Title: In Need Of Someone
Author/pseudonym: Kelly
Fandom: The Sentinel
Paring: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Rating: R
Status: New/Complete
Archive: Yes, please archive
E-mail address for feedback: dragonbane4@aol.com
Series/Sequel: Illusion Series; Illusion #1
Other websites: Mine; http://www.geocities.com/tyshka/sentinelindex.html
Disclaimers: The characters do not belong to me. They
belong to Pet Fly Studios. I am making no money from this; I am doing it for
sheer love of the characters and my own personal fulfillment.
Summary: After leaving the loft in emotional turmoil, Jim runs afoul of
trouble... without his Guide by his side. Warnings: male/male overtones but no
sex, violence.
In Need Of Someone
by Kelly
"And when you're in need of someone
My heart won't deny you
So many seem so lonely
With no one left to cry to baby..."
--"Don't Cry" (Alt. Lyrics), Guns 'N' Roses, Use Your Illusion 2
*My eyes are always searching for you. Across the room I seek you out, finding
that I can't pull away. Even as you start to speak I hear music in your words
and it fills me with joy.*
Jim crumpled the sheet of paper he'd been writing on. It had been almost a
passing thought to try his hand at writing, and he sucked. He chucked it at the
trashcan, almost hitting Blair with it as the Guide walked into the room.
"Whatever it was, I didn't do it," Blair said, as he picked up the
wadded paper. He frowned at Jim's slight scowl. "Jim?"
"Yeah, Chief?" He caught the ball of paper
as Blair threw it at him. He almost stuck it in his pocket, but the jeans were
tight and it wouldn't fit. Instead, he nervously tossed it from hand to hand.
Blair moved closer to Jim, out of the line of the trashcan. "What's
bothering you?" He reached out and snagged the wad as Jim passed it from
hand to hand.
"Nothing, just thinking," Jim lied, reaching out to intercept Blair's
steal, but the Guide was too quick.
Blair started tossing the wadded paper from hand to hand. They had played this
game before, trying to improve Jim's coordination and hand-eye reaction time. "About what?" Blair asked, trying to interrupt
Jim's concentration.
Jim watched the wadded paper move from hand to hand. "Work, mostly."
He tried to remain casual about it, but he wanted that back before Blair
decided to uncrumple it and read it.
With each swat, Jim's hand got closer to the wadded paper. His fingertips
brushed against it, and Blair snatched it away. "That's great, Jim! That's
the closest you've come yet! A little more practice and your reflexes will be
right on a par with your senses!" Blair was bouncing happily and Jim seized
the opportunity to grab back his discarded attempt at poetry.
"Thanks, Chief."
"Jim, what's on that paper? You've been antsy ever since I came in!"
*No way do you ever get to see this, Chief,* Jim vowed to himself. *You are not
going to find out... I can't lose you.* "Just some notes," is all he
said.
Blair's face told Jim plainly that the Guide didn't believe a word of it. But
he was willing to let it drop. "All right, Jim... maybe it's just me. I
did pull an all nighter last night."
He couldn't even bring himself to say that Blair was right about it being his
tiredness--he couldn't even lie to Blair. "Why don't you go and get some
rest, Chief?" Jim offered lamely. It was the best he could do, without
giving himself away.
"Maybe I will," Blair said softly. Jim winced inwardly at the hurt
tone in Sandburg's usually cheerful voice. "Goodnight, Jim."
"Night, Chief." Jim felt worse and worse about denying Blair as he
watched the other man walk down the hall. *Way to make an ass out of yourself,
Ellison.* Disgusted with himself and his treatment of Blair, he dropped onto
the couch and turned on the TV, keeping it low in deference to his friend's
attempt to sleep. Shortly, though, Jim heard the shower running, and he uncrumpled the sheet of paper and stared at the first two
words on the page--and the reason he'd tried so hard to hide the
paper--"For Blair."
He smoothed out the crumpled paper over his leg, and looked at the rest of the
poem. Still hearing the shower running, Jim moved quietly down towards Blair's bedroom.
He peeked into the bathroom and saw Blair's sleek profile, and swallowed hard.
He went into Blair's room, and his knees weakened. His Guide's scent was thick
and heavy in the air, and Jim filled his lungs with it. He breathed it so
deeply he felt his tongue working, trying to taste the scent. It was earthy,
and yet exotic, and something unique only to Blair. He leaned
against the wall, still distantly hearing the shower running. He could not open
his eyes; the smell of Blair was overwhelming. He found his hands crumpling the
poem and he forced his legs to work. With trembling hands, he smoothed out the
paper again, leaving it on Blair's pillow. Then he fled, slamming the door of
the loft behind him.
* * * * *
Once he got outside the loft, he took several deep breaths, trying to cleanse
Blair's smell out of his system. It wasn't working, and the Guide's scent was
almost saturating him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and stumbled out to the
parking space where his truck was, and fumbled for the door handle.
Sliding behind the wheel, he put his head against it,
and shook. The intensity of being in Blair's room, being around so much BLAIR
was overwhelming him.
Slowly Jim got himself under control, and his hands barely shook as he put the
key in the ignition and turned the engine over, starting the truck. He sat for
a minute and listened to the engine purr, and then slammed the vehicle into
gear and laid rubber as he spun out of the drive and into the
road.
Jim drove at top speed as he tried to outrun the image of Blair's sleek, wet
body in the shower combined with the still-lingering scent of Blair still heavy
in his nose, and he shuddered as his entire body responded to that combination.
It was getting dark, and Jim reached down to flick on the headlights. As he
drove around aimlessly, he checked out the clock. 6:15. *Damn. He won't be
going to bed for another three or four hours,* Jim thought to himself. He
wasn't sure he could face Blair after having left that poem for him on the
pillow. In fact, he wasn't sure if he could face
Blair ever again. *He's going to think that you're some old queer out for a
young piece of ass,* Jim berated himself. *He's never going to believe you're
in love with him.* He looked again at the clock. 6:18. *You've been out of the
house a grand total of eighteen minutes and already you're mooning over Blair Sandburg… you have got it bad, Jimmy boy.* Ellison
continued his silent tirade against himself. *You can't get the picture of him
naked out of your head, and you almost came standing
in the middle of his room breathing in his scent! You are a pervert, Ellison.
You and I both know that Sandburg deserves a hell of a lot better than an old
horse like you.* At that thought, Jim's fist pounded the steering wheel,
denting the hard plastic and causing the horn to blow in the middle of traffic.
Fortunately, the car in front of him had been missing the green light, and
other horns joined his in blowing and he got out of the intersection in a
hurry.
By a quarter of seven, Jim had detoured himself halfway around town,
deliberately avoiding the places that Blair liked to go or the places they went
together. He'd skipped the library, the station, the drive by the park, and had
detoured six blocks over to avoid the bookstore where he'd bought
Blair's last welcome home present--a leather-bound first edition of one of the
Guide's favorite poetry volumes. He'd also taken a three-block detour to avoid
Blair's university.
At seven-fifteen, Jim was back at the loft, staring at Blair's profile in the
window. The Guide was sitting there, his posture rigid as though he were ready
to jump to his feet at any moment. He looked at the cell phone on the seat
beside him, and he picked it up. Pausing only a moment, he dialed the loft's
phone number. Blair's voice answered almost instantly. "Jim?"
Jim closed his eyes, luxuriating in the sound of his voice.
"Jim, is that you?" Blair's voice sounded strained,
worried. The Sentinel sighed and broke the connection, once again pulling away
from the loft and driving around in circles.
*Why didn't you at least tell him you were all right?* he demanded of himself.
*You aren't deaf, not with those ears, you heard how damned worried he was
about you.*
He put his hand over the telephone again, but before he could dial it, it was
ringing. He looked at the display; the loft. He knew it would be Blair, but
couldn't bear to hear that delicious voice whispering in his ear again.
He looked at the clock. 7:45. Still the phone was
ringing. Morbidly, Jim counted the rings. It stopped after fifty. He looked at
the clock again;
The next time his phone rang, he didn't even bother to
check to see if it were Blair. He knew it was. The third time it started
ringing, he picked it up and saw the loft's number again, and turned the ringer
off. *Out of hearing, out of mind?* The snide voice in
his head started to sound a lot
like Sandburg's. *You can't deny it, Jim… you're in
love with that kid, and you're scared… the big
strong Sentinel is afraid of his Guide because he doesn't want to get his heart
broken.*
After about another half-hour, Jim gave up. *You can't
hide from him forever, Ellison, he lives with you! Go home and get it over
with.*
Jim sighed and started on the way home, but he still took detours and one of
the detours he took lead him by the museum, where he still smiled at the big
display that was currently on tour. Not that it was anything he hadn't seen
before. Inca artifacts on display for the public. He
almost passed the museum until he caught sight of flashlights sweeping the
interior glass doors. Pulling over to the curb, he picked up the radio and
called into the station. "This is Ellison, over on McCarthy Street… I'm parked outside the museum and there seems to
be some sort of activity inside, and the museum's been closed; send me a unit
for backup but I'm going in to investigate."
"Roger that, backup is on the way." Then Simon's voice crackled
through.
"Ellison, what the hell are you doing? I'm trying to go home here, and
you're playing the hero! At least Sandburg's with you to keep you from going
alone."
"Uh, Sandburg's not here, sir, he's back at the loft." The sound of
muffled cursing came over the radio. "Sir, those flashlights are on the
move, just make sure the backup gets over here." Jim put the CB back on
the dash and slipped out of the seat, reaching under it and pulling out his
gun. He
stayed in the shadows of the museum's overhang until he got to the door and
looked in.
There were faint lights from some of the bigger display cases and Jim could
count five men in black moving around the new exhibit. He tried the front door
and found it already jimmied open, but as he pushed it in, he heard the hinges
squeak quietly, and he let the door go, easing it back shut before he was
caught. He ran back down to the truck, and went through the toolbox in the
back, pulling out a small can of WD-40, and sprayed all three hinges of the
door, and then pushed it in soundlessly as he entered, staying out of the sweeping
beams of the flashlights.
He listened closely to the echoing footsteps, gauging how far away from him
they were. He looked up, and he was not that surprised to find that they were
in the hallway leading towards the Peruvian exhibit. *Strange how that place
always comes back to haunt you, Ellison.*
Jim continued quietly into the museum, stopping only when he heard shallow
breathing. He looked down, and he was a couple of feet away from the fallen
form of one of the museum's security guards. He rolled the man over to look for
bullets and instead found a feather-tipped dart in his neck. He left the dart
in place, and checked the heartbeat. Steady. He hoped the backup would be here
soon, but the guard would be all right until they did. He carefully stepped
over the man's body, and into the exhibit hall.
As soon as he crossed through the threshold, greenery from the overhanging
trees and transplanted vines shrouded him, and he closed his eyes, forcing
himself to get a grip on himself. *You are not in Peru, Jim, you're in the
middle of the museum tracking down the bad guys,* he reminded himself, and yet
it took a few minutes to bring himself back to Cascade out of those lush
green jungle memories.
As he shook his head clear, he caught the end snatches of a conversation.
//I still don't know why we can't use guns.// The
speaker's voice had a very heavy Colombian accent.
//Because the powder and sparks could damage some of the pieces,// explained another heavily accented voice. //The boss
doesn't want any of his exhibits damaged.//
*That explains the darts,* Jim thought to himself. He
could clearly hear the men ahead, rustling in the faux-jungle terrain that he
was used to. Here he had the advantage, and he used it. Something shifted gears
in Jim's head, and he was barely aware of moving silently through the jungle to
come up behind his prey.
His quarry was right in front of him. Five dirty men; three that smelled like
stale smoke, one that stank of alcohol, and one of heavy cologne. The hunter
moved silently through the dense green tangle and stalked closer to his prey.
Their guns were safely holstered, and the dart guns were nowhere to be seen.
Closer the hunter came to the men, and still they did not move. Only at the
last second, when Jim burst out onto them, splitting them up and sending them
in different directions did they scatter. The one closest to Jim was the drunk,
and Jim pursued him, overtaking him near one of the ancient trees and downing
him. He trussed the thief up with vines from the
tree, completely forgetting about the handcuffs that rested on his hip.
Turning, he sniffed for the next scent and found the overpowering smell of the
second thief's cologne. He followed that scent as well, and in seconds had the
prey overpowered and taken care of.
It was the three smokers that posed a problem to the hunter, but he didn't
notice. So intent was he on following the odor of the smoke that he did not
realize that two were in front of him, and a third behind him. He heard the
footsteps behind him and turned, but not in time to duck away from the dart
that was coming at him. He felt it prick his neck and he pulled it out, tossing
it onto the ground and pulling his gun on the man who'd shot him. The man
raised his own gun while the two from behind tried to rush Jim, but the hunter
swayed and one tripped while the other pulled himself
short. He barely managed to duck the spray of gunfire from the third before
shooting him in the chest. The last two lay quiet, and as Jim moved to tie them
up as well, and he felt a second prick in his neck as a second dart hit him. He
pulled that one out as well, and his vision blurred as the double does of
sedative began to work on him. The switch that had flipped in him earlier
flipped again, and he looked around with blurry eyes, unable to remember what
he'd done or why he was back in the jungle. Putting his hand to his dizzy head,
Jim staggered through the archway, and out into the front portion of the
museum.
Instantly, spotlights from the squad car sitting in front of the door blinded
him, and as soon as one officer recognized him, he sent the other in while he
went to Jim's aid.
The officer's mouth was moving, but Jim could not make out what he was saying.
The words were slow and drawn out, and Jim's own body couldn't or wouldn't
move. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell hard, convulsing on the
asphalt sidewalk.
The last call that Jim could consciously remember hearing is "Oh shit,
call it in… we've got an officer down." After
that, he passed out, his last thought cut off in midstream…
*Blair…*
End