by MrsHamill
They belong to Greenie and she said I could play with them. So there.
While Fox and Christi were great influences on it, this fic is really all Winds-of-Dawn's fault. Completely. Complaints go to her. [g]
ATTENTION: THERE ARE SPOILER WARNINGS AT THE END OF THE FIC. To warn is to spoil in this case.
This story is a sequel to: TREELINE
Thinking of Angels (a sequel to Treeline)
ATTENTION: spoiler warning notes ('spoiler warning' means to warn IS to spoil in this case) can be found after the end of this fic.
Simon thought of angels, and hoped that they were real.
All the way home to Cascade, Simon thought about angels and miracles, Blair and Jim. His two damaged, hurting friends, friends that he would give his own life for, for whom he'd sell his soul to help. His best friends -- who had hurt each other and themselves so severely that he thought it possible that no healing could ever take place.
He thought about Jim: gaunt, fragile Jim, who had once again pressed that envelope into Simon's hands before Simon left to see Blair. "Please... Make sure he keeps it this time, Simon," Jim had whispered fervently, and Simon had promised, had sworn faithfully -- while his heart had broken to see the once-vibrant eyes so dead.
He hadn't told Blair the whole truth about Jim; hadn't told him how the decline had started soon after Blair was incarcerated; hadn't told him about the aborted attempts at appeals -- and even jail breaks -- the nervous breakdown, the weight loss, the zoning. Jim hadn't been on active duty for months, but rather on extended medical leave. To say he was a shadow of his former self sounded ridiculous, but it was true -- and on top of that, the senses were gone, leaving him almost completely helpless.
Simon pulled into a parking space in front of the loft and cut off his engine. The precipitation -- which had started on the mountain as flurries and turned to freezing rain as he'd descended to the town -- increased, and the gusting, cold wind leached the warmth from his car almost immediately. There was a dim light shining in the loft, and he knew Jim was waiting up there for his report on Blair.
But how much should he tell Jim about Blair? Just as he'd kept the worst of Jim's condition a secret from Blair, he knew that to tell Jim how Blair had looked and acted this visit would just hurt the man further -- possibly beyond any repair. Simon ran his mind absently back over the earlier conversation, then suddenly sat up straight.
'It's too late for both of us.' 'You're wrong, Simon.' 'You shouldn't have brought me back the second time.'
"Oh, shit," Simon muttered. "How did I miss that? He's going to do it again!"
Almost reaching for his keys to start his car and go back, Simon was stopped by a particularly hard gust of wind. The road would surely be almost out by now -- the Weather Channel was predicting maybe a foot of snow up on the mountain. He'd need a better vehicle, a truck, maybe... maybe Jim's truck.
Simon leapt from the car, pulled his collar up around his neck and ran for the lobby door. Now that he had figured it out, he was desperate to get to Jim, to call for help, to prevent what he just knew was happening up on that mountain. "Dammit, Sandburg," he growled, a sick feeling in his stomach as he took the stairs three at a time, "I didn't save you only to watch you die again!"
Out of breath, he half-ran, half-staggered down the third floor hallway and pounded at the door to number 307. "Jim! Jim! Open up, man, we've got to move!"
Simon leaned on the door and panted as he caught his breath, waiting for the familiar footsteps, for the door to open under his arm. After a moment, when nothing happened, he shook his head and pounded again. "Jim!"
When there was still no answer, Simon became alarmed. Jim hadn't zoned since his senses went south, but still, could he have...? Simon fished in his pocket for his keys, and, hands shaking, found the key to the loft. It took him a moment to calm down enough to fit the key into the lock, all the while mentally reminding himself that it had only been about three hours since he had last seen Jim.
But a lot could happen in three hours.
The door flew open with a bang, and Simon looked around frantically. "Jim!" Nothing appeared amiss, but nothing appeared normal, either. There was a dim light on up in Jim's bedroom, and no place else. Jim, who had taken to sitting for hours on the sofa facing the balcony doors, was not in evidence. "Jim?" he whispered.
Slowly, painfully, Simon crossed the loft and headed for the steps. His legs felt leaden, his mind numb. He closed his eyes as he reached the top step, terrified of what he might find... but all he saw, when he forced those eyes open, was Jim's painfully neat room, his perfectly made-up bed illuminated by a small bedside lamp. The bed looked as though no one had slept in it for days. No Jim. Then where was he? The truck was still parked outside...
Simon's legs gave out on the top step and he collapsed, burying his head in his hands. It took him some time to find the energy to move his despairing body down the stairs to the French doors, where the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood -- the smell he had noted and denied since he entered the loft -- was nearly overpowering.
It didn't take Forensics long to secure the scene, and the spattered blood and brains were confined to one small area of the small room under the loft, easy to clean up. The futon was a complete loss, though, stained and cracked from the exiting bullet. Jim's will was clear: Simon was named the executor of the estate, and what wasn't left to him was to be sold, the proceeds of which were to be distributed to various charities. The will, which had been revised just three days before, contained no mention of Blair. It was found in a prominent spot the kitchen table.
The next day, after waiting out the furious storm but before making funeral arrangements, a grieving Simon and Joel borrowed a four-wheel drive truck and made their careful way back up the mountain. The storm had been a killer; roads were nearly impassable, and it took them until early afternoon to reach the cabin. Even had they expected it, they would still have been shocked to see the cabin standing open to the elements and snow piled inside the neat walls from the open windows and doors. Blair lay on his back on the small cot that had been his bed, dressed only in jeans and a light flannel shirt, the unopened envelope from Jim still clutched in his bluish, frozen hands.
He appeared to be smiling.
Simon and Joel, along with the other members of Major Crimes, kicked in and purchased one plot for the two of them. On a bright, sunny day in Cascade, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg were buried side by side, sharing one headstone.
"No, God, no, this is wrong, I didn't want..."
"I wasn't about to try and live without you, Chief."
"God. God. I'm sorry, Jim, I just couldn't..."
"Hey, no more sorrys, no more regrets. We're past that, now."
"Yeah. I guess so. Past everything, I suppose."
"Think of it this way... no more pain, Chief. Not for either of us."
"Not for us, no."
"Yeah. I know. If there had been another way..."
"Simon would have argued there was."
"Simon doesn't know everything, Chief."
"But at least... can I tell you now?"
"Always, buddy, you can tell me any time and always."
"Will you tell me too?"
"Like I wouldn't?"
"I love you, Jim."
"I love you too, Blair."
Simon regretfully closed the door on his wistful imagination as the short ceremony ended and people began turning away. He caught Joel's eyes for a moment, trying to speak without using the voice he didn't trust. Merely nodding, Joel left him alone for a while and walked slowly back down the hill with the others.
At the graveside of his two best friends, Simon wept and thought of angels, wishing they were real.
end
.
.
.
.
.%.
.%.
.%.
.
.
.%.
.%.
.%.
.
.%.
.%.
.%.
.
.
.
.%.
.%.
.%.
.
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
SPOILER
This is not a happy fic, and it features death of major characters. shrug Sometimes, there IS no happy ending. Sorry.
End Thinking of Angels by MrsHamill: thamill@cox.rr.com
Author and story notes above.
Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the
stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.