as someone who thinks anyone who is different is bad or wrong or 'some kind of freak'."

Scratching the back of his head, Ellison looked away, the expression in his eyes clouded and distant. "It's a reflex," he admitted reluctantly. But Simon was a good friend, and so he carried on, "When I was a kid, and my father realized what I could do, that I was SO different, he ordered me never to let anyone else know because they'd think I was a freak." He swallowed and shrugged. "He scared me, I guess. Made me feel like there was something wrong or bad about me, about my senses. I repressed them, at least, that's what Sandburg figures, and they only came back in Peru, and then again during the Switchman case, because I was in isolated, dangerous situations and I needed them."

"I see," Simon murmured. He chewed on his lip for a minute and then leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Okay, I'll talk to the Chief and the Commissioner again, and get their clearance to work with our Public Affairs people to come up with some strategies and scenarios for how we might do this. You'll be available if they want to talk with you?"

"Yeah, of course," Jim confirmed with a sober nod, hoping Banks couldn't see how uncertain he really was about taking this irrevocable step. He felt like he'd swallowed ten thousand butterflies and his mouth was dry with fear. But he had to do this. It was only right and fair. Only just.

"Jim," Banks said firmly, his gaze compassionate, "your father was wrong. You must know that, even if you don't feel it yet. You won't be doing this alone. We'll all back you up and support you any way we can."

Busted; apparently it was obvious how sick and scared coming clean made him feel. Ellison closed his eyes and bowed his head as he took a steadying breath. "Thanks," he managed to choke out. The care and concern in Simon's eyes and voice, his confident assurances that others wouldn't leave him high and dry but would help, rocked Jim to his soul. He was so damned used to being a loner, mostly because he'd never honestly believed that anyone really gave a damn about him - well, except for Sandburg - that the proffered unconditional support was very nearly overwhelming. Sniffing, he looked up as he added, "You're a good friend, Simon."

"So are you," Banks replied gently. Deciding that they'd had enough of the emotional shit for the time being, he asked, "So, you think Sandburg would be more willing to accept some kind of civilian consultant position?" When Ellison nodded, his expression turned pensive. "I was reading an article in the Police Gazette the other day about how some big city forces are hiring forensic anthropologists to better understand the micro-communities and cultures that make up so much of our population these days. I thought of Sandburg when I read it, and how he's helped bring a different perspective to our investigations over the past few years. I'll run the idea past the Chief when I meet with him."

Jim brightened visibly at that idea. "That would be perfect," he exclaimed with a smile. "Sandburg would love something like that!"

"Yeah, well, we'll see if I can pull it off," Simon replied with a cautionary tone. "I'll have to do up some stats that show how his influence has been helpful in our solve rate, and make the case for a budget increase for his salary and benefits. We'll probably have to be prepared to share him with other units."

"Whatever," Jim replied with a shrug. "I think Vice and Homicide, even Patrol, would benefit from his perspectives. If I can help with building the case, let me know."

Simon sipped his coffee, his expression troubled. "I know you don't want to hear this, Jim - but what if the kid doesn't wake up? Or is…damaged as a result of his injuries? Maybe we should hold off a bit."

"No," Ellison retorted unequivocally, shaking his head. "He's going to wake up and he's going to be fine," he insisted, however unreasonable he knew he was being intellectually. Emotionally, he could accept no other possibility. "And when he does wake up, I want us to be able to offer him meaningful options."

"Okay, I hear you," Simon sighed.

Jim looked at his watch and then stood. "Simon, I appreciate your support on all of this, I really do. I've got some other things I have to do today to sort things out for the kid. I'll give you a call later, okay?"

"Fine," Banks agreed as he stood to see Ellison to the door.

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

Back in the loft, Jim got busy on the phone. First, he called Sandburg's insurance broker. He didn't have the kid's policy number, but it didn't take long to sort that out and initiate the claim on the car and to flag that there might be subsequent claims for destroyed personal goods. Then he began calling storage companies and found what he was looking for on the fifth try. He made arrangements to have everything shipped back to the loft the next day by the simple of expedient of claiming he was Sandburg and that the situation had changed and he wouldn't be moving out of town after all. Legal Aid was next on his list. The kid's lawyer wasn't available to take the call, but Ellison made an appointment to see the woman later that afternoon.

And then, limping badly but ignoring his stiff and protesting leg, he headed back out to do the shopping, starting with Sandburg's favourite health food store, The Good Earth; he was determined to track down the teas, spices and whatever else he could find there. He didn't remember specific product names, but he knew he'd recognize some things by the colour and design of the packaging, and others he'd find by scent.

When the cheerful Earth Mother behind the counter asked if he needed any help, and he mumbled that he was doing some shopping for his friend, Sandburg, she brightened and asked, "Blair Sandburg?"

"Yeah," Jim acknowledged, somehow not surprised that the woman remembered his friend. Sandburg had a habit of making a favourable impression and getting to know the people he did business with.

Once she knew that Ellison wanted to pretty much restock all of Sandburg's supplies, she bustled out from behind the counter, grabbed a wicker hand basket and led him from aisle to aisle. In no time at all, he had the teas, Blair's favourite spices and incense, various candles, and the algae shake mix. She also added the granola mixture he preferred for breakfast, and the natural shampoo, conditioner and toothpaste that Sandburg usually bought; Jim tossed in a toothbrush and a razor. When Ellison lingered a moment at the collection of CDs that featured environmental sounds with various subtle instrumental music, and others that represented the music of a wide variety of cultures, she smiled. "He's bought a few of those over the years, for a friend, he said."

"I recognize some of them," he replied as he fingered a few of the jewel cases.

"There are a couple I know he likes but he said he couldn't really afford," she hinted and then pulled out three: Tibetan chanting, Aborigine music from Australia, and another that featured tribal songs from Africa. He nodded and she added them to the basket.

Strolling around the shop, he spotted a few other things he figured Sandburg both needed and would like. A new knapsack. A loose short-sleeved long shirt dyed in brilliant colours of blue, green, gold and splashes of red. A warm blanket made of llama wool dyed and woven by hand in Peru. A hand-woven V-necked pullover that was light but would be warm and was patterned with various shades of blue.

After paying for his purchases, he headed back to the truck and then set out for his favourite men's wear store. An hour later, he had a new jacket, a couple of pairs of jeans, assorted underwear, t-shirts and socks, and three more shirts, all of them flannel. In the shop next door, he bought a pair of sneakers in the brand Sandburg preferred because of something to do with the working conditions of the people who made them. He smiled to himself as he strode back to the truck, hoping Blair would realize that, sometimes, most of the time, he really did pay attention to what the kid had to say about corporate values and why he patronized some companies but scorned others.

From there, he headed back downtown to meet with Sandburg's lawyer, Shannon McCafferty. She was young, clearly just out of law school, or maybe even just articling before she took the Bar exams, and he initially wondered if he should relieve her of the work and engage his father's legal shark. But, once he explained his interest and Blair's current incapacity, and showed her his power of attorney, she crisply brought him up to date on the progress she was making on the suits against Berkshire Publishing and Rainier. Ellison was impressed with her incisive manner and determination, and decided she had matters well in hand. He also gathered that she would have liked to push harder, but Sandburg had stressed the need to keep everything low key, which handicapped, somewhat, the kind of settlements and public apologies she'd prefer to seek as reparation.

"Don't worry about keeping a low profile on these cases," he told her decisively. "In fact, if you think publicity would help, or the threat of it, go right ahead. I'd like to see him validated and vindicated publicly."

Her eyes lit up, much like a hunter who has spotted her prey. "You got it," she assured him with a predatory smile.

Yep, he figured she'd do just fine and, someday, she would make a high profile law firm proud.

Ellison swung by the hospital on the way back to the loft, and was glad to see that Reynolds was there when he walked in. The night before, he'd been too shell-shocked to ask many questions, but now he wanted information about Sandburg's condition.

"How's he doing?" he asked as he strode into the small, glassed cubicle.

The neurosurgeon glanced at him and then continued listening to Sandburg's chest through the stethoscope. A moment later he straightened and turned to face Ellison. "The antibiotics seem to be helping - his chest sounds are clearer. Heart and blood pressure are good. And he's recovered from the worst effects of exposure."

Jim nodded. He'd known that much without having to ask. "How long will you be keeping him unconscious?" he asked bluntly.

"Another day, at least," Reynolds replied. "I've order a CT scan for tomorrow to determine if the swelling is reducing and by how much. I'll have a better idea after I've seen those results."

Jim grimaced, wishing the healing would go faster. Chewing on the inside of his lip, he hesitated but then forced himself to ask hesitatingly, "You, uh, said there might be damage…or that he might never wake up. What are his chances of full recovery? What kind of 'damage' do you think there might be?"

The specialist waved to one of the two straight-backed chairs and, once Jim sat down, he settled in the other. "Mr. Ellison, I know you'd appreciate more precision, but until the swelling reduces and we cease to keep him under, it is very difficult to be certain of what his prognosis will be. But, your friend suffered serious head injuries, and as I said last night, the fact that he was having convulsions is not a good sign. However, there are some indicators that we will be monitoring. First, the longer he remains in a deep coma, the poorer the prognosis. Once we've discontinued the medication that is artificially suppressing his brain activity, it will be important to try to stimulate him. Music, talking to him, touching him may all help to 'call him back', as it were. The force of personal will is powerful, and if he wants to wake up, his mind will struggle against the darkness to find his way back. Second, the EEG will indicate if certain parts of his brain are failing to function normally and what, if any, abilities may be compromised. For now, it is simply too soon to predict anything with precision. Third, we'll see if his autonomic system works. For example, will he be able to breathe on his own? Will his reflexes respond normally, things like the reaction of his pupils to the stimulus of bright light? If autonomic functioning is compromised, it's unfortunately a very strong indicator of extensive damage and he likely would never wake up. If, indeed, he is unable to breathe on his own, or if his brain function is severely compromised, as the holder of his power of attorney and designated next of kin, you would be faced with the difficult decision of whether he should be allowed to expire rather than have his life hopelessly prolonged by artificial means."

Jim paled at that and hastily looked away, his fists clenching as he sat rigidly in the chair. He couldn't imagine having to make such a decision. Didn't know how he could face it. He shook his head unconsciously as he closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

Reynolds stood and gripped his shoulder. "I know you're afraid," he said quietly. "That's only natural. But if your friend has a living will, you will want to see what his wishes are in such an eventuality. It may make such a decision easier, if it comes to that. But, for now, we simply don't know what to expect and we have to wait to see how his brain heals."

Jim nodded stiffly but couldn't bring himself to look at the man before the specialist turned away and left the small chamber. Ellison felt like he might be physically ill and had to consciously slow and deepen his breathing as he swallowed convulsively. Finally, he lifted his head and stared at Sandburg, but his eyes blurred and he had to fight hard against the sob that built in his chest. He sniffed and brushed at his eyes to banish the tears, and he had to bite his lip to keep it from quivering. Memories kept flashing in his mind's eye. Sandburg hunched over his laptop, focused in concentration or laughing uproariously or grinning brightly as he teased. A sudden incandescent smile of surprised pleasure. Blair, dead at the fountain…and looking so devastated in front of the television cameras as he committed professional suicide by denying his own integrity and the value of his work. The kid looking at him so soberly before Blair had driven away and out of his life.

More than anything, Jim's deepest desire, even his instinct, was to deny the possibility that Sandburg would never awaken. But he knew the neurosurgeon would not have suggested such dire outcomes if there was no real danger. Ellison didn't need a formal living will to know what Blair's wishes would be; the kid would never want to be kept alive artificially if his brain was essentially dead. To the contrary, he'd want his organs and eyes donated to someone who could use them; hell, he'd probably want his whole body donated to some medical school. He wouldn't want his soul chained to an empty shell that would never awaken. A wave of abject and deep desolation swept over the detective, and he finally acknowledged to himself that there was one necessary action that he'd not put on his 'to do' list - something he'd have to do as soon as he got back home. He fought it; his heart and soul - the core of him that was a Sentinel who needed his Guide - didn't want to admit that Blair might never wake up…might in fact die. But he owed it to Sandburg to be prepared for such an eventuality. Blair deserved dignity and respect, and he'd want to have those who loved him to have the chance to make their own farewells and find some measure of closure, if the end was near.

Pushing himself to his feet, he moved to stand beside his best friend and dragged in a sobbing breath as he reached to cup Blair's cheek. "I need you, Chief," he whispered brokenly. "And I want to see you grow old. I want all of your dreams to come true, every last one of them. But if…" His voice failed him, and again he had to fight back his emotions. Clearing his throat, he promised as steadily as he could, "I'll do what I know you'd want - but, dear God, I hope it won't be necessary. Jesus, Blair. I don't want to lose you."

Then he left, and went home, and carted all the bags up to the loft. He put everything away as a physical act that said he expected Blair to eventually come home again, too. When he was finished, he called Simon to see what progress his boss had made that day. Hiding his fear that Sandburg might not recover, he thanked Banks for making the arrangements to meet with the departmental officials the next day.

And then he did what he'd been consciously avoiding having to do.

He called the State Department to request that Naomi be tracked down in Katmandu.

Wandering over to the balcony, he stood staring sightlessly toward the ocean. Reynolds had said that Sandburg's will to live was an important factor in his recovery, and Jim found himself wondering, with a shaft of pure fear, if Blair would want to wake up. The kid had been on his way to an uncertain future; had given up so much of what had mattered to him. Would life hold the same sense of adventure and mystery for him or was he tired and discouraged? From his perspective, why would Blair want to wake up?

Ashamed of himself for even wondering such a thing, Jim snorted. He'd told Conner that Sandburg wasn't a quitter, more, that he was fighter. He'd survived the accident and had gotten himself through the sudden flood and to shore despite being badly hurt. Blair wanted to live or he wouldn't have made it that far.

"He's going to wake up," Ellison told himself firmly. "He never gave up on you - don't you start giving up on him."

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

Despite his decision to remain optimistic, Jim spent a restless night and was up, showered and dressed long before the truck from the storage company arrived with Sandburg's boxes. But it finally did arrive around midmorning. When the deliverymen left, he put on one of the CDs he'd bought for Blair the day before and lit a couple of the candles. With the sound of monks chanting in the background and the scents that reminded him of his friend fragrant in the air, he spent the next two hours unpacking. Clothing was hung in the closet and folded neatly into dresser drawers. Books went into the bookcase. CDs were put on the living room shelf. The masks and pictures were hung back on the walls of the small bedroom and living room. Blair's collection of audiotapes and computer disks