New Arrivals
Author-Jael Lyn
Titles

To Go Home Again
by Jael Lyn

Summary: Ellison and Sandburg continue their journey together, continuing the story begun in Outside These Walls.

Note from the Author: Don't ask me why after such a long drought, this is where the muse led. I grovel at the feet of my two betas, Sheryl and Bluewolf. I had a lot of other help, and I'm grateful to all who acted as sounding boards and were generous with their advice. Bless you!

Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

Prologue: from Outside These Walls

Blair Sandburg was working on a PhD in Anthropology, looking for a modern sentinel to finish his dissertation. Drug dealers blew up his ratty warehouse home, and he was destitute. Colleagues at Rainier rallied to his cause. His mentor, Eli Stoddard, pressed him to finish his work without the modern case study. Overwhelmed by his situation, Blair gave up that piece of his dream. He finished his dissertation, went to Borneo and on to a successful teaching career in the Midwest.

Across town, Jim Ellison, detective in Major Crime, signed his disability papers. He, too, was overwhelmed, physically, mentally and emotionally. He was desperately ill, without explanation. Sounds deafened him. Odors brought him to his knees in choking fits. Ordinary lights were too bright, sunlight intolerable. His skin broke out in rashes and welts. Clothes were impossible.

In vain, he stripped his loft to the bare walls, unable to venture into the outside world. He shivered, nearly naked, in the cold. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He was dying, and his friend, Simon Banks, could do little to help.

Jim decided he didn't want to die. He fought back. He built a new place, a new business and a new life on the cheapest ground he could find – the burned out, ruined lot that had once held Blair Sandburg's warehouse.

Years passed.

Jim found success in business and development. Still nearly a recluse, he carved out a tenuous existence. He found some stability in a close circle of friends; Simon Banks, his colleagues from Major Crime, and Beverly Sanchez.

Blair returned to Rainier University, hired to replace the retiring Eli Stoddard. Chancellor Edwards, anxious to show off Rainier's latest acquisition, volunteered him to speak at a fund raising dinner.

Jim Ellison, patron of the Cascade Children's Foundation, attended with Beverly Sanchez. By chance or destiny, the two men were brought together for the first time.

Outside These Walls is the story of mutual discovery and burgeoning friendship.

You can read it at: http://www.idol-pursuits.tv/jaellyn/jaellyn31.html

To Go Home Again continues their story.

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Blair Sandburg made a quick inventory of the materials he needed to stuff into his briefcase. His intense blue-eyed gaze swept the office, a slight squint showing his level of concentration. As a newly hired professor a month into his first semester, everything needed immediate attention. The long library table pushed against the wall was piled with student homework, but he'd plowed through most of that during office hours. Those he could leave. He sifted through the other piles on his desk with one hand, munching on an apple with the other. He'd skipped lunch to squeeze in some extra work time around his student appointments. He should know better, but the flood of students after the first test always caught him by surprise. The day had been packed.

The grant applications went in. The article he was supposed to review – that had to be done this evening. First he needed to find the thing. If memory served, it was on the desk – somewhere. What else? Grayson's book, he needed to review the case studies before teaching his graduate seminar. Blair turned on his heel, scanning his office, looking for the volume in question. Jim was right, he really did need a better filing system.

The thought of Jim Ellison brought a smile to his face. Everything about Jim, including the Sentinel Institute, still in its infancy, was Blair's pride and joy, and a complete surprise. His life was rapidly dividing into B.J., before Jim, and A.J., after Jim.

When he'd completed his dissertation project four years earlier, he'd reluctantly accepted the apparent reality; a modern sentinel, with all five enhanced senses, did not exist. He'd moved on, literally and intellectually, first to Borneo for field study, then to a teaching position in Michigan. His return to Rainier University had produced the miracle which had eluded him five years earlier. By random chance or divine intervention, Dr. Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison, police detective turned successful businessman, were placed in each other's path. Against all possible odds, Sandburg had found his sentinel.

The discovery was not without its problems. Jim Ellison considered his sensory abilities a curse which brought him only pain and disappointment. Overwhelmed by overly acute senses beyond his control, he'd been driven into seclusion, isolation his only respite. His police career had abruptly truncated in full disability. For years, only his boss, Captain Simon Banks, kept him in touch with the outside world. Confused and desperate, Jim made a leap of faith and carved out a new, albeit precarious, life in property development. His intent was to create an environment where he could survive. That he made money, and a lot of it, had been a shock.

Blair savored those first moments of discovery. What was a little job oriented paperwork compared to watching a good man reclaim his life? For Jim Ellison, being able to return to the world was beyond price, and he'd been adamant. He would allow Blair help him only if it didn't endanger Sandburg's academic career. To Jim, that tradeoff was paramount. To ensure the relationship remained productive for both of them, Jim had committed half million of his own money for the initial endowment, founding the Sentinel Institute. Blair’s advisor and mentor, Eli Stoddard, bless him, came out of retirement to handle the administration, leaving Blair to concentrate on the research.

Blair caught himself in the pleasant daydream and hastily checked the clock. He was meeting Jim to do some testing in their spanking new auditory laboratory, and he wanted to make sure everything was running smoothly. He hated wasting Jim’s time by being unprepared. Now that office hours were over, he could hustle over and get busy.

"Dr. Sandburg, I'm here."

Blair jumped, startled by the voice, and half turned to look over his shoulder at the student in his doorway. He searched his memory for a name, not that he'd seen her much in class. Ah, yes, Tracie "with an ie" Patterson. Even with her miserable attendance, the young woman was striking enough to make an impression. Most of his freshmen showed up in jeans or sweats. Tracie walked in as if she had just dropped by after a fashion shoot. She smiled brightly. "Did you forget? We're supposed to go over my test."

"Actually, Tracie, office hours are over at two thirty. Your appointment was at one. Did you forget the time?"

The subtle reprimand made no impression. "Oh, I know, but I got here as soon as I could. I had something really important come up."

I, on the other hand, have nothing important to do. Blair restrained himself. "I was just on my way out. Would you like to schedule another time?"

"Well, you said you wanted to see us this week, and I'm leaving town this afternoon. I'm sure it won't take long." She held out her blue book, smiling confidently.

"So you were planning on missing class tomorrow?"

Tracie tilted her head just slightly, with a surprised look. "We aren't doing anything important, are we?"

Of course not. Blair sighed. Some instinct told him it would be better to deal with this now. He took the exam and returned to his desk, slowly turned the pages of the blue book, trying to remember the gist of the comments he'd made. Of the eighty or so students in his Anthro 101 course, it took something special to make an essay stand out in his memory. This particular effort came back to him, painfully so. In fact, Tracie's exam might go on record as one of the top ten awful essay exams of all time. He had a momentary recollection of reading a couple of sentences while Jim laughed hysterically. He put his reading glasses down on the desk and looked at Tracie, who was curled comfortably in the chair on the other side of the desk, apparently examining her manicure. Considering her score, which was a resounding 'F', she didn't seem terribly concerned. Blair hesitated, hoping to hit the right balance of brutal honesty and encouragement. He wasn't sure what to tackle first; her attendance, or rather lack thereof, her study skills or the dreadful exam.

"Really, Dr. Sandburg, I was a straight A student in high school." Her statement snapped Blair out of his internal debate. "When I got the grade, I was sure there'd been some kind of mistake. I can't possibly have gotten an 'F'. I've never had a failing grade in my life. Maybe you just missed part of my answer."

Okay, so maybe they'd need to go a little heavy on the honesty.

"Tracie, maybe it would help if we went over a couple of the questions. For this first question, you were supposed to discuss the difference between a scholarly journal and a popular article in anthropology. Have you reread your answer like I asked you to?"

"Oh, sure. The question said you should mention articles you've read, and I did that." She smiled brightly and shifted position, leaning forward as if whispering a secret. "That's what I mean, about the grade being wrong. I used tons of examples, so how can I get such a low score? I figured it was just because you were new and all." Tracie smiled again, obviously forgiving him for the transgression.

Thanks for enlightening me. Be calm, Sandburg. He pulled a copy of the exam out of his drawer and handed it to her. "I want you to reread the exam question."

Tracie seemed miffed, but managed to glance at the question. "Yeah. Okay, it says 'magazines', right there."

"What kind of magazines?" Blair asked, hoping to sound gentle and patient. He really wanted to get on his way. Still, it was possible she really didn't understand. "Your first writing assignment was to read an article about anthropology from a popular magazine and summarize it. Remember, I left samples you could read and use in the library? Then the second assignment you did the same thing with a scholarly journal. Those were on reserve for you as well." There was a dead silence. "Tracie?"

"Oh." Tracie pulled on a lock of her blonde hair. "Well, the question is confusing, then. It said magazines, and I talked about magazines," she said defensively. "You should have written the question more clearly."

Oh yeah, we're really having fun now. For all her outward sophistication, could she really be this clueless about academics? "The question asks you to compare and contrast between the popular articles and journal articles. You didn't even mention a journal article, so you couldn't do any comparing and contrasting. That was the whole point of the question."

"I wrote two pages, and I worked really hard on it. I should at least get partial credit," she said in an injured tone.

"Tracie, you could have written ten pages, and if it doesn't address the question, it doesn't count. An in-depth discussion about the perils of rehab in Hollywood just isn't going to work, no matter how many articles you talk about." Blair struggled to keep a straight face and an even tone. He might yearn for a moment of sarcasm, but it wasn't very professional.

The confident smile had evaporated. Tracie sat up in the chair, an edge in her voice, clearly offended. "Well, it's not my fault the question is confusing. I can't believe you won't even consider half credit. That's so unfair."

A pretty girl in a righteous huff. And how many times this has worked for you?

"Tracie, an exam conference is to help you improve, not to renegotiate your grade. Maybe if we went through the process, it would help you understand it better. What journal article did you read for the writing assignment?" She didn't answer. Angry tears were on the horizon. On a hunch, Blair flipped open his grade book. The square for the journal assignment was blank. "Apparently you skipped the journal assignment." He checked a little further. "In fact, you skipped both assignments."

The tears began in earnest. "Dr. Sandburg, they were in the library, and that was a football weekend, and my best friend broke up with her boyfriend, and…"

And we're off. Blair risked a quick look at the clock on his desk. His plans for the afternoon were a distant hope.

&&&&&

Jim Ellison was laughing hard enough to make his tea spill. Eli Stoddard was positively cackling. With his unruly shock of white hair and weather-beaten face, he looked the kindly, absentminded grandfather. He was dressed in what Jim considered his uniform – battered khakis and a cotton button-down rolled at the sleeves. His rumpled appearance concealed a razor wit and a brilliant mind.

"I tell you, Jim, I haven't had this much fun in years. When your department is a line item in the budget, you can't sass the Chancellor with impunity. Outside funding makes me a free man."

"I think you're enjoying this a little too much," Jim said, still chuckling. He and Eli had tap-danced around the Chancellor's office when he set up the endowment for the Sentinel Institute. Having met the woman, he was certain Eli had Chancellor Edwards overmatched and she didn't have the sense to know it. "And here I thought you professor types were above this kind of thing."

Eli's joyful expression faded to a rueful smile. "Guilty. Sorry to disappoint you, but we're all just more intellectual about our scheming than most. There is nowhere more political than a university, and that woman pushes all my buttons. Someone like Edwards…" He stopped, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "I suppose I shouldn't be so critical. She just has a different approach."

"Such as?"

Eli considered his answer for a moment. "Let's just say Edwards would be happier with a winning football team than a Nobel laureate on the faculty. She's especially passionate about lazy freshmen with seriously wealthy parents." He sighed. "In fairness, she's done well with the budgetary side of things, particularly cultivating donors and alumni. Our endowments are up."

"So she's self-serving." Jim grinned crookedly. "I thought I was a large endowment. Is there a difference?"

"If you look beyond the check, of course you are. You didn't trade your largesse for prime football tickets, or a free pass for an errant child." Eli's demeanor changed completely, the grandfatherly joking vanished. "I know of at least two cases where grades were changed based on the financial influence of donors. Referrals to the disciplinary committees disappear into the woodwork. Ethics just isn't the woman's strong suit, and she's in a position to wield a great deal of power where it doesn't belong. Intellectual integrity is critical to a university. The woman's a menace in that regard."

"Looks like I hit a sore spot," Jim said mildly. "Sorry."

"As if you should be the one apologizing," Eli said, suddenly seeming weary. "Here I am, raising my voice, losing my temper. This nonsense with Edwards was the primary reason I retired. I didn't need the irritation. Rest assured, Jim, there really is no comparison. What you've done enhances the mission of the university. You're supporting academics. You're not trying to use your money to shave corners for personal gain, or get your idiot firstborn through English 101."

"I don't know," Jim said, tugging on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "I could argue that the primary beneficiary of the Sentinel Institute is yours truly. That's pretty personal."

"Supporting research you care about is a far cry from getting inappropriate consideration for a family member." Eli leaned forward, his eyes riveted on Jim's fidgeting hands. "Forget Edwards. You're uncomfortable. Tell me what's wrong."

"Has Blair been prepping you?" Jim asked. These anthropologists were as bad as detectives, always noticing the little things. He stopped momentarily, and then rubbed his arm again. "I'm fine."

"Maybe, and that little deflection isn't getting you out of answering me. If that shirt's bothering you, take it off."

Jim hesitated. Finally, he set down the tea and shrugged out of his flannel shirt, exposing the cotton short sleeved tee underneath. His wrists were red and irritated, and a splotchy rash spread up his arms almost to his elbows. "I've always liked this shirt. I had it from before – you know. I've been wearing it again once in awhile. I guess today it was a little overambitious." He tossed the offending shirt onto a nearby chair, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

Eli frowned, clearly concerned. "Am I remembering Blair's notes correctly? Wasn't this one of your original symptoms? Skin irritation from clothing?" He left his desk and slipped into the chair beside Jim. "May I?" He gently rotated Jim's hand, looking at the underside of his wrist. "That isn't 'fine' by anyone's definition. How long has it been like this?"

Jim hated to be scrutinized, but he knew Eli's concern was genuine. "I stopped by Major Crime today before I came here. I started to notice it just before I left. I didn't want to take the time to go home and change. I thought I could keep it under control. Lately – well, never mind."

Eli Stoddard was the only person who had access to Blair's original notes on Jim's sentinel journey, including the interviews with former commander, Simon Banks. The version Blair had presented in his scholarly articles were heart wrenching, but sanitized. The unedited version of Jim Ellison's suffering, as reported by Banks, had moved Eli deeply, and provided much of his motivation to come out of retirement to direct the Institute. He knew only too well how much agony Jim had borne in stoic silence before meeting Blair Sandburg. He was certain Jim was hedging.

"Jim, it’s only the two of us here. What's been happening lately that you don't want to talk about?" Jim started to shake his head in denial. Eli wrapped his gnarled fingers around the offending wrist. "Fine then, I'll tender a hypothesis. Some of your original difficulties are resurfacing, and you haven't said a word to Blair. How close am I?"

Jim's face went completely blank. "Is this how you anthropology types work? Guess and go?" Jim said, biting the words off as he spoke.

Eli noted the anger and decided to proceed gently. If Jim was frustrated and in pain, the social niceties weren't his primary concern. "You could call it that. Intuition is important in cultural settings, since much of what defines a subculture is unspoken. So humor an old man. Guessing or not, how close am I?"

Jim blew across his tea and took a long sip. "As much as I hate to admit it, your instincts are just fine."

"Go sit over at the table. I'll be right back." Eli disappeared into the reception area. Jim could hear a muffled conversation with Meredith, the administrative assistant, and consciously shut down his own hearing. He could feel things spiraling out of control, and the last thing he wanted to do was have a meltdown in Eli's office. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the special breathing Blair had been trying to teach him. He wasn't making much progress when Eli returned with two damp towels and a plastic bucket of ice chips.

"Good idea to try the breathing," Eli said. "Put your arms out flat on the table." He placed the damp towel over Jim's inflamed arms, followed by a layer of ice and another towel. Jim sighed, and Eli took that as a good sign. He waited for a few minutes, relieved when the tension in Jim's shoulders eased a bit.

"That's better," Jim whispered. "I should have thought of that. Thanks."

"You won't ever think of it as long as you're more concerned about looking silly than your own discomfort." Eli put gentle pressure along the surface of the towels. "It's amazing what a little ice will do for inflammation. Now just close your eyes, concentrate on that breathing for a few more minutes, and we'll see if we can lick this thing. And yes, I'm always this bossy. Age has its privileges."

"I'll try," Jim said, resigned to his fate.

"Does Blair ever use pressure points with you?" He noticed how Jim flinched slightly when he spoke.

"Sometimes," Jim whispered. Eli was now certain he was still struggling. If quiet voices helped, he could take the hint.

"Okay, I'm going to try a couple of the points in the back of your hand. Try to ignore me."

After another few minutes Jim's breathing smoothed out, and he seemed to be in less distress. Eli stayed in his seat and reached for a notepad. Blair had copious notes on Jim's episodes, but it never hurt to add new information. He noted the time and scribbled all the details that seemed pertinent. He was so absorbed that, when Jim spoke, it startled him.

"You and Sandburg. Always with the notes."

He set down the pen. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. Better?"

"Yeah." With downcast eyes, Jim dumped the ice from the towels into the trash and rolled up the towels. "About the notes - please don't tell him right away. It's really no big deal."

Eli hesitated, tore the hastily written notes from the pad, and placed the sheet in his desk drawer. It wasn't really his role to mediate, but now he was concerned. "Jim, if you want me to keep this in confidence, I will, of course, honor your wishes, but I'm a little puzzled. Believe me, I spend enough time with Blair to know how devoted he is to you. You're more than a research project for him. Is there some reason you haven't confided in him? Has there been some breach of trust between you?"

"No, that's not it." Jim ran his right hand across the underside of his left arm and stopped himself. "Let's not start that again." He abruptly grabbed his elbows, the effort showing on his face. "Blair's great. He couldn't be more willing, and he's never done anything to make me doubt his sincerity."

"Then what's the problem, Jim?"

"It's just not that important," Jim said.

To Eli, Jim's face looked calm, completely unemotional. If he hadn't read Blair's notes, he might almost buy it. "I beg to differ. Blair would put discomfort like that, and your general well-being, is at the top of his list of priorities. Don't kid yourself. If he finds out later, he'll take it badly and assume this was all his fault. And I guarantee he will find out. Is that what you want?"

"Damn. I know you're right. I should just talk to him, I guess." Jim started to pace. "He's still staying with me, and I have a pretty good idea of how he organizes his time. He's working his ass off already and the semester's barely started. I don't want to give him more to worry about. He doesn't need even one more thing to do. You and I - we talked about this before I cooked up this whole institute idea. The whole point was to make sure Sandburg didn't spread himself too thin, trying to get funding and publish and teach while he was helping me, too. And I do want his help. I need his help." Jim glanced at the clock. "As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be here by now."

"Right," Eli said, snapping his fingers. "He called Meredith while I was out there getting the ice. He's stuck with a student. Apparently this girl showed up after office hours and was a bit of a problem. He didn't want to keep us waiting, and said you should just go on home, with his apologies. Actually, Meredith said he sounded quite upset."

"See what I mean?" Jim said.

"Yes," Eli said, with a touch of sadness in his voice. "I suppose I do."

&&&&&

Jim decided not to go home. Instead, he left Eli's office at the institute and trekked across campus to Hargrove Hall, where Sandburg had his office. If the student was still there, she'd taken enough of Blair's time. Jim figured he still had enough cop in him to intimidate a coed, if necessary.

Blair had inherited Stoddard's old office on the third floor. He'd just been getting settled in when Kincaid and his Sunrise Patriots had trashed the place. University paperwork had slowed the process of repair. Blair had started the semester without his office. He was still moving things from Jim's apartment, where he'd been working in the interim. Organizing the work space amounted to just one more thing in an already too-full schedule.

Jim took the stairs. The elevator in Hargrove had a high-pitched squeak that, apparently, only he could hear. The thing drove him nuts. Despite the fact he'd had a miserable afternoon as far as his senses were concerned, Jim turned up his hearing. He picked up a female voice, and heard Sandburg's name mentioned. She didn't seem to be talking with him personally, and Jim didn't hear another voice. In fact, she seemed to be on another floor. Maybe she was on a cell phone. In any case, she had nothing nice to say. Jim was tempted to get in her face, and thought better of it.

Blair's office door was closed and the lights were off. The office beyond the frosted class window was dark. Jim could hear someone, presumably Sandburg, moving around the room. He knocked, and the shuffling abruptly stopped. Jim knocked again, and called out softly, "It's me, Chief. The enemy has departed. I did the recon."

The door jerked open. "Oh man, I'm sorry. I was trying to hide out, in case another student showed up. Come on in." Blair flopped into one of the upholstered chairs. "Man, I'm so sorry about missing our appointment. I hope your afternoon was better than mine. Any more days like this, and I'm going to get you to guard the door, preferably with a howitzer."

"Howitzers are way too bulky. I recommend grenades. You can keep them in your top drawer." Jim took the chair opposite Blair. "We need to work on your hiding skills, if this is the best you can do," he said, grinning.

"Hey, it would have fooled most people. You're a special case." He noted Jim's skeptical look. "That bad, huh? I just wanted to get out of here without another problem."

"I think I may have heard your problem coming up the stairs. I thought you charmed all your students, Sandburg. She sounded seriously unhappy with you."

Blair blew a lock of curly hair off his forehead, clearly frustrated. "Well, that's probably okay, because I'm seriously unhappy with her. Remember that test answer I read you?"

Jim's blue eyes danced. "The one I thought was comedy? Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan as anthropology? Oh, yeah, I remember. She's the one?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Miss Patterson is drop dead gorgeous, and I suspect she's used it previously to good advantage. She was very disappointed in my attitude. I mean, how could I possibly expect her to be in class every day, or do those dreary assignments?"

"Not exactly a meeting of minds, I take it," Jim said. "I seem to remember some suspect interrogations that went down like that."

"She's having a bit of a problem understanding that the 'F' on her test matches her level of effort." Blair covered his face with his hands. "It would have been less painful to pound my head on a rock. What a total waste of time."

"Let me guess, she wasn't exactly open to suggestions for improvement." Jim nudged Blair's outstretched leg with his foot. "Don't take it too hard. From what I overheard, since she didn't walk out of here with an 'A', you're one step from an axe murderer. Nothing else would have made her happy."

"Great. Just great." Blair's mouth drooped a little further. "You should never get that way with a student. I should have handled it better."

"Let's see, I bet you told her the truth, with plenty of examples, and she didn't like it. Sorry, Chief, but I think it's out of your hands. You couldn't lie to her."

"I'm supposed to help her," Blair retorted.

"And I would have liked to rehabilitate every perp I ever hauled in, but it doesn't work that way. She has to meet you halfway, at least. She's an adult and makes her own choices." Jim waited until Blair finally looked at him. "I suspect you know this," he said softly.

"Yeah, you're right. But there's a difference between what I know and what I hope. I want them all to do well." He sighed and pushed out of his chair. "You didn't have to come all the way over here. I'm sorry I messed up the afternoon. Let's just get out of here. Let me finish gathering up my stuff."

"Did you forget you were going to look at apartments tonight?" Jim asked.

"Oh, crap. What is the matter with me?" Blair whirled to check the clock. "I can still make it." He grabbed his briefcase, clearly intending to stuff more items in as quickly as possible.

Jim intercepted him. "Hold up, there, buddy. What's the one thing that you absolutely have to do tonight, if you have to pick just one thing? No cheating now, pick one."

"One? As if." When Jim shook his head in reproof, he took a moment to consider. "I really need to finish the peer review of that article I was telling you about this morning."

"Then pick that up, and let's go. Leave the briefcase."

Blair spread his arms wide. "Jim, look at this place. I can't…"

"You can. I've got the truck. We'll grab some takeout and hustle over to the meet the real estate agent." Blair looked completely unconvinced, and started to argue. "Trust me, Chief." Blair started to protest and Jim cut him off. "I kind of need some time to talk to you."

Blair's eyes went wide. He grabbed the article off his desk and followed Jim out.

&&&&&

"You can't be seriously considering that place, Sandburg. It has rats. I heard them."

"Jim, it wasn't that bad. Besides, the warehouse I lived in during grad school had rats the size of puppy dogs and I survived."

"We are talking about the one that blew up and nearly killed you? Now that's a fine recommendation."

"This from the man who bought the property and now lives there." Jim grinned slyly and kept driving. "Hey, it's about priorities, and rats don't make the list. One, I can afford it. Two, I liked the kitchen."

They were back in Jim's apartment, which occupied the top floor of Cascade's newest housing development. The apartment search, as far as Jim was concerned, was a total failure. "Explain that to me. It had a room called a kitchen, but I didn't see much to like. You want a beer?"

"God, yes. The appliances were pretty new."

"New as in post-1950? Those years in the jungle warped your perspective."

Blair nearly spewed his beer. "Excuse me?" he said, laughing. "And how long did you spend in the jungle?"

"Not long enough to forget modern conveniences. The stove was disgusting and I bet the fridge doesn't work. You don't want to know what I could smell under the sink. It was a crappy apartment. Admit it."

Blair sighed. "Okay, I admit it. I've gotten spoiled, hanging out with you." Both men settled in the living room. "This is great furniture," Blair said, relaxing into the soft leather of one of the couches. "I'm going to enjoy this while I'm here. Somehow I don't think they sell this stuff at IKEA."

"Is that the big warehouse place? Please say you're not considering it. I'd last two minutes in a place like that."

"Hey, IKEA is the temple of the young, mobile and poor. With your aversion to shopping, how did you get this stuff, then? Not that any of your stuff came from IKEA, obviously."

"Long process. Fabric trapped odors and dust that drove me crazy. Don't get me started on down and fiberfill. I had my old place cleaned out to the floor and walls. I finally figured out good leather gave me fewer problems. Did you know the manufacturers rate different kinds of leather for how breathable it is, or how soft? I found a manufacturer that would send me samples I could test out, including the foam. It was all trial and error, with lots of error. After I picked the materials that seemed best, I let Bev do the rest. She thought it was great fun."

"You miss her, don't you," Blair said, sipping his beer thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but how could she turn down an offer from the attorney general's office, even if it meant leaving Cascade? Our relationship was great, but neither of us expected it to be permanent."

Blair turned to face him directly. "If you don't mind me asking, why not? I thought you were great together."

Jim sighed thoughtfully. "I'd already screwed up in the marriage department once already. So had she. Neither of us wanted a rerun. We had a great relationship with limits both of us accepted. Besides, it's a great job for her. With a couple of years of experience at that level, she'll have lots of options. Did I tell you I sent her a marble nameplate for her desk? Beverly Sanchez: Chief Criminal Prosecutor. She loved it. We talked about visiting, but she's pretty swamped."

"It's not the same," Blair said. "Jim, you're a handsome, wealthy, four-star catch. You're doing pretty well now. You could get out, try to meet someone."

"No," Jim said wistfully. "Not many women are willing to accept all the restrictions I have on my life. Bev was a special case, and, even then, it was really difficult at first. Everything, even little stuff, is so complicated. I'm not sure I want to go through it all again. I thought I might ask Bev up for Thanksgiving, though, when she has more time. That seems a lot easier than starting over with someone from scratch."

He looked off in the direction of the harbor. The windows gave a spectacular panoramic view of the downtown skyline and water beyond. Blair started to add to the conversation, and then stopped. It didn't seem the time to press Jim on the issue.

They sat silent for nearly ten minutes, each man with his own thoughts, music playing in the background. Blair was content to sit still for a moment after a very long day, while Jim quietly relived many of those awkward, embarrassing moments with Beverly Sanchez. He and Bev hadn't been strangers to begin with, and she was a remarkable woman. No, it just wasn't feasible to think about dating again. Jim finished his beer and took the bottle back to the kitchen. He noticed that Sandburg was dozing off, the beer teetering precariously. He shook the man's shoulder gently. "Don't you have a paper to read, Chief?"

"Oh, man, did I drift off?" Blair yawned, and blinked a few times. "Thanks for waking me."

By that time Jim had settled on the other end of the same couch. He nodded toward Blair's beer, now safely upright in his hand. "Finish that and I'll take it for you. Aren't you glad you brought only one thing to work on home tonight?"

Blair yawned again. "At this moment, yes, but I'm going to regret it tomorrow. What a disaster of a day. Nutty students, awful apartments. We missed our testing on top of everything."

Jim shrugged. "We can test anytime. Give yourself a break. You can only do so much, Sandburg."

Blair leaned forward with both elbows on his knees. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Jim. My to-do list is on steroids. I sold my old car in Michigan, and I haven't had the time to replace it. I can't stay here forever, and you saw my real estate luck, not to mention the time it takes to look. I really wanted a place near Rainier, but it's just not matching up with my budget. I could afford some small place out in the suburbs, but I really wanted to avoid the commuting and all the TIME that sucks out of your life. Add it all together, and I just can't keep up, much less make progress. I'm drowning."

Any thoughts Jim had of discussing his own difficulties disappeared. His arms were driving him crazy, but that was just tough. Blair needed to get on with business, not fuss over him. He took Sandburg's beer bottle and stood up. "Well, go read your paper and get that done. Get a good night's sleep, and go in early if you want. I'm going to turn in and do some reading myself. I have some proposals to look over."

Jim sat on the edge of his bed, listening as his temporary roommate gathered his materials and retreated to the guest room. With a sigh, he stripped off the long-sleeved flannel shirt. He'd put it back on to avoid answering any questions Blair would certainly have asked. Without a doubt the apartment hunting would have been cancelled. Now he was going to pay for it. The rash stretched to the inside of his elbow. His hands were swollen and it was difficult to bend his fingers.

Jim stretched out on the bed, tucked his legs under the sheets and placed his arms extended across his body. If it got chilly, he'd live with it. The brush of fabric across his skin would be more than he could take. Considering how he felt, sleep was a long way off. He dialed up his hearing. Sandburg was reading short passages aloud, muttering comments as he added them in to the manuscript he was editing. Normally, the click of computer keys could be mildly annoying, but tonight Jim welcomed the distraction.

He closed his eyes, hoping to drift away from his own pain.

&&&&&

Simon Banks needed to make a decision, and the irony of the situation did not escape him.

That very afternoon, Jim Ellison had been sitting in the Major Crimes conference room, reviewing evidence from cases that stretched back several years. Unfortunately, it was an election year, and election year politics had a life of their own. The current district attorney, running in a tough race for re-election, needed to catch a few headlines. He called the mayor, the mayor called the chief, and the chief called his captains. The message was succinct. Document improvement, or generate some quick solves the D.A. could point to with pride. The more headlines the better.

Major Crimes didn't have any easy cases to boost the stats with, and Banks definitely didn't have extra personnel drinking coffee to put on cold cases. Their workload was heavy as it was. After several tense telephone exchanges with the "powers above", the handwriting was scrawled all over the proverbial wall.

Banks loathed having to pull his detectives off active cases to cater to the whims of some politician. He decided to reach outside the department to someone he knew and respected; Jim Ellison. Not that he'd expected some sort of a sentinel miracle, but rather that Jim had always been a fine investigator with great instincts. He'd invited Jim in, hoping a fresh pair of eyes would notice something, anything, that the rest of them had missed.

Jim had agreed immediately. They'd spent nearly three hours together, reading case files and reviewing evidence. Of seven cases, Jim had suggestions for three of them. Simon considered the afternoon a success based on that alone. Jim had seemed really into it, but when Simon quizzed him about coming in regularly, the message got a little blurry. Jim hedged, without volunteering an explanation. Their session ended on a friendly, but uneasy, note.

Just before he left, Jim commented that two of the murders, in particular, bothered him. Nothing specific, just a feeling. Both victims had been shot with 22 caliber pistol rounds at close range, but no one interviewed in the area reported hearing shots. Forensics indicated the shells hadn't been fired from the same gun, but other elements seemed similar. It was just a thought.

Fate was a strange mistress. Now, barely twelve hours later, Simon was at another murder scene, the victim shot at close range with a 22. Nothing overtly tied this shooting to the ones they had discussed, but sometimes you needed to follow up on your hunches.

Banks checked his watch. One thirty in the morning. He decided to dial Jim's number anyway, and hope his friend would forgive him for the late call. Most of all, he hoped Jim would agree to come.

&&&&&

Jim caught the phone on the second ring. He'd been lying awake for hours, eyes closed, trying to ignore his pain and will himself to sleep. He checked the clock; nearly two. Simon's low growl was unmistakable.

Jim? I know, it's late…

"Or early, depending. I wasn't asleep. You must be dying for my company. What gives?"

Those cases we talked about? Wild coincidence, but I have another one. Solo victim, no witnesses, looks to be a 22. Can you come?

Jim hesitated. They'd discussed this. Banks wanted him to ease into a more active roll with the PD. When his story had been released to the press, the PD had invented a title to fit his unique situation: Special Consultant for Forensic Investigations. The invitation had been left open, without a lot of pressure on either himself or the department.

Then, out of the blue, Simon had called. It was bittersweet walking back through the doors of Major Crime, but overall it had been a pleasure. Maybe once you got police work in your blood, it stayed there. Still, when Simon had opened the door a little wider, he'd avoided giving his boss and friend a straight answer, mostly because he wasn't sure himself. The sensory flare-ups he'd been having made him uneasy. He didn't want to make a commitment he was incapable of fulfilling. If only he'd been able to discuss it with Sandburg.

Unable to decide, he deflected. "Why are you out at this time of night, Simon? Who's working it?"

I'm filling in. I guess it's mine to keep.

"You're working the street?" Jim sat up on the bed, realizing the implications. "Since when?"

Since I have three guys out with the flu. Since I'm short handed and I have crazy politicians breathing down my neck. So sue me. You coming or not?

Simon's irritated growl went straight to Jim's gut, back to times when a summons from his captain was routine. He'd been one of the best before his senses took over his life, crushing his career. Jim felt the pang for what he'd lost. Then there was loyalty to his friend. When things were at their worst, Simon had always come when he'd called. He pushed his own reservations aside. "Give me the address. I'll get there as fast as I can."

The phone clicked in his ear. Same old Simon. Not a man to worry about the niceties of phone etiquette.

Jim flicked the light on. The skin on his arms was still angry and raw. His immediate problem was finding something to wear. What if things got worse while he was out on a case? He rejected the jeans of the previous day and went to the closet for some dress slacks. Not really appropriate, but the loose fit was a better bet than the relatively close-fitting jeans. Deciding on a shirt was problematic. He scanned the closet, rejecting most of the fabrics. He opted for a long-sleeved silk T-shirt, which he hoped he could tolerate. Silk was usually pretty reliable. He grabbed a loose fleece pullover to pull on later. He quietly crossed the hallway and peeked into Sandburg's room. He wanted his company badly.

Blair was propped up against the headboard, still in his clothes, with papers strewn around the bed, the laptop still glowing by his side. He'd obviously fallen asleep in the middle of reading. His reading glasses drooped from one limp hand, his head lolled back at an angle against the pillows. Jim shook his head. No way was he dragging an exhausted man out in the middle of the night. Sandburg wasn't his unpaid babysitter. He shut the door ever so softly.

He was about to grab his keys and thought better of it. After hearing how overscheduled Sandburg felt, he'd planned on giving him an early lift to work. What if he took the truck now and got delayed? He didn't want to create any more complications in the young professor's life. He scribbled a note and left it with the truck keys in the middle of the kitchen counter, next to the coffeemaker where Sandburg would be sure to see them. If Cascade PD needed Jim Ellison so badly, they could send a cruiser to pick him up and bring him back home.

&&&&&

He watched. It was part of the drama. Not really a ritual. That would make him a freak. He wasn't a freak. The watching was innocent, like reading a book to the last page. Who would want to leave off the last chapter of a fine story?

Especially if you were writing it yourself.

He'd done a good job, he'd decided. It was better than a book. Maybe as good as a movie.

The couple who'd found him – oh, how he wished he could record their faces, their shock. That's why you had to savor these moments, to memorize them, to keep them. That's why he needed to watch. They'd stood there waiting for the cops; the guy trying to act brave, the woman sobbing like it was her sister or friend lying at their feet. The cops were so predictable; arriving in a rush, rolling out their yellow tape, asking questions, taking notes.

He liked to wait for the detectives if he could, when he had a really good, really safe vantage point. Detectives were cool. The guys in the uniforms always stepped back a pace, as if royalty had arrived. He'd like that, to be all efficient and detached. This time, this detective, he was special. A tall black man, his topcoat swirling out behind him like a cape, a real important dude. Just like a movie, better than a movie! He scrunched his nose under his thick glasses, trying to see every detail played out on the dimly lit street below him.

Yeah, this was his best one yet.

&&&&&

The headlights of the cruiser briefly played across Simon's face. Jim hopped out and thanked the officer for the lift. Simon waved, ducked under the yellow tape and walked toward him. Jim waited. He hadn't worked a crime scene in years. He hated feeling so unsure, so vulnerable.

"Thanks for coming, Jim," Banks said. "I hope I didn't drag you out for nothing."

"What have we got?"

"Male, three shots, close range. Remember those things you noticed when you were in? I took one look and it sent chills up my spine. If we hadn't been reading those case files today, it never would have caught my attention."

Jim shifted uneasily. Despite his best efforts, he felt like he was sitting on the sand with the tide coming in a little higher each time. Each wave of smells and sounds mounted on the ones before. From the diner down the street came wafts of rancid grease and long-spilt beer. Tendrils of rotting fruit from the dumpster. The stench of urine from the darkened alley. He could hear snippets of at least ten different voices, all jumbled together in an unintelligible tangle. Simon's customary growl might as well be the roar from a cannon. The fleece pullover he was wearing wasn't meant for rain, and drizzle was running down his neck, not serious, but another cold, icy distraction.

Jim swallowed hard, trying to hold it together. How had he ever imagined that he could do this? His eyes flicked to Simon's face and the question written there. Simon, who could have justifiably deserted him years ago, still waiting, still hoping for Jim to "get better." He couldn't face the disappointment in those dark eyes if he failed again.

Another thought produced a twist of fear in his stomach. If he blew this, he wouldn't be able to face himself either. Sandburg had awakened all his deepest hopes, and he couldn't turn back. In an act of supreme concentration, Jim ducked under the yellow tape. His long stride crossed the damp expanse of pavement quickly. The body lay sprawled at his feet.

The victim was young, male. Long strands of damp hair draped across an unremarkable face that had been barely old enough to shave. Jeans too old to be fashionably "distressed". The denim jacket was frayed and looked too small. The jacket was pulled off one shoulder to the elbow. The cotton button-down was ripped and torn across the front. Maybe their victim had fought back, or tried to run away. The white t-shirt underneath showed three distinct circles of blood.

Blood. The scent of slowly congealing human blood rolled over him. Jim reeled back a step, frantically grasping for some logic to overrule what couldn't possibly be true, that he was sinking, drowning in the blood of the dead.

Another step back and he was falling, Simon's voice echoing from far away.

&&&&&

"Sandburg! Sandburg, are you here?"

With a jerk, Blair sat up in bed, scattering objects in all directions. In the dark, it was confusing. He groped for his glasses and the light simultaneously, nearly sending the bedside lamp crashing into the existing jumble of books and papers.

"Sandburg!"

A vaguely familiar voice was shouting from the direction of the kitchen. Whoever it was he was in a hurry. Blair scrubbed his face, trying to get oriented, stumbling from the bed into the hallway. "Who's there? What is it?"

"For God's sake get out here!"

Blair was finally awake enough to match the baritone with a name, but why was Simon Banks yelling for him in the middle of the night? And why the hell was he here anyway? Still half asleep, Blair made it into the main living area of Jim's apartment about the same time the lights came on. Blair managed a strangled, "Shit!" before he hurtled across the room.

Banks had Jim half in, half out of the elevator. Jim let out a short cry and curled into the floor, shielding his eyes. "Douse the lights!" Blair ordered. "And quit shouting, you idiot!"

In the darkness, Blair went to his knees and crept to Jim's side. The moans were mostly incoherent, but Blair could identify a pleading, "Stop…please stop." Blair tried to shift Jim's weight to his own lap without banging the man's head onto the floor. "Easy, Jim. We've got you." A feeble hand latched onto his own. At least Jim knew he was there.

"Simon, I've got him," Blair whispered. "Work your way into the kitchen and turn on the light above the stove. Give us a little light to work with." He could hear Banks fumbling in the dark, but he found the right switch. Pale blue light flooded the apartment. At least they could navigate. Jim rolled slightly, completely burying his face against Blair's thigh.

There was no mistaking Jim's distress. This was major sensory overload, and Jim was in real pain. Blair tried to prioritize and form some sort of a plan. In the softest voice he could manage, he spoke to Simon. "Check Jim's nightstand. There should be an eyeshade in the drawer." Simon disappeared in the direction of Jim's bedroom, feeling his way along the wall. Blair stroked his fingers along Jim's temple, wishing there was a simple, straightforward way to deal with this. "Take it easy, man. I know you're hurting. Try to relax, and look for the dials if you can." He looked up as Simon returned, eyeshade in hand. Blair slipped the shade over Jim's brow, settling it into place.

"What now?" Banks asked. Jim winced at the sound of his voice. Blair shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

"Turn the lights on," he whispered. "We'll move him to the music room and get him comfortable. Then you can tell me what happened."

It took a long time to accomplish such a simple task. Jim shrank from their touch, but he whispered a stoic, "Go ahead." The music room, as Jim euphemistically called it, was actually an isolation room. By trial and error, he'd designed the room to minimize sensory input. In fact, the soundproof room with its other amenities had been Blair's first clue that Jim Ellison was the sentinel he'd searched for.

Together, with minimal help from Jim, Blair and Simon maneuvered the stricken man into his sanctuary. They eased him down onto a thick mat Jim kept on the floor. "His clothes," Blair whispered, motioning Simon to take care of Jim's shoes. "From the way he reacts to touch, his skin has got to be hurting him. We need to get him out of these clothes."

Blair went to work on the soaking fleece pullover and the t-shirt underneath. He shook his head at the long-sleeved silk shirt. Jim invariably chose this garment when his skin was acting up. Jim must have been having problems before leaving, and hadn't said a word. Jim groaned as Blair worked the close fitting fabric over his head. Blair hissed at his first glimpse of Jim's arms and chest. His arms were a solid mass of angry red, his chest marred with irregular welts. "Simon, look," Blair said, motioning the other man to look. Simon frowned and raised his hands, shaking his head. Jim obviously hadn't said a word to him either.

"Time for the chair, Jim. Can you make it?" Blair asked. Jim nodded feebly and pushed up on his elbows. With an assist, he made it to the leather covered lounge, the only piece of furniture in the room, and dropped back into the comforting embrace with a groan. Blair placed his hand on Jim's inner arm, then on the heaving chest. Heat radiated from both areas. "I'll be back," he said, motioning Banks to follow, shutting the soundproof door behind them.

"Get some of the bottled water out of the fridge. I'll be right there," Blair said. He detoured to the bathroom, grabbing a stack of Jim's fluffy cotton towels from the shelf, and joined Banks in the kitchen. "What happened?" he asked briskly. While Simon described how he'd summoned Jim to the crime scene, Blair filled the sink with cold water, and added every cube from the ice maker.

"He didn't say anything, Simon? No mention of having any problems?" Blair asked.

"Not a word," Banks said, a bite of anger in his voice. "I never would have asked him to come to a crime scene if I'd known. Do you think I'd do anything I thought would make him sick like this?"

"Easy, Simon." Blair kicked himself internally. Banks was worried and frustrated, and Blair needed his help. There wasn't any gain in alienating Jim's oldest friend. "I wasn't implying anything. I just need to figure out if this was something that happened at the crime scene, or started earlier. Did you notice the shirt?"

Simon's brow furrowed. "Now that you mention it, yeah. I bought it for him, years ago. He always says silk was one of the easiest things to wear."

"And he hasn't been wearing it lately, because he hasn't needed it, and he wasn't wearing it this afternoon. So I'd like to know if it was just a coincidence that he chose that particular shirt tonight, or whether he needed it." Blair sighed. "I'd ask him, but I don't think grilling him is a good move right now.

Simon nodded, getting the drift. "He seemed fine when he came to Major Crime, and…" Banks broke off in mid-sentence.

"What?"

"Maybe – now that I think about it, when I asked him about coming in regularly for the next few weeks, he kind of hedged. He'd seemed so good when he arrived, and then he got kind of quiet at the end. Do you think – it never occurred to me. Damn."

"I didn't notice anything either," Blair said. "Not that Jim isn't capable of covering up when it suits him." He dunked the towels into the cold water in the sink. "I guess we can sort it out when he can actually tell us. Right now I just want to make him more comfortable. Grab the biggest pot you can find down in the cupboard."

They loaded the dripping towels into the kettle. "His skin's hot to the touch," Blair said. "These should help. See if you can find some chicken broth in the cupboard. If we can get some water down him, I want to try some of that. Something on his stomach might help." Simon located the containers of organic, low salt broth. "Zap it. Bring it in with the water, okay?" Blair said. He grabbed the pot with its load of towels and headed for Jim's side.

Jim's breathing seemed a little less frantic, but that wasn't saying much. Blair hadn't seen him this bad since the night they met. "Hey there. You find the dials?" Jim shook his head. "Don't worry. I'm going to put something cool on your skin to start with. I wanted you to know what to expect." Much to Blair's dismay, Jim's shoulders hunched a bit tighter. Not what he was hoping for. "I don't think it will hurt. I'll go slow," he said, hoping to reassure his friend.

"Worked – afternoon – with Eli."

Blair's head snapped around, but the automatic questions died in his mouth. With Eli – when? Jim was with Eli before coming by his office, and he hadn't said anything. Just another unanswered question that would have to wait. Blair shook his head, wrung out the first towel and unrolled it, inch by inch, across Jim's chest. Jim shuddered.

"Sorry," Blair whispered.

"Cold. Better."

"Okay. I'll keep going." Slowly, carefully, Blair wrapped each arm. Jim started to shiver, and Blair searched the cupboards built into the wall. Before they'd met Jim frequently slept in this room, fleeing his senses the only way he knew how. Soft cotton blankets were stored close at hand. Blair tucked one around Jim's legs, another over his upper body, covering the damp towels. Simon arrived with two bottles of water tucked under his arm and a mug of steaming broth.

"Got something for you to drink, buddy," Blair said. "Let's work on those dials while we're at it." Jim downed the water eagerly, and managed half of the broth before the tension in his body relaxed. All the while, Blair coached him through the routine, Simon a silent observer at the door.

"Can you rest?" Blair asked. A silent nod, but yes. "I'll check you in a bit." He and Banks retreated to the main living area, shutting the door to the music room. "It's soundproof," Blair said. "We can talk normally now. What happened?"

Simon slumped onto the couch. "We had a shooting that – well, we've got these unsolved cases that Jim looked at, and something about this one just rang a bell. He said he'd come, and asked for a cruiser. Did you notice the note in the kitchen?"

"What note?"

"He left a note for you with the keys to the truck, in case he didn't get back by morning. He wanted you to drive it to Rainier."

"He did? He offered to give me a ride to the University, but I've never taken the truck without him. I wonder why he did that?"

"It sounds to me like he was planning on staying, or at least considered it. Doesn't that indicate he was feeling okay?" Simon asked.

"It might," Blair admitted. "Or it just might mean he wanted it to be okay. How did he seem when he got there?"

"Normal," Banks answered quickly. "Well, maybe not quite the old charge-in-and-damn-the-consequences Ellison. He didn't say much, but Jim usually worked alone, so I wasn't expecting a lot of conversation. He was never real chatty at a crime scene."

"Tell it to me exactly as you remember it."

Simon leaned forward slightly, concentrating. "Got out of the cruiser. He stayed right there, and I went over to talk with him."

"Did he seem stiff, or relaxed? How were his shoulders?"

Banks threw him an "are you crazy?" look. "His shoulders? What do you mean, his shoulders?"

Blair pulled on a strand of hair, still wild from when he was dragged out of bed, and launched into an explanation. "When Jim's really concentrating to manage his senses, he gets tense through the shoulders and neck. If it's bad, and he's hurting, his shoulders are hunched up to his ears."

"They are? You're sure?" Banks asked.

Blair nodded. "Positive. It's one of the first things I watch for. You don't read Jim's face or his eyes, you read his body."

Simon looked thoughtful, then pained. "I've never noticed. All these years, from the really bad days in the beginning, and I didn't know that? What kind of detective am I?"

"It's an anthropology thing, Simon. We're both trained observers, but we're looking for different clues. Put it aside for now. Then what happened?"

"We talked for a minute, went over to the body. I was behind him, and when he got up close to the victim, he took a step back into me, like he'd stumbled or something. Next thing I knew, I was picking him off my shoe tops. He was in pain, Sandburg. He was all curled in on himself and could hardly talk. They had an ambulance at the scene, and I got the EMT's over there pronto. He begged me not to send him to the hospital."

"What did the EMT's say?"

"They finally agreed. They couldn't find anything wrong. His vitals were way up, but his heart was strong. He was coherent enough to convince them he was better off on his own. We came back here." He put a large hand to the side of his face and took a slow deep breath. "This is all my fault. What if he loses all the ground he's gained with you over the last few months? I never should have called him."

"Simon, you can't think that way," Blair said firmly. "He obviously wanted to go, and intended to go and stay. If someone's to blame it's me. He said something about Eli. I'll just bet he was having trouble earlier, but I didn't notice, and I spent the whole evening with him." Blair stood up. "Look, you did the best thing, bringing him here. All I can do now is make him comfortable and hope he sleeps. You go back to your murder, or home, or whatever, and I'll call you first thing in the morning. Promise. I have your cell number."

The two men walked together to the elevator. "Tell him I'm sorry, will you, Sandburg?"

"Yeah. It'll be okay. We both know how much he'd like to go back to his old life." The doors to the elevator opened, and Simon whisked away into the night, leaving Blair with his own doubts and worries.

&&&&&

Jim sat at the kitchen table, barefoot, clad only in a pair of cotton sweats, morning sun brightening the room. The high-tech blinds adjusted automatically and kept him from reaching for sunglasses to shield his eyes. He didn't have the heart to close them completely, even if it would have been easier on the eyes. The sun felt blissfully warm on his skin.

He was bare from the waist up. Broad streaks across his chest and the undersides of his arms were a pale pink. His current situation was vastly improved from the screaming pain the night before, but he wasn't up to a shirt, even one of his silk tees. Jim fought through a smothering wave of depression. The memories of sitting in his old loft, his skin throbbing, trying to choose between staying warm and wearing clothing had come to life again. After meeting Sandburg, he'd hoped never to feel this way again, physically or emotionally.

He struggled through the last few bites of the eggs Sandburg had scrambled for him. Thanks to the night's shenanigans, the young professor looked more exhausted than ever, but he'd insisted on making breakfast for both of them before leaving for the university. Despite his obvious fatigue, Blair had meticulously coached him through some relaxation drills while he cooked. Jim had finally finished the second piece of toast and most of the eggs. His sense of taste was off, and every element of breakfast tasted like warmed sawdust. He'd only persisted to placate Sandburg, who had insisted that a decent meal would make his day easier.

Why couldn't he have left it at that?

Sandburg had tried to quiz him about yesterday, and he'd been resistant. To be honest, he'd been rude bordering on abusive. A complete shit. Here the guy was trying to help him, and he'd completely lost it. He'd let his temper and frustration get the better of him, and lashed out. Blair had been apologetic at first, but he hadn't backed down either. For once Blair's patience had dissolved as well, and they'd gone at it hammer and tongs. Their angry exchange still rang in his ears.

Great, just great. Tick off the one person who could actually help him, all over a little misplaced pride. Why was it so easy to see that now, less than ten minutes after Sandburg had stormed out? Not to mention that his senses were settling out, just like Sandburg had predicted.

The reprieve didn't cheer him much. His lack of sensory control might be smacking him between the eyes, but his real distress was elsewhere. Arguing with Sandburg was just a dodge, a way to avoid the truly painful reality. Such a coward. Hadn't he learned better?

Okay, so he would face it. His first try at investigation and it had been a disaster. He could hardly bear the thought of facing Simon. And what about Sandburg? All the time and energy he was investing, only to result in a spectacular Ellison meltdown? His stomach rolled and he fought the impulse to bring up what he'd just managed to eat.

Not that Sandburg hadn't been encouraging this morning, or at least he'd made the attempt. Jim had choked down his food and herbal tea while Blair questioned and suggested one optimistic interpretation after another. It was fatigue, or a stretch of over-sensitivity. One setback wasn't permanent. Crime scenes were stressful by nature. They could practice, do more tests. There was no reason to give up. They'd find a new approach. Jim hadn't believed a word. In the heat of their ensuing argument, he'd told Blair to just get out and leave him alone. Blair had finally taken the keys to the truck and driven over to Rainier. Jim hadn't missed the hurt in his eyes.

Now, sitting alone with his thoughts, his sense of shame was overwhelming. He wondered if he could really keep up the fight. He hadn't felt this hopeless since the time Simon had brought disability paperwork over to the loft on Prospect for his signature. Embarrassment and failure were a grim tandem, and the black maw of depression raced up to swallow him whole.

After an hour of soul searching and solitude, Jim thought he had it worked out. Anger was just a form of denial. Sandburg and Banks were his friends, and that friendship was clouding their judgment, making them overly optimistic. He needed to stop this before any more damage was done.

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone and called Simon. Delaying wasn't going to make the conversation more palatable. After the first few sentences of apology, Simon cut him off. Banks wasn't in a warm and fuzzy mood. He didn't want to hear it. Get off your ass, Ellison. End of story. He'd see Jim tonight, with the crime scene results, and they'd get on with investigation. Jim started to argue, and then realized he was talking to the dial tone. Vintage Simon Banks.

He hung up the phone and watched dust motes swirl through the sunlight. Okay, so maybe he could do that. He owed Simon. If he couldn't handle the street, he could at least look at the evidence, give opinions, help analyze. Certainly he could pull himself together that much. He'd just have to get through the day as best he could. Without enthusiasm, he made a few more calls, changing some face-to-face business meetings to teleconferences later in the day. The thought of dressing up in a suit was more than he could face. He wasn't up to another wardrobe struggle.

By mid-morning, the business end of things was under control. He thought about calling Sandburg and decided against it. Actions were more important than some empty apology. He took the notebook Blair had left on the table and retreated to the music room. Sandburg wanted a list of any troublesome sensations he'd experienced for the last week, in detail, with no omissions. After all the hassle and angry words, it was the least he could do. He picked up the nearest pen and began to write.

Immersed in the task, Jim dropped the barriers. What good was it to put up a false front? He wrote it all down as best he could. Every time he shrank away from the task, he forced himself back. The results were cathartic. He desperately wanted Sandburg to have all the right answers, but it wasn't fair to expect instant results, especially when he was withholding information. To be honest, last night had been a setback of his own making. He'd been through worse. Would things be better if he drove off the one person who could help?

Abruptly, he set the pen down and leaned back in the recliner specially designed for this room. This room was his sanctuary, carefully planned as a retreat when his senses ran wild. A few months ago, his apartment and the music room, in particular, was the future he'd accepted. He'd rarely ventured outside. His diet consisted of fewer than a dozen reliable items. Sandburg had opened the world again, and that had risks. How dare he be angry, much less take it out on Sandburg.

Okay, so Jim Ellison didn't like feeling dependent, and it was time to get over that, too. Realization dawned, and a faint smile crossed his face. Why not get it in gear and give something concrete back? Even up the balance sheet a bit? Certainly he had more to offer than a temporary roof, an occasional ride and tagging along while Sandburg looked for a place to live. He might not be a cop anymore, but living space was something he did understand. All he needed was a phone.

&&&&&

The headline was amazing. He crushed the regional section of the Cascade Times against his chest. He'd never managed a headline before. He'd keep it, storing it with his other treasures, in case he needed to refer to it later.

So the Captain of Major Crime had been the man in the overcoat? Carefully, he clipped his gem from the rectangular sheet of newsprint, savoring every word. Placing the article on the table in front of him, sat at his computer and began to type. He wanted to capture every moment, every detail he could remember. At first he just let the memories flow, making no attempt to keep them in order. The images were what mattered. Nothing surpassed reality.

The walls of his grubby apartment melted away. This was his destiny. This one would be perfect.

&&&&&

Blair Sandburg drew a series of symbols on the white board and turned to face the students in his graduate seminar. He loved teaching this group of six men and four women, but today's lesson was going to be a struggle. It took every ounce of professionalism he possessed to leave Jim alone in the loft and conduct class as planned.

"One of the keys to understanding an ancient culture is to understand their writing. Can anyone recognize these?" he asked.

"They're hieroglyphs, aren't they?" Lisa Daly said, asking more than answering.

"Okay, not a bad guess. There are two groups. What can you tell me about them? Are they the same, different? What are your impressions?"

The room was silent for a moment. "The ones on the left look like actual objects," Derek Kline said hesitantly. "The three on the right look more abstract or something."

Feeling a little braver, a two or three more class members contributed. Blair smiled. "Not a bad start. The ones on the left are Egyptian; the ones on the right are Mayan. The Egyptian system had over 2000 symbols, the Mayan fewer than 800. He handed a stack of booklets to the nearest student. "Hand those around. We're going to start with Mayan."

"We're going to read Mayan?" Kendall Peters asked apprehensively. "Doesn't that take years?"

"Well, not read," Blair said. "What we want to do is understand their structure and how it compares with our own language. Our alphabet letters represent sounds. In Mayan, the symbols represent syllables, so they have a syllabary, not an alphabet. Let me show you how it works."

An hour and many giggles later, his students split into pairs, making simple combinations and translations. He stopped them, explained the project he had in mind for them, along with web access to resources. They could work in teams or alone, and he was canceling the next week's classes to allow them more time to work. As they filed out of the room, Blair's mind was already on his two intro anthropology classes. He always included some type of research project in his course. He usually waited a little longer in the semester to begin, but Jim needed him now. He could get them started today and free up the rest of the week.

&&&&

Eli Stoddard climbed into the passenger seat of Ellison's Ford truck. He looked fondly at the young man across from him. He still saw flickers of the precocious sixteen year old freshman, the restless energy, the fine intellect. He didn't miss the worry creasing his protégé's forehead, either. "I take it you haven't purchased a vehicle yet?" he said with a grin.

"No, and I won't be anytime soon unless someone gift wraps it and delivers it to my door. If I had a door, that is. I haven't found a place to live, either." Sandburg shook his head and turned the ignition key. "I swear, Eli, my clueless freshmen have got it together better than I do. At least they can stumble to their own dorm room. I get farther behind every day."

"You're too hard on yourself," Eli said, hoping to reassure his distracted colleague. "You'll make things worse by fretting over what isn't done." He looked around the interior of the old blue truck. "How old is this thing, anyway? With Jim's bank account, I'd expect something a little more upscale."

Blair smiled. "I don't know the year exactly. It runs fine. You know, the first day I met Jim, I said about the same thing. Classy penthouse, and a vehicle rent-a-wreck wouldn't take."

"So what's the story?"

"I guess Jim likes it more than he likes car shopping. He said the 'new car' smell bothered him."

Eli looked surprised. "For what Jim could afford to spend, any car dealer in town would roll down the windows on a vehicle for a couple of months so he could look at one. Has he ever asked?"

Blair shrugged. "That assumes Jim would openly discuss a sensory problem, which is pretty much why we're here." He checked the address he was carrying and continued driving. "I've really screwed up, Eli. Jim's really in a bad way. Worse, we had words this morning, and I didn't handle it very well. I view him as a friend, but he deserves some professionalism from me. Something must have happened at that crime scene. I can't help him until I understand it. He needs me, and I owe him better than I've been giving."

"So that's why I'm here?" Eli asked. "At the risk of stating the obvious, I'm not a sentinel expert, Blair. You are."

"I need your objectivity," Blair said. "I'm missing something, big time, and I'm hoping you can help me see it." The early morning sunshine had given way to the next cold front, and it started to drizzle. Jim's truck was too old to have intermittent wipers. Blair let the wipers go through a couple of cycles and then turned them off. "Like I told you, last night he was in such agony, as bad as I've ever seen him. Simon said he was like that when his senses first came on line. It – it was just awful to watch. He was doing so well, and now, this seems like a total relapse. I've really messed up, and Jim is paying for it."

"Have you talked with him?" Eli asked gently.

"Not so I got any insights. Like I said, we didn't part on good terms this morning. I've already arranged to stay somewhere else tonight. Hell, I may have to buy a tooth brush. He may be angry enough to not even let me back in. I feel like a total shit."

"Uhm – I see."

Blair looked at him expectantly, but all he got was a raised eyebrow. Blair recognized the look. It meant that Eli wasn't going to do his work for him, and would wait as long as it took. The ensuing silence was worse than any scolding Eli could have given him. Time to dive in, and quit looking for the easy way out.

"Eli, last night, when Jim was almost incoherent – well, I got the impression that you'd seen him yesterday."

"I did, and I encouraged him to speak with you."

Blair gave him another sideways glance. "Translation being, he did and you're not about to spill the beans." He banged the flat of his hand against the steering wheel. "How can I help him if he won't talk to me?"

"Why do you think he didn't discuss it? Obviously you're making some assumptions, that it’s just a privacy issue, or misplaced pride. What if it isn't?" Blair gave him a blank look. "Well, at least you're thinking. Do you realize how much Jim worries about you? Worries about taking too much of your time and interfering with your career?"

"He what?" Blair squawked. "How - he can't - whatever could he be…"

"As I live and breathe, Blair Sandburg speechless. So get the hint, my boy. You have some work to do. Isn't this the address we wanted?"

Blair pulled the truck to the curb, still sputtering fragments of thought while he pulled the keys out of the ignition. He lowered his head to the steering wheel, his shoulders sagging. Eli patted him gently on the shoulder. "No one promised you it would be easy. An error isn't unforgivable. How you respond to the error is what matters. Now let's take a look around."

The two men stepped out into the light drizzle. Blair looked up and down the street, which looked bleak even in daylight. Eli wandered across the street to stand at a dark splotch which marred the cracked cement sidewalk. Blair walked to the end of the block, turned back and joined him.

"So much blood," Blair said in a hushed voice. "It must have been awful."

"I'm sure Jim's seen more than his share of gory crime scenes," Eli said. "Don't look at it from your viewpoint, look at it through his."

Blair pushed his hands deeply into the pockets of his leather coat. "Of course. He came here expecting to function as a cop. He'd know what to expect, how to react. He's done it a hundred times. He just didn't expect to come here as a sentinel."

"Or he thought his ingrained responses as a detective would take precedence," Eli suggested.

"I'm not a sentinel," Blair said. "I can't experience it as he did."

"But you've studied. Jim understands being a sentinel primarily from being overwhelmed and fighting his way back. He can't always be objective or analytical, because he's just trying to keep from drowning. You're the observer, and you've walked the area. What would you anticipate?"

Blair's eyes widened. "There are at least two restaurants I could smell before I saw them. That means dumpsters, garbage, rats." He looked upwards at the shabby brick facades. "These places are apartments. There would be people, conversations. Add in the sirens, the cops, bystanders. And the blood. The smell of blood must have been overwhelming." Blair spun on his heel, looking over the area in all directions. "Eli, I…"

An amused half-smile touched the older man's face. "You know, it's a bit much to keep an old man out in the rain like this. You really don't need me here, do you? Just drop me at the University." Blair followed Eli as his mentor walked briskly back to the truck.

They completed the short trip in silence. Blair drove with a grim expression, angry with himself for not seeing what seemed to be so obvious. When he pulled up to the courtyard in front of the Sentinel Institute, he started to apologize. Eli promptly cut him off. "Jim probably panicked. Before you go and point that out to him, you might spend a moment or two thinking about how productive you are when you're racing from one thing to the next. Flitting from flower to flower only works well for honey bees."

"Eli, you know how much I have to do. My students, classes…"

"Panic is an equal opportunity experience, don't you think?" Eli asked mildly. "Comes in a lot of flavors and forms, yes?" Just before shutting the door to the truck, he added, "What's good for the goose, Blair. Stop by tomorrow or the next day and we'll have coffee."

Blair watched him all the way to the doors of the building. "Damn, Eli. You always did have a way of cutting to the chase."

&&&&&

Jim looked up from the contracts he was studying. The elevator had just left the first floor. The only two people who had the code for the elevator were Sandburg and Banks, and it was too early for Simon to be arriving. Actually, it was too early for Sandburg. Jim double-checked the time. Blair should have been in the middle of his last lecture.

The elevator opened, empty. Jim was about to step in, ride down and investigate when his phone rang. Annoyed, he snatched the receiver, and barked out, "Ellison."

"Hey, Jim. Can I come up?"

Sandburg's tone, almost hesitant, replaced Jim's irritation with confusion. "What? You live here. Of course you can come up."

"Well, I started to, and then decided to call. This morning …you know."

"Yeah, I know. Forget it, okay? I'll send it back down. See you in a sec," Jim said and disconnected. He waited anxiously as the elevator made the journey down and returned.

"Hey, man, how are you feeling?" Blair's tentative smile warmed him despite his worry. The leather jacket glistened with a few raindrops. Blair shrugged out of the coat and hung it by the door. To save time, he'd dressed down this morning, heading off to the University in a light green turtleneck and jeans. He was carrying two mesh bags stuffed with groceries.

"Must be raining," Jim said.

"Just barely, eagle eyes." Blair dumped the groceries on the counter. "You made it into a shirt. That's progress."

Jim plucked at the hem of his knit polo. "I guess. Not exactly a great achievement. No long sleeves. My arms still prickle." Jim started peeking into the bags, finding mostly vegetables.

"You stayed here?"

"Yeah. Wasn't too bad. Changed some things around, did some conference calls. What's with the truck farm?"

"We are cooking tonight," Blair said, already washing his hands at the sink. "Grab a knife. I'm going to put you to work."

"What do you want me to do?" Jim asked. His stomach gave a sympathetic growl.

"Didn't eat, did you?" Blair asked, already chopping red and yellow peppers.

"It didn't seem worth the effort. Besides, I wasn't very hungry."

Blair's mind flashed back to the nearly gaunt Jim Ellison he'd first met. Erratic sentinel taste buds had forced Jim to limit his choices to the tasteless and reliable, mostly white rice and a few bland vegetables. Jim's self-imposed dietary restrictions had taken a lot of pounds off his once muscular frame. Only in the last month had he really started to fill out again. They didn't want to go down that road again. "Having your system shut down because of stress isn't exactly the same as not being hungry. You need some food. We're going to go pretty conservative here."

Jim eyed the other ingredients Blair was dumping onto the counter. "I don't know, Chief. I was sort of thinking rice for tonight. You know, just go back to what I know works. I don't have the energy for another bout of crazy senses."

Blair stopped chopping. Jim was a proud man, and he had a pretty good idea of what that quiet admission cost his friend. If Jim were a 'hugs' kind of a guy, now would be the time to give him one. "Ah, Jim, I know you had a crappy day, and last night was definitely no fun, but I don't think we need to retreat back to white rice and carrots. Start slicing these mushrooms, okay?"

"You're the boss."

When he finished the mushrooms, Blair promptly put some zucchini and yellow squash under his knife. His eyes widened when he noticed Blair was pulling onions out of his treasure trove. His alarm must have showed, because Blair happened to look up and smile.

"No, I'm not crazy," he said, peeling the crispy outer layers off the onion. "These are sweet onions, and if you must know, I've tested you on different kinds. These will be easy on your palate." He picked up a knife with a flourish. "However, you don't need to stand on top of me while I slice. Go get that journal I asked you to do and meet me in the living room. And take your time, or just wait until I call you."

In the quiet of his music room, Jim followed Chef Sandburg with his ears, surprised at how automatic the action had become. Maybe Sandburg was right. He was using his hearing without it going haywire. He backed off when Blair switched on the fan over the stove. Even with the commercial restaurant equipment, he could smell the onions cooking. Actually, it smelled delicious, and his stomach growled again in sympathy. Apparently Sandburg was right about the hunger thing, too.

"Okay, Jim, come on in." Blair was already settled on the couch, and traded a bottle of water for the notebook. "How are you doing so far?"

Jim unscrewed the cap and took a sip. "Is that ground beef I smell?"

"Yes, in its cholesterol-laden glory." Blair donned his glasses and skimmed through the pages. "Good job, Jim. I can tell you were trying to report honestly."

"Try?" Jim said irritably.

"Try in the sense it goes against the grain, and you made a conscious effort. Here, where is says 'one sip, coffee', tell me about that."

Jim sighed. He dearly loved coffee, and so far working java back onto his approved list had been unsuccessful. "You know Simon and his coffee. Well, maybe you don't. His coffee is his pride and joy. He's always trying new gourmet stuff. He keeps a special pot in his office, by invitation only."

"And you couldn't resist. Since it said 'sip', I assume it wasn't a success."

"Bitter. Way bitter." Jim blanched. "But it smelled so good."

"Don't fret over it. Did he serve you right away?"

"Uhm – no. I'd been there for a while."

Blair grabbed a pen and flipped to a fresh page. "I want you to tell me the whole sequence, from the moment you stepped off the elevator."

"How picky do you want to be?" Jim asked, and then smirked. "Don't answer that. I already know." He closed his eyes and retraced his steps, Sandburg scribbling all the while. It seemed silly, but he pressed on. "Went to the restroom, came back…"

"Stop. Stop right there. Did you roll up your sleeves when you washed?"

"Did I what?" Jim snarled. "Listen here, Sandburg, there are some areas that…"

Blair ignored the outburst and looked at him over the top of his glasses. "We're not talking personal hygiene here. You were wearing that old flannel. It's a 'before' shirt, and you lost weight when your senses came on line. Even though you've put some back on, it's about half a size too big. You haven't filled it out in the shoulders yet, and the sleeves are a little long. So did you roll the cuffs to keep them from getting wet? You do it all the time, you know."

"You noticed this?" Jim asked, incredulous.

"Did you roll?"

"Yeah. Okay, I did. Walked back to the conference room, and picked up where we left off."

"Did you roll them down?"

Jim rolled his eyes, still a little annoyed. "What are you, the fashion police? No, I guess I left them up. My hands were still damp. The industrial grade paper towels the city buys felt like sandpaper."

"Fine. You went back, sat down, started looking at folders, writing, pushing stuff around?"

"Yeah."

"So your forearms were on the table?"

Jim looked confused. "I guess. Yeah, I was writing stuff, taking notes, that sort of stuff."

"Excuse me a sec. I need to stir." Blair disappeared, returning with a white, kitchen-sized garbage bag. "I made a detour. I bagged your clothes from last night. I need to test a theory. Hold out your arm." Jim complied. Carefully, Blair exposed the underside of the cuff and pressed it to the inside of Jim's elbow.

"I swear, Chief, this is nuts."

"Quit arguing and pay attention to what you feel."

Jim blinked in surprise. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. "Heat. It feels hot." Blair waited another half a minute and then pulled the flannel away. A small patch of skin was turning pink.

"That's enough. Follow me." Blair led the way to the bathroom, filled the sink with warm, sudsy water, and grabbed some towels. "Scrub. We'll do it a couple of times and drain the water in between."

Blair left a couple of times to stir his masterpiece in the kitchen. After the final wash, he smeared the area with an aloe Vera cream they'd used before. "You tell me if that gives you any trouble, any at all."

Jim followed him back to the living room. The offending shirt was gone, but Jim noticed the plastic bag was resealed and sitting by the elevator. "So why does my skin suddenly hate flannel?"

"It doesn't. I went to Major Crime today, and quizzed everyone."

Jim groaned. "Great. Just great. I'm sure Simon was thrilled to have you prowling around." He stopped, doing a double take. Blair had a full schedule. What had happened to all the other stuff that usually filled his day? Blair's continuing monologue grabbed his attention again.

"Simon was no problem. Actually, it is great. Your colleagues care about you, Jim, and they were really helpful. We have Rhonda, in particular, to thank. I swear, we should elect that woman mayor or something."

Jim's expression darkened. "Well, I wouldn't disagree. The mayor is a twit."

"Sophisticated political commentary, a la Ellison. The networks will be beating down your door." Blair smiled cheerfully at Jim's withering look. "Rhonda happened to mention they had a little episode in that conference room a couple of days ago. Vice brought up a guy they wanted to question on a joint case and the guy went ballistic during questioning. They pepper sprayed him."

"I'll bet Simon was happy," Jim snickered. "He expects his officers to have better control than that. Rack up another strike against the vice guys. The current bunch are arrogant idiots."

"Simon didn't know. Rhonda got the cleaning crew in there, and decided she didn't need to aggravate Simon over it. She said it was a real mess. Are you following me here?"

Jim's brow crinkled. "But they cleaned, right?"

"Problem is, they didn't clean it for a sentinel. You come back, and drag your shirt cuffs and bare wrists all over the table. Damp forearms and wrists, I might add, all the better to absorb anything on the surfaces."

"Shit," Jim said, realizing the implications. "That's when they started to hurt."

"And not knowing any better, you left and buttoned your shirt back down, continuing the exposure. And rather than tell me, you tough it out while we run all over Cascade looking for apartments. That stuff was on your skin for hours." Blair gave him a long measured glance. "Instead of dealing with it, you just kept turning the dials down. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Busted," Jim said, looking sheepish.

"I thought so. Plus you didn't take the shirt off, because then I would noticed, and asked questions. With the cuffs buttoned, the flannel would work those little molecules of pepper spray into your skin just like sandpaper. You didn't shower. You went straight to bed."

"Okay, so I should have showered. I get it, Sandburg," Jim said irritably.

"I beg to differ. By then, the damage was done. Your system was already going crazy, and then you polish it off by going out on a case." Jim's face went blank. Blair could only imagine what was running through his head, from frustration to embarrassment.

"Quit beating yourself up, Jim. I went to the crime scene. It would have given you a challenge under any circumstances. The point is, you didn't have a fair chance. Your system was under assault. The next thing, no matter what form it took, was going to be the final straw."

Jim swirled the last of his water in the bottom of the bottle. "I'm not sure this makes me feel any better."

Blair shook his head sympathetically. "I'm guessing, but I think you spent all day convincing yourself that you'll never be able to do street work again. I don't think that's true. You got blindsided by something that was unrelated. Since when is pepper spray an ordinary occurrence?"

"For a cop?" Jim said skeptically.

"Even for a cop. If you were back in Major Crime every day, of course you'd know there had been pepper spray in that room. You would have adjusted. Avoided the room, or made certain it was cleaned more thoroughly."

"But I'm not there every day."

"So? You think Rhonda and the others won’t have an eagle eye out? Nothing's changed Jim. All isn't lost. We ran into something unexpected, didn't recognize it, and didn't react appropriately. It was hell, but put it in perspective. Every mistake means we'll do better next time."

"You really think that was all that was wrong?" Jim's voice said the rest; it was too much to hope for.

"I'm sure of it. Now let's eat." Jim followed his friend into the kitchen. Blair pointed silently at a chair, and Jim took a seat. Blair slid a plate of warmed French bread, sliced and accompanied by a saucer of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The butter dish joined the bread. "The olive oil's better for you, but if you want safe, start with the butter. Let's get something solid in your stomach." Jim munched in silence, wary at first, then thoroughly enjoying the crusty slices. By the time Blair returned with the main course, he was downing his second slice.

"Smells great," Jim said, but his tone was wistful.

"You don't think you're going to be able to eat it, do you? Quit cooking white rice in your head," Blair said, sliding their plates onto the table. "Italian is the ultimate comfort food."

"What's with the curly stuff?" Jim asked, poking at the plain noodles piled in their own dish, separate from the sauce.

"It's rotini. Spaghetti is too awkward for what we're going for," Blair said, settling into the chair across from Jim. "Take a couple bites of plain pasta. When your palate is settled, dip the noodles into the sauce first."

"Okay." Jim stabbed at the curls of pasta. "It might have saved you a lot of trouble to just go with the rice for tonight."

"Quit worrying and eat," Blair said firmly, digging into his own meal.

"Oh, well, the noodles will be okay." At the first taste of sauce, he winced and swallowed hard, following the attempt with half a glass of water.

"Don't give up. Readjust and try again," Blair said in a calm, encouraging voice.

Bite two wasn't a success, bite three tolerable. Before long, Jim dumped the pasta into a separate bowl of sauce and stirred it together. Blair smiled without comment and handed him the parmesan.

The second bowl was even better.

Simon Banks arrived with the dessert, a carton of premium vanilla ice cream, and the forensics reports. Jim's brow had lost its pinched, worried look. Blair dished the ice cream while the other two men discussed the evidence, smiling in satisfaction. Jim's mood improved dramatically with a full stomach. If only they had been able to nip the entire crisis in the bud.

"What prompted you to call Jim on this one, Simon?" Blair asked, handing each man a heaping bowl of vanilla.

"The shoes."

"What about the shoes?" Blair asked, looking totally confused. "Everybody has shoes. Were they ruby slippers or something?" Both men glared at him. "Sorry. I'm not trying to downplay a serious crime."

Simon shrugged. "It seems silly. Jim noticed something in the photos yesterday, from the old unsolved cases. Some of the victims had elaborate knots tied into their shoelaces, or something unusual with their shoes. Until you had the crime scene photos side by side, it wasn't something you'd note. Our new victim had the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left foot."

"That seems like something you'd definitely notice."

"You got it, as long as the murderer did the same thing every time. We can't be sure it's connected at all. One of the victims had his shoes unlaced, with the laces dangling, another had double knots."

"Double knots?" Blair said. "As in a little kid's double knots? You'd have to notice."

"Sure," Jim said. "But the cases were months or years apart. They weren't assigned to the same detectives. I would have noted it at the time, but that's all."

"I know, weird," Simon agreed. "But after Jim pointed it out that afternoon, I noticed the shoes on our victim last night and got a little excited. There doesn't seem to be any substantial connection. I shouldn't have called."

"Jim and I were just talking about that," Blair said, and launched into an explanation of his residual pepper spray theory. As predicted, Banks interrupted the narrative with a few scathing remarks about vice personnel in his bullpen. Despite his irritation, he seemed relieved.

"You mean it wasn't the crime scene?" Simon asked. "Well, that's great!"

"Well, it was the crime scene, but that wasn't the only factor, or even the primary factor. Just promise me, next time, you make sure I'm there," Blair said firmly. "At least until Jim gets his bearings back."

"Sandburg, with all due respect, I'm not sure you want to be traipsing around crime scenes. It can be pretty gory." Simon looked to Jim for support, who nodded in agreement. "Besides, you're a civilian. It's against policy."

Blair overrode the objection. "So make new policy. My focus will be on Jim. Just trust me on this."

Simon looked to his ex-detective for confirmation. After a moment's hesitation, Jim nodded again. "I think we should try it Blair's way, at least for a time or two. That is, if you want to try again."

"Thanks for the heads up," Jim said, escorting Simon to the elevator. "Call you tomorrow?"

"Do that," Banks added emphatically, smiling as the doors closed.

Blair met him with a glass of juice. "I think we need to talk."

Jim accepted the juice, but wasn't interested in this conversation. "I thought we had this all straightened out. Safety tip for the day, stay away from pepper spray."

Blair gave him an indulgent look. "Nice try. I'm more worried about why you didn't tell me in the first place."

"Look, Chief, it wasn't that bad…"

"Jim, don't defend your position. Just don't. It was bad." Blair's attempt at a neutral, reserved air crumpled. Misery poured from his vivid blue eyes. "News flash, Eli kicked me in the butt. He didn't betray any confidences, so don’t worry. He just called a few things to my attention, and I filled in the rest. I need to be exceptionally clear about this." He pulled a chair close so he could look straight at Jim, their knees barely touching. "You kept it to yourself because you thought I was too busy." Jim's uneasy silence was the only answer needed. "I am busy, but I'm not too busy for you. I can't force you, but I hope you believe that. I desperately need you to believe me, in more than just words." Jim started to answer, and Blair waved him off. "I made some adjustments to my schedule today, and I've basically cleared the next few days, and most of next week, to spend some uninterrupted time with you. No, don't worry about how. Just suffice it to say, it's done."

"Absolutely not," Jim said adamantly. "You have a brand new job to worry about. You can't just blow that off."

"You're right. I just needed to get that out in the open, so we can approach it rationally, and not just ignore it until the next crisis. To tell you the truth, I was going to suggest we turn in, and discuss this when we're fresh. Sound okay?"

Jim noticed the unspoken plea, nodded and said goodnight. Dr. Sandburg was trying to let him off easy, at least for now. When his back was turned, and Blair had shuffled off towards the guest room, his face broke into a wide grin. Sandburg wasn't the only one who had put the day to good use. Whatever Blair's thoughts on the matter were, he'd done a little reorganizing of his own. Some creativity and timing, and he could put his plan into action.

&&&&&

Three o'clock and all's well. This is what happens when you have a guilty conscience, Sandburg. Blair turned on the bedside light, pushed his pillow against the headboard and sat back. If he wasn't going to sleep, he may as well do some thinking.

What was it Eli said? Flitting was only good for honeybees? Well, that hurt, but only because it was true. Eli had scolded him more than once during his days as a student, when double booking dates and midnight crams were de rigueur. Here he had been cruising along, with his tenure track position, feeling all mature, and in reality, it was the same old Sandburg.

And then there was Jim.

Blair pulled the blankets up a little farther, but the chill that made him shudder wasn't really temperature. Jim had placed himself at risk in an effort to spare him. The consequences had been awful, and certainly could have been much, much worse. What if a really severe sensory episode caused permanent damage? Jim needed his help when things came up, not when it fit into some academic schedule. They needed to talk about that, and he would need to present a supremely convincing argument. What was he going to say? As Eli had so deftly pointed out, his schedule was a mess. How could he fault Jim for taking notice, and trying to help the only way he knew how?

Jim was a smart guy. A few empty reassurances weren't going to be good enough. Jim would see right through it. If he wanted Jim to change his outlook, Professor Sandburg needed to get his act together first. Promises he couldn't keep were a bad idea. In his own way, Eli had pointed out the obvious. The old Sandburg strategy of doing more, and doing it faster and longer, wasn't going to work.

Blair sighed, turned off the light and flopped back into the bed. He pounded the pillow a few times for good measure. He was going to have to get organized. There was no help for it.

Damn.

&&&&&

This was so cool. Fabulous. Brilliant.

The tiny apartment was as dingy and filthy as ever. Takeout boxes and stained coffee mugs littered the room. The small garbage bin in the corner overflowed. None of it mattered.

He snatched pages as they churned off his ancient printer, reading feverishly. It was the best he'd ever done, hell, it was the best anyone had ever done.

He smoothed the pages lovingly, thrilled beyond words, imagining the future. The success, the book signings, the fat checks that would be coming his way, it was all going to be his.

It was just a matter of getting the proper inspiration. He looked at the photos he'd taken the night before. Even the shot taken from a distance, the police captain, with his swirling overcoat had turned out great.

And he'd captured every minute.

&&&&&

Blair awoke to the smell of cooked bacon and fresh coffee. He expected to find Jim in the kitchen. Sometimes the other man surprised him with an early breakfast, but today the only sign of Jim Ellison was a note.

Be back soon. Don't go anywhere.

I have a surprise for you.

Eat.

Blair poured himself some coffee. It must be sheer torture for Jim to serve coffee to someone else when he hadn't managed it himself. Taking a piece of bacon to munch on the way, he headed for the shower. Whatever Jim had in mind, he might as well be ready to go.

The shower was a blessing to his bleary-eyed state. He couldn't shrug off a sleepless night the way he used to. No flitting today. He'd be all business, nothing but ruthless organization. Blair grabbed a mouthful of water and spit a stream across Jim's shower tiles. Who was he kidding? Linear organization was absolutely not his strong point. How could someone just think their way out of a lifetime of doing? Abruptly a smile broke across his face. Come to think of it, he might know someone who managed to reinvent himself. Some observer you are, Sandburg. You could ask him over breakfast.

Breakfast was still waiting for him. Jim was waiting as well, calmly drinking from a bottle of water, which wasn't a good sign. Jim had fresh squeezed juice and buttermilk doughnuts delivered every morning. If he was drinking water instead, things must not be going well.

"Having trouble with taste?" Blair asked, taking a long sip from an abandoned glass of orange juice. He watched Jim's face closely, hoping to get a reading on the man's distress. As usual, Jim's expression didn't reveal much.

"Not actually that bad. I just didn't feel like messing with it. Are you up for my surprise?"

Blair took a bite of warm croissant, leaving the doughnuts for Jim, who never tired of them. "If we can talk first."

"Look, Chief, I'm sure you're all a-twitter over some new checklist or something, but I don't want to do hours of sentinel analysis today."

Blair recognized the Jim Ellison version of "I'll think about it tomorrow." He could sympathize. "Actually, I had something else in mind, but it is pretty analytical. Bear with me. You know one of the things I really admire about you? When the chips were down, and nothing worked, and you didn't understand why, you threw out the old model and got on with the new."

Jim raised one eyebrow in response. "Not like I had many choices. I don't find desperation very admirable."

Blair snickered. "Know what, Jim? I am desperate right now, so we're a good pair. Eli pretty much spelled it out for me yesterday. If I don't get a handle on my schedule, I'm sunk. Whenever I got bogged down before, I'd just pull an all-nighter and get caught up. Work frantically for a couple of weeks and then business as usual. I could multitask my way out of anything."

"Yeah. So? As far as I can see, that's about what you're doing now."

"Well, to put it mildly, it's not working now. I need a new approach, and I need your help."

"I don't know anything about being a university professor."

"Because you're everything I'm not. Organized, disciplined. You think linearly, I think globally. I want you to analyze this like a business project. Help me figure out what to do. If you help me, then maybe you'll let me help you."

Jim choked on a swallow of water. It was a mild shock that Sandburg's thinking was running parallel to his own, but he didn't want to reveal his surprise. He tried to recover, forcing a bit of the tease into his reply. "I've seen your office. You could just have a fire and be done with it."

"Ha ha. Are you encouraging arson? Or are you going to help me out here?" Blair matched his mocking tone, and Jim relaxed a bit.

"We're different people, in case you haven't noticed," Jim said, all joking aside. "Like you said, we don't think the same way. And for God's sake, you're brilliant and a PhD. What could I possibly tell you? "

Blair tore another croissant in half with irritation. "I swear, Jim. What you've achieved is not accidental. I lived in this neighborhood four years ago. It was borderline scary. You've turned urban blight into the hottest neighborhood in Cascade. You bring all kinds of resources to bear in a master plan. That's a hell of a lot more complicated than arranging a schedule. Apply your skills, man, because I just don't have them."

"You're serious. Now I am worried. I wouldn't know where to start," Jim stammered, now clearly flustered.

"Hey, you started somewhere. What did you do? Actually, you should probably tape this and write a business strategies book. Those things make millions, you know. Come on, now. Share with the ignorant. Start at the beginning."

Jim shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. I guess it's a military model. Define the objective, recon, plan the operation. I needed a place to live. I knew the things that drove me crazy. I looked for a place that didn't have particular smells and sounds." He tapped the now empty water bottle on the table edge. "I guess I'd tell you to prioritize what you need. Can you do that?"

Blair shrugged, his dismay clearly written on his face. "Therein lies the problem. I need everything at once, and they all require time. They're competing and mutually exclusive."

"Explain that."

Blair frowned. "Well, obviously, I can't look for an apartment and see students or give a lecture at the same time."

"I'm not jerking you around, Chief. If you can state something, you're a long way toward picking it apart."

Blair sighed. "Okay. I think I get you. I need a car and a place to live. I need to furnish said place. I still need to organize my office. My office has always been a mess, but I usually can find stuff. After the move from Michigan, and getting my office wrecked, I really can't find a damn thing. Stuff got moved around too much for me to keep track. I waste time looking for stuff I never find. It really slows down the preparation for my lectures. It slows down everything."

"That can't be all there is to it," Jim said shrewdly.

Blair sighed. "You do manage to cut to the heart of things, Jim. The real issue, to paraphrase Eli, is I don't finish a task before I start another one. My classic Sandburg multitasking isn't bringing the ship into port."

"What's most important?"

"They're all important. That's the problem," Blair said, his voice rising a bit. "This is so frustrating. I feel so stupid."

Jim placed the water bottle flat on the table, flicked the end and sent it spinning in circles. He gave his friend a sly look. "Well, how about we do my surprise, and then go from there. Finish eating while I make a couple of calls."

"Hey, wait a minute," Blair called in the direction of his retreating back. "What did you eat?" He shook his head in futility when Jim didn't answer. Giving in to hunger, he polished off another croissant. When Jim returned, he gave no clues as to the nature of the "surprise", other than that travel was required.

Blair allowed himself to be herded into Jim's truck for a circuitous drive with no obvious destination. Even though they seemed close to the University, Blair was unfamiliar with the area. No amount of teasing or prodding produced any response from Jim, so Blair finally settled for casual gazing without really paying attention. Whatever Jim had in mind would run its course. Lost in thought, Blair was caught unawares when the truck pulled to a stop. "We're here," Jim said cheerfully. "What's the matter, Chief? You lost?"

"Where are we exactly?" Blair asked, hustling to catch up. Jim held open the door to a small bakery. "Welcome to Collette's. Smell those buttermilk doughnuts." The shop was tiny, and the woman behind the counter broke into a smile. "Detective Ellison, how nice to see you! Do you want your usual? I just made a batch fresh this morning. Are you staying or on the run this morning?"

"To go, with two coffees." Blair glanced over, his concern showing. Jim leaned over to whisper in Blair's ear. "They have great coffee here. If I can't handle it, I'll give it to you."

Blair nodded. After Jim's limited attempts to eat, he was happy to encourage the show of willingness. Even in the best of circumstances, not every attempt to extend Jim's repertoire of food was successful. Jim yearned for coffee. It would be a red-letter day if a cup of java was a success. He looked around the shop. It was old, but cheerful. "Why not just eat here, Jim? Take a minute and quit starving yourself."

"Places to go, things to do," Jim said cryptically. "No more questions. You'll spoil my surprise. Hey, thanks." He accepted a white pastry bag and handed over a ten. He promptly buried his nose in the bag and sniffed. "Food for the gods. Keep the change, Millie," he said cheerfully. He grabbed a handful of sugar packets and headed for the door. Blair took the two coffees, smiled at the beaming cashier and followed him out.

Jim was a man on a mission. Before Blair knew it, they were chugging up three flights of stairs, and he was struggling to keep up. Jim was taking them two at a time. Blair was forced to take it slower unless he wanted hot coffee all over his hands. On the last landing, Jim was out of sight, but a door was open. "In here, Chief." Blair shrugged and followed the voice.

The high-ceilinged space was basically empty. Blair realized that Jim was standing on a small balcony. "Come check out the view, Sandburg." Still carrying the coffee, Blair joined him. A couple of pots with long dead plants cluttered the end of the balcony, but the view was amazing. The bay sparkled in the morning sun.

"Wow. This is gorgeous. Almost as good as your place."

"Well, maybe the view is." Jim took one of the coffee cups and ducked back inside. Blair found him at an island in the small kitchen, gleefully emptying packets of sugar into the cup with one hand, and eagerly munching a doughnut with the other. "The place has some drawbacks. The water heater's small. Half the time the elevator doesn't work, the fridge is a relic, and the furnace runs like an old Sherman tank. Okay, moment of truth." Jim blew across the surface of the coffee and took a tiny sip.

"Dials, Jim, dials. Concentrate on the sweet first, then let the coffee follow. Take it slow."

"Yeaaah," Jim said slowly, and tried another sip. He rolled it across his tongue and tried again. "He shoots, he scores." Another sip. "Today is a good day."

"Is it really okay? After the last few days, that's great!" Blair said, smiling. He handed Jim another doughnut. "Go for the full meal deal." He chuckled as Jim rolled his eyes in apparent bliss.

"So what do you think?" he asked around a mouthful of doughnut.

"What do I think about what?" Blair asked. "The dangers of processed sugar? The fact that we need to get you a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles?"

"No," Jim said in a disgusted tone. "What do you think of it? The place?"

Blair frowned, clearly not quite catching on.

Jim waved to the surrounding space impatiently. "Sandburg, you have a PhD. Don't you get it? You've keep fretting about staying with me and not having a place. You have zero time to look for one, because you spend every spare moment helping me, nurse-maiding clueless freshmen, teaching, getting the Institute running and God knows what else. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner."

"Think of what?"

"I own this place. Welcome to 852 Prospect. I used to live here, and now it's yours."

Blair dropped his coffee and barely caught it, sloshing hot liquid over his fingers. He was too distracted to do more than yelp, "What do you mean, it's mine? Whoa. Wait a minute!"

"Don't you like the place?' Jim asked, his bliss fading into disappointment.

"Like it? Of course I like it. It's great, but –"

"But nothing." Jim smiled with absolute enthusiasm. "Do I have to spell it out? It's empty. It's free. It's close to Rainier, and you can get to my place in less than ten minutes. I'll never be able to live here again, but I never could bring myself to sell it. In fact, I own the building. We can have you set up here in a week. What could be more efficient?"

Blair just stood there, stunned. But here was Jim, grinning, totally pleased with himself, waiting for an answer. "For starters, I can't afford it."

"Not an issue. We can write up a contract if it makes you happy."

"Jim, you're not thinking logically. I've been apartment shopping, remember? I have a vague idea of the local market. You know this. You heard the realtor, looked at the other places. Even if you were talking a bargain basement deal, it's totally out of my price range." He gestured wildly toward the high ceilings of the loft. "I can realistically afford a pup tent in the hallway."

"You don't know what I have in mind," Jim said, his disappointed face softening into a smile. "Are you willing to listen?" Jim's expression didn't waver under Blair's skeptical expression.

Blair sighed and gave in. "Fine. I'll listen. But I can't freeload this place off you. That's a nonstarter."

"Not what I had in mind, Sandburg," Jim said firmly. "This is a business proposition, not charity, which is why you don't need to worry about the asking price. Come look." Blair trailed him back into the kitchen, trying to make a quick calculation of his assets. He was sure Jim would be more than fair, but his own resources were still limited. "Remember I told you the shopping plaza and the condos weren't everything?" Blair nodded, remembering that particular late night conversation. "I've had this idea on the back burner for a while."

"What idea?" Blair said, leaning against the kitchen island.

Jim joined him, obviously comfortable with the familiar space. "When I bought the land for the gym, I was operating on a shoestring, but I got the land cheap. No one wanted it."

"I'm well aware, if you recall," Blair interjected. "It was my place that blew up, thanks to that stupid drug lab."

"Why you were ever living there is beyond me," Jim said. "What matters is that when the gym took off, I kept buying land when it was offered, usually at fire sale prices. I needed to invest, and everyone wanted to get rid of those places. Things sort of snowballed before I realized it. I own a lot, well most, of those old commercial buildings to the west and south. 852 Prospect, this building, anchors the northeast corner." "I had no idea," Blair said. "All that?"

"Well yeah, not that I advertise it. The point is, this is the city I was a kid in. I love Cascade; that's why I came back here after I got out of the Army. I'm not interested in leveling everything for miles. I want to renovate the city, not tear it down." He gestured toward the sleeping area. "I want this to be a demo of what can be done. Make it a place for lots of people, not just singles with more money than sense. I want families, kids, working class people, people just starting out; a real community, right in the heart of Cascade. Think of it. No mindless commuting to the suburbs, wasting gas and resources and time. Here, take a look. I have drawings." He opened the fridge and took out a roll of architectural plans.

Blair laughed. "They're so hot they need to be iced?"

Jim laughed. "Nah, the fridge has been off. I just needed somewhere to hide them, so it could be a surprise. Look." He spread the diagrams on the island. "You're not a fussy kind of guy. You could move in or wait until the big stuff is done."

"What big stuff?" Blair looked around the spacious room. "Jim, this is better than anywhere I've ever lived. There's no big stuff to do."

"No, no, no. Just basics. Replace the windows, upgrade the bathroom and kitchen, some of the wiring. Refinish the hardwood floor. Put in a few good pieces of furniture. You dig out all your artifacts, and then I wan to turn you loose. Give it an international look. That's the trade. You put some personal style in, live in it, and then let me use it to inspire people. Get the project off the ground."

Blair stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Jim, I don't have a style. If you stretch, my apartment in Michigan was done in Early Goodwill. You need to hire a decorator. Professionals do this sort of thing."

"No way, Chief," Jim replied, setting his jaw. "I hire a decorator and I get the inside of a