Fallout
 

Blair pushed the coffee mug moodily across the coffee table, leaving angry streaks on the smooth glass. Gotta clean that up, he thought dully. Jim'll have a bird.

Moving stiffly into the kitchen like an old man, he reached for a cloth, then stopped, giggling slightly as the insanity of the situation hit him. Jim wasn't going to care about a few streaks on his coffee table. Hell, Jim wasn't in much of a state to care about anything anymore.

Blair drained the last dregs of cold coffee and wiped a sleeve across his mouth, peering into the depths of the cup, as if searching for the answers to life's questions. Gotta clean that up, rinse it out, put it away his mind whispered. Gotta keep it clean for Jim. Blair shook his head, rotating the cup mindlessly in his hands. Yeah, like it matters anyway He tossed the mug into the sink, smiling oddly as it clattered angrily against the stainless steel. Noise.

Lots of noise.

Anything to fill in the void, the deadly silence of the Loft. It felt so good that he did it again. And again.

"How about the house rules now, Ellison?" he yelled into the empty condo. Laughing insanely, Blair tugged the cup out of the sink and smashed it against the wall. "Whoops! I guess you'd better come down and yell at me Jim!" he sang out. "I'm messing up your house!" Laughing so hard it felt like tears, Blair grabbed a double handful of plates stacked in a pile. Tugging the first one off, he frisbeed it across the Loft to shatter against the stairs. "Bet you must be spinning in your grave, huh?" Turning, he smashed both his hands down in the pile, feeling the sharp slivers of china dig into his hands as the plates fractured, feeling smaller pieces skitter past his cheek to fall around him as he slowly sank to the cold floor.

Drawing his knees up against his chest, Blair pushed his hands against his face, fingers clenching tightly in his hair. "Jim," he sobbed. "Jim, man, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please, come back. Don't be dead, I'm sorry......."
 

{Three Days Earlier}

"You hyped for the game, Chief?" Jim pulled the truck out of the parking lot.

"You mean the sadistic throwback to Roman Gladiators?" Blair pulled a face.  "Oh yeah."

Jim idled the truck at a red light, while he looked over at his companion. "Blair," he began awkwardly, "You don't have to come, you know.  I know this sort of thing isn't exactly your cup of tea."

Blair shook his head, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.  "You know me, I'm just pissing in the wind.  Come on, man, you've already paid for the tickets.  Besides, it's interesting watching the people at these things.  I wasn't kidding about the Gladiator aspects.  Really lets people relieve their aggression, watching two beefcakes beat the crap out of each other."

Jim shrugged as he put the truck into gear as they pulled out into the freeway.  "Whatever makes you happy, Darwin."

"Where's Simon?" Blair quizzed, tugging a heating vent open in front of him.  "I thought he was coming too?"

"He's meeting us there."  Jim slapped Blair's hand lightly away and fixed the vent himself.

Blair rolled his eyes and peeked out the side window, grinning at the reflection in the mirror. "Speak of the devil," he twisted in his seat and waved over his shoulder at the car behind them, then pulled a monkey face.

Jim shook his head, grinning at his partner's antics. "Kids. You should show your superior officer some respect."

Blair shrugged, settling himself back in his seat. "What? Technically, he isn't my superior. Anyway, there's no way he can see me. You're the Sentinel, remember?"

Jim grinned again. Something had Sandburg bouncing around in a bundle of positive energy, even more than usual. Must be that new blond TA... he mused.

He slammed on the brakes as a car cut recklessly in front of them, feeling the tyres lose their grip in the slush covering the road. The Ford bucked wildly, skidding sideways across the road towards the concrete barrier of the freeway. Fighting to keep control of the car, Jim gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands, seeing Blair's hands come up to shield his face from the corner of his eye. With a final burst of strength, he wrenched the steering wheel around, feeling the tyres grip for a tenuous second, pulling the full force of the impact onto the drivers side.

Blair groaned, cracking his eyes open, only to close them immediately as a sharp pain hit his head. "Oh god..." He heard a familiar dark voice, running feet, then a sharp whirl of winter air cut into the warmth of the car as his door was wrenched open.

"Blair! Blair, can you hear me?" he mumbled a hazy reply, anything to stop that booming voice from adding to what was already a killer headache.

Jim. He opened his eyes and shifted awkwardly in the seat, ignoring the forming bruises as he tried to turn to look beside him. Simon was holding his shoulders, yelling at him. "Blair. Look at me. Look at me."

"Why?"  Twisting free, Blair looked over to the other side of the car.

And started to scream.

"Jim never had a chance." Simon swallowed slowly, eyes haunted with the memory. Taggart put a hand on the Captain's arm, hazel eyes filled with sorrow. It was a moment until he could continue. "The drivers side was smashed. He..." Closing his eyes, he broke off, trying to banish the horror from his mind. " I...I think he did it on purpose." Simon confessed quietly, after a long silence. "It was the only way he could save Sandburg. The kid walked away with bruises and a concussion." And a broken soul The memory of those heartbroken screams still scarred him.

Joel's grip on his arms tightened to almost painful proportions. "Don't you dare tell him that."

Simon met the other man's gaze almost angrily. "Do you honestly think I would?" he demanded. "It took three paramedics and a shot of Valium to calm him down enough for transport. Do you think I could do that to him again?!" He clenched a breath in his chest before letting it ease out in a sigh. "I'm sorry Joel, I just -"

There was a soft tap on the door. "Come in," Simon straightened in his chair, schooling his face. Life went on, he had a job to do.

His facade crumbled as Blair stepped in, slow shuffling steps replacing his normal bouncing gait, hair hanging lank and lifeless in his face.

"Blair," Simon gestured to a spare seat, controlling the slight trembling of his hand. He could hear Taggart's sharp intake of breath from the side. Sandburg looked like a man destroyed and ready to die. Disinterested in everything.

Blair shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Idly, he traced a crack in the linoleum. Better tell Simon this place needs resurfacing. He wondered why he'd never noticed it before. Reaching up, he tugged his Observer's Pass from his shirt, the tiny metal clip clinging for a brief moment before breaking free. Opening his hand, Blair let it flutter to land face down on the desk.

Simon looked down at the smooth plastic, then back up. "Blair -" he began, but the anthropologist cut him off with a small, sad gesture.

"No." Blair said in a rough voice, then cleared his throat. "No, I don't belong here anymore." I never did.  Not without Jim. "I-I can't..." He trailed off into silence, studying the crack, following it with his eyes until it disappeared under Simon's desk. I wonder why Jim never said anything about it. Surely it couldn't have escaped the Sentinel's notice.

"Jim." He wasn't aware he had spoken the name until he felt Simon's eyes flutter up sharply to bore into him.

"Blair -"

Blair shook his head, backing slightly away. He had to go, now. He wasn't going to lose the last shreds of his dignity by bawling like a baby in front of the Captain.

"Blair."  He turned, wrenching his gaze up to meet Taggart's. Going with his feelings, the big man reached out and enfolded Blair in a bear hug. He felt the anthropologists arms come up around to twist painfully in the back of his jacket as Blair clung to him gratefully, then broke free. "Just don't forget your friends." Joel whispered.

A smile tried to cross Blair's face, a pale ghost of an imitation of his usual brilliant countenance. "I won't. Thanks." He hesitated for a moment, scuffing the floor with his sneakers, then turned and left the room.
 

Exiting Simon's office, Blair stopped short at the sight of Jim's desk.  Empty.  He crept across the bullpen and settled himself gingerly on the seat, feeling the springs creak gently under his weight. Reaching out, Blair rubbed a hand across the pile of unfinished reports stacked by the computer.  I should do these for him.  He was lingering, unwilling to leave.  It was so strange, unreal...he expected Jim to walk in any minute and say...

"Blair."

He snapped his head up at the sound of his name, hopeful look fading. "Oh. Hi Brown, Rafe." Blair tried to not to meet their eyes, knowing the compassion that would be reflected there. Instead, he focused on the minute specks of grit in between the keys of the keyboard. Go away, he prayed silently.  Please. I don't think I could handle it if you...

Rafe pulled a chair up from nearby, while  Brown positioned himself awkwardly on the edge of the desk. "How are you holding up?" The young detective asked softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

Blair jerked away reflexively, then mumbled an apology. "Still kinda sore, I guess." Skirting the issue, praying they would go away.

Rafe nodded, and Brown echoed the motion.  "Hair-" Brown caught himself in time. "Blair.  If you ever need anything...Rafe and I...We know this has got to be hard on you.  We know Jim and you were......close." He tripped over the words. Close didn't even cut it. More like two halves of the same person.

Blair clenched his hands in on themselves under the desk, focusing on the physical pain rather than the emotional.  "Thanks, guys." Cardboard cutouts of words, not meaning anything.

The other two nodded again, heads bobbing like twin marionettes and Blair had to stifle a giggle. It was so...weird. So crazy, he could hardly believe it. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Jim... he closed his eyes, veering away from the thoughts.

Jim.

"....coffee?" Rafe was talking to him, pushing something hot into his hand.  Blair took a mindless sip. Tasteless. Pointless.

Useless.

A Sentinel protects the Tribe.
The Guide protects the Sentinel

Fat lot of good I was. Blair stared dully at the surface of the desk, barely noticing the other two men as they cast concerned looks his way. Just one more thing you managed to fuck up, Sandburg.

"Take care of yourself, kid, ok? Call us if you need anything." Blair looked up, flicking his eyes from one face to the other, then finally up to the clock on the pillar. Realising he had ignored the other two for the better half of a half-hour.

"Sorry. I just......."

"Hey," Rafe put a hand on his shoulder. "We all know, Blair. It's not easy losing your partner."

Blair nodded vaguely, as they left the bullpen on another case.

Jim deserved better than me. I never had an idea what the hell I was supposed to be doing. But he trusted me.  And I let him down. If I tried harder, knew what I was doing, maybe he could have seen it sooner.

Maybe he would still be alive.

Blair tugged one of the folders off the pile and lifted the front cover, stiff manila almost unbearably heavy against his fingertips.  He ran his hand over the rough notes, written in Jim's bold handwriting.  At least I can do something right.

Pulling the file into his lap, he booted up the program.

Blair was still sitting there looking at the blank screen when Simon came out of his office three hours later.

"Blair?"  He jumped at the Captain's hand on his shoulder, knocking the forgotten coffee over the table.  The police Captain cursed at himself as Blair raised a trembling hand to his mouth, breath coming in short gasps. He crouched by the chair, reaching out to touch Sandburg's arm.  "Blair?" he said softly. "Come on kid, let's get you home."

Simon put an arm around the anthropologist's shoulders and guided him from the bullpen.

Banks drove around aimlessly for a bit, on the pretence of avoiding traffic.  He looked over at his passenger, worrying at his habitual cigar.  Blair was slumped haphazardly in the seat, forehead pressed against the glass, usually brilliant eyes clouded and glazed over. "You don't have to be alone. Do you want to stay at my place?" the police Captain offered tentatively.  "Daryl's with his mother, you can -"

"No." Blair shook his head. "I want...I need to be alone.  Please, just I...need to be alone."  Simon cringed at the halting words from the usually loquacious young man.  "I need to get this right in my head before it drives me insane," his voice was small. "Please."

And now he was alone. Totally.

It was over.

Everything.

The thesis work, the partnership, the friendship, everything.

Jim was gone.

The Sentinel of the Great City was dead.

Somehow the funeral was the hardest part. Harder than seeing Jim's body, the most final thing he could imagine.   Seeing the mourners in black gathered around the coffin, the priest they barely knew singing the praises of a dead man.

Blair had stood up on the podium, looking out into the sea of black and had frozen.  There was so much he wanted to say, so much about Jim, but he couldn't form the words, throat frozen up, clinging to Simon as the Captain led him back down, sobbing, knowing that he failed Jim again.

Failed his Sentinel.

Blair sat bolt upright on the floor, tears forgotten as a thought struck him like a bolt of lightening.  Jim was the Sentinel of the Great City.

Blair felt his heart quicken with hope.

He was the Shaman.

Jim was the Sentinel, he was the Shaman.

The Shaman was supposed to be able to walk the hidden paths.

He could bring Jim back.

Some part of his mind mildly mentioned the fact that he could be insane.  Blair stopped and seriously considered the question.  Was he insane?  Did he actually think he could bring Jim back from the dead?  Yes. He did.

Blair shook his head.  He wasn't insane.  Ok, ok, he wasn't exactly firing on all thrusters - seeing your partner splattered all over the interior of his beloved Ford could do that to you, he thought with black humour.  But he was sane.  Incacha had grabbed his arm on the couch in front of his nose and initiated him for chrissakes.  And he'd done enough study of Mysticism to know what was possible.

With renewed determination, Blair pushed himself to his feet and headed for his room, for his stack of books.

Books, books, books.  To many goddamned books and not one with the information he needed.  Blair flicked through the pages of the book in his hand, then dropped it on the growing pile on the floor.  Shamanism this, Shamanism that, and no fucking idea what the hell he was meant to do.

"WHAT AM SUPPOSED TO DO?!" Blair screamed.  Frustrated, he swept his arms through the shelf.  Books cascaded off in a crazy jumble, precious artefacts tumbling to smash on the floor. Blair kicked the pile of books hard, seeing it jump. Years of study.  Wasted.  Oh, he knew exactly how the Aztecs performed their ritual sacrifice.  He knew exactly how their society was structured, but could he help his friend?

No.

"Fucking USELESS!" Blair screamed again, pulling a stack of notes off his desk. He hauled it across the room, doing a crazy little dance as paper wafted around him.  "Is this what I'm supposed to do?" he shouted to his non-existent Spirit Guide.  "Huh?  Look at me!! I'm doing the Ellison Revival Paper Dance!!!"  Laughing hard, he doubled over, forearms pressed against the ache in his chest.

I think I'm going insane.

Looking up, he caught sight of the photo on his desk. Feet shuffling heavily through the mess on the floor,  he picked it up.  Sentinel and Guide, merrily fishing.

"I messed up, Jim," he told the coloured image sadly. "I'm sorry."  Reverently, he placed it back down on the desk. "I'm sorry, Jim," he repeated, voice a whisper as his hands straightened the frame, so that it stood solid and square in the centre of wooden surface.

Eyes damp with tears, Blair looked around the room.  A lifetime of useless crap.

A lifetime of running away from what hurt.

But now, there was nowhere to run to.

The hurt was inside.

Blair picked up a shard of broken pot.  He examined it for a long time with a critical eye.  It was gone, destroyed.  Nothing left but a few scattered shards and some brown powder from the clay.

"Just like me, huh?" Blair laughed a little at the photo. The image stared blankly back at him.

"You're right." Blair nodded seriously. "It's crapped, but it still should be good for something, eh?" He ran his fingers over one edge, watching the blood well up, bright red.  "Kinda blunt, but I think it should work."  He carefully gripped the rounded edge, once part of the mouth of the gourd, turning the sharpness towards his neck.

Will it be fast? Blair stopped, then. He didn't want it to be fast. It had to be slow.  He had to pay. The carteroid would pump blood too quickly, there wouldn't be time for penance.

No.  Blair carefully guided the shard towards his wrist, eyes almost crossed from concentrating without his glasses. He mentally visualised the line the sharp clay would draw, until he could almost see the blood welling out.  Already he could feel it trickly warmly down his arm, to dry in cool, sticky trails.

He paused the shard at the edge of his wrist, resting it on the bone, then looked up at the photo again. "I'm sorry, Jim.  I have to make it right. It should be me, not you."

He tilted the sharp edge against his wrist. "It should be me, not you." He whispered it like a mantra as he pressed down.

A snarl of wind swept through his room, snatching the shard from his grasp.

"No!" Blair reached out, desperate to catch it, but it danced free of his fingers to smash into a thousand slivers. "NO, Dammit!" the anthropologist howled, sinking to his knees. Why couldn't he die? Why wouldn't they let him?

He turned a hot gaze on his room, the treasured items nothing to him now. Reminder of what could/should/would have been.   If he'd only gotten it right.

This was his hell.

A life without meaning.

A life without Jim.

"NO!" Blair threw back his head and screamed, primally. He screamed until he was hoarse, voice bouncing hollowly back at him, rebounding off the walls.

Finally  he trailed off, head hanging on his chest, sobbing through a rough throat.  Then he heard it.

The soft snarl of a Wolf.

What the hell? He jerked his head up, eyes searching. There was a flash of brown ruff on the edge of his bed, catching the corner of his eye.

"Are you real?" Blair breathed, blinking. Two impossibly wise eyes flickered over to meet him. The Guide felt a brilliant clarity wash over him like an ice-wind as the Wolf studied him, then delicately jumped down from his bed.  The Wolf circled him slowly, as he knelt, absoloutly still. It sniffed him several times, then with a disdainful motion, rammed hard into his back, sending him sprawling.

Blair winced as his forehead impacted with the hard floor, then pushed himself up with shaking arms.  Holding a hand to the soft lump on his head, Sandburg rocked back on his heels, looking around.

The room was empty.

Hesitantly, he rose up on his knees, feeling pottery shards crumple under his weight. Still nothing.

Oh man, oh please tell me I'm not mad, please. Blair reached out blindly, fingers clenching in the soft material of his comforter. Something brushed his hand and he brought it back to his eyes, studying it. Soft wolf hairs were clinging to his palm.

It WAS real

"Hey, Jim," he said in a soft, awed voice. "I think I just met my Spirit Guide."

Eyes locked on his palm, he carefully got to his feet. A Wolf. His Spirit Guide was a Wolf. Shaking his head a little in amazement, Blair looked at his bed, making small sound of disbelief at the dent in the material.

Then his gaze traveled upwards, to where a book was lying on his bed.  Wiping his hands on his pants, Blair reached out and touched it.  A sign? Something he was meant to see?

Something to bring Jim back?

Blair reached out and lovingly caressed the cover. The leather felt warm under his touch, soothing his chilled palms.  The anthropologist picked the tome up, reassured by it's weight, comforting in his arms, then hesitated.

Not here

His room was too cold.  He needed to be somewhere better, somewhere closer to his Sentinel.  Exiting his room, he hesitated at the foot of the stairs to Jim's room.

No.

He couldn't go there. The memory was to fresh, too painful.

The lounge

Memories of late night popcorn sessions, Jags Games, friendly talks with a couple of beers filtered into his mind. The warmth, the glow of friendship. Yes

Padding softly across the floor, Blair scrubbed the remaining tear tracks from his face and settled himself on the couch.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the book and laid it on the coffee table.

Kicking off his shoes, Blair hesitated, then picked them up, lining them beside the door. Can't have Jim coming home to a messy house...

Moving back to the lounge, Blair crossed his legs underneath him, tucking his feet in.  Deep breaths, in and out.  Late afternooon shadows flickered teasingly across his closed lids, but Blair pushed them aside, focusiong inwards on his centre, on the cleansing motion of his own breath, letting it carry him, soothe him, unitl he felt he was ready.

"Show me, " he whispered without opening his eyes.

A soft breeze caressed his cheek, rippling the pages of the book.  Faster and faster they flipped, line after line of printed text blurring into a solid mass.

Until it stopped.

Blair heard the soft ruffle fade into silence, but reigned in his impatience, taking another, deep, cleansing breath before slowly opening his eyes.

A picture.

Blair leaned forward and splayed his hand over the page, a stark image, originally carved on wood, reprinted on smooth glossy paper. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the image, the surface rough against his fingers, feel the individual wood grains with an almost Sentinel-like intensity. Two faces. He trailed his fingers over the first, a gentle Shaman, eyes strong with an inner peace. Hesitantly, he moved to the other, trailing his fingers across the chiselled jaw so like Jim's. But in between the two was a deep line, a chasm dividing the two.

The chasm of Death.

Abruptly Blair drew his hand back, cradling it to his chest. Suddenly cold, he opened his eyes again. Shaman and man, Guide and Sentinel, forever separated.

Or was it? As he studied the picture from a different angle, the two faces looked the same. It was like a three dimensional image, the faces blurring together. Or were they his own tears blurring the image?

No.

With growing excitement and hope, Blair watched as the two images slowly switched places, Shaman on one side, man on the other. An exchange. A life for a life.

Blair threw his head back and laughed in pure joy.
 

Simon drew the car up outside 852 and sat there for a moment, almost dreading what he would find.  No one had heard from Sandburg in two days. He'd dropped Uni classes, avoided friends....and refused to answer the phone.

With a heavy tread he climbed the stairs, Joel Taggert close behind.  Both man chose the stairs rather than the lift, not wanting to wait.

The short walk to the hall stretched into infinity before them, then they were at the door.  Simon slowly pulled his keys out, ice shrouding his heart.  What if Blair was harder hit than they thought?

What if he.... Both men jerked the thought off harshly before it could finish.  Simon slid the spare key to the Loft into the lock, then turned it.

The two Captains were prepared for everything but the sight that greeted them.  Soft, faintly jazzy music played in the background while a fire burned merrily in the wood stove. The delicious scent of lasagna wafted through the air, making Simon remember he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Sandburg?"

A curly head popped over the upper bedroom railing. "Simon? Joel? Oh, hi. Hang on, I'll be down in a sec."  Blair thumped around for a few minutes more, while the two Captains exchanged worried looks. This wasn't good. Sandburg had switched from one extreme to another.

"Hey guys, what's up?" Blair held a bundle of dirty linen in his arms. "I was just up there changing Jim's bed," he offered by way of explanation as he dumped the pile into a hamper.

Simon shrugged, a little uneasily.  The look in Blair's eyes was too bright, he looked ready to shatter into a thousand pieces. "Nothing's up, we just dropped in to see how you were doing."

"We missed you at the station," Joel said softly. "Simon's been a real grouch without you to grump at."

Simon shot the other man a dirty look, but it softened at Blair's chuckle. It was good to hear the kid laugh again.

"Actually I'm kinda glad you're here," Blair said, brushing his hair back from his face. "Simon, Joel,"  he sat down on the couch beckoning the others over.

The anthropologist took a deep breath, sorting his words before continuing."I just wanted to say..I just wanted to say thank you.  For everything.  I know I can be a pain in the ass sometimes, and I know it wasn't exactly easy for you guys to accept me.  But you did." He smiled at the Captain of the Bomb squad. "Especially you, Joel.  You  accepted me right off the bat. And Simon," he turned to face the other man. "I know that sometimes I drove you nuts, and some of the things Jim and I ...well," he waved his hands in a 'and so forth' gesture. "But you still accepted me." Intense blue eyes locked with theirs.  "It meant a lot to me then, and it still does.  I just wanted to say thanks."

Alarm bells went off in Simon's head.  It sounded almost as if....

As if the kid's saying goodbye.  Forever. Meeting the startled eyes of his fellow Captain, Simon saw Joel had reached the same conclusion.

"Hey, Sandburg," he said casually, trying to keep his tone light. "You think you can spare some of that lasagna? I don't know about Joel, but I'm starving." He planned on staying whether or not Blair said yes. He'd be damned if he let the kid kill himself.

Blair bounced off the couch "Sure, I made heaps." He stopped and a shadow passed over his eyes. "Just don't eat it all. I gotta save some."

"Got a hot date?" Joel teased lightly.

Blair shook his head. "Nah, I gotta save some for J-" he cut himself off. He couldn't tell the others. They might try and stop me.  Trying to cover his slip, he grabbed a cloth from the counter and wandered over to check the oven.

Simon and Joel exchanged sorrowful looks behind the anthropologist's back.

The kid just wasn't the same anymore.

"Blair?" he looked up at the older man's slightly concerned tone.

"Huh?

"I said hit me."

"Hit you? Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Right."  Blair mindlessly flipped a card over to the other man, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. When are they going to leave? His body thrummed with barely contained anticipation.  It was finished, everything was perfect. All he had to do was get Jim.  He winced as a snore cut through the air, and shot the slumbering Captain a dirty look. Ok, ok, well, it's not perfect perfect, but that's ok, Jim's gone camping with me and Simon before,  he knows how to turn that out.

He couldn't wait for the others to leave.  It was like Christmas - Naomi hadn't been to big on religions, they hadn't had much money,  but she'd always made it special.  That was the feeling - wriggling anticipation, trying to sleep, knowing there wouldn't be much, but what would be there would be from the heart. Yeah, that was it.  He shot Joel a quick unnoticed look, hunched over, cards thrown up to hide the emotions dancing across his face.  Why are they still here? Couldn't they see?  Blair had dropped some subtle hints, then some not so subtle, stopping short of asking them to leave outright.  The two burly Captains had ignored them, treating him like china, clearing away the lasagna remains, doing the dishes,  insisting he sit on the couch and mindlessly watch TV.

Hot anger burned through him. Did they think he was a child that needed coddling? Did they think he wouldn't notice the whispered conversation, the furtive glances?  Were they here on suicide watch?  Did they think he would do that? A hot blush spread across Blair's face as he remembered the blinding loss, the feel of the cool clay in his hand as he prepared to draw it across his wrist and he dropped his eyes, ostensibly studying the cards.  But I'm ok now.  My Spirit Guide showed me the way.  I won't do that.  He moved the cards around in his hands. Jack, Ace, Eight, Two.

Two, Ace, Jack, Eight.

Blair stared at the cards, the numbers blurring as his mind raced. Go go GO! he urged silently.

"Blair?"

Sandburg smiled as another idea occurred to him. He yawned convincingly, then rubbed his hand across his eyes, letting the cards slip onto the table. "Sorry, Joel," he pushed himself to his feet, stretching tiredly. "I'm kinda wiped. I think it's time I got some sleep." Now, that's your cue to pack up Simon and GO.

The burly Captain chuckled. "Yeah, me too, " he smiled as another bone-jarring snore cut through the air. "Blair, I'm too tired to drive and I think Simon's the same.  We've both been out all day on a case - do you mind  if we stay here tonight?"

NO! Blair wanted to howl and stamp his feet. Instead he forced his shoulders to shrug. "Sure, I mean, if you think you can handle the couch," he hinted, one last ditch attempt.

"I've slept worse," Joel smiled. "If you show me where the spare covers are, I think I can manage."

"Umm," Blair led the Captain over to the linen closet.  Joel reached in for a blanket, but Blair instantly slapped his hand away, grabbing the blanket to his chest. "No!" he yelled, louder than he intended.

After a while, he forced himself to meet Joel's eyes. "Sorry. This was...Jim used..." he trailed off and Joel put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's ok, Blair.  How about you pick them out?" he asked gently.  Blair nodded and quickly tugged a few blankets out, cursing his own stupidity. How the hell was he going to convince them to leave now?

With a final pat on his back, Joel took the proffered blankets and moved into the lounge, spreading one around the recumbent Simon.  When he looked up again, Blair was still standing by the closet, blanket clutched in his arms.  He felt his heart tighten at the sight. Blair looks so...lost

Hesitantly he put an arm around the smaller man's shoulders and lead him into his bedroom.  Blair didn't resist as  he pushed him gently down on the bed, then drew a blanket over him.

Joel reached over and brushed a stray curl away as the blue eyes slid closed and the body relaxed into sleep.  "Take it easy, kid," he whispered. "I know it's hard, but it's gonna be ok.  I promise. We'll be there for you every step."

Moving silently into the lounge, Taggert closed the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar. He tiptoed around the Loft, then settled himself on the other leg of the couch to Simon.  Exhaustion and stress quickly overwhelmed him and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the darkness of his bedroom, Blair opened his eyes.

He was somewhere else. Here but there. Blair blinked for a moment, trying to adjust. He could feel the comforter under his back, a pool of warmth spreading from his own body.

 But he could feel the leaves crunching under his feet, crumpling on to the soft, lush grass.

 If he closed his eyes, Blair could hear Simon's snores reverberating through the Loft.

But he could also hear the wind whispering through the tall trees surrounding him.

"Why are you here?" Blair turned at the steady voice, heart skipping a beat, then speeding up. An ancient Warrior faced him, spear at the ready, blocking his way. He shivered at the look in those pale grey eyes, studying him as if he were nothing more than a simple annoyance, a bug under a microscope. "I ask you again, Shaman. Why are you here?"

 Blair's heart was thundering away like chipmunks on a rocket sled, but he kept his voice steady. "I come for James Ellison. I come for the Sentinel."

 This was the place. It had to be now.

"Who are you?" The Warrior pressed. "What are you to claim this right?"

"I am Blair Sandburg, Shaman of the Great City. I claim this right as his Shaman, as his Guide, as his brother." The words he'd tried so hard to sort out beforehand, worried over hour after hour studying old texts fell easily from Blair's lips, now he was here.

The Warrior tilted his head in a gesture of asquience and stepped aside as Jim appeared. "Sandburg?"

Blair smiled.  "Rescue party Jim, time to go home." He reached out and felt strong fingers wrap around his wrist as Jim took his hand, returning the broad grin.

"‘Bout time you got here, Chief. I was getting sick of staring at all these trees," Jim joked, his blue eyes sparkling with relief and warmth. Blair just stood there for a moment, grinning goofily. All these days, the pain, the loss, it was gone. Just like that. He moved his fingers slightly, to feel the pulse strumming in Jim's wrist.

Closing his eyes, Blair let the thundering beat posses him, thumping louder and louder until it filled his world. A slight pressure on his hand brought him back. "Chief?"

Blair looked from those to blue eyes to the pale gaze of the Warrior as he stood beside them. "There must be a payment," the ancient man said.

"A life for a life," Blair whispered, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from his partner, the increased pressure on his wrist.

"Balance must exist," agreed the Warrior. "The life force has been lost. It cannot be replaced."

 "But it can be exchanged."

Jim tightened his grip on Blair's wrist even further, cringing at the feel of fragile bones grinding together, yet unable to loosen his hold. "Sandburg......"

The Warrior smoothly separated them, disengaging Jim's death-grip with no effort. "Your choice, Shaman." Blair looked across to Jim, who shook his head shortly. Dark blue eyes studied the temple briefly, for show. Blair had made his decision the instant he'd seen the image change. He turned to the Warrior. "Yes."

 Jim shook his head again, eyes desperate. "Sandburg -"

"My choice, Jim," he smiled, a brilliant, easy smile. It was so simple. "Yes." He moved forwards and
Jim engulfed him in his arms. Blair nestled his head into his partner's chest and smiled. "Mine for yours, Jim," he whispered. "No choice."

"Blair -" Jim's voice broke and he held his partner tighter. "I don't want-" he couldn't finish, reduced to simple broken phrases, one or two words, staggered by the enormity of what Blair was offering for him. "I don't want this. I don't want it. I can't. Please..." His English skills deserted him as he begged a stay of execution, a change of heart, please Chief, god, don't do this, not for me, you have so much of your own life left to live...

Blair's arms tightened around his waist a fraction harder, then he stepped back. "Goodbye." There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to thank Jim for, he wanted to explain why it had to be like this, why it had to be him, not Jim, but the words were choked in a suddenly dry throat. "I love you, Jim."

It was all he could say. Three simple words, but Jim understood what he was trying to say.

"NO!" Jim tried to move forward, renege the choice, make it different, but he couldn't move.
"Please........."

"Jim?" Warm hands were holding his face. Jim blinked open to the worried brown eyes of his Captain. They cleared with relief. "Jim, you had me worried for a moment." He shifted to one side to let the paramedic through.

Jim licked lips that felt oddly dry. "Blair," he whispered.

Simon cast a worried look across the road. "They're with him now, Jim." He held the detective's shoulders as he tried to sit up. "No! Jim, lie down, stay still, you're hurt. Let the medics do their work."

Jim shook his head. Didn't anyone understand? "I have to be with him." It was a simple truth. Rocks fell when you dropped them, Blair needed him. "Simon -"

 "He's in arrest!" a paramedic shouted urgently from his left. "I need a bag here NOW!" Another paramedic stripped through the kit, and started pumping air as the first began chest compressions "I can't get a pulse. Paddles. Clear!"

Jim felt Simon's hands trying to tug his gaze away from the paramedics frantic movements. "Jim, Jim."

"No," he said simply. The fragment of a dream caught his mind, but he pushed it aside as the current jolted through Blair's body, jerking him off the ground. "Please," he whispered softly, noticing nothing but the small, still form across the asphalt. Somehow, the words seemed oddly familiar. "Please....."

"Clear!"
 

 "I'm sorry, Jim." Simon was twisting a magazine to death between his hands, couldn't meet the Sentinel's eyes. "They tried everything they could. It was just...he was hurt too much. Too badly." He cleared his throat, which had closed up against the threatening tears. "Blair just..." he closed his eyes for a minute, and put his hand on Jim's arm. "I'm sorry."

Jim stared in his eyes for a long moment, searching, wishing for a truth that could never happen. He turned his back, shifting awkwardly on the stiff hospital mattress, the IV tugging at his hand. He felt the dull stab of a broken rib protest the movement, but he welcomed the pain, a reality to cling to, something to fill the hollow space inside him. The hollow space of a missing heartbeat.

"Jim," He could feel Simon's hand against his back, his stumbling attempts at speech. "Jim, talk to me. I know how..."

"There's nothing to say." Jim said quietly.

"Dammit Jim! Blair is dead." Simon choked on the last word and sank his head into his hands. It wasn't supposed to be like this.  After everything his best team had been through, all the fear and pain, it wasn't supposed to be like this. The long haired hippie anthropologist, who had wormed his way into their hearts, who had come to mean so much to them wasn't supposed to die like this. Not in some stupid accident. Hell, never. Simon had dreaded this moment for the past three years, dreaded the time when he would have to tell one half of a shared soul the other half was dead.

"This never should have happened." He wasn't even aware that he had spoken the words out loud until he heard Jim's soft reply.

"It happened, Sir."

Blair was dead.

"Thank you, Sir." Jim said blandly.

The Captain had to resist the urge to grab his detective and shake him hard.  At first, he had been afraid for his friend, of what he might do.   But Jim had stayed calm, a veritable rock. Icy, controlled exterior in place, he had shut himself off from everything.  It was worse than when he'd been transferred from Vice.  At least then, he had been arrogant, convinced the world was his for the taking.

Now, he just...didn't care.  Simon had the feeling he could strip naked and dance the hula on the counter with no reaction, other than a blank stare and a "Are you finished, Sir?"

Sir.

Not Simon.

Ever since the accident, Jim had referred to him as nothing but 'Sir', eschewing the familiar, drawing back into the cold bundle Sandburg had somehow managed to draw him out of.

Simon recognised the game.  Hell, he'd been in the army himself.  It was unwritten rule - pal around with the guys, trust them with your life - but never get too close, so when they died screaming around you, you could get on with your job.

Sandburg never was one for rules...

"Jim...."

"Simon." The use of his first name brought the Captain up short.  He cringed at the look in those pale blue eyes, the loss and ache that was in there. "Thank you.  But Daryl needs you."

Simon nodded.  Of course.  Joan had gone off somewhere, deciding to 'dump' their son on him.  At the worst possible time.  As usual. "Jim, call me."

The mask was back, blue eyes unreadable. "Of course, Sir."

"Joel...Sandburg..." the call from Simon had trailed off into silence, the words bouncing around in his head.  It was so hard to believe the kid was gone.  He was just so...alive,  so there.

And now he was gone.

Mindlessly, Taggert opened the door to his house.  Dropping his keys by the floor, he gently closed the door, then sat down on the couch.

And bawled like a baby.

Dark blue eyes, bright with tears....

He shook his head and opened the door.  Daryl would be asleep, most probably, sprawled on his bed in his room.  Sleep sounded like a good idea.  Eight or ten hours of nothing to think, mindless oblivion.

But not without a little help.

Opening the decanter of brandy, Simon poured a small amount into a tumbler and sat down heavily on the couch.

Taking a sip, he thought back to the hospital.  The first time, he had hesitated when the nurse insisted he go home for some sleep. What would Jim do, left alone, left with nothing but the thought of his dead partner?  Simon had seen it happen to pairs who weren't even half as close as those two had been. One left alive, the other alone, slowly letting the reality canker inside them, until there was no other way out.

But as the Captain stepped out, the waiting room had been filled with most of Major Crimes, people waiting, willing to help.  As if they could do any good.  If Jim was intent on killing himself, there was no way anyone could stop him.  Covert Ops training made sure of that.

But they were there, row after row of sorrowful faces.  Sandburg and Ellison had been the most popular team on the force.

Sandburg and Ellison.  When did I start seeing them like that? Somewhere along the line he had switched from seeing them as hardass detective and the hippie tag-along who could be tolerated as long as he was needed, to a complete team.

His best.

Simon had seen it happen, right before his eyes. Lone Wolf Ellison had gradually opened up under the enthusiastic onslaught, extending hesitant little tendrils of warmth that were eagerly accepted and returned by Sandburg.  They'd...completed each other somehow.  But now Blair was gone, and those tendrils, grown fat with friendship had shrivelled and died.

Simon leaned his head against the back of the couch, feeling the soft material brush his neck. They couldn't even find solace in booking the other driver.  The man had speed off, heedless of the destruction left behind, and the Captain had been to busy concentrating on his men to care.

Simon looked up at the slight shuffle in the hall. Daryl was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, hesitating, as if ready to bolt at any minute. "Dad," he said softly, then cleared his throat. "Dad. I heard about..." he broke off and scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, his thin form trembling.

Simon met his son's eyes, then opened his arms as Daryl broke forward, burying him himself in his father's chest, sobbing openly. Simon tightened his arms around Daryl, one hand coming up to stroke his hair, giving and drawing strength from his son as they wept, hating himself for having someone to cling to, knowing that Jim was alone now, more than he had ever been before.

Jim had waited until Simon's heavy footsteps had faded away and he heard the cough of the car before turning to survey the Loft.  It wasn't a home anymore.  Blair had made it a home. Before, it had just been a place, somewhere to go when he wasn't working.

Jim reached out and touched the throw rug strewn across the back of the couch.  Soft woven material ghosted across his fingers, the colours bright against the drab furniture.

So small, but it added a splash of colour, a depth of life.

Like Sandburg.

Jim briefly drew the material to his chest, then put it back down, reverently smoothing out the creases.  He stilled his fingers in mid-motion.  That wasn't right.  Blair would have it all bunched up, tassels brushing against the floor.  Jim tweaked a crease, smiling sadly in hollow satisfaction.

It felt...wrong, somehow.  His existence, his life, his continual breathing.....Like a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces jammed together in the wrong order, creating a horrifying jumble.

What he needed was a beer. No, lots of them. Something to numb his brain, dull everything out, wipe it all from his mind. Jim pulled open the fridge, hand movement petering out into stillness. He couldn't touch them. They were there, neatly rowed behind the red Tupperware.

Blair's Tupperware. The ostrich chilli he'd grabbed before the fight, tucking the remains back into the fridge.  "Gotta save some for later, man. This stuff tastes better if you leave it for a bit."

Longer than a bit, now. He could see the black spots of mould dotting the underside of the lid. He'd have to clean that out.

Jim closed the fridge door. Maybe later, when it didn't hurt so much.

Moving to stand numbly behind the couch, he closed his eyes and trailed a hand over his face, running the pads of his fingers over the new scar on his cheek.

He had tried.  God knew he had tried.  But the fates had conspired against him.  That final, glorious, blessed moment  when he had felt the tyres grip on the road had turned into a horrid, fetid curse.  The tyres had gripped, the car had spun - 180 degrees. Killing his partner.

But he had tried.

Small consolation. He'd tried his best, and it hadn't been good enough.

Not fucking good enough.  Story of my life.

The truth was simple.

He had killed his Guide.

The realisation hit him like a blow, forcing him to his knees.  One hand reached out desperately, snagging the throw rug to fall in comforting folds around him.  Jim clutched at it like a life preserver, memories flashing back and forth in his mind, all five senses screaming an assault.

The first meeting, thinking he was insane, a smartass kid with a stolen ID, promising help, promising hope.

An irritation, an annoyance, slowly worming into his heart, showing him the possibilities, showing him friendship. Pushing him, leading him, ever so gently that he never really realised.

Usually humurous blue eyes, deadly serious.  "It's about friendship."

The fear, denial, feeling that heartbeat slow in his arms in the garage, the internal prayers that soon became a mantra please don't go, please don't leave, not now, not yet, not ever...

A cheerful monkey face, grinning wildly.

Finally, the funeral.

Gripping the podium tightly, sentinel ears picking up the faint crack of wood splintering under his hands.  Dull voice mechanically talking, as if words could do justice to the sheer life of his partner.  Still, soldier facade in place.

They had tried to get hold of Naomi, but no-one knew where she was.  Jim was terrified, so afraid of looking into those cheerful brown eyes, seeing them crumple, joy turning to ashes when he told her how he murdered her son.

Jim flinched at the remembered echo of the 21 gun salute.  Brown and Rafe among the others, in solemn dress in uniform, honouring their  dead comrade.  Honouring the death of someone who wasn't one of them, and yet had become the most vital part.

Blair never did like guns...

Slowly Jim straightened, tears tracking freely down his face, reigning in his senses, one by one.  The doctors said it could happen.  Severe concussion often resulted in lingering headaches, dizzy spells.  They would go away eventually.

But there was another, deeper ache in his soul he knew would never go away.

Draping the throw rug gently over his shoulders, Jim hung in the doorway to Blair's room, feeling oddly out of place, like a interloper disturbing a sacred shrine. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the door open.

"Blair." He couldn't help the moan that escaped his lips. His Guide's scent hung so heavy in the room he could taste it. Herbal shampoo, rainforest aftershave, soft, baby powder deodorant. Special items, chosen so as not to disturb him. And yet they fitted so well into who Blair was.

Had been.

Further proof of the link that was meant to be between them, the link Jim had fought so long before accepting. Funny, Blair had never questioned it...

Jim cocked his head at the glasses folded neatly on the bedside table. It seemed wrong, incongruous. There was the desk, scattered with half finished notes. There was the pile of washing, odd purple socks that had somehow missed the hamper. There was the unmade bed, comforter and blankets rumpled to the bottom. Chaos. And yet, there were the glasses, neatly folded and tucked away to one side.

A single brown hair was coiled up on the pillow. Walking in a few steps, the Sentinel picked it up, sense of touch blown open so wide he could feel every cell against the whorls of his fingers.

He rubbed his hand across the roughened surface, cocking his head to listen to the soft whisper of keratin against skin, until it became the only reality in his world.
 

He was zoning.

He could feel the creeping paralysis taking him over. Jim didn't care, didn't try to pull himself out, even if he had a choice.

It could happen anywhere, he reasoned. At home, on the job, hell, even driving his car along the street. And there was no one to bring him back.

No hand tugging at his jacket.

No blue eyes locking with his.

No soothing voice giving him a lifeline to follow back.

It was better, fitting if it happened here, at home, in Blair's room, on the last fading remnant of his Guide. Where he was alone. Where there was no one else to endanger.

No one to interfere.

"Oh man, I hope this works." Jim spun around at the half mutter, lungs shocked into action, desperately seeking the source of that voice he knew so well. He opened his hand, letting the hair drop to the floor.

"Blair?"

His own voice echoed mockingly back at him, bouncing off the empty desk, the laden shelves.

Jim's sight swirled in, then out, like a wormhole, crashing everything together. He closed his eyes and backed out of the room, stumbling blindly into the lounge, tripping over the forgotten rug as it slipped from his shoulders, falling backwards, hands splayed across the hard floor.  Jim tentatively opened his eyes again, reeling against the conflicting views. It was like something was feeding two separate images through his mind. One was reality, and the other.....

With an inarticulate cry, Jim reached out a hand as Blair entered the room. His hand passed through the haggard form as it weaved to the couch, wiping the tears away from his too-pale face, clutching a book to his chest, as if it were his last link to life.

The figure faded, leaving him alone, sprawled on the floor, hands splayed on the cold surface.  Jim clenched his eyes shut, bowing his head until his forehead brushed the floor.

Insanity.

Somehow a part of him always knew it could happen.  Lost without Blair, at the mercy of his senses, his control slowly fading, leaving him to slip into madness.

He just didn't expect it to happen so fast.

Grinding his nails in the polished wood, he stopped suddenly. Something under his right hand felt wrong.  Smooth leather, not wood. Opening his eyes, Jim drew the object towards him.

A book.

Rocking back on his heels, the Sentinel ran a hand over the surface, then lifted it to his face. It smelled of Blair, soft natural scents, dust from old libraries, sunlight and energy and happiness, torn away too soon.

Hesitantly he opened it, the words written in some ancient text, indecipherable scrawlings. His fingers detected a slight difference in the paper texture as he ran his hand down the leaves of the book and he flipped to the page.

A hand reached into his chest and clenched his heart as he realised the significance of the picture.

"No, oh god, please, no." The words were torn out of an anguished throat.

Blair wasn't dead.

He was.

"But it can be exchanged..."

"NO!" Jim threw the book across the room, shattering the glass of the balcony doors.  The book slowly slid to the floor, pages flipping open to mock him with the picture again.

Jim angrily paced the room.  It wasn't right.  It wasn't supposed to be like this.  There had to be some way to make it right, put it back the way it had been.

Oh yeah? his mind mocked him. How?

Jim sank down onto the couch, cradling his head in his hands. He had no idea.  This wasn't his realm, this was Blair's. Give him something tangible, something he could fight with his fists, not words. Blair was the academic, the wizard who built towers of elegant phrases, not him.  Blair was the one who opened his mind, seeing things no one thought of noticing.  Blair was the Shaman, the Guide.

The soul.

But Blair wasn't there.

"DAMMIT!" Jim crashed both his fists down on the coffee table, the glass smashing under the impact.  The harsh noise tore at his ears, spinning him to the verge of sensory overload. Closing his eyes, Jim reached for the dials, only to hesitate as a flicker of black crossed his mindscape.

The Panther.

'What is your trouble?' the Panther coiled it's tail gracefully around its hind legs as it preened one massive paw.

"My trouble?"  Not for the first time, Jim had the urge to wrap his hands around the damn cat's neck. "My Guide is dead!"  The reality hit him again.

Dead.

Gone.

"Please," he whispered, past the tears streaming down his cheeks. "I need him. I can't...I won't do this without him."

The Panther tilted its head quizzically, then turned to lave a rippling shoulder. 'You would dismiss your gifts and lose him so easily?'

"Easily?" Jim felt his heart leap at the possibility. "I can bring him back?"

'Trust yourself, Sentinel.  Reach into your mind and find the path.' The cat turned to leave, amber eyes locking with his as it gazed over its shoulder.  'Release your mind of things that do not matter, and find that which does.'

Jim slowly came back to himself, senses filtering through him.  The soft buzz of the electric clock as it hummed to itself, counting the passing seconds.  The scents of the fruit on the counter, the
lingering taste of Simon's cigars in the air.

The feeling of hot blood running down his hands.

Jim opened his eyes and swore.  Moving to the bathroom, he ran the cold water, picking out the glittering shards of glass that studded his palms. His hands worked automatically, while his mind turned his Spirit Guide's words over and over. Release your mind of things that do not matter, and find that which does. What did that mean?  His mind flashed back to a meditation session Blair had held once, teaching him to block out the extra sensory input.

Hurriedly wrapping bandages around his hands, Jim moved back into the lounge. Seating himself deliberately in Blair's corner of the couch, he closed his eyes, letting his body relax.

Unbidden, Blair's voice came back to him.  "Just relax Jim, you can't force meditation. Just take a deep breath and let it all go."

Let.

It.

Go.

Somewhere he heard a Panther snarl...

Jim felt a soft breeze caress his cheek. He registered the smell of damp earth, humid air. Soft jungle sounds.

A heartbeat.

He snapped his eyes open, hunting for the source, disregarding the lush jungle surrounding him, filtering through the peaceful sounds to find the source of that steady beat.

There.

Pushing himself to his feet, he lunged blindly in the direction of the siren song,  snarling in frustration as something blocked his way.

"Why are you here?" An ancient Warrior blocked his path, spear at the ready.

"I'm here for Sandburg." Jim said impatiently, trying to dodge around the Spirit.

The Warrior moved smoothly to block his path. "Who are you to do this?" he asked the age-old question.

Jim wasn't in the mood for games. "Get out of my fucking way." He shoved the Warrior to one side and knelt beside his partner.  The brilliant eyes were closed, expressive hands limp on crossed legs in the classic meditation position.  Hesitantly, Jim reached out and clasped a shoulder in his hand.  "Chief?"

Sandburg came to life as if someone flicked a switch. "Jim!" Blue eyes filled with relief and warmth, then flickered away into horror as he started to shake his head.  "No..."

"Hey," Jim eased his hands under his partner's arms and brought him to his feet. "You ok? Hurt anywhere?" Stupid question. The kid was dead.

"No!"  Blair twisted himself wildly as Jim tried to steady him "Dammit Jim, NO!" he broke free and backed away a couple of steps. "Jim, don't do this. Please, don't."

"Do what?"

Blue eyes flashed in sudden anger. "Jim. I am not some stupid kid.  I know why you're here."

"To get you out of here."

"Then you found the book. You saw the picture.  Dammit Jim, you know what this means! You know about the trade off!"

The Sentinel clenched his jaw. "I'm not leaving you here, Chief. Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?" Irrational anger boiled over, sparked by grief. "Dammit Sandburg, why couldn't you leave it alone? What made you think..." he clenched his jaw harder, feeling the bone grind under the relentless pressure. What made you think my life was more important than yours? What right did you have to think that?

"Jim..." Blair reached out and rested his hands on the other man's chest, the palm of his right hand flat against the beating heart. "I had to. You were.." he broke off and looked down at the ground for a minute before continuing. "You were dead, Jim. Do you know what that was like?  One minute I was talking to you, then, you...you..." he choked on the words and rested his head against Jim's shirt, feeling a solid button press into his cheek. "I just don't think I could handle that again," he whispered.

Jim carefully cradled his partner's head in his hand, feeling the soft curls whisper over his hand like silk.

Never again.

He couldn't do it to himself, he couldn't do it to Blair.  It had to end here. Now.

Ice blue eyes speared the Warrior as he stood before them

"There must be a payment." The ancient man said softly.

"No." Jim tightened his grip, pulling Blair possessively into his arms. "No payment, no choice. I'm leaving and he's coming with me." There was a desperation in his voice, sparked by the heart he could feel beating furiously under his own. If he agreed to stay, Blair would come back for him, then he for Blair and on and on, swapping and changing throughout eternity like some demented merry-go-round.

"Balance must exist," said the Warrior calmly. "The life force has been lost. It cannot be replaced."

"No deal!" Jim shot back.

"It is not my choice to make."

"Who's is it, then?" Jim demanded. He threw his head back and yelled into the sky. "I'm not leaving him here!"

"The choice is yours." Startled, Jim looked back down. The Warrior was close now, grey eyes meeting his own. "It always has been." The words puffed against his face with a brush of ancient breath.

Jim looked down, meeting the trusting gaze of his Guide, wide blue eyes accepting any choice he made. He felt suddenly overwhelmed by that trust and crushed his partner tighter, holding on, feeling Blair return the fierce embrace. "We go together or not at all," he said in a low voice.

Blair closed his eyes, corners tightening against a pain he couldn't describe. "Jim..."

"We got together or not at all." Jim repeated the words firmly, giving Blair a slight shake for emphasis. "Say it."

"We go..."

"Say it!"

"We go together or not at all." Blair seemed to draw strength from the words and moved out of the protective circle of Jim's arms to stand as an equal by his side, one finely boned hand circling his arm. "We go together or not at all." He repeated the words again, believed them, gazing unflinchingly into the piercing gaze of the Warrior.

The Warrior's gaze swept over them both like a laser. "Then it is shared. Equally. The balance is restored," he said cryptically and vanished.

"We have a pulse!"

Two sets of lungs gasped in air.

Two sets of blue eyes flashed across the road, made contact and held.

And a soul was made whole again.

Jim shut off the engine and got out of his temporary truck.  On loan from the department  - until the insurance company coughed up the money for the mangled wreck that used to be his old one.   Pushing open the door, he shuffled for a bit waiting for the elevator, then took the stairs instead.  The first day back at work after forced vacation had been great - but he still needed to be back at his Guide's side. Blair had stayed at home to sort the amount of paperwork that had built up in his office during his absence.  Subconsciously, Jim quickened his steps a little, eager to be home.

He needed to see Blair.

It was something neither of them could describe or define.  Touching each other more than usual, both feeling a need for constant affirmation the other was alive. More hair tousling, even just brushing fingers when serving breakfast.  Simon had noticed, and simply attributed it to the accident.  It had been close, that time, for both of them. 

Jim paused in front of the Loft door. It hung ajar, the wood around the lock bruised and chipped. Gently he ran his fingers over it, wincing slightly at the music booming through, light words over
a soft burble of music. He hesitated for a moment, dialling down his hearing, then splayed his hand against the door, pushing it open.

The Loft was a mess. That was the first thing he registered. Not the usual Sandburgian mess, either. Plates and cups were smashed, fine china powder dusting across the hard floor interspersed with dark scatters of blood.

Blair's blood. Jim hung frozen for a moment, then snapped into action.  Heart pounding so loud in his ears he couldn't hear a thing, he took the steps three at a time, following the irregular brown splotches up to his room. Blair was sitting on his bed, bruised and cut hands hooked under his knees, drawing them tight against his shivering body. 

"Blair?"

Sandburg slowly raised his head, tears trickling starkly down his face. "I dropped my cup," he whispered. "And I remembered. Everything."

Jim blinked at his partner for a moment, confused. Then a jungle image flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightening. A temple, a choice....he reeled before the images, gripping the poles surrounding his room for support.

"You did that...for me?" Blair's soft voice broke through to him.

Pushing himself away from the support, Jim sat beside his partner, swaying a little from the mental assault.

Death.

Life.

Choices.

Sacrifice.

It was too much for him to handle at one moment.  His Guide needed him, so he focused on that instead.  "Yes."  Another memory sparked through and he winced at the intensity of it, the agony it sparked in his soul. "You did it for me," he said wonderingly.

Blair shrugged a little, a half laugh that threatened to turn into tears. "So, where are we at now?"

Jim shook his head, fingers kneading at his forehead. "I don't know," he confessed.  "Something about sharing?"

Blair chewed his lip.  "The life force.  Divided equally.  We - oh god."  He jumped off the bed and paced the space in front. "Oh god, Jim, what did I do?  What did you do? You should have left me there. What if I was meant to die tomorrow? What if you traded in the remaining years of your life for twelve hours??"

Jim reached out and caught Blair's arm, dragging him back down. The anthropologist's eyes flicked nervously forwards and backwards, across the room, anywhere but Jim's face. Reaching
forwards, Jim hooked his hand against the back of his partner's neck, pulling them together until their foreheads rested against each others.

"We go together or not at all," he said quietly.

Blair looked down to where his hands were fidgeting nervously in his lap for a moment, then finally flicked his gaze up to lock with Jim's. "We go together or not at all," he whispered, feeling the tightness in his chest dissolve under the words, replaced by a feeling he couldn't describe. Awe and fear and...something else. Undefinable. The enormity of it staggered him. Bound for life. 

Bringing his hands out from his lap, he wound them around Jim and felt the movement returned. No words, just feelings. Just holding on, pressing their foreheads against each other, slight breaths travelling the tiny space between them, each revelling in the life pulsing in the other.

Today tomorrow, what did it matter? They would be together.

All Content Copyright © 2001 Taleya Joinson
Last modified: November 12, 2010