Author's notes: This re-post has my correct email addy.

My gratitude to Susanne who beta'd both stories and to DebraC, who I strong-armed into beta'ing and I'm so glad she let me. Thanks also to Dark Cherry and necessary angel for all their help in the beta stage...Each one added something special and needed. My gratitude to each for what they taught me. Many thanks to Lucy who helped me with the medical details.

Coming Home -- Part One

I watch as Blair studies his hand. He arranges it and then re-arranges it, looking over his glasses at Rafe. Rafe winks. Blair quickly looks down at his cards. We've been playing all night. One of those Cascade nights of wet glaze, mist, and occasional window-tapping drops. Blair has yet to make a bet beyond the one to open. I know he's had some good hands, winning hands, but something holds him back.

Periodically he breaks away and serves up snacks and drinks. I keep telling him to knock it off, we're all big boys here, but Sandburg seems to need to do this, so I let him. I funded him for the game and although he hasn't lost much, he hasn't won any either.

"I know you can beat this hand, Chief. Come on, put some coin on the table."

Blair looks at everyone at the table before his eyes settle on me. I see he's trying to gauge everyone's reactions, expectations, but everyone's in full poker face mode and he can't get a bead. His breathing starts to quicken.

Rafe cajoles, "Come on in, Blair, the water's fine."

The words are said cheerfully, so why does a chill sweep over me?

Rafe is looking ever so slightly rumpled, a testimony to the long night. I can see he feels the strain of trying to make this a poker night like every other poker night. He pushes his dark hair from his face and tries again.

"Blair, the suspense is killing us here."

I have to hand it to Rafe, Ever since the altercation at the hospital he's been trying to connect with Blair, to reassure him that all's well between them.

Blair nods and carefully picks up two blue chips and puts them in. He darts a look at me, his blue eyes worried.

"Now we've got game." Simon takes another look at his hand and says, "I'm still in. I'll see your fifty and raise you ten."

Rafe pushes three blue chips in. "I see you and I'll raise you another fifteen."

Blair looks at me. He's a little panicked by the sudden flurry of bidding. I nod at him. "Put in another blue, Chief." I throw my own in.

H throws his cards down in disgust. "That's it, I'm out." He slouches down, interested in how this hand will play out.

"Sandburg? Are you upping the bet or calling?" Simon reveals no urgency or impatience as he prods Blair to make a move.

"I-I'll call." Blair says it as if he expects us to protest.

We all place our cards down.

Blair easily beats Rafe's pair, Simon's two pair, and my three of a kind with his straight.

Looking a bit perplexed, he studies all of our hands.

"Okay, so you won, Sandburg, don't gloat, take your winnings." Simon growls, his eyes twinkling.

Blair looks up at Simon, his face showing confusion. Blair seems to have no feel for teasing, no ability to distinguish real anger from mock, and consequently, much of Simon's way of communicating baffles him.

"Um, okay." Blair pulls the money towards him, his eyes scanning everyone at the table.

I realize then what the problem is. He can't believe it's all right for him to win. After months with The Tessuad, whose main aim seemed to be breaking Blair down, winning is an unusual place for him to be.

"Sure, Sandburg, lay low all night, get us all comfortable and then spring your trap. You got the highest pot, Ha-Blair."

Brown can't get over the loss of Hairboy as his nickname for Blair. Blair still has more hair than most of us at the table. He got his haircut and they were able to even out some of the mess Smith had made of it. Now it curls, tight to his head, but he's far from the Hairboy of the past.

I chuckle and look at Blair. His eyes are darting around, and his breathing's accelerated, sure signs of distress.

"I didn't mean to. I-I.... you can have it back." Blair's pushing the money back into the middle, his hands almost imperceptibly shaking.

Simon glares at H.

"You won, Sandburg, fair and square. Take the money."

Simon pushes it back toward Blair, who once again scans the table and sees we're smiling. He tentatively smiles back, then ducks his head. When Blair smiles these days-- and it's altogether a much too rare occurrence-- it's not the old quick, light up his face, happy smile. These days his smile is slow to appear and shadowed.

The game breaks up. There's a certain awkwardness as we say our goodnights and the guys suit up for the relentless rain. They leave in a group, the usual banter and grumbling echoing up the stairs.

Blair and I start to clean up. The talk that used to flow from Sandburg so easily in the past, has dried up. I groused about his ability to go on and on, his hands in motion, the look on his face conveying his love of the subject, but I'd gotten used it, and now I miss it.

He had a way of integrating information. H'turi's downfall reflected in fashion, would be compared with the Catholic's change in how they garbed their nuns and the reduction of women joining nunneries. Always something and rarely anything you'd expect. Better than TV or talk radio. And now we've lost our programming. His hands no longer fly about, illustrating this and that. It's like someone pulled the plug. The bloody Tessuad pulled the plug.

I look over at Blair. He's drying the dishes. He's better, he really is. He's gained some weight. The nightmares no longer come every night. Miriam's all set to start working with Blair in a systematic way, hoping to recover some memory. I haven't yet told Blair about the possibility of surgery.

At first he was in no shape for it. The week with The Tessuad had been much harder on him than I'd realized as I'd sat in my neat little room at the Compound, listening in. I remember my impatience with him, how quickly I'd believed he would choose Jason over me. I'd been so clueless about the pressures they had brought to bear on him.

Then I learned what Smith had done; the infection that had set in after the shower, the damage to his lungs in the Sensory Depravation Tank. All that was compounded by his day in the cold and the snow.

Now, a month later, Sandburg has physically recovered. The hacking that had dogged him for weeks has subsided. The welts around his wrists have healed, leaving red scars that have begun to fade.

Simon was able to liaison with the Feds and create a firewall around Blair's involvement with The Tessuad Nation. He spun almost as good a tale as Blair would've, if Blair were here.

Simon told them that after the dissertation was released, The Nation learned of it. It really didn't matter to them whether I was a real Sentinel. They had their own and they needed someone who could act as his guide. Simon told the agents Blair's mind had been so tampered with that he has almost no memory of what happened to him while with Jason Rarick.

If and when Rarick goes to trial, we'll see if there's anything Blair can contribute. At this point it's doubtful. He couldn't see who Rarick hit, only report what Rarick told him. In the meantime, the Feds seem to understand Blair might be in some danger, but since he's of so little use to them, they aren't very motivated to send in protection.

Thinking back on last week when Blair came back to the PD, I could see then how awkward it was for him. Every time he turned around, someone wanted an opinion; about computers or colleges their kid was considering, or which form was needed on a 613. The old Blair would have tossed off his answers, fixed the computer, found the form. This Blair didn't know any of those things. Worse, it worried him that he didn't know this stuff. Having been asked, he clearly felt responsible. There was a constant underlying scent of fear on Blair. He was driven by a need to get things right, to contribute, to adapt to the expectations of him. I found him up late at night, the light from his bedside denting the darkness of his room and making a small circle for him to study computer manuals and college brochures.

It was all I could do to let it be. I wanted to go in his room, put him to bed, turn off the lights. Tell him not to worry. I didn't. After all Blair had been through, the last thing he needed was a John Wayne looming over him.

I put the last dish away.

"You hungry at all?" I take every opportunity to feed Blair.

It's been a fight. At first I thought it was because he was so sick. Later it became clear he was still operating under some of The Tessuad's edicts. Mainly the one that said eating when you were hungry was giving in to the body's desires. Satisfying desire was never a good thing in their book, at least for a Guide. It amazes me, the discipline Blair maintains over himself and feels compelled to maintain.

I tried yelling at him. Usually my yelling is pretty effective, but now it just drives him deeper into being Eric. I cringe, remembering his reaction to the last time I lost my patience. Sandburg had eaten next to nothing and he still looked like crap...

"C'mon, Chief, eat your vegetables." The old Sandburg would have been stunned by those words.

"Thanks, Jim, but I'm fine, really."

"Dammit, Sandburg, you eat like a bird. You'll never get better if you don't eat more."

I meant it to sound kind of paternal, you know?

And it did. I sounded just like my father, pissed and impatient.

Blair looked stricken and pulled his plate back. I watched as he ate all his carrots, but it was a hollow victory over The Nation. He kept his head down and nearly gagged as he tried to finish.

"I'll get better, Jim." He looked up at me, the old Sandburg nowhere to be seen in his eyes.

"You are better, Blair. It's just that...well...you like carrots," I finished lamely.

They'd been very clever. Those fuckers had somehow convinced Blair that if it tasted good, or satisfied in any way, it had to be a sin. And while Blair had fully accepted the falseness of the sect, the imprint remained.

When I met with Miriam, she'd explained it to me, "As far as Blair knows, this is it. This is life as he knows it. This is his culture, the structure by which he lives. And in his case, it's even more profound. Within that culture, he was a non-being. He had no voice, no choice, and no part of his life that was his own. He simply does not have either the intellectual pieces, or the self-worth, to fight their ideas about this. Or their ideas about Guides." She sighed. "God, I miss the old Blair. You must be going nuts." She pulled her long, dark back in a gesture I'd become familiar with.

"Is nuts a clinical description or is it being used in layman's terms?"

She laughed, and I smiled back. Blair doesn't seem to understand my jokes anymore. Hell, he doesn't understand anyone's jokes anymore.

Miriam replied, "Hopefully, when you come on Tuesday, we'll be able to start to dismantle 'Eric' and bring back Blair."

"I just want to fix this." As soon as I'd said it, I'd known what it sounded like.

Instead of jumping all over me, she said, "I know you do, but Blair can't be fixed. He has to be healed. He has to find a way to heal. And you," she pointed her finger at me for emphasis, "have got to learn patience!"

Miriam patted my arm and I pulled her into a hug. She's my best ally right now in the fight for Blair's mind and I'm grateful. She returned the hug briefly, and then pushed me away, primly straightening her blouse. I don't believe there's a flirtatious bone in her body and after Joyce, that's another thing I'm grateful for.

As I watch Blair gather up the chips and put the cards away, I wonder if he's ready to start his sessions with Miriam. I don't think Blair has much hope for himself. But I do. He remembered me, sort of, he remembered Naomi's face, and he remembered Simon's office. If he can do that much, more is possible.

Okay, so Naomi's visit earlier this week was a bust. He recognized her from his dreams but he had no idea of how to relate to her. She'd swooped in, very Naomi-like. Her eyes, so like the old Blair's with their spark and fire, had smiled warmly at him. She knew his memory was gone but I'm sure she harbored the hope that as soon as Blair saw her, he'd snap back.

"Blair, sweetie!"

At those words, Blair's eyes had widened. She moved towards him and he backed away. She had the good sense to stop and hold out her hand, the way you would with a frightened animal.

"What is it, sweetheart? It's all right that you don't remember me." Her hands fluttered, and she giggled a little. Naomi's the only post-40 year old woman I know who can giggle and make it sound natural.

"Mom?" At that Naomi's eyes went wide.

"Yes, Mom, Sweetie. Naomi." I think she wanted Blair to know she's much more than a mom to him, that she's his friend, his comrade in arms.

Something flashed quickly through Blair's eyes, but I couldn't read it.

Naomi told stories about baby Blair that brought small smiles to Sandburg's face. I watched Blair watch Naomi talk. He seemed charmed, yet he didn't ask any questions, nor follow up on anything she said. He seemed curiously uninterested in the life he'd had before The Tessuad. It was if she were reading him delightful fairy tales. His face reflected the wistfulness of a man without a childhood.

The next time Naomi went to hug him, she approached him slowly, tenderly. He allowed himself to be enfolded by her, but his body never relaxed into her hold. It was apparent there was no comfort for him in her hug. She stayed for three days and by then it was clear what a strain it was for Blair. And for Naomi; she couldn't keep it up. On the third day, when she'd hugged Blair good-bye and he'd stiffly endured, she'd started to cry.

Blair had looked at me wildly. I shrugged. I didn't know what to do. Blair always knew this stuff.

"Naomi? What's wrong? Did you get some bad news?" Blair took a wild guess and patted her hand.

"Oh, sweetie," she'd hiccupped, "don't get me wrong, I love you in every form you take. It's just hard." Blair grabbed a tissue to hand her, taking the opportunity to untangle from her.

"I'm sorry." Blair had worn the look I see so often these days, a look of regret and defeat.

"No, no, don't be sorry." Naomi had taken his face in her hands. "You are the dearest, most precious gift I ever got and don't you ever be sorry. It'll all work out. You'll see."

She kissed his cheek and made her good-byes.

After she was gone, I'd tried to get Blair to talk about the visit.

"How was it seeing your mom?"

"Naomi?"

"Yeah, Naomi."

"It was good. Kind of hard. She loves hi- me so much and I don't remember anything about her, except her face."

"So she said she'd be back soon."

"Yeah, soon."

"Maybe it'll get easier."

"Yeah...maybe."

I shake off the memories of the last few weeks, and turn my attention back to the here and now.

"You hungry at all?"

"Nah, I'm fine, thanks anyway. Think I'll just get ready for bed." That's his usual answer to 'Are you hungry?'

Blair heads for the bathroom, and then stops. He digs around in his jeans and pulls out some money.

"Here, Jim. I still owe you $10.50." He hands me the four-crumpled dollar bills and the change he won. I know better than to argue for him to keep it.

"Thanks, Chief. Forget the $10.50. It was worth it to see Simon's face when you beat him."

Blair looks at me like I'm an alien. "No way, that was your money. I want to pay you back."

Sandburg's been trying to give me money for everything since he got a job last week at the corner grocery store. I tried talking him out of it, but he insists on paying his own way. The work schedule is easier than when he taught, went to school and helped me out on the job.

He no longer has an observer's badge, since he no longer has a dissertation to write. And the Academy is out, which is just as well. He has no defenses these days to any systemized education and I realize how much I don't want Sandburg to be a cop like me. Maybe before, when he was going to be a cop like Sandburg, it would've been all right. Maybe I delude myself that he could've kept his Blairness in the face of the Academy and the role of a cop.

I don't think I thought too much about what it would take for Blair to become a cop. I just expected the role of cop to graft to Blair the guide, Blair the scholar. I think I vastly underestimated what kind of transformation was occurring at the Academy and what I had to lose. I only saw what I had to gain. Blair, officially next to me, acting as my guide and friend.

It's about reduction. That's what The Tessuad did, in order to make use of him. They did it brutally, violently and without affection.

I, on the other hand, did it by seduction. I knew the kid liked the excitement of police work. He liked solving the puzzles. He liked having a place with Major Crimes. He liked having a home with me. And mostly, he loved that he had found his Sentinel and that he was a Guide. In the end, the results were the same. Blair for our use, at his expense.

I listen to Blair brushing his teeth. I find myself comforted by the smallest things, like the sounds of Blair puttering around, his mutterings as he looks for something. Those sounds are much the same as before, while our conversations have become awkward. Neither Blair nor I, quite sure how to be what the other one needs.

"Did you have fun tonight, Chief?" I ask, leaning against the wall by the bathroom.

"Oh, yeah, Jim. It was great to spend time with the guys, I think I'm getting the hang of Poker."

Blair exits the bathroom, toweling his hair and runs right into me, his forehead thumping my chest. It surprises me enough that I automatically put my hands on his shoulders to steady him and steady myself.

"Oh, man, sorry, didn't see you..." Blair's mumbles into my chest and I can tell he wants to put distance between us, but my hands hold him in place.

What happened? Before Rarick came and took Blair back, we'd achieved a certain closeness-- hell, when his nightmares were bad, we'd slept in the same bed. Now Blair skitters away when I come close. It's not exactly like he's afraid of me. I don't know what happened, but I miss the way we were.

Instead of taking my hands away, I start to massage his shoulders. At first he stands, unyielding, his head down. Then I hear a soft sigh and his shoulders slump and he rests his forehead on my chest where he'd run into it.

"Jeez, you're tense, Chief." Concentrating on touch, I feel the knots in Blair's muscles, and slowly the tightness eases up. He puts his hands on the wall on either side of me. He's getting so relaxed he's having trouble standing up. I tilt his head up, his blue eyes at half-mast, he's nearly asleep, but at the feel of my hand on his chin, his eyes snap open.

"I'm sorry, I..." Blair's mumbling, the effort to enunciate beyond him.

I don't want to let go. I don't to ever want to let go.

"C'mon, sleepyhead, let's get you to bed." Blair looks at me with confusion and nods. I nudge him into the bed and pull the covers down. He can hardly keep his eyes open but he does, watching me. Time to give him some privacy.

I move to leave. "Good night, Chief." I look back from the doorway. Blair's eyes are on me. They're still his deep, blue eyes, but...not sure how to name it... his presence is skewed.

"Good night, Jim." His eyes slide off me and I let out my breath, nod, walk away.

Lying in the center of my bed, I listen to Jim in the bathroom. Sleep that was close as Jim rubbed my back, now eludes me. I wonder if Jim's backrub means he's starting to forgive me.

I wish I knew how to make it up to him. I feel...it's like having two lives. There's me as Blair Sandburg. Jim loves that person and puts up with Eric Kendall in hopes of bringing Blair back. Then there's Eric Kendall.

The actual person he's living with. The one who took his friend's place, who consumes his time, who puts him in danger, who does not fit. I don't know the things Blair knew.

That's not exactly accurate. I know some of what he knew. Not enough, though. Not enough to say the right things, or laugh in the right places. Rafe said something about paperwork and the nature of marriage and everyone but me howled. Maybe I can get Jim to explain it, but humor is so much a cultural by-product, requiring a subtle understanding of so many things; hierarchy, sexual mores, status...whoa.

Where did all that come from?

From Blair, you idiot.

Every once in awhile it's like this, like he's in here with me. I hold myself tighter. If he comes back, will I be gone? And who would mourn the loss of Eric Kendall?

I squirm around in bed, trying to shut off the fear.

My Mom- er, Naomi's visit, was disconcerting. I couldn't believe this woman was my mom. She radiated a kind of light and seemed too young to be my mother. For a moment I thought they had gotten it all wrong, they'd pulled in the wrong mom-person.

When I called her Mom, she corrected me. I guess she doesn't like to be reminded I'm her son...but Jim says I didn't do anything bad when I was thirteen... -but she called me sweetie, like The Tessuad Mom and I can't help it, everything gets mixed up in my head. She talked about Blair, and he sounds like he was cute and smart and she loves him. I mean, I was cute and smart and she loves me. Is that right?

No. God no. Jason said I looked like a troll. He always made sure when we traveled that he was always far enough away from me so no one would think we were together.

I was trouble and I was a guide and guides are not smart, simply trainable and she left me, she left me with them. She took me to The Center and she handed me over, and walked away. I feel tears -- stop that.

STOP THAT.

She didn't leave you; can't you get it straight? Can't you remember one fucking thing? I put my arms around my stomach and rock a little. That helps sometimes. Come on now, get it together, get it straight.

After awhile I distract myself by thinking about some of the things Jim looks to me to do as his guide...I can do them, but I don't understand. Jason never needed anything from me, except my physical presence at his back as he sighted. Of course, Jason, for all his pride in being a sixteen, (where did that number come from?), never really tried to do much with his senses. While Jim pushes the frontier of what he can do just about everyday. It frightens me, the idea that he would push this hard when I'm not around.

I don't think the people around him realize just how vulnerable Jim is. Captain Banks really hates the whole thing. For one thing he's not comfortable with all these unknowns. But mostly, I think, he hates how the Sentinel separates him from his friend, from Jim. I don't think he'd want to be a guide, (now that's funny) but the nature of the relationship of the Sentinel/guide baffles him. It makes him angry that it's not simpler and I think it angers him that I don't seem to be replaceable. God knows I've taken up way too much of his time, and the time of his detectives. How much easier if Henri or Megan could step in and watch Jim's back.

Jim is going up the stairs now. I listen as his shoes drop and the bed creaks as he settles in. After being with The Tessuad Nation, always alone, it's a wonderful thing to me that Jim is above me. Sometimes I imagine we have gigantic bunk beds. He has the top and I can just bang my foot against his bunk and he'd whisper, "What? Sandburg, go to sleep."

Because that's what Jim would say, but that's okay, I'd know he was there and he'd know I was here, and we'd go to sleep. I close my eyes and will the dreams away.

The last of the frozen peas have been unpacked when Jim comes in.

"Hey Chief? Think you can get away? I could use your help."

Mr. Lee is a nice guy. He says I can come back finish later. I ditch the apron and follow Jim out.

"What is it?" The truck is in front and we get in.

"A case, just came in, a bloody mess at the Fitzgerald Mansion. Apparently a botched robbery."

Bloody. A bloody mess. Okay, I can do this; Jim needs me to do that. He's gonna be using his senses like a mini crime lab, and to do that he needs me to keep it together.

We get there and it is a bloody mess. The housekeeper from Santiago came home from the market and interrupted someone. The groceries are scattered across the floor, and the ice cream has melted into a congealed puddle next to a pool of blood. I start to gag, thinking about the woman... Suddenly I hear Jason's voice telling me I helped him murder a woman.

"You killed a woman?"

"Kendall, we killed a woman..." Jason had put his hand on my shoulder, a rare sign of good favor.

"You did good, Eric. It was a real sweet kill."

I open my eyes and look around for her body, maybe she's not dead, maybe we can resuscitate her...Jim must see me looking around. I don't know what I look like, but it can't be good because he guides me to a chair and pushes my head between my knees.

He kneels down next to me. "You all right, Chief? I know there's a lot of blood here but it's the dog's. They killed the German Shepherd. Forensics already took it away."

Oh God, thank God, not a woman, not dead, not a bloody mess. Pull it together now.

"Uh, okay, well, what next?" Maybe if I get moving I can outrun Jason's voice in my head.

"I'm going to do a scan to see if the team missed anything. Stay close."

I do.

Jim finds a scrap of fabric the dog might have torn. Some hair and a drop of blood far from where the dog was killed. Perhaps the dog managed to inflict some damage. We finish up and go back to the station. Jim checks his find in at the lab, and then we go to the seventh floor and Jim's desk.

Before we get there, Captain Banks steps out of his office and motions to Jim. We separate; Jim to the office, me to the desk. I sit there, feeling a little foolish. Once upon a time I did paperwork at this desk, but no more.

Paperwork, I remember that flash I had at the compound about paperwork. I remembered Jim's voice talking to me about it. I close my eyes and in my mind I move a pen across paper. Form 97-A, robbery. Form 24-P, rape. Form 13-J- my favorite, larceny.

I open my eyes. I remembered that. That was a memory. I think back to it, how did it feel to be Blair?

It felt good.

Blair has favorite crimes.

I have favorite crimes.

I shake my head. No. Blair has favorite crimes.

It's a memory but it's Blair's memory.

Still, Jim will be pleased. He's in there a long time. When he comes out, his jaw is tight.

"Come on, Chief." Captain Banks doesn't come to his office door. Bad sign.

I follow Jim out. He's silent as we get in the truck and I wonder if I should ask. One never questions a Sentinel. They provide the information when, and if you need it. I stay quiet, watching Jim out of the corner of my eye. We take a corner so fast, I'm thrown against the door. Jim's hand comes across to steady me. His arm is strong and reassuring against my chest. I glance at him. His eyes are focused on the road and in a moment his arm drops.

Still no words.

It has to be about me. I've done something wrong. We reach the loft and Jim gets out, slamming the truck door. I start to get out on my side, but stop with my hand on the door, trying to push back the panic. Jim looks at me and starts back, I wasn't fast enough and he expects me to stick with him and instead I'm stuck in the truck. Quickly I yank the door open and scramble out.

When Jim sees I'm out, he turns and heads to the loft. I follow. He waits for me in the elevator and I get in.

This is going to be bad.

Jason would get like this and it would always be bad. The tension would radiate, the silence would descend and he wouldn't look at me, no, of course not, why would he? I don't have any memory of what he did, just the feeling of overwhelming fear and then...

I think about running. Maybe to Mr. Lee.

I can't. Jim's in a state and way too vulnerable to a zone.

Opening the door, Jim waits for me to enter. Did he guess I thought of running? Oh God, I'm in for it now. He knows, he knows I thought about running.

"Sandburg...Blair..." Jim's speaking to my back; I quickly turn around and face him. He's tense, his face tight with emotion.

"Simon can't allow you to accompany me on the job anymore. Without your observer badge, policy prohibits it." Jim looks shaken, not angry. I breathe a little easier.

It takes me a minute to push aside the feeling of doom.

Man, you are so self-centered. Here Jim is upset about being without his guide and you're all convinced it's about you. I can't believe you thought Jim would hurt you. Why do you do that? Confuse Jim and Jason? Confuse your life here with your life there? Why are you so stupid?

"What are we gonna do? You need someone. You can't be out there alone. Maybe Joel, he seems steady." I start going through potential candidates, panic coming back as I realize no one is really prepared to take this on. I'll just have to prepare them, that's all, I can do that, I can...Jim stops me, I hadn't even realized I was pacing.

"Blair, Joel's not going to do it." Jim has his hands on my shoulders.

"Megan? Maybe Megan, she's smart, you like her, don't you?" I look up at Jim and he's looking down at me, the look in his eyes telling me how much he doesn't want to have this conversation.

"I like Conner fine but she's not going to do it. I have a Guide. That's you." He drops his hands, and walks to the kitchen. I know I should be quiet; Jim has spoken, but does he realize...does he have any idea? He can't do this alone, someone has to be in this with him.

"It can't be the end, Jim, we have to figure this out, there has to be someone..."

Jim leans on the counter towards me and says, slowly and deliberately, "End of discussion, Chief."

Now I back away, even though Jim's nowhere near me. I feel my pulse pounding, can he? Will he...no, just go, time to put some space between us, let him be.

"Um, I'll be in my room."

Sometimes that worked with Jason. If I removed myself from his sight, he'd calm down and forget about me.

Once in my room, I sit on the bed. I wait and listen. If there's the sound of a glass and bottle being found and used, I'm in trouble. I hear a beer being opened. It would take awhile, but he would drink and brood and remember me and find me and drag me out and take my...STOP THAT.

Suddenly the door opens. I jerk back.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Jim looks concerned; he's studying my room, looking for the cause of my accelerated heartbeat, I suppose. I'm so stupid. I can't believe I let myself think those thoughts. Jim would really get angry if he knew sometimes I get confused, I get so confused....I stand up and try to look normal, try..... I try to look...normal.

Jim sits down on the bed, pulling me with him.

"Hey, no matter what happens, you're still my friend, and my Guide, and this is your home." He's staring at me intently, trying to read my mind and I avert my eyes and try to hide myself, the little bit that is myself, from him.

Taking a shaky breath, I let it out slowly, willing myself to calm down. Jim said 'no matter what'. Can he really mean that? If he knew, would he say that? I sneak a look sideways. Jim is looking at me with concern and expects me to respond.

"Thanks, Jim."

"You know I'm not angry with you, right?"

What's the right answer? If I tell him I thought he was, he'll really get mad, but if I say I understood, I'll be lying.

I shake my head no. I can't lie to Jim.

Jim sits and says nothing. His hands lie quietly in his lap, his head drops down. I wait, consigned to his reaction.

Jim sighs and gets up. "What're you hungry for?"

I stare at him. What am I hungry for? He's asking me for dinner suggestions.

"Anything."

"Don't you mean nothing?" Jim prods, a small smile on his face.

"I'll eat anything." I know it's important to Jim that I eat more.

"Okay then, anything with everything on it, coming up." Jim heads back to the kitchen. Jumping up, I follow him.

"Can I help?"

Jim turns around, surprise in his eyes. "Sure. You can chop up the anythings."

Tuesday comes. Blair's appointment's at two and I was set to take the afternoon off. At noon, all hell breaks loose. The maid from Santiago comes in, confessing to the crime and then just keeps on confessing, her English halting; linking three other robberies. It seems she's part of a ring of a well-organized group of disgruntled green card holders who augmented their income by robbery. Simon's adamant; there's no getting around my need to be part of the arrests.

I put in a call to Blair to let him know and tell him to change the appointment.

"Jim, I want to go, I need to get on with this."

"Just put it off for one day, I can come tomorrow."

"I appreciate that but I can handle this. I want to handle this." There's steel in his voice and while I want to override him, I also don't want to shut down his newfound confidence.

"All right. I'll be there at four to pick you up."

"That's really unnecessary, Jim."

"Humor me."

There's a pause, "Well, okay, I'll see you at four," he says reluctantly.

Miriam brings me out on the count of five, telling me I'll remember everything. I open my eyes and look at her, trying to see her reaction. She has her professionally calm face on, no hint of what she heard showing. I sit up slowly and she hands me a glass of water. I take it, my hands shaking enough to make it spill down my shirt.

What now?

So I know more of what The Tessuad did to make me Eric, I know more of what Jason did to me and I wish I didn't. I don't want to know; what good does it do to know? It just brings it back and I didn't want to be there in the first place and I don't want to be there now... I want to go home, let me out...let go of me....please, please, let me go home... I hear myself, but it sounds far away, a kind of wailing and Miriam sits down next to me, putting her arms around my shoulders. I'm rocking us both back and forth in a rough seesawing motion. She's making vague hushing noises. I don't want her arm around me, I don't want her voice in my ear. She took me there. She opened the door and then she shoved me inside and I heard the door slam shut as she slammed it shut and left, left me with him....

No, no, you idiot, she simply allowed you to remember.

Not allowed, made me remember, and it was like being there and I push her away and retreat to the corner. Sliding down, I sit, hoping she'll leave me alone. I don't want to go back there and Miriam, with her sweet, low voice will take me back and I won't go, I don't care if I never remember anything ever again. I don't care if they, if they...I don't know what Jim will do if I refuse to be hypnotized. How will he get Blair back if I don't submit? He deserves to have his friend but I don't know if I can do this.

Miriam lets me be in the corner.

She's saying something but I'm not listening, I'm NOT LISTENING. I don't realize I have my hands over my ears until someone tries to take them away and I fight that. I hold tight to my ears so her voice can't get in and lead me back.

I'm pulled up and I know I shouldn't, you must never fight the hands, but I try to twist and get away. Strong hands hold me in place. Panic makes me want to continue fighting but I know I mustn't. I force myself to stand still.

I wait for the pain and the pain and the laughter....

A hand under my chin lifts up my face. The touch is gentle and a thumb rubs against my cheek. I wait for the thumb to find that spot and press in, for the sharp drill of pain to travel along all the nerves in my face. The thumb doesn't press. I open my eyes.

It's Jim. He looks real and his hand feels real. He's making shushing noises and I realize I haven't stopped yelling. I close my mouth.

I hear him say, "That's better." His voice sounds harsh, like he's been screaming. I touch his neck, wondering if his throat hurts. He swallows and I feel his adam apple move up and down. I drop my hand away.

Leading me back to the couch, Jim sits me down. His arm is solid around me. He's saying something to Miriam, asking questions but I don't want to know; I'M NOT LISTENING.

I don't want her voice in my head, can't have it in my head. I put my hands back over my ears and a sort of muffled echoey silence descends. Ah, I'm not listening. If I stay here, with my eyes shut and my ears covered, no one will find me. He won't find me. He always finds me. There's never anywhere to go to get away and he always finds me. He thinks it's funny that I even try and when he finds me... he will-no, not going to remember....

Jim's been trying to get my attention but I'm not coming out. I feel him lift me so I'm across him and his arms are holding me tight, but nice tight, not, uh, not... not like the hold Jason would put me in. I curve in closer to Jim's body, pressing my ear to his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat fill my head and blot out the sound of Miriam's voice. I feel Jim's broad hand on my back, and his other hand is in my hair, his thumb tracing circles on my temple.

This is real, right? I'm really feeling Jim? His arms around me? His broad chest pillowing me? Sighing, I take my hand down from my ear. Miriam has stopped talking. The only sound is Jim's voice. He's saying, "It's all right, it's all right, shhh, everything will be all right."

Jim hasn't pushed me off and we sit there like it's the most normal thing in the world. Finally I push away, sitting up.

"Thanks. Sorry." I don't look at him, don't want to see his pity.

I make myself stand up. I'm embarrassed. How could I fall apart like that? Again? They're just memories. How can Jim stand it? His Blair reduced to this, to me, to Eric? His Blair wouldn't be cowering in a corner over something in the past.

Jim clears his throat. "Don't be embarrassed, Chief. The things they did to you, what Jason did to you-" I want to put my hands on my ears again but I make myself keep them down. Jim stands up and approaches me; I hadn't realized I was backing up until I hit the wall again. I slide down it, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me.

With a look of shock, Jim stops.

"It's okay, anyone would react the way you did. They set out to do this, to break you down and close you off."

Jim crouches down next to me and I both welcome and fear him being so close. He doesn't seem to notice my ambivalence.

"We're going to beat them, Chief. You're going to leave this behind." Really? We are? We can?

He pulls me up and away from the safety of the wall. Putting his arm around my shoulder, he turns me and starts to lead me out of there. My feet obey his body's command to move and we progress to the door. Miriam is in the outer office. She smiles and stays silent. I lift my hand up and wave, good-bye? Stay away? We leave that place.

I get Blair home from the session. He's virtually asleep on his feet, and I steer him to his bed for some rest before dinner. The bed is neatly made, corners tucked in, very un-Blair-like. The whole room is un-Blair-like, all objects placed with precision and order instead of the usual enthusiasm and affection. I pull the blankets down. Blair sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide but unseeing. He doesn't protest when I gently push him down and take his shoes off. I look down at him, the tear tracks on his face belying his calm composure.

Before I'm even out of the room, his breathing changes to sleep.

Going into the living room, I sink into the couch. Miriam couldn't tell me much, but not because of confidentiality. Blair agreed that I would be privy to all information. She couldn't tell me because Blair was so upset. What she did tell me was enough. I don't need to know more. I don't want to know more.

Oh, God, the sound Blair was making as I entered the building. I took the steps three at a time, afraid I'd find Jason looming over him. In so many ways, that's exactly what was happening.

The rage that has bubbled along like an underground brook is starting to spill over. I need to go to the gym and do some one-on-one with a punching bag, I need to clean my gun, and I need to find Jason and take my time with him this time. Make sure every tooth is broken in that smug face. Break his jaw, snap his wrists, and put a bullet in his kneecap. I recite a litany of what I'd like to do to him and after awhile I start to calm.

I look at the clock, shit, it's been two hours. Blair still sleeps but he'll be hungry when he wakes, I hope. I should have gone grocery shopping, there's nothing here for dinner.

Going into Blair's room, I see that he's on his side, a fist under his cheek, his knees drawn up to his chest. Kneeling down, I give him a little shake. To my delight, he doesn't startle, just opens his eyes, dull with sleep, and blinks at me.

"Time to wake up. We're going out to dinner." Blair pushes up and looks around. His hair sticks up all over the place. It's growing out and has a mind of its own.

"How does ice cream sound?"

"For dinner?" Blair looks at me as if I'd suggested we dine on cotton candy. Maybe next time I will suggest just that.

"Yeah, for dinner, unless you'd rather have broccoli."

"No, no, ice cream sounds great." Ya gotta love this version of Sandburg, no lectures about cholesterol and no algae shakes.

In the middle of the night I hear him, he's thrashing around and making inarticulate sounds. I rush up the stairs, stubbing my toe in the dark and banging my knee in the process. It doesn't wake him or stop the noise he's making. I slow as I get close to the bed.

"Jim?"

He's still caught by the nightmare. I climb on the bed to reach him.

"Jim?"

There's a full moon tonight. It shines in through the skylight bathing his bed with a soft glow. Everything that is white looks florescent; the sheets, rumpled into aggressive mounds, and his pillows, tossed in a losing fight. His teeth flash white, they're bared and he growls-growls in a low, menacing tone that raises the hair on the back of my neck. I start to retreat and then there is another noise, almost a whimper, a sound caught in his throat, like an animal in a trap. I make myself move, move back to him, reaching out my hand to lightly shake him.

"Jim?"

His eyes open and he moves with unsleepy speed, flipping me over, shoving me down. He looms over me, savage tension rippling through him. His fist is cocked back to hit me and I wait for it, keeping myself still.

"Jim?"

He finally hears me and drops his fist.

"Sandburg?" He sounds bewildered and a little scared.

"Yeah." I breathe the word, not wanting to set him off.

He gets off me and pushes me to the side. Running his hands up and down his face, he says, "Oh, fuck, Sandburg, I just about decked you. Why'd you just lie there?"

I scoot to the edge of the bed. "I thought if I fought back, it might be worse."

Jim's kneeling in the florescent, white moonscape of his bed. He shakes his head, denying that.

"What were you dreaming about?"

A look of disgust crosses Jim's face and I know. He knows. Miriam told him. Knows what Jason did, what I am... what am I? He knows and how could he want me near, he couldn't want me near, he's having nightmares because of me-I start to carefully edge out of the bed. Jim's hand latches onto my arm, stopping me. I freeze, waiting, cold inside, the empty spaces in there shadowed and chilled.

"I was dreaming about Rarick." Jim recounts the dream, his eyes seeing his nightscape clearly. "I had my hands around his neck and I was watching him turn blue. He had this look in his eyes, it was one of disbelief and confidence and no matter how hard I squeezed, he just kept that look and kept breathing."

Jim runs his warm hand up my arm. "Jeez, you're freezing, Sandburg. Get in here."

Jim shakes the quilt and opens it, inviting me in. The moonlight glows on the top of the blanket and under, where Jim has created a space for me, there is a dark cave. I dive in, immediately enveloped in Jim warmth, Jim smell.

"Your turn to keep my nightmares away."

He's referring to before, when I had them almost every night and it was less exhausting to sleep in the same bed than to have Jim running downstairs every two hours. My turn...I guess I'm good for nightmare duty. I can do this, be good at this.

Jim rubs my arm. He's so close I can feel his breath on my neck and it gives me goosebumps.

"Still cold?" He scoots even closer and it's like a giant heating pad has been placed at my back.

"No, man, I'm good. Thanks."

The warmth has turned to heat and I feel myself melting into sleep.

Waking the next morning, I realize Blair's sleeping next to me. I've missed this, his body next to mine, being able to hear him, smell him, look at him without effort. So I look. With his eyes closed, it's easy to pretend Blair's whole. How can a man look so beautiful? Isn't that the wrong adjective? And yet, he is, he's beautiful, fucking beautiful. My hand comes up to stroke Blair's face before I've given it any thought. I snatch it back before making contact. Blair doesn't need this, he really doesn't need my fucked up feelings confusing him anymore than he is already. Lying on my back, I try to tell myself to be grateful for what I have. I am, I'm grateful...I'm grateful...I'm grateful...

When I wake next, I remember the nightmare and the knowledge that brought the nightmare on. Blair trembling in a corner, Blair being willing to fight the dragons of my night. What was I going to do? This limbo we were living in is wearing thin. The day's just barely begun, the morning light pearly gray on the walls. I lie in bed, listening to Blair's quiet snoring and consider just what to do about the mess we're in.

Later that morning, I make my way to Simon's office. He doesn't look up from his pile of paperwork as I walk in.

"Look Jim, if this is about Sandburg, forget it. I tried, I really did, but I don't have any justification to offer to the higher-ups. It's not like I can say the kid wasn't lying, Ellison is a Sentinel." At that he looks up laughing at the absurdity of that.

"That's exactly what I want you to do, Simon." His laughter dies out, and his mouth hangs open.

"WHAT? After everything, you're going to come clean?"

I sit down. "Yeah, clean, that's the word for it. This whole deal's been dirty. Sandburg was no more at fault than you or I, and yet he's the one who took the hit. And I let him...."

Simon clears his throat. "Jim, you'll just open a can of worms."

I shake my head. "I've thought about this..." I get up and look out the window, I don't want see the resistance on Simon's face.

"He took me by surprise. Never thought he'd go and do something so stupid, so suicidal, and then it was done and I thought, well okay, this could work. He'd go through the Academy and we'll be a team like always."

Simon peers at me, saying nothing.

"I mean, what were the options? Out myself? I didn't want to be labeled a freak. It was going to screw up future arrests and throw out past arrests. It was going to fucking complicate my life and I didn't want that. What I wanted was Blair with me as a partner for real."

I risk a look at Simon. His face is a study in neutrality.

"He would've made a good cop, Simon, you know he would've."

"That was never a choice he was going to make on his own." Simon says this almost gently.

"Yeah, I know. Sandburg loves to teach, loves anthropology. He needs to have it back. After everything that's been taken away from him, he needs to have that part of his life back. Because what I want isn't in the equation any more."

Simon looks at me, considering. "Even if you can restore his reputation, it doesn't mean they'll take him back, or that we can get his observer status reinstated."

"First thing's first, Simon. We give Blair some options. Tell the Commissioner; let him know I'll be talking to reporters tomorrow. See how he wants it handled but I'm going ahead with this even if it means I resign."

Simon doesn't try to argue but gets on the telephone and begins to pass on the information. I feel...lighter. I've been carrying this around way too long, thinking there were no options, content to see how it all played out.

In the meantime, as I wait for all the fuss to settle down and Blair to come back to me as my partner, I'll just keep my head low. I did it the whole time he was gone, I can do it a little longer.

Simon calls the next morning. The Commissioner hated what Simon had to say. Hated to hear I really did have hyperactive senses, hated to hear I wanted to tell the world.

I don't really care if he hated it or not, just thought I should give fair warning, but the Commish had a position that I ended up feeling I had to respect. And it was that Sandburg was in no condition to fend off the media attention in his current state. If I was going to do this, I would need to do it when Sandburg could hold his own.

Which is irony in itself, since the whole reason I want to do it, is to give Sandburg something to hold onto. So a neat little catch-22 has evolved. I don't know why I haven't considered that angle, except I hate seeing him stacking cereal boxes, and with his lousy scores, the Academy had been on the way out even before he lost his memory.

Lost.

Not lost, ripped away.

In any case, gone. It's time to see the doctor again and see what surgery could do.

I take Blair to see Dr. Dominic Panatela. Rhonda's family knows him and she says he's good. I have hopes that being Italian would mean he might be a little more warm-blooded than that snake we saw last time. Walking into his office, I smile. It's just like Blair's office. Then I quit smiling, a room this messy seems like a bad thing in a neurosurgeon. He greets us with his own smile and zooms in on Blair.

"So, I read your file. Had a little nonconsensual brain surgery, did you?"

Blair nods, smiles a little. I can't tell if he gets the teasing or he's just responding to Dr. Panatela's infectious grin. I had talked to the doctor yesterday and told him a version of what had happened, editing just a little.

" I looked at the X-rays. They don't tell me much. I hear your main difficulty is with your memory?"

Blair nods again.

The doctor moves around his desk to approach Blair. Blair gets very still and watchful. Dr. Panatela puts his hands on Blair's head and explores, giving a small sigh as he finds what he's looking for.

"You have a small scar, here, by your right frontal lobe." He keeps his hands there, absently massaging the spot. Blair has a look of amazement on his face.

"Is that why I can't remember?" I must look a little amazed myself; Blair actually asked a question.

"No. Memory's not very well understood yet, but the latest research indicates it's not localized. It's spread throughout the whole brain, so while what they did might affect you a bit, it wouldn't be the cause of the wholesale loss of memory."

Dr. Panatela quits his massaging and walks over to a cabinet where he gets a little flashlight.

"I just had a scathingly brilliant idea." He beams at Blair and looks over at me.

"Research has also turned up an amazing link between the olfactory sense and memory. I just wonder..." He tilts Blair's head back and uses his light to study the inside of Blair's nose.

"Oh yeah, this is interesting. Want to look?"

He asks me that, clearly expecting me to say no, but I take the light from him and peer in.

"What am I looking at?" I see scarring and so I know what I'm looking at but I figure I'd better play dumb. Blair sits utterly still, his eyes on the wall behind me.

"There's scarring in there. Blair, have you ever had sinus infections or surgeries?"

I put the light down and answer for him.

"Blair wouldn't remember, but not in the three years we've known each other. And that scarring is pretty recent, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'd say it happened in the last six months. Blair? How well can you smell things?"

Blair thinks about this. "I don't really know. I have nothing to compare it to. I do smell stuff. Coffee in the morning. Captain Banks' cigars."

"This is fascinating. I'm going to set up a test and we'll see if you have a normal range."

At these words, Blair's eyes light up. "Oh yeah, we could do a test with diluted perfumes, going from one tenth cc to one cc and see what I can detect."

Who would have thought Sandburg would be just as thrilled to do tests on himself as on me.

"That should work. I'll see how soon we can make this happen."

"I can do this myself, Doctor. Save you the trouble and get it done faster." Blair's eyes are positively shining and I'm struck by how much they are Blair's eyes shining; the innate curiosity that defined him, surfacing.

Dr. Panatela registers his surprise at Sandburg's enthusiasm for testing. If the man only knew.

"C'mon Jim, let's stop at the drugstore on the way home." Blair's gathering his stuff, but I want to know more.

"So you don't think surgery is an option to bring back Blair's memory?"

Dr. Panatela has his hip on the desk. I think there's half a sandwich under it. He shakes his head no.

"I can see why Dr. Eagan wanted to go in, the man loves a mystery. He'd be in heaven if he were allowed to poke around and get answers, but in my opinion, there really is no hope of recovery that way. I'd hate to put you through something like that if I can't, in good faith, offer you some hope of compensation."

He rummages around on his desk, finds the other half of his sandwich and starts to eat.

"I think you might do well with a friend of mine. His name is Tobias Brahms. He's a Homeopath and then some. He has a wonderful grasp of the body/mind integration and I think you might find some answers with him."

I look at the doctor. Just a little older than me, he's pudgy everywhere but his hands. Those are long and slender instruments. He's as rumpled as his office, with crumbs on the front of his shirt and I wonder if they just strip him and hose him down when it's time for him to do surgery, but he's got a fierce look of intelligence in his eyes and he's telling me something.

He finishes his sandwich and looks around for the other half. When he doesn't find it, he stands up and looks at Blair. He takes Blair's hand and once again, Blair tenses up; he's afraid. I don't know what the doctor did to set this off and I make a move to get Blair away. Dr. Panatela seems oblivious but he lets go of Blair's hand and puts his hand back on the spot where he found the scar.

"They hurt you, didn't they?" He's back to the massage.

Blair's relaxing once again and the fear's almost gone. "Yes, the doctors always..." he stops, unsure he should be telling.

"They always?" Panatela asks, like it's of no importance.

"...they would-- they needed me to pay attention, so they...pressed here." Blair points to a particularly nasty pressure point I'd been taught in the Rangers.

The Doc looks down and takes note. "Yeah, that would hurt. A lot."

Even the fucking doctors at the Center were in on it, taking away every possible place of safety.

"Well, I have other ways to get your attention." He winks at Blair. "Tell me what you think of Tobias. I want to be kept up to date."

We make our good-byes and leave the tornado-struck office.

Jim had such high hopes. The doctor ixnaying the surgery really hurt him. Ixnaying? What is ixnay? A Blair word, I suppose, learned on one of his wild expeditions to some far out jungle place. So the fast fix is out. I suppose I have to go back to Miriam. I have to.

Shhh. Don't cry, you big sissy. You can do this. They're just memories, not real. Not real, can't hurt, can't, can't can't...you have to, Jim needs Blair back, and then there's his mo- Naomi, she wants him back, she certainly doesn't want you. I pull back from those thoughts.

The little store is dark, the dairy case casting enough light for me to work. It's quiet and I know all the shadows. Finishing with the dairy case, I step back and look at it, it looks good.

Maybe I'm not the Darwin that Blair is, but I like this job, I like Mr. Lee. I like being left to get things done. I move to the back of the store to unload the rice. Mr. Lee has a large Asian clientele and we move a lot of rice. I'm glad to see they haven't bowed to American ideas and gone for the Uncle Ben's. No, there's Brown, Basmati, Jasmine, Brewer's, all in rough-hewn bags fashioned in their native countries, each different, indigenous to the country where the rice was grown. I marvel at each one. Hefting the first of the fifty-pound bags, I move it to the bins that hold it. I work steadily and it feels good. Muscle instead of brain, impulse instead of memory, function instead of purpose.

I leave the store at 11:00, sweaty, tired and sore. The night air feels good and even though the city lights pollute the dark, the stars still shine with clarity in the early summer night.

It's odd to be alone. To be outside alone, to walk in the night alone. I don't remember ever doing that before and I feel good doing it. Jim is not Jason, but seems almost as reluctant to leave me on my own as Jason was. I feel like a surrogate mother who carries Jim's child in my body. Jim watches over me, waiting for me to give birth to his friend. I laugh, the image of that is funny. You in there Blair? You're an awfully big baby to tote around.

Sandburg's on his way home, about a half a block away, and he's laughing to himself. What makes Blair laugh? I want to ask him but I can't let on I heard. Blair needs to think he has some privacy. Mr. Lee's Grocery is close enough, that with just a little concentration, I can track on Blair as he works. His tread on the stairs sends me upstairs. For some reason he seems to freeze up if I'm right there when he comes in. I listen as he throws the keys in the basket and locks the door. I walk down as he's hanging up his jacket.

"Hey, Chief. Have a good night at work?"

"Yeah, got a lot done."

"Hungry?" I wait for the 'No, I'm fine routine.'

"Starving. Any leftovers?" Blair is opening the refrigerator and rummaging around.

I'm standing there with my mouth open. It's the very first time he's answered yes to that question and the first time he's opened the refrigerator on his own. He stands, bathed in its bluish light, hunting for something elusive.

"We have any of that pasta left over from last night?"

I can't help it; I have to do my own little test. "No, we're out of that. How about some ice cream?"

"For dinner? I don't think so, Jim."

I keep a straight face but internally I'm screaming, "YES!" and pumping my fist in the air.

"I'll make you a sandwich." I offer, but Blair has pulled out some things and is proceeding to make a salad.

"I can handle it, Jim, really. Want some? You're looking a little peaked there." Blair is sort of slouched and I realize it's a posture I haven't seen since before he was taken. Something is happening. I don't know what but I can see Blair around the edges of Eric and he's a damn welcome sight.

The rest of the evening passes quietly. There's no indication from Blair that he sees anything's different and I start to doubt. They were little things. Very little things, but telling things, important little bits of Blair things.

Tomorrow we see the Brahms guy. Naomi would approve, I'm sure, and I'm desperate enough to try this and more. What I won't do is take Blair back to Miriam.

There aren't many parts of Cascade I'm not familiar with, but Tobias lives in one of them. When he greets Blair and me at the door, I see that Tobias is of such mixed race, one would be hard pressed to pinpoint any one characteristic that defines him. He appears ageless, his face unlined, and yet there is an ancient aura around him. We enter his small apartment and I smell medicinal herbs, teas, and a hint of sage burning. I expected something else, not this room, bright with sunlight, two cats entwined on a narrow windowsill.

Blair steps in and immediately starts to study the artifacts lining the walls.

"Oh man, this is so cool." He's pointing to what looks like a pottery fragment to me.

"Ah yes," Tobias' voice is deep and rumbles out of him. "My dooblay. I found it in a garden in Bolivia. It exudes a powerful pull, does it not?" He's watching Blair gently run his hands around the edges. Blair looks up at him and they exchange a smile of rapport.

"Blair, I know a little but I need you to tell me what happened to you. Can you do that?"

Tobias motions to the couch and sits down. Blair stops his examination and I think stops his breathing, to the point I'm about to jump up and whack him one on the back. Suddenly he lets out a massive sigh and says, "I can tell you some."

Blair doesn't sit on the couch but sinks onto the plush rug on the gleaming, waxed floor. He plucks at the fringe, idly braiding and unbraiding it. When he begins to speak, his voice is a monotone. At some point, he joins Blair on the floor. He nods a lot and makes encouraging noises. I watch as Blair shuts down, his shoulders hunching over, his eyes closing.

As he starts to tell about Mr. Smith, he brings his knees up and lays his head on top of them. Tobias listens with an intensity the best DAs have. That understanding of the way words are mere signposts to the real things being revealed. When Blair speaks of the first time he saw me in his dream, I can feel Tobias vibrate with excitement.

I lean forward. I'm in there; I've always been in there, in his head. Why that should be, and matter so much to me, I don't know. Maybe it's because Sandburg came into my life when it was falling apart, and knew me for what I was. Knew me, valued what had never had value, and stepped into my world. A world as different from his academic one as a world could be.

It scared him. Nothing in Blair's upbringing had prepared him for the life I led. Looking at Sandburg, his eyes wide with fright and astonishment, I should have felt disdain and shooed him back to his own playground. I didn't.

Not only is he younger than me, he is young. I'm not saying he's incompetent or immature. He's just so fucking surprised all the time. He never expects the ugliness and never really accepts it, either. You hand him a rock, all rutted, encrusted with mud, and say, "Here, this is real, take this in, make sense of this."

He'd gasp at the filth and the ragged edges and you'd think, "Now he sees it, now he'll leave." And instead, he'd take it in his hand, turn it over, his eyes getting impossibly wide and he'd say, "Hey, take a look at this!"

And sure enough, there'd be a vein of pink quartz snaking through it, shining bright against the dirt.

The knowledge that, after everything The Tessuad had done to him, after everything that I had done to him, Sandburg still held fast to some part of us, is amazing.

Sandburg isn't tough in the same way Simon is or I am. We're strong more along the lines of a medieval castle. Well defended and equipped for any siege. We have hot oil at hand and a wary eye on the horizon. Sandburg keeps the bridge across the moat down, lets everybody in, shares so much; there never would be anything left if a siege ever came. And yet, there's always something left. He never seems to be afraid of running out, doesn't believe in scarcity. And through everything, he keeps me with him.

My dreams that night are vivid, and much like the dreams I had at The Center. Jim is in pursuit, and I'm with him. When I had these dreams before, I hadn't even known Jim's name and now the dreams are like visiting old familiar places. Jumbled, shifting places, but familiar.

I wake from them almost as tired as when I went to sleep, but also exhilarated. The feelings of connection and purpose linger in my head all morning. I spend it reading the journals. I'd read them before; well, I'd read a little before. I'd tried, but it had felt...weird, like I was trespassing. This morning it felt like the dreams had given me the password, and I could get in the door.

I realize as I read, that The Tessuad must not've had access to these books when they put together the manual on Sentinel/guide relationships they used to teach me. Weird, my own-er,,,Blair's own research being taught back to him, er...me.

What Blair describes is nothing like the relationship I had with Jason. The more I read, the angrier I get. The Tessuad got it all wrong. They had no idea what they were talking about. I slam the book shut and hug it to my chest. I feel dirty and ashamed.

What Blair had with Jim, the partnership...the friendship, it was real. What I had with Jason...what I did as his guide...my hands shake as I carefully put the book back where it belongs.

I was right. It is trespassing.

I lie down on the bed, repressing the feeling that I mustn't ever lie down during the day. I think about what I was taught at The Center and what I just read. It's clear they stole all their knowledge from Blair's dissertation and understood none of it.

Reading it, I can almost hear Blair's voice. The writing is filled with wonder, precision, and exasperation. Clearly he's unafraid of Jim. He records how Jim grumbles and protests, but there is lightheartedness in these recollections, an expectation and dismissal of Jim's resistance. It is nearly inconceivable to me that Blair pushes Jim to do the tests. That Jim lets him, actually allows him to lead.

Not for the first time, I wish I were Blair. The memories would be nice, his seem much better than mine, but that isn't why. I wish I understood his world. What to say, when to laugh, how to join in.

I think about everything Tobias and I talked about. He wants to do body work, some sort of healing ritual that he thinks will help.

Looking around my room, all the things in here give me a sort of comfort, a little ballast, even though I have no memory of picking anything out. I just don't know where I'll go when Blair comes back. Selfish bastard, eh? Wanting to stay, knowing I can't give Jim, or anyone, what they need from me, what they got from Blair. I know my time is growing short. The one consolation is I won't be back with Jason. I don't know where I'll be or if I'll be, but I can't be there.

Waking up, I realize I've made a decision about Blair. Going to Rainier, I track down Dr. Stoddard. He and Blair always seemed to have a rapport and I'm hoping he can guide me through the bureaucracy of this place. Calling ahead, I know he'll finish with his one class at 11:00. He seems less surprised to see me than I would have thought.

"Detective Ellison." Stoddard greets me with his Old World charm, but his eyes are cold and assessing.

"Dr. Stoddard." I find myself doing a small bow, as if he were my schoolmaster. He doesn't blink and it makes me think he gets that reaction often.

"I was hoping you could help me." Dr. Stoddard starts walking down the hall and I follow.

"How could I possibly help you, Detective?" His voice is formal, cool and testy. I can tell the old boy knows exactly why I'm here. I'm betting it's his respect for Blair that has him making this as difficult as possible for me, and I can't help the wave of affection I feel for him.

I look at him; gray haired, erect, and dignified. The thousands and thousands of hours he's spent acquiring knowledge, and then teaching it gives him an aura of power and authority that is compelling. This is what Blair was going to become, what he should become.

I start to lay it all out for Dr. Stoddard, but he's way ahead of me.

"I knew Blair would never do such a thing. He believes too strongly in his dissertation, in anthropology, to make a mockery of what he loves by creating a fraud. I thought he must've had his reasons, wrongheaded though they undoubtedly were."

Stoddard comes to his office and motions me in. The room is nothing like Blair's miniscule office. It has windows looking over the commons. There are Gregorian chants playing softly. Every wall is lined with books, with colorful prints on the wall. It's a curious mix of plentitude and order. I sit down in the shabby leather chair facing Stoddard's desk and wonder how many have sat in it before me. "He thought he was protecting me. He was protecting me. But I can't let him do that anymore."

I tell Dr. Stoddard about what has happened to Blair.

"His brain works fine and even if he never gets his memory back, he'd still be able to do the academic work. I'm hoping he can come back and pick it up, finish his doctorate."

Stoddard gives me a skeptical look.

"You have no idea what it takes to do what Blair was doing, do you?"

He doesn't wait for my answer.

"Anthropology is a rich but difficult study, requiring a synthesis of one's intellect with myriad belief systems, all of which is supported by memory. Blair's unusually gifted, his openness and curiosity having created a fertile mind that made brilliant leaps and connections, which is at the very heart of what a good anthropologist does."

The professor steeples his fingers and points them at me. "His mind has been stripped of many of the important pieces needed to absorb cultural information."

Stoddard's right. I never really gave much thought to what Blair did, except he did it well and worked at it with dedication.

"Okay, I realize that where Blair is at would make picking up his life here at Rainier difficult, but there's every hope that his memory will come back. And when it does, I want him back where he belongs. Of course I realize he'll need to retake some classes but he could begin to rebuild if he had his reputation back. C'mon, tell me there's a way."

Stoddard looks thoughtful. "The restoration of Blair's reputation is an entirely different matter. That has value whether he wants to pursue his career or not. Whether he is even capable of pursuing his career or not. I've actually given this some thought. I believe if you sat down with the Chancellor and informed her of the truth of the matter, she would be forced to reconsider."

"Blair's had dealings with her before and I don't see her rolling over quite so easily."

"That's where you bring out the big guns. You go in there with a lawyer and protest the release of your personal information as a human subject. You threaten to sue, which believe me, the University dreads. That should force her to put into process the return of Mr. Sandburg's good name." He chuckles; I guess he likes the idea of the Chancellor on the run. Standing up, he signals the end of our meeting by extending his hand.

"Good luck, Detective. With everything." He puts a lot of meaning into the word everything.

The afternoon flies by, filled with routine follow-up interviews on the Fitzgerald robbery. I've been doing this kind of work without Blair for months. I'm still not used it. I should be. I need to find a way get used to this because this is the way it's going to be.

Since Blair's return, I've become a clock-watcher. As it gets closer to seven, I file away the paperwork and shut the computer down.

Just as I'm getting ready to leave, Simon comes over to my desk, his face set in worry. "What is it, Simon? Blair? Daryl?"

"No, well, sort of. Just got a call from the justice department It's about The Tessuad Nation. The good news is they're going ahead with the investigation. The bad news is that all the personnel arrested at the compound were released on bond two weeks ago, including Jason. They have a court day next month but at this point, no one is keeping track of them."

I look at Simon and reach for the phone and dial home. Blair answers.

"Hi Chief, just wondered if I needed to pick up anything at the store on my way home." I'm surprised at how well I'm able to approximate casual.

"I don't think we need anything. Dinner's just about ready."

"I'll be home soon. Oh, and Chief, make sure the doors are locked. Just heard about another break-in down the block."

"Really? Okay, Jim. See you soon."

As soon as I walk into the building, I know something is wrong. As I take the stairs two at a time, I try to hone in on what's setting me off. Sound? Smell? I'm moving too fast to concentrate on any one element. All I know is something has set off alarm bells in my head and I need to get to Blair.

On the third floor, our door is still shut. I turn the knob, locked. I try to slow my breathing so I can tell whether he's in there and if he's all right. I can't,--Fuck! All I hear is the blood pounding through my head. I unlock the door, gun in hand. As I swing the door open, I'm met with a sight that turns my stomach. "You."

"Yes, darling, little old me. I can tell by the look on your face I've managed to surprise you. You don't know how that delights me. You're not an easy man to surprise."

Joyce sits on a dining room chair. I study her carefully, trying to see what I missed before, hunting for any sign of the darkness I know lives in her. Even knowing it's there I can't see it. She looks as lovely as ever. Her voice is the only thing that hints at her other self. It holds a note of discontent and tension that she's never revealed before.

"Looking for your guide, Sentinel?"

"Where is he?" I hate the note of pleading in my voice.

"Miss your roomie? I'm afraid Jason missed him too."

Joyce stands up. "I don't know what that neo-hippie has that makes him such a hot Sentinel commodity. He seems pointless to me."

"Just tell me where Blair is."

She keeps walking towards me. "Oh, Jimmy, you wouldn't shoot me. You'd never find Blair then."

"I planned to blow out your kneecap, not damage your mouth."

"I can't tell you what I don't know, sweetums."

Her body's relaxed but her heart gives her away. Then I scent her pheromones. She finds this arousing. I fight the urge to be sick. The familiarity of her body, voice and smell hits me. God, I made love with this--this woman. The gun goes off and I have the satisfaction of hearing her scream. The shot didn't come close to hitting her. I still have some control.

"You're gonna pay for that, Ellison. Or maybe I'll make Sandburg pay."

She looks like a cat that's just caught sight of a mouse and I struggle to keep my face devoid of any reaction. The phone rings and she immediately moves to answer it.

"Darling." She's simpering; this must be Joyce in her natural state.

"Oh, baby, don't worry, I've got everything under control."

I stop listening to her and concentrate carefully, filtering out Joyce's whine and Jason's clipped questions. I hear the sound of water against a hull; they're on a boat. I hear flapping; a sailboat. He could be right on the bay. Joyce hangs up with a frown on her face. I wish I'd heard the last part of that conversation. "Give me your gun." Joyce holds out her hand.

I hang onto it for a moment, debating, knowing there is no choice here. I hand it over. "Now the one in your ankle holster."

I reach down and remove that one.

"We're going downstairs and getting into the car that's waiting there, which will whisk you to your little friend."

I say nothing, I'm tired of talking to her, tired of hearing her talk. The sooner we go, the sooner I'll see Blair.

The driver holds the door open and I get in the back seat. There's a partition between the front and the back and it's closed. Joyce gets in the front and I have a pretty good idea of what's coming next.

I wake up predictably disoriented and aching. I'm lying face down on a hard floor that's gently moving. Boat. Moving to get up, I discover my hands are underneath me, cuffed to an iron ring set in the floor. I roll over on my side. I'm alone and although I push my sight, there's nothing to see except the slope of the boat.

I listen. The waves against the hull act as a natural white noise generator.

I conjure up Blair's voice in my head, latching onto the exact timbre that he uses when he urges me to go past barriers. Slowly I drop off the sounds that are clogging the airwaves, until I hear voices. I hear Joyce, her low moans and tiny gasps. Jason chimes in with his own guttural sounds. I cringe, the whole Joyce thing will be a source of nightmares for years to come, and now I've Jason added into the mix. I block those sounds and focus. I hear kitchen sounds; there's some kind of crew in place.

Then, faintly, I hear Blair. He's whispering, his voice sounds worn out.

"...it's a 96 foot Ketch. We're about three miles off shore. There're two others here besides Joyce and Jason." I hear him cough and then a quiet moan. He continues. " I'm at the aft, in the hold."

Blair's voice, raw as it is, helps to center me and I quickly scan the boat again, skimming over the sounds coming from what must be the stateroom. I wish Blair could hear me. He knows I'm here but I'd like to tell him he's not alone. He's still talking; mixing up details he thinks can help, with random bits of conversation.

"....no one else like you, and I'm not talking about Sentinel stuff here. I'm sorry I'm not Blair anymore, because man, you really deserve to have your friend back. There are two other crew besides Joyce and Jason and we're anchored..."

He's gone back to giving out the details and I realize his voice is so spent because he's been repeating himself, hoping to get through to me.

"... will kill you. You have to get off. I know you don't like open water, but you have to get off. Don't try and find me...I'll get away, Jason won't hurt me, he needs me and he'll get careless...I'll be able to get away, so you go...when you get the chance and I'll meet you back at the loft."

Blair is babbling nonsense.

Of course Jason plans to kill me, but he's bound to want to have his fun and I'm pretty sure opportunities will arise...wait, Blair remembered about me and open water. Little pieces are breaking free from the hold The Nation has on Blair's mind.

Blair's coming back...I've teetered for so long between longing for Blair and knowing I need to let go, that I can't quite embrace the knowledge Blair is coming back. It would be hard enough to let go of the Blair that's been with me this past month, that Blair who is a shadow of the real one, and yet still dear to me.

"....fear what Joyce will do to you, she's like in the middle of raging hormones or something, really out of control. And Jason, oh, hey, he's vain, go for his face, he'll leave his middle totally unprotected in order to save the face and he fights dirty, don't play by the rules with him, but don't play at all, go, please..."

His voice fades out; I think maybe he's falling asleep. Who knows how long he's been trying to reach me.

The cuffs connecting me to the floor are unyielding. As I yank at them, I realize Jason started without me. My ribs feel like I've already been kicked a few times.

Pushing the pain aside, I study the links attaching me to the floor. They're rusty and I look closely, trying to find a weakness.

The next thing I know, Jason is yanking me up by my shirt. I must've zoned. As he pulls me up, I debate the merits of trying to take him now, fast, but my stomach lurches and I heave. Don't know if it's the effects of being drugged, but when I hear Jason's disgusted snort, I will myself to stay limp.

"Look at your stud now, Joyce. Jesus, I hate vomit."

I maintain a posture of weakness.

He hands Joyce a key and says, "Unlock him. I want to reunite the boys."

"Ew, Jason, I hate vomit as much as you do, not to mention I've touched Ellison enough to last a lifetime."

She takes the key and tries to keep her body as far away as possible while unlocking the cuffs. They fall away. Jason still has a grip on me and I don't fight that. He pulls my arm back in a hold that makes me groan, which is all to the good. Joyce laughs.

"I told you he was a nothing. The guy was clueless the whole time we were together. Fucking clueless."

She's mostly right and I hope he believes her. They haul me up on deck. I slam my eyes shut against the brightness. My side burns from where I was kicked and my arm being twisted behind me aggravates it. None of that matters as I wait, a picture of pathetic misery, I hope. I listen for Blair, but he's still quiet.

I feel metal going around my wrists again and the clank as he attaches them to the railing. "Where's Blair?" I slur my words and weave, keeping my head down. I've adjusted my eyes enough so I can see, but aside from a quick look, I don't open them.

"Where's Blair? Where's Blair? Joyce mimics. "Is that all you've got to say?"

She's is in front of me. Blair called it raging hormones, but I detect something else. I try to sort through the chemicals that would be present in the drug they used on me; the smells I woke to. Then there's the whiff I'm getting of something else: coke.

Before I can extend my senses to check Jason, I'm hit with a bucket of water. It's cold and the salt in it stings. Before I can quite catch my breath, he douses me with another one. I shake my head, trying to get the water out of my eyes. The water is icy and I immediately feel what had been a light breeze turn into a sharp wind. I start to shiver.

"Hey!" Joyce is wet, she'd been standing a bit too close.

"You did that on purpose! Damn you, Jason, you never pay any attention! I swear, you treat me like I'm furniture!" Her voice rises to an ever higher pitch.

I open my eyes, not wanting to miss this. Joyce is throwing herself at Jason and manages to rake her fingers down his face before he can stop her.

"You bitch!"

His hands go to his face and it's clear he's in pain, Sentinel enhanced pain, I'd say. I pull on the handcuffs, cursing his caution with me, but there's no give. "Oh baby, oh, baby, I didn't meant it, I'm sorry...sorry." She's backing away, afraid and maybe coming down from her high.

"Get me Kendall!" He roars at her and she scrambles back down the ladder. Good, get Blair, bring Blair to me.

"You think this is funny, do you?" Jason advances on me and I wonder if he's stupid enough to have taken something too, something that's making him paranoid, because I sure haven't registered a reaction to the little scene in front of me.

He smashes his fist into my already tender side and I collapse to my knees. I tense, waiting for more, but Jason has his hands on his face and he's moaning.

I hear Joyce and Sandburg coming up from below. Joyce wears high heels and I hear the click, click, click of her shoes.

Sandburg is shuffling along and muttering to himself. "I'd better not find you up on deck, Jim. You'd better be halfway to shore by now. I'm telling you man, I'm really gonna be pissed if I see you when I get up there."

Blair's in for a disappointment, I'm afraid.

As Blair's head clears the deck, Jason grabs him by his hair and hauls him up the rest of the way. No sound comes from Blair, although he does grab on to Jason's wrist. He sees me right away and his eyes go wide but instead of anger, there's fear there. I shrug. Blair's head is whipped back to Jason, who points at his face and demands, "Fix this!"

"What? Okay, yeah, where's the antibiotic cream?"

"Not that way, you idiot, make the pain go away."

Blair blinks owl-like at him and I wonder if he remembers how to do it. "Okay, first; breathe and calm down."

The words are right, but the tone is off, Blair's voice is pitched just a notch higher than his usual tenor. When he drops into his guide voice, it's always a notch lower. Jason doesn't seem to notice.

"That's right, deep breath in, hold it, now release. Visualize the dials. Bring the pain dial down, down. Bring it down to a one."

Jason breathes in, holds, and breathes out. He does it again. Jason's hand snakes out and he grabs Blair by the throat.

"This isn't helping, Goddamnit. According to the manual, this should work." He's squeezing and Blair is trying to get him to loosen his grip. "You useless little punk. You know nothing, you're good for nothing." Jason has both hands around Blair's throat and his eyelids are starting to flutter.

"Hey, maybe it's you, it's always worked for me."

I figure, if I can attract Jason's attention, maybe I can deflect some of his anger. Blair is gasping and Jason shoves him away. Blair lands hard on the deck, panting, trying to get air back into his body.

Coming at me, rage contorting his handsome face, Rarick reveals the depth of his ugliness hidden by his fine breeding. I brace myself and he hammers me, starting on his favorite side and working over to the other. He's pounded the breath right out of me, and I can't quite contain my groans. I bend over, trying to protect my ribs and encourage oxygen intake.

"Jason!" Blair calls out to him, his voice just barely past a whisper.

"Give me another chance, I can do it." Blair is getting to his feet and walking unsteadily toward Jason. He latches on to Jason's sleeve and pulls him away from me. Jason goes, shaking Blair's hand away.

"Do it."

Blair begins speaking again; this time, his voice holds just the right timbre. As he guides Jason, I follow, letting his words and voice calm me and take the pain and cold away. Jason nods, "That's better."

He pats Blair's head and then brushes the back of his hand against Blair's cheek in a curiously gentle gesture. Blair closes his eyes, his heart, accelerating.

"Ah, that's my good guide, my pet." Jason is looking at Blair with pride, affection even, and then he catches himself. His eyes glint, and he presses his thumb into a nerve, just below the cheekbone, that makes Blair scream. He pushes Blair aside and turns his attention towards Joyce.

"What're you on?" He's just realizing that she's on something now? This guy is seriously out of touch with his senses.

"Nothing, Jason, just a little pick me up, a little No Doz, that's all." His eyes narrow and he sniffs at her.

"That's not over the counter stuff I'm smelling, Joyce."

He goes to her and much to my surprise he tenderly cups her face and says, "We talked about this Joyce. You need something, you come to me."

Big tears spill down her face and I marvel at the performance. Jason seems to buy it. Blair won't look at me and I can't tell if he's hurt or drugged or fully Eric right now. He's handcuffed too, and just keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jason snaps his fingers and Blair immediately goes to him.

Jason shoves him next to the rail a few feet from me and attaches his wrist to the railing. "You two enjoy your reunion in the fresh sea air."

He takes Joyce's hand and leads her below.

"Jasy, you are just too good to me." She's using her version of a guide voice and I know just where she's leading him.

I turn to Blair, who's standing there with his head down. Bruised and dirty, he looks like an angel to me.

"You okay, Chief?"

He finally turns his head and I flinch at the pain in his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine, Jim."

"Sit down, c'mon, you don't look fine."

Pain dialed down or not, I feel washed out and let myself slide to the deck.

Blair follows. "I'm sorry."

His head is down again and I can't read his eyes. I really want to see his eyes.

"Look at me, Chief. What do you have to be sorry for?" He's still not looking at me.

"For getting you into this." He sounds utterly defeated.

"Don't tell me you look like that because Jason got the drop on us."

"On me. He got the drop on me. He never would have taken you, never could've taken you, if he didn't already have me."

"I like your confidence in me, Chief, but that's hardly the point. We're in this together. I'd much rather be here, cold, wet and handcuffed to this boat, but with you beside me, than back at the loft, worrying about you. Hey, it's all right. The guy couldn't even tell his girlfriend was coked up. Together we'll have no problem getting out of this just fine."

He finally looks at me, a small smile on his face and I think maybe he believes me. If he does believe me, it's because he's coming back, it's because on some level, he remembers about us and the way we were friends.

"Now what?"

"Now we wait for those two to quit fucking their brains out and come back up here. And maybe then we'll have a chance to re-align the balance of power here."

The sounds of Jason and Joyce copulating are hard to shut out. Between the grunting and the occasional baby words, I'm hoping Jason will say something that will ultimately help us.

Blair puts his head back. I see bruises coming up along his jaw and cheekbone and now that I can look at him, I see cuts and scrapes on both hands. He shivers and looks over to me.

"Oh, man, you must be freezing."

I look down. There are goose bumps and I'm shivering, but thanks to Blair's earlier guidance, I don't feel the cold. "Nah, I'm fine."

"No you're not. You're shivering, and your lips are turning blue. This is the problem with turning the dials down too far, man-- It's like you have leprosy. You know, it wasn't the disease that made them get gangrene and lose toes and hands and legs. It was the lack of sensation. They'd get a cut or a burn and they wouldn't notice it, or take care of it, and pretty soon it'd get infected."

I smile, oh yeah, Blair's coming back.

"What are you smiling about? This is serious."

Oh, God, I love the challenge in his voice.

"I'm smiling because you sound just like you. Relax, Sandburg, there are no gaping wounds here and no way I could get warm even if I were feeling it."

"Wait, try this."

He's in his I've got a theory mode and I hear the clank of the cuffs as he tries to gesture with his bound hands.

"Listen to my voice, Jim. Now imagine a new dial. This one is for your body temperature. Right now, I think it's set at 90. Let's bring that up to 100. Start slow and then move it up."

I close my eyes and do what he says. It's easier than fighting. Who am I kidding? I do it because he's almost always right about this stuff. I picture the dial in my head and crank it to 93. I wait. Can't really believe this one will work but if it makes Blair feel useful, I'll do it.

"There are these Tibetan Monks, who face a major rite of passage. They go outside in the winter--and Tibet gets mighty cold in winter, let me tell you-- and take their clothes off."

"Sorry to disillusion you Chief, but we have guys in Minnesota who get naked in the winter, chop a hole in the ice and jump into a lake. The only passage they face is the challenge of the six pack."

"Wait! There's more to this. The monks wrap wet sheets around them all night long and dry them by raising their temperature. Depending on how enlightened they are, they can dry anywhere from ten to twenty sheets."

Blair looks at me, and he has his teaching face on, the one that is part professor and part geeky kid who just discovered red fire ants. The one that can't believe everyone doesn't think this stuff is the coolest thing they ever heard.

"Well, gee, Professor, that's fascinating, but I'm no monk and my clothes are still wet." "Give your body time to adjust, then push the temp a little higher."

I do what he says and in about ten minutes I'm up to 99 degrees. I feel the heat and see a little steam rising as my shirt starts to dry. What d'ya know, the kid came through again. "Who knows what things we can find a dial for, Chief. Maybe a dial to help me tolerate the mess in the drain or drum music. Or how about a dial for processing the cholesterol in Wonder Burgers? "

Blair laughs a little and then adds, "Maybe a dial to-"

Before he can finish his thought, there's a change down below. Listening, I hear them getting dressed. Jason saying, "We can put you on an hourly schedule if that will help." I expect her to laugh, but Joyce says, in all seriousness, "I think that might make a difference."

I feel like gagging. What is she, a nymphomaniac?

Jason comes up on deck, still buttoning his shirt. I guess he's afraid I wasn't listening in and doesn't want me to miss the fact that he's boffing the alpha bitch. The time he spent with Joyce hasn't put him in a good mood and he ignores me, going straight to Blair. He unlocks Blair and starts to drag him downstairs.

"Hey, where're you going with him? Why don't you leave him alone and show me what a sixteen's really got?" I feel like I'm throwing stones at a rabid dog, but if it gets Jason to leave Blair alone, it'll be worth it.

Jason pauses. He doesn't bother to look at me, addressing himself to Blair instead. He's holding Blair by his hair again, and has his head twisted at an awkward angle.

"Joyce showed me the bruise you gave her back at the loft, Kendall. I think you know how I feel about that."

Jason doesn't looking back as he takes Blair below. I bite back a scream; the sight of Blair in Jason's hands fills me with bitter despair that quickly turns to rage. I yank at the cuffs holding me until my wrists bleed.

I'm sure Joyce is egging Jason on, she can't bear that Jason, or me for that matter, could need Sandburg. And Jason is just stupid enough to buy into it.

I'm hit with an uncomfortable realization. I let her convince me of a lot of things concerning Blair. She fed my fears and I lapped it up.

God, what an idiot I was. Why was I so ready to believe Blair would fail, would fail on purpose and leave me? Thinking about that, I realize that those test scores must've been rigged. There just isn't any way Sandburg, the A+ student, would ever fail any of those tests. That too, should have been obvious. The thought that someone like Joyce could cloud my mind.... I swallow quickly, willing the bile back down.

Okay, there was that, but ultimately it was me, my lack of faith in Blair, hell, my lack of faith period. I lean back. Not much in my life prepared me to have faith, or to think I was worthy of faith. I understand loyalty attached to command from my time in the Military, but that's an entirely different thing from personal allegiance. Blair's given me that.

Why? Why the hell did he have to go and do that?

I don't want it. I never wanted it. My life was simple; it worked. Well, it worked until my senses kicked in but then there was Sandburg. And he made my life work again, when I'd just about given up on it.

But it's no longer simple. Now he's in it. I realize I was relieved when he left. Not happy about it, but relieved. I thought he was off in a warm, sunny, safe place, leading the life that was his by right; never guessing the total opposite was true. And what if he had been sunning himself on some Florida beach? Well, then I'd've had the satisfaction of being right about people in my life.

And I wouldn't have Sandburg to worry about, and God knows, I did.

Worry. It's not like he didn't give me reason to worry. He has his own version of zoning, when he gets so focused on something and the world falls away. And he believes in people, a dangerous trait for a cop, or for an observer. And he has a real knack for ending up right in the middle of trouble. Thank God, he also has the brains to get himself out of it, most of the time. But there were too many occasions when brains didn't turn the tide...and what if I hadn't gotten there on time? What if.... I jerk on the handcuffs again and welcome the pain.

What if Sandburg died?

I pull my knees up to my chest. I'm not prepared to face a world without Sandburg in it. The world, my life, neither one would make much sense without Blair.

I recognize that just before Joyce made her appearance, I'd begun to look at this. Ever since the fountain, my feelings about Blair had started getting more and more confusing. I mean, hell, you live with someone, work with them, you bring them back to life, you're bound to....

Cut the crap, Ellison. You've lived and worked with men your whole life and you've never had this kind of feeling. Maybe it's a Sentinel/Guide thing. Maybe it creates a bond that feels like this. A bond that feels like love. I did not want to go there. Now all of that has been thrown up in the air.

Joyce had been a godsend- or so I thought. I could lose myself in her; her dainty body, her boundless sexual energy, her much needed femaleness. Lose myself and reassure myself that I was as I had always been. Contained, detached, emotionally safe and most definitely heterosexual.

Now all of that has been thrown up in the air. No longer contained, detached or safe and I'm not even going to start to decipher the sexual piece.

No longer contained, detached or safe.

I listen, dreading the sound of Blair in pain.

Jason's taking me below deck. We pause as we go by the galley. I still can't quite understand Mike being here. What happened to studying to be a guide? How come he's doing KP duty for Jason? Maybe he's Jason's new guide. That would make sense. Poor Mike, he has no idea what he's getting into. Mike looks up from scrubbing a pot as Jason pauses. His face is red from scrubbing pots. He looks at me as if he doesn't know me and then he scowls, like he doesn't like what he sees.

Jason shoves me ahead of him and the moment's past. I thought Jason was taking me back to the hold, where I was before, but he stops at the Stateroom. The bed takes up nearly the entire room. They must've built the boat around the bed. It's like something out of a gothic novel, with its dark headboard that peaks, like a church of debauchery. It's piled high with pillows and animal skins and on this Joyce is lounging in a black something or other. Jason handcuffs me with a length of chain to the wood at the foot of the bed.

"Brought you a present, love."

She looks up from her magazine. "Ugh. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Oh, I think you'll find him very entertaining." Jason cuffs me lightly on the back of my head. Putting his hands on my shoulders, he pushes me to my knees.

I drop and stay very still, as I know that almost any little thing can set Jason off. Joyce flops down on her stomach facing the foot of the bed. She looks at me, her eyes narrowed in thought. She loops a finger through my hair and tugs, not very hard. She pulls harder, forcing my head back and comes closer. She kisses me, hard, and rakes her nails down my throat. Her teeth grind against my lips and I fight to disengage. She laughs and pulls back; wiping with her thumb at the lipstick on my mouth. The feel of her thumb on my face is almost as appalling as her lips.

When she's done wiping, she drops her hand away and studies me. Tilting her head, she says, "I start to see why you were so reluctant to let him go, Jason. Where I only saw the puppy, you saw the hound. You always did have a good eye." They chuckle, enjoying a little Sentinel humor.

To my horror she reaches for me again. I force myself not to cringe and hold steady as her fingernails trace the inside of my ear. Shivering, I squeeze my eyes shut. "You like that, do ya?" She holds on to my face as I try and say no, and kisses me again, her tongue flicking against my teeth. She pulls back, her eyes are dilated, the green irises glowing like cat's eyes in the dark.

"Haven't you ever kissed anyone before?" Now she traces my mouth with her fingernail.

"No." Not that I remember.

"Not even Ellison?"

"No!" Kiss Jim, like that?

She yanks my head back again and says, "He kisses like this."

The kiss this time is gentle and she nudges her tongue against my mouth, trying to gain access. She reaches down and puts her hand up my shirt and when her nails rake across my nipple, I gasp. That's the opening she's been waiting for, her tongue darts into my mouth. I try and push it out and rather than making her angry, she seems to like that. There's no air, no light, just this struggle to clear my mouth of the invasion. Pushing her tongue out, I clamp my teeth shut. She starts to nibble at my lips and when I turn my head, she bites down hard. I yelp.

Chuckling, she puts her foot on my crotch. She watches my reaction and her eyes turn hard as she grinds her foot down hard. Pain shoots up and through me and I arch back. Caught by the cuffs, I have no where to go. She keeps her foot there but lets up on the pressure.

Looking back at Jason, she smiles. He's lying on the bed, his hands behind his head. He's happy, he's always happy when a new game presents itself.

"He is fun." She turns back to me and he foot eases up. I scramble to my feet, trying to put distance between us. Sitting at the end of the bed, she crooks her finger at me and points between her thighs. I shake my head no. She points again and when I don't comply, she whines, "Jason, make him behave!"

"Kneel down." Jason says, in a voice that could be used to order pancakes.

I flinch, his tone doesn't fool me. Looking at him, one would think he's relaxed, but his eyes glitter with rage or excitement and I know he would gladly add to this game if I pushed him. I slowly kneel between her legs. She tightens her thighs around my shoulders, imprisoning me, then slowly tilts my head up. Her mouth descends toward me. I try to turn my head to escape it, but her fingernails dig into my scalp and pull me back. She holds my head still as her tongue comes out and begins to lick the blood from my torn lip.

I can't help it, I moan. She makes a sound like a purr and licks harder.

It hurts, but more; I feel panic. I flash on all the times Mr. Smith held me in place, all the times Jason contained and hurt me, and I can't bear being unable to get away. I can't bear the feel of her tongue cleaning my face. I'd rather she hit or bit me again, than endure this mockery of intimacy. Jerking my head back, I spit in her face.

She screams, shoving me. I fall back, my head hits the floor and I sense the bed move as Jason comes off it. Grabbing my hair, he pulls me up. His other fist smashes into my face.

Plain text link for part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=1_2000_drama/cominghome2_a.html