Something light. Thanks as always to Sealie for her help. :)

MAIL BONDING
by Shelly

"We have a ten."

Detective Jim Ellison heard the words but ignored them. He was bone weary and didn't have enough energy to look up. He continued worrying a spoon around a cup of cold, teak-coloured coffee.

"We have a ten."

This time the voice was more insistent, sliding sideways through his tiredness and calling precociously for attention.

Jim lifted his eyes to see Henri Brown miming the actions of an Olympic judge holding aloft the score card of a parallel-bar performer.

"And a half," adjudicated Detective Rafe, smiling cockily and rocking back in his chair to lazily scratch his ribcage.

"Huh?" Jim yawned.

Henri shook his head. "You, man. You get a ten."

"And a half," added Rafe.

"For?" Jim stared blearily at both of them.

"Exhaustion." Captain Simon Banks strode purposefully towards Jim's desk, intent on sending his best detective home to sleep for at least 10 hours.

"You've got the gold medal, man. You've been on stake out for almost two days and one night. Time to let someone else take it on." Simon's words, although amiable, had the power of an order.

"Sir, I need to do this. I'll head home later. I've got a few things I want to check into first. I'll get some sleep later." He avoided Simon's eyes.

The captain surveyed him thoughtfully. "Later...today later, or some time in the new millennium later? You're looking like an extra in a Stephen King movie!"

Jim frowned and flicked a switch on his computer. He continued to avoid Simon's eyes. Click. The windows music halted suddenly and the screen froze into a weird Dali-esque montage of torn images. It wouldn't do a damn thing. He sighed.

Simon whispered loudly, "It's a sign, man. Ain't nothing gonna work until you get some sleep."

Pushing away from his desk, Jim stood up and raised his hands in the air. "I give up. I give up. I'll get some sleep and come back in tonight." He grinned wryly at his friends and began to search under the papers on his desk for his car keys.

Turning to face the other detectives, Simon smothered a laugh. "Remember, I'm a professional. Do not try this mind manipulation at home."

Rafe chuckled. "Speaking of mind manipulation, where's Blair these days?"

"He's burning the candle at both ends. Got a heavy load at the university for the next week or so...and he's been partying pretty heavily too. He got in at about 2 a.m. on Monday. The fact that he was wearing boxer shorts, a dinner jacket and a pair of antlers was probably *not* a good sign." Jim smiled at the memory.

"Ahhh... so life goes on." Simon laughed loudly, a warm, comfortable sound.

"Yeah. Life goes on." And the Sentinel headed for the door.

____________________________________________________________

Jim turned his senses way down, his scowl on autopilot. He didn't need to hear to work out what the man in the car next to him was saying. He could lip read the creative swear words that were pouring forth as the man juggled for space in the mid- morning traffic.

Pique Hour Traffic. That's what Blair called it. Despite his aggravation, Jim smiled.

It didn't seem like four years since the young Anthropologist had taken a headlong dive into his life. Back then, Jim was slowly detaching himself from the world.

His senses had gone haywire. No one was able to tell him what was happening.

He didn't think that he could cope much more with the crashing detail of each day.

Then this big-eyed kid had confronted him. Told him about the Sentinel Thing. *Kept* telling him about the Sentinel Thing. And all of a sudden, a missing piece of the puzzle fell into place and he understood that he wasn't going crazy, wasn't losing his mind.

Blair's research was formidable. He pushed and pushed to get Jim to see that his senses could be controlled. And most of all, with an appealing lack of self-consciousness, Blair embraced their friendship.

Over the years, Sandburg had turned into a gentle, albeit effusive, coach. Shaman, Jim corrected. Shaman. If anyone qualified for that role, it was Blair. The earliest story tellers were the shamans. They wrestled with the mysteries and transformed them. They coded the world. They were custodians of culture, recorders of change. Blair was all of this. He personified the joy of telling and the joy of listening.

A blaring symphony of horns broke through Jim's reverie. The traffic was finally moving. As he inched the truck forward, the Sentinel smiled. He was going home.

______________________________________________________________

Jim opened the door to the loft and, for a moment, leaned against the lintel, too tired to even step into the room. A thin, gauzy light spread across the living area. It was very quiet.

Throwing his keys into the basket by the door, Jim closed the door behind him and sighed. What he wanted, what he *really* wanted, was a hot shower, something to eat and 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He headed into the bathroom and turned the water on. Steam filled the room and cleared his head somewhat. Peeling off his clothes, he stepped into the stream of water. Resting his head against the wall, he let the water beat against his back, heating and loosening tired muscles.

Realising that he was in danger of falling asleep in the shower, he scrubbed himself vigorously, and washed his hair, before stepping out and wrapping himself in a large, soft towel. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and looked longingly at the bed.

He needed to eat first. Then bed. He pulled a clean pair of boxer shorts on and trudged back down the stairs.

The dining table was awash with books and papers. Blair had obviously been preparing lectures and had left in a hurry. It made up his mind for him. He wouldn't bother cooking. He selected a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and pulled out a drawer to get a spoon.

A note on the kitchen counter caught his eye. Blair. There were several pages of large, scrawled words. Jim rested his elbows on the bench and dug the spoon into the peanut butter jar. He began to read.

Jim choked on his mouthful of the rich, smooth paste, and started laughing. Sandburg knew him too well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair had signed his name with a flourish at the bottom of the note. He'd drawn a small cartoon of a sleeping Sentinel with a trail of zees coming from his mouth.

Deciding that he would eat first, Jim delved into the fridge. He pushed aside an aging tub of yogurt and found the meal that Blair had left. It wasn't actually breakfast food but the sentinel's stomach rumbled appreciatively anyway.

Blair had cooked a dish of stir-fried wing beans and shiitake mushrooms. The dish was artistically arranged on the plate. The contrast of colour, shape and texture was appealing to a Sentinel's keen eyes. Jim zapped the meal in the microwave and carried it to the table.

He tasted it. A subtle flavour was present, carrying yellow bean soy, palm sugar, sesame oil and chicken stock. He took another bite and ate it slowly, enjoyment in each mouthful.

Towards the end of the meal he ate with his eyes closed. Tiredness was pulling at every fibre of his being. Putting his fork down onto his plate, he leaned back into the chair with a sigh. It was too damn quiet. He wasn't afraid of solitude, didn't equate it with loneliness, but now he missed the hum of noise that Blair brought to the loft. He missed it.

Jim washed his plate and placed it in the cupboard. He gathered up a pen and two pages of crisp, white paper. Sitting down once again at the table, he began to write.

_______________________________________________________________

Blair Sandburg, graduate student in anthropology, part time adviser to the Cascade Police Department and Guide to one James Ellison, Sentinel, blew out an exaggerated sigh. His desk was piled high with assignments that needed marking.

It had been a long, complicated day. He'd run out of gas on the way to Rainier University. That was not a good start. He'd had an argument with the Head of Department. It was over the cost of a particular excursion he wanted to take his students on... and he'd lost. He'd misplaced the notes he'd been given for the lecture that he had taken for Barnes, who was ill. And now...now he just wanted to head home and forget it all for a while.

He was due to pick Anthea up for the poetry reading at 7.30. That still left one hour to unwind and gain a little more momentum to push him through to the end of the day.

With a sweep of his arm, he shoveled texts and papers into his backpack and headed for the door.

____________________________________________________________________

The loft was in darkness. Blair hated coming home to the dark. Flinging his keys into the basket by the door, he moved quickly to turn on the lamps and lights until the living area and kitchen were flooded with light.

Dropping his backpack onto the table, he headed out onto the balcony to let in some fresh air. It was a beautiful evening, clear and crisp. He leant on his elbows and gazed out at the signature of the city against the horizon, written in buildings and skyscrapers. A sigh escaped him. He felt way too tired to go to this poetry thing.

Rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes, he wondered how Jim was going. He hadn't seen him in days. Both of them were on a manic schedule and they never seemed to catch up.

He turned back to the loft and grinned. Even from the balcony he could see that Jim had been home. The books and papers that had been left streaming extravagantly across the dining table were now in a neat pile. No dishes remained on the sink...and even Blair's stockpile of used coffee cups had been moved from the coffee table and obviously washed.

With a considerable yawn, he closed the doors to the balcony and headed for the fridge, determined to find something quick and easy to tide him over. He'd skipped lunch today. No time.

Peering into the dimly lit interior of the fridge, he frowned. Pickings were lean. His fingers drummed on the door as contemplated the out-of-date yogurt, the pizza from three nights ago and the shriveled bunch of celery. Not even he could make something edible from that. He noted that Jim had eaten the stir fry. Could be that he'd enjoyed it, seeing that he'd eaten the lot. A smile tickled the corners of his mouth. At least he knew the big guy was eating well.

Perhaps he'd just have a cup of tea instead of a snack. He started gathering the makings when he noticed the note on the other side of the pile of books on the table.

Jim.

Forgetting the cup of tea, he sat down heavily in the dining chair and reached for the note. It was written in Jim's precise, neat handwriting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blair laughed out loud. Been there, Donne that? Only Jim could get away with that one. He looked at the reciprocal cartoon that the Sentinel had drawn at the bottom of the page. It was of a certain curly haired anthropologist fighting back a particularly evil looking slime that was oozing from the fridge.

Chuckling, Blair took the yogurt from the fridge and washed it down the disposal. "Subtle, man. Very subtle."

He headed for his bedroom to get ready for his date.

___________________________________________________________________

Captain Simon Banks peered through the slatted blinds of his office, studying a weary, but still working, James Ellison. He was concerned about the man, and although he hated to admit it, he wished that Sandburg was here. The kid seemed to have the knack of lightening any situation. Jim, on his own, was a superlative detective, but he was blinkered. Work, work and more work.

Simon recalled back to when Blair had first set foot in the Major Crimes Department. He'd spun a tale about wanting to study the 'Thin Blue Line' premise. You couldn't ignore him. Still couldn't. A day with Sandburg was like reading a book. As the pages turn, the story unfolds, layer upon layer, until you have a complete and complex picture of belief and passion, interconnected to form a powerful philosophy. At first glance, Blair may seem merely quixotic and somewhat erratic, but his freely given friendship and underlying warmth broke through any possible cynicism you could have about him.

Simon lit a cigar and sat back in his chair. He let a smoke circle drift upward, and watched as it feathered itself away to nothing. He swivelled his chair so that he could watch Jim more closely. The Sentinel was staring into a glass. Maybe he was zoning.

He didn't do that so much these days, but maybe that was because Blair kept a sharp eye on it. He took another puff and, decision made, pushed away from the desk, stood up and strode towards the door.

"Jim?"

The Sentinel continued staring at the empty glass in front of him.

"Hey, Ellison?"

To the ordinary onlooker, the glass was empty. To a person whose senses were enhanced way beyond the normal, the glass, and the thin membrane of water left in it, was something extraordinary. Jim gazed at the liquid and was conscious of its clarity, its relentless invisibility. He marveled at the substance of something that had no visible presence. You only saw it as a reflection in something else. He lifted his finger from the rim and saw the faint imprint it had left there.

"ELLISON!"

Jim jumped. "Jesus," he said, trying to kick-start his heart into beating again.

"You zoning, man?" Simon surveyed him, thoughtfully.

Shaking his head, Jim smiled up at his friend. "No. I was just thinking. You know, this senses thing was a curse before. But since Blair, they've been mostly a blessing. He's given that to me."

"Yeah, the kid's got a way about him." Simon nodded in agreement and then grinned, on the edge of laughter. "Of course, there is no need for us to tell him that. We wouldn't want him getting ideas."

The Sentinel returned Simon's smile and yawned ferociously.

"Tired? Surely not! You've only been on surveillance for how many nights running? Losing your stamina, man?" Simon's voice was laced with bemused sarcasm. He knew that Jim was exhausted. He also knew that he was going to have a hard time convincing his friend to go home.

Yawning again, Jim looked blearily up at his captain. "We're so close, sir. I want to be there when it happens."

"No, Ellison."

"Simon..."

"No." There was no room for negotiation in that single word...but Jim tried.

"I need..."

Simon shook his head. "Which part of the word 'No' don't you understand? Look, Jim, if anything looks like going down, I'll contact you. You can be there in five."

"Really?" Jim sounded dubious.

"Would I lie to you?" Simon lied.

"Well...maybe not lie...but I bet you would obfuscate without a second thought!" Jim's grin was remarkably cheeky for one so tired.

Simon laughed loudly. "You and I have been around Sandburg too long! We're even starting to talk like him!"

Jim's voice dropped to a sinister, TV announcer's vibrato. "Welcome to the Sandburg Zone," he said.

Simon beamed, but was not distracted. "Even *that* is not going to derail my train of thought, Jim. Home. And that's final."

___________________________________________________________

It was very quiet. It wasn't peaceful, just quiet. Jim lay on the sofa with his elbow crooked over his eyes. He was not happy. On the surface, life flowed along with its usual vigor, but the sense of continuity was deceptive. He missed his Guide more than he could say. It was unusual for them both to be so busy at the same time. In Blair's words, 'It sucked.'

He felt off-center...unsettled. Turning over onto his side, he spotted Blair's note on the coffee table. He reached for it and unfolded the paper to read it once again. He smiled even before he had started.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This time Blair had signed the note with a small, round, sad face.

Jim folded the note and placed it carefully back onto the table. He stretched his arms and clasped them behind his head. Although he was tired, his mind was racing. A tension headache began to throb in his mid-temple. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax using the technique Blair had taught him. He worked his way through all the muscle groups in his body, gently releasing the tightness until he felt the pain in his head begin to ease.

Without thinking, he set free his senses and let them drift though the loft. It was an olfactory ambush....coffee, books, and the hint of the shampoo that Blair used.

The aroma sparked a small throb of loss that surprised him.

Back before Sandburg had spilled into his life, Jim had considered himself an emotional bonsai. His feelings were folded up, packed away and he'd felt implacably alone.

Then Blair had come along. Little by little, the Sentinel had learned to trust again, to open up and express himself. And he knew it was because of Blair. It was an extraordinary friendship. Without his Guide, the world seemed to have taken on the exhausted sepia of an old photograph. He wanted the colour back.

Closing his eyes against the morning sun streaming into the room, he sighed and concentrated once again on relaxing himself towards sleep. A small noise caught his attention. He spoke. His voice sounded odd in the silence. "Chief?"

Extending his senses, he heard the sound of a cat's claws clicking as it walked along the corridor. It wasn't Sandburg.

Rolling onto his side, the Sentinel slept.

_________________________________________________

Blair sat at his desk, idly glancing at various documents without actually reading any of them. Eventually, with a long sigh, he tossed the papers aside, retaining one. He fashioned it into a paper plane which, when flicked into the air, described a most satisfying series of spirals.

"Sorry. I'll come back later. I didn't realise you were doing some filing."

Blair looked up guiltily and then graced his visitor with a warm smile. "Mrs Taylor! How are you? I was just...uhhh..."

"Filing?" Laughter sparkled beneath her words.

"Um, yeah. That would be it. Filing." He tossed the paper plane into the air again, raising his arms in victory as it spun to a sliding halt, back on his desk. "Yes!"

The old woman's eyes, set in wrinkled folds of brown skin, sparkled with good humour. "Well, young man. I've come to ask a favour of you."

"Mrs Taylor, for you, anything!" Blair promised, rashly, albeit gallantly. He stood up and offered her a seat. She positioned herself carefully in the rickety chair, feet together, back straight and hands clasped in her lap.

"Blair, I've known you a long time. Even before you went to live with that nice Mr Ellison. I was wondering if perhaps you could...if maybe you would be able..."

She looked down at her hands and then patted her neat, grey bun nervously.

The young man raised one eyebrow and smiled encouragingly. "Be able to...?"

She took a breath. "I wonder if you would be able to take my grand daughter out this evening. She's been in town for five days and is a little wild. I know I could trust you to take care of her and make sure she doesn't get into trouble."

Blair looked down at his desk and wondered how to let her down easy. He simply didn't have the time to do this. He wanted to get home at a reasonable hour to catch Jim before he went on night shift again. He didn't raise his head.

"Uh, as much as I'd like to, Mrs T, the fact is..." He glanced up at the old woman. Fatal mistake. Mrs Taylor was looking crestfallen, disappointed and dismayed all at once. Her bottom lip began to tremble.

Not the lip. He tried not to look, but he was already lost. "I...er... that is, I'd be happy to do that. I can show her some of the sights."

Mrs Taylor tentatively rallied. "Oh, Blair. Do you mean it? I'd be so grateful."

Waving his hand to brush away her thanks, he smiled good naturedly. "My pleasure, Mrs T. I'm only too happy to do it for you. I'll pick her up at seven?"

The old lady reached across and patted his cheek. "You're such a good boy."

She paused at the door, turning back to wave, a disturbingly triumphant look upon her face.

Blair smiled wryly to himself. 'Yeah, that's me. *Such* a good boy.' He flicked the paper plane into the air and watched as it death-spiraled determinedly to the floor.

________________________________________________________________

The car shot through the stoplight and screamed around the corner.

Blair glanced at the driver, adopted the brace position and prayed out loud. "God."

He closed his eyes for a moment, but that was even more nerve racking. "Ah Tayla, you know, we have a funny little tradition here on Planet Earth, where red means stop."

The young lady in question tossed her long hair back over her shoulder and laughed.

"Blair, baby, you gotta learn to let go a little." She spun the wheel and aimed the car down a narrow street. Blair wedged himself against the car door as Tayla stopped the car and turned to him.

"There now. That wasn't so bad?" She smiled enticingly. "Let's go."

Blair followed her obediently, listening to her heels castanetting on the sidewalk.

She was blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful - proof that Barbie and Ken dolls do have sex.

He gulped as she led him into a small, obviously expensive, French restaurant.

As Tayla ordered her meal in escargot-paced French, Blair grappled wildly for something to talk about.

"So...your name is really Tayla Taylor?" he said dryly, from behind the menu.

She canted her head and smiled, while fishing for the maraschino cherry in her drink. She lazily decapitated it with her teeth, before answering.

"Yep. Cute, isn't it? It was my Dad's idea. Most people call me T2...get it?" She giggled.

"You could be the third robot in StarWars." Blair hoped his smile was on straight.

Tayla looked at him in confusion. "What?"

"No matter, " Blair said quickly. "Tell me how come you are here in Cascade."

It was all she needed. A little push and she was away. Blair tried hard to concentrate, but he was so tired. He nodded occasionally and tried to keep his mind on what she was saying.

"And then... and then he had the gall to ask me to *forgive* him. And I said 'Forgive? Well actually I wasn't planning to *speak* to you for, oh, the rest of my life.' I'm giving him time to sweat on it now. Visiting Gran was a great idea. Don'tcha think?"

Blair jerked back to attention. The upward swing of her voice signalled a question.

"Oh, you bet. Those knights in shining Armani can be hard to find. And even harder to keep." He nodded sagely.

"You think I've been too hard on him." She shot him a witheringly injured look.

"No, no," Blair said appeasingly. "I'm just concerned that you are not happy. You miss him, right?"

She nodded, still pouting.

"Well, why don't you let him know?" Blair made eye contact with her and smiled a warm smile.

"I'm not ever going to talk to him again."

"Okay," said Blair.

"Yes," said Tayla.

"Fine," added Blair.

"Right," answered Tayla, much less authoritatively.

"So," said Blair, after a pause. "When are you going to talk to him again?"

She grinned. "Just as soon as we finish here? I guess it can't hurt. Thanks, Blair." She leaned across the table and kissed him very softly.

"Oooh. Thank *you*." He settled back in his seat and let her talk it all out. He really, really just wanted to go home. Home. How cool to be able to say that. It didn't seem so long ago when he was making do in the warehouse.

He smiled across at Tayla who stopped talking and looked quizzically at him.

"Just remember to appreciate what you have, Tayla." His voice was soft...thoughtful.

_________________________________________________________________

Hey?"

The word rang through the empty loft. He should have known better. It was late and Jim was long gone. The lamps had been left on. Strands of moonlight unraveled across the floor.

Yawning, Blair headed straight for the table to find Jim's note. It had become a part of his routine in the last week. The letter was there, neatly placed in front of Blair's chair, with the pen positioned in the exact centre of the page.

Running his fingers through his disheveled curls, he yawned again. He sat down heavily and shrugged his shoulders in an effort to release the tension and tiredness.

Taking the pages in one hand, he began to read.

Blair chuckled. The papers were not in any order when he'd left them. He'd meant to gather them up and stick them in a box for sorting out later, but, as usual, he'd been running late. He flicked the page with one finger.

"Tall One Who Cleans." He laughed again. "Jim, you have a Terminal Case of Order...and it's my mission to inject a little chaos into your life, man."

Reading on, he smiled fondly.

Blair brightened visibly at the question. "Yeah, man. Let's do it." He said the words to the empty room.

Looking over the last paragraph, Blair remembered one of his mother's favourite sayings; there's heart in that. Blair felt warmed at the thought that he'd been missed, that he had a place in the world.

He remembered his advice to Tayla; appreciate what you have. Well, he *did*. In unashamedly big, bold, upper case letters, he printed across the bottom of the note... I'LL BE THERE.

Whistling softly to himself, he gathered up his books and, despite the late hour, began to tidy the loft.

__________________________________________________________

Jim signed the paperwork on his desk with a flourish and settled back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. Done. After a week of surveillance, Munroe had finally slipped up and had been caught red-handed with the stash of cocaine. It had a street value of $750,000.

The Mayor of Cascade had phoned Simon to congratulate the team. Simon was happy. The team were happy. Jim was happy. Everyone was happy except for Munroe. All in all, it had been a most gratifying end to an infuriating chase. The Sentinel was glad it was over. He just wanted some down time now. He was really looking forward to catching up with Sandburg tonight. Beer, pizza and the game. What more could you ask!

Closing his eyes, he let himself drift towards relaxation. His mouth curled into a smile.

He was tired. Without Blair, he felt like he'd carried the weight of the world on his shoulders this week... and now...now it was time to get a porter. He had two glorious days of freedom ahead and he was going to savor every minute.

"Ellison?" Simon's voice was surprisingly gentle.

Jim cracked open one eye. "Just resting my eyes, Sir." He grinned at his captain and then stopped. Something was wrong. Simon's face was grave.

Already knowing the answer, Jim posed a one word question. "Blair?"

"He's had a fall from his bike on the way to the University. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. That's all the information I have."

Jim dropped chin to his chest and put his head in his hands for the briefest of moments.

Then he grabbed his coat and headed towards the door.

"Let us know what's going on, Ellison?" The door slammed on Simon's sentence.

The Sentinel was gone.

By virtue of a hair-raising ride through back streets, Jim made it to the hospital in less than half an hour. He took the stairs two at a time and bounded into the ER reception area.

"Sandburg. Blair. Bike accident. Brought in this morning." He was in take charge mode. He flipped out his badge and swept it in a broad arc in front of the receptionist.

The tiny woman took one look at the grim-faced man standing but two feet away from her and decided that Doctor Hanrahan could deal with this one personally.

She tip-tapped industriously on her computer and then squeaked, "Ward 5. Room 11."

"Appreciate it." Jim's voice was detached.

In the elevator, Jim watched, with manic intensity, the floor numbers light up. "Jesus, Sandburg." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

The doors slid open with a clank and he stepped onto the fifth floor, only to be confronted by a small, red-haired woman who had obviously been forewarned about the tall, abrupt visitor heading her way.

"Mr Ellison, I presume?" She was not the least bit intimidated by him.

Jim heard the lilt of an English accent in her voice. She picked delicately at the vowels as if they were grains of sand in a salad, and there were certain traces of hauteur.

He wilted a little under her cool, unflinching stare.

"Uh, yes. Jim Ellison."

"Well...Mr Ellison. After terrorising our reception staff, are you planning to repeat the performance here?"

Jim growled. "Look...doctor..."

"Doctor Hanrahan."

"Doctor Hanrahan." Jim nodded obediently. "I'm sorry I was a little rough on your staff downstairs...but I need to find out about..."

"Mr Sandburg." The doctor undermined him with frosty efficiency.

"Doctor, Blair is an police observer in my division. He's my partner." The words tumbled over each other.

The doctor's attitude softened ever so slightly. "Mr Sandburg's been admitted for observation due to the fact that he was unconscious for quite some time. He's had a scan. There's no permanent damage. He does, however, feel mighty groggy and he has a huge headache. Other than that, he's going to be just fine. Just fine."

Jim took a breath. "We had no information. We didn't know what was going on. So, he's okay?"

"He might deny that, right now. He's been in quite a bit of pain."

"Can I see him?" Jim's voice was stronger, more sure, now.

"Certainly," she smiled broadly at him. "See what we can do when we aren't being threatened?"

Jim muttered another apology as he followed her into a darkened room.

Blair was asleep. He looked utterly peaceful. Obviously, burning the candle at both ends had caught up with him.

Frowning, Jim turned to the doctor. "Should he be asleep? After the concussion and all?"

Doctor Hanrahan smiled patiently. "It's all right. He's being monitored. He's probably tired himself out chasing the nurses. He's become quite the favourite."

Jim grinned. Sounded like Blair. Then his attention was drawn by the grazes on Blair's arms and the huge bruise forming at his hairline.

"Tell me, Doctor. Was he wearing a bike helmet?"

The doctor frowned. "I think you know the answer to that one, Mr Ellison. It doesn't matter how hard we try to publicise the fact that helmets protect you...it takes one Spring day for the people to 'accidentally' leave it at home and enjoy the weather."

"Damned idiot. Should have known better!" Jim's voice scratched its way into his Guide's sleep. Blair opened one eye, and instantly decided that this was not a good idea. He slammed his eyelid closed again and studiously feigned catatonia.

It was very quiet. He knew he had been sprung. Levering both eyes open, he offered up a small smile to Jim and the doctor. It didn't wear well.

"Well," said Jim in a brittle voice. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Blair's voice was scratchy. "Um...Toto, I think we're no longer in Kansas?" he hazarded.

Silence.

He tried again. "Man, I *was* being careful. It wasn't my fault. It's mating season for the magpies. Hey, did you know that the male magpies testicles swell to ten times their normal size in mating season?"

There was a distinct twinkle in Jim's eyes.

Blair soldiered on. "You have to wonder what effect the extra undercarriage has on their ability to fly, don't ya? Anyway...I got dive-bombed by a particularly manic specimen. I managed to deflect the swoop d'amour the first time...but then I hit the sidewalk in what, by all accounts, was a double somersault in the pike position, with two twists. Degree of difficulty.... three point two." He grinned winningly.

Both Jim and the doctor were on the edge of laughter. He tipped them over the precipice.

"I'm sorry! I've got a Ph.D in guilt. When it comes to remorse, we're talking encyclopaedic knowledge!" His hands spread forth in a gesture of surrender.

Chuckling, Jim smiled down at his friend. "Well, Chief. You'll have plenty of time to rest on those *orals*... 'cos they're keeping you in over night."

"Oh, man. No. I'm fine. I'm more than fine. See this?" He flourished his wrist in front of the doctor. The hospital bracelet hung loosely on his wrist. "You guys label us in case you forget who we are...or in case no one claims us. Jim?"

The Sentinel shook his head. The doctor was lost in laughter.

Blair gave in, mournfully. "On the baggage carousel of life...I'm just a rucksack." He sighed heavily. "Guess that means we don't get to watch the game tonight?"

"Well...you've got a television in your room. Don't see why not." The doctor smiled.

Brightening, Blair shot his hand into the air in a victory salute. "Yes!"

"Ouch!" He rubbed his temple.

The Sentinel pounced. "Hey, Chief. Remember that Chinese saying...He who have concussion should not celebrate."

"I hear that, man. I hear that."

____________________________________________________________

The door creaked enquiringly and a nurse's hesitant head peeped around it. Room eleven was in darkness except for the violet flicker of the television, ghosting eerily on the walls. The sound had been turned off and the only noise in the room was the soft breathing of the patient and the visitor. Both were asleep.

She stepped silently into the room and smiled at the scene. The visitor had folded his tall frame into a chair. His head had drooped forward onto his chest and he was snoring gently. The patient was curled up on his side, hands tucked up under his chin, dark curls covering his face.

Since the beginning of her shift, she'd been in to check on Blair Sandburg several times. On each occasion, she'd stepped into a room filled with laughter. The two men were obviously related in some way. She wondered how. The young one was fine boned, with a soft, youthful look about him. The older man was strongly built with chiseled features and piercing eyes. They didn't look alike. But they were definitely related. She was a 'people person'. She took pride in her ability to see and understand.

And these two were family.

Moving quietly, she placed a hand on the arm of the older man. He awoke with a start. She could see that, for a moment, he was not sure where he was.

"Mr Ellison. Visiting hours were over long ago. Blair is resting. You look like you need a good night's sleep, too. Doctor Hanrahan said that Blair could go home after rounds tomorrow. That'll be about ten o'clock." Her voice was soft and melodious.

He nodded and then quickly scribbled a note on the notepad that was on the bedside table. She wondered how he could see to write in the very little light that was in the room.

The young man in the bed stirred restlessly and turned over. The older man propped the note on the tray at the end of the bed. He turned and smiled at her.

"Just a note to let him know that we haven't lost him." The smile broadened.

She nodded and gestured for him to follow her out. She half thought about asking how the two men were related, but a junior nurse asked her a question and as she answered, she could see the tall man striding away. She sighed. She would have liked to have known. Just to back up her theory.

After dealing with a patient who was complaining about the noise from the cubicle next to him, she returned to Blair's room to turn off the television. In the time that she'd been away, he'd obviously woken up and read the note. It was still in his hand.

With infinite care, she extricated the piece of paper and placed it on the bedside table.

The light from the open door lit the room with a gentle glow. She was able to read the note:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snapping off the television, she smiled smugly to herself. Yep. Family. Definitely family.