Veritas
by Swellison
(sequel to In Vino...)

I can do this. Jim Ellison stared at the 307 on his front door. Without thinking, he scanned the lintel above the door for Sandburg's spare key. It wasn't there, of course. Ellison fished around in his coat pocket for his keys, and forced his hand to remain steady as he pushed the key into the lock.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Jim?" Simon Banks, his Captain, spoke quietly from his side.

"I can't" hide "live in your guestroom forever, Simon."

"It hasn't been that long," Simon protested mildly. "It's only been-"

"Nine days, three hours and eighteen minutes," Jim interrupted, precisely. Forever.

Simon scrutinized his best detective. Jim had dark circles under his deep blue eyes, his mouth was a firm, thin line, and his coat hung loosely on his six-foot plus frame, evidence of recent weight loss. Jim looked like he'd lost his best friend, which he had. The black police Captain placed his free hand on the doorknob and opened the door. "C'mon in," he said, guiding Jim into the loft. Simon had told Jim earlier that he, Brown and Rafe had retrieved Jim's furniture from storage, carefully putting it all back in place, but he wasn't sure Jim remembered their conversation.

Simon quietly closed the front door and set Ellison's weekender bag on the floor under the coat pegs, allowing Jim a few moments to reacclimate himself. Jim scanned the room; sofas, coffee table, rug, television, bookcases, dining room table and chairs. Unconsciously, Jim sharpened his vision and dwelt on the room's details - the textbooks in the bookcase, the photographs and carved figures on some of the bookshelves, the tribal mask on the wall ... Blair's things!? The very books and figurines that he had hastily crammed into packing boxes less than a fortnight ago... "Simon, what're Bl" he choked on the word, then tried again, "Why are Sandburg's things still here?"

"Naomi said they belonged here, with you. She gave me a letter for you, too, Jim. It's on the kitchen counter. You were sort of - out of it when she left, after the funeral." Simon watched Jim's face anxiously, not sure how Jim would react.

"I was out of it," Jim confessed softly. "I don't remember much about - it, at all." A thought struck him. "Did I zone, Simon? Is that why I can't remember--?"

"No, Jim, you didn't zone - I kept an eye on you to make sure you didn't. You were just lost in grief; Naomi understood that." Simon had worked closely with Naomi, taking care of the funeral arrangements. "She's really a remarkable woman."

"She'd have to be - she's Sandburg's Mom."

Uncertain what to say in response, Captain Banks changed the topic. "Take your coat off, Jim and I'll rustle us up some lunch." Peeling off his own overcoat, Simon hung it up on one of the hooks to the left of the front door.

"I'm not hungry," Jim said, but he divested himself of his leather jacket and hung it on the hook next to Simon's coat. "Besides, it's not even noon yet."

Simon scrutinized Jim's appearance as Ellison walked back towards the living room area. Jim was neatly attired in dark gray slacks and a long-sleeved maroon shirt, but Simon noted that the belt was a notch tighter than usual. "By the time I make the sandwiches, it will be. Jim, you have to eat."

"Now you sound like-" Ellison cut himself off abruptly.

Pretending to ignore Jim's slip, Simon walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out some essential sandwich ingredients. Placing the bread and jars of mayonnaise and butter on the counter, he returned to the fridge and extracted a tomato, several pieces of ham and four cheese slices. Simon efficiently sliced the tomato and put together a pair of diagonally-cut ham sandwiches, wishing he had Jim's Sentinel hearing so that he could track Jim's movements over the noise of his own culinary efforts. Putting the sandwiches on a couple of plates, Simon picked them up and carried the food out to Jim, silently sitting on the sofa.

Simon put a sandwich on the coffee table in front of Jim, but got no reaction from the seated man. Was Jim brooding - or zoning? "Jim," he said sharply.

"What?"

"Dinner is served." Simon put his own plate down on the low table, then muttered, "Oops, I forgot the drinks." He strode back to the refrigerator and returned momentarily with two large glasses of milk.

"Milk?" Jim said sourly. "You don't trust me with a beer?"

"Wha--? Sorry, Jim." Simon glanced sheepishly at his own glass and settled down on the couch next to Jim as he continued. "Daryl's health class is studying nutrition. He's been lecturing me on the four basic food groups since the beginning of the month. I guess some of it rubbed off." In top form, the Sentinel would have easily spotted Banks' phony cover story, but Jim was far from his usual self and the lie- obfuscation - passed undetected.

Instead, Jim started munching on the first half of his sandwich, blatantly violating House Rule 17: no eating in the living room. Blair would've loved seeing this. The thought almost choked him, and the sandwich became tasteless in his mouth. Jim forced down the last bite, then drank the equally tasteless milk.

"Something the matter?"

"Ah, just lost my appetite." Jim set the three-quarters full glass of milk on the table.

Simon turned to face Jim. "From the looks of you, that's not a recent loss." He frowned. "Level with me here, Jim. What's going on?"

"I just lost my sense of taste. Don't worry, it'll come back in a couple of hours. The same thing happened when Danny died."

"Jesus, Jim!" Simon snapped. "How long has this been going on, nine days? No wonder you've lost weight. Do I have to haul your ass down to the hospital and hook you up to an IV to get some food in you?"

"No, Simon. I'm fine - it's temporary," Jim insisted. "My sense of taste will return later and I'll finish eating then. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" Simon roared. "Jim, you just told me you lost one of your senses! Wait a minute, is it just one, or more than one?" Simon grabbed Jim's arm. "How many of your senses have been affected, since Sandburg died? Answer me, Jim!"

"All of them!" Jim practically shouted, and snatched his arm out of his boss's grasp.

"All of them?" Simon echoed weakly.

"The worst day was last Saturday, the funeral," Jim confided lowly. "I only remember fragments of it. First I couldn't hear anything, then I couldn't see anything, then I couldn't feel or hear anything. My senses came and went, all day long. But it's gotten much better since then. The last two days, I've only had temporary loss of taste or smell, and then I've only been affected for a couple of hours."

"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"

"Because you couldn't do anything about it, Simon. Hell, Sandburg dragged me off to a doctor after Danny died, and the doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me then. It's the same now, sir. He likened it to posttraumatic stress syndrome and said that I was the only one who could fix it. He was right, as usual."

It took Simon a moment to catch on that 'he' referred to Sandburg, but he nodded, listening.

"It's just - a lot harder to fix, this time," Jim admitted. "My emotions and senses - they're all out of whack and it's hard to take control. I am trying, tho' and it's getting better."

"Well, that's good news, Jim." Simon sighed, "Now grab your bag and let's get back to my place. I was right; you're not ready for this."

"Maybe - maybe I'm not ready to go back to work yet, Simon," Jim conceded reluctantly. "But I am ready to be on my own again. Don't you see, Simon?" Jim spoke in a rush, "I have to be - from now on, I am alone."

Simon weighed what Jim had revealed and heard only truth in Jim's words. "Okay, Jim. But I'm not leaving until you have all five senses intact and you finish eating your lunch. I'll just read the paper, and stay out of your hair. You don't have to talk to me, or anything, but I'm not budging until your senses are all normal - or at what passes for normal for you. Clear?"

"As crystal, sir."

"Jim," Captain Banks regarded the wreck of his until-recently best detective. "I know it feels like you're all alone, but you're not. You've got friends." Simon stared at the coffee table in front of him and finished quietly, "I'm not Sandburg, but I am here for you, if you need me. Remember that." Then Simon rose from the sofa, grabbed the top section of the paper from the magazine rack and settled into the other couch, determined to bury himself in the paper and let Ellison have his privacy.

Jim silently observed his captain as Simon made himself comfortable and immersed himself in the headlines. Ellison bussed their lunch, picking up his half-full plate and Simon's empty one from the coffee table. He walked over to the kitchen and put the plates down on a counter. Grabbing a plastic Tupperware container, he put his half-eaten sandwich in it, then extracted a red lid from the kitchen drawer closest to the fridge. Oops, wrong color, then he froze. It did not matter what color lid he used; from now on, only his own leftovers would be in the fridge. Jim snapped the red lid shut, angrily sealing the sandwich inside, then opened the refrigerator and deposited the container on the second shelf. Struck by the essentially bare shelves, Jim closed the door and reminded himself that he really needed to go to the grocery store as he put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. He tore off the top sheet from the magnetized memo pad on the side of the refrigerator and walked over to the dining room table, fishing out a pen from the odds and ends jar on the countertop in passing.

Placing the notepaper on the table, Jim pulled a chair out and sat down, preparing to write down his grocery list. He mentally reviewed the supermarket's layout, so that he would write the items down in the proper order, idly twirling the pen in his right hand. The pen's cheap gold lettering jumped out at him: "Property of Blair Sandburg." Sandburg was always losing his pens. To hear Blair tell it, they walked away with his students, his colleagues, the detectives of Major Crimes, and strangers off the street. As a gag gift, Jim had bought Blair a hundred cheap personalized pens from a mail order catalog at the start of the last semester, and they'd kept a weekly total of how many pens Sandburg still had as the term progressed. At last count, he was down to sixty-three. Blair had joked only last month about seeing if Jim could track down the missing pens by sight or smell...

Jim's fingers tightened around the pen, then he made himself relax his grip and start writing down the shopping list. When that was finished, he rose from the table and walked over to the mail basket, on the accent table by the clothes hooks. He sorted through the mail, picking out the bills from all the oversized envelopes. He knew better than to read through the sympathy cards with an audience... but he'd have to wade through them sooner or later. Jim walked back to the table and concentrated on getting his bills up to date. The last envelope that he opened was his monthly bank statement, which Ellison meticulously went over, balancing his account to the penny. He looked up from his rectified statement and saw Simon stretched out on the sofa.

Getting up from the table, Jim walked back to the refrigerator and took out his leftover sandwich. He removed it from the container and put it on a fresh plate, then walked back to the living room sofa. He sat in the unoccupied sofa and munched on his half-sandwich. "See, Simon? All gone."

Captain Banks folded the newspaper and regarded Ellison. "Okay, I can take a hint." He rose from the sofa, crossed the room and plucked his overcoat from the hook. Jim waited by the door as Simon slipped his coat on. Simon finished buttoning his coat, then snapped his fingers. "I almost forgot," he said, bending over to unzip Jim's luggage. He reached in and pulled out a medium-sized black rectangular box and handed it to Jim. "Here."

Jim steeled himself to accept the trayful of Sandburg's mini-cassette tapes.

"We can't have those falling into the wrong hands," Simon noted. Jim nodded woodenly, the tapes contained some of Sandburg's notes to himself about his Sentinel research.

The wrong hands? I let my Guide be killed. Can there be any hands wronger than that? Jim thought, but he schooled his face to remain expressionless so that Simon would leave.

"Good bye, Jim. See you tomorrow," Simon said, casually informing Jim that in Simon's opinion, he was fit to return to work. Jim echoed his farewell, and then carefully closed the loft door behind his departing superior.

Jim stared at the red heron poster on the back of the door for a few moments, then he became aware of the cassette box in his hands. Hastily, he spun around and strode across the room. Halting in front of the metal bookshelves to the right of his stereo system, Jim hurriedly plopped the black box on one of the shelves, anxious to be rid of it. He knocked the box into a framed photograph and it fell to the floor, landing face-down with a smack..

The magnified sound jolted through Jim and he shook himself, then stooped down to pick up the picture. Instead of placing it back on the shelf, he carried it over to the white loveseat and sat down. He carefully examined the frame. The glass seemed intact; he bumped up his vision to scan for tiny scratches, making sure that the photo and frame were unharmed. He shifted his vision back to normal and was drawn to the actual photograph. It was from one of their fishing trips, not even a year ago. Blair was awkwardly holding a couple of fishing rods at two different angles in one hand, his other hand supporting the underside of the netted fish that he'd hooked on his first attempt at flyfishing. Jim stood to Blair's left, holding the fish net with Blair's prize catch in it, and they were both smiling. Jim knew that Blair's eyes were sparkling with accomplishment, even though they were hidden behind the circle lenses of his granny sunglasses. He could still smell the smoke from Simon's hastily-extinguished cigar as the captain caught the Kodak moment on his camera. The detective could feel the sun beating down on him, and the water gently lapping against his waders...

"-zone is a low speed zone for a reason," the emphatic voice of School Superintendent Langham issued from the radio.

"Wha-?" Jim glanced up from the photo, trying to place the noise that had penetrated his memories.

"So remember to observe all the school zones that you pass on your way to work. Also, while the school year is winding down, classes are still in session and all school zones are in effect until the last day of school. The taxpayers of this fair city have spent a good deal of money installing flashing yellow lights above the signs making them more noticeable to -"

Still trying to pinpoint the voice's origin, Jim realized that it didn't come from the living room stereo. He placed the picture on the coffee table, rose and let his ears guide his feet, the increased volume leading him to the closed French doors of Sandburg's room. Do you really want to go there? But he had to, if for no other reason than to turn the radio off. Jim's unsteady hand reached for the doorknob of the nearest door. He twisted the knob, pushed the door open and walked in. Two quick steps brought him to the clock radio on Sandburg's nightstand and he jabbed the power off.

Thinking that he was intruding, Jim took a hasty step towards the door, then stopped. He did not feel like he was interloping, instead he felt... relaxed, almost peaceful. He glanced around the familiar chaos of Sandburg's room, trying to pinpoint the location of the sensation. It wasn't any one place in particular, he discovered. After a week of living away from the loft, the enclosed contents of Sandburg's room emitted a concentrated dose of his Guide's presence to Jim's heightened senses. It was a welcome change from the emptiness that he'd felt since that morning nine days ago, at the fountain... Jim took a deep breath and sat down heavily on Sandburg's futon, his nose and very skin drinking in the soothing pseudo-presence of Blair as his eyes scanned the room. For someone who had rarely, if ever, been in Sandburg's room, Simon had done a hell of a job returning Blair's posessions to their proper places. He'd managed to achieve the exact cramped disorder that was the usual state of Sandburg's room.

"A cluttered desk is the sign of a creative mind." Jim strained his hearing to its fullest capacity; for a moment he could've sworn he'd heard Sandburg's voice, defending the messy state of his living quarters.

Jim rubbed his temple. You're losing it, Ellison, he chastised himself. He scrutinized the room, looking for something out of place, to distract him from his thoughts. He found a small footlocker to the right of Sandburg's tiny desk. The object smelled of Blair and wood - paper, to be exact. Jim knew exactly what it was: the collected paperwork for Sandburg's Sentinel project. Simon must've bullied the University into handing over all of Sandburg's research, probably claimed it was evidence. Jim stared at the storage trunk, noting the shiny newness of the black footlocker. While it was much smaller, the proportions of the footlocker almost matched....

The closed ebony coffin twelve feet in front of him absorbed all of Jim's senses, or at least whichever ones were working at the moment. Hearing had deserted him right now, and Jim was glad, really, because the only sound that he wanted to hear was Blair's heartbeat, and that wasn't there. He didn't miss the gentle weeping of many of the female mourners. He could smell the salt of Naomi's tears to his right, that and the woody odor of the pew that he sat on almost overpowered the last lingering scent of his Guide, emanating faintly from Sandburg's casket.

An undeterminable amount of time passed and Jim suddenly heard the eulogy, almost at its end.

"He called me brother, on more than one occasion," Simon said, from the funeral home's podium. Naomi Sandburg had asked Captain Banks to deliver the final address. She knew that she couldn't do it and one look at Jim Ellison convinced her that he couldn't, either. "Sandburg was teasing me, of course - but on another level, he meant it. So, goodbye, my friend." Simon directed his gaze towards the coffin, "Peace, my brother."

Jim had a blurred sense of movement, then he was sitting in the spanking clean interior of a rented limousine, Simon's intense brown eyes studying him. Simon was talking to him, saying something. He sounded insistent, so Jim answered, "Yeah, Simon, I hear you." .

"We're here," Simon said quietly as the limo eased to a gentle stop along one of the cemetery's paved single lanes.

More time passed and Jim's eyesight became hyperactive as he stared at the words carved in the veined green marble headstone, which would soon stand sentinel over Blair's final resting place. Carved in stone echoed in Jim's head, competing with Green - the color of life as he absorbed the words on the tombstone:

Blair Sandburg

1969 - 1998

Beloved Son and Brother

 

"You're in my heart, you're in my soul," Sandburg's clock radio suddenly blasted Rod Stewart's singing voice into supersensitive Sentinel ears.

"Wha - ?" Jim Ellison shook his head, unsure of where he was. Then he felt the futon give under him as it flattened to accommodate his shifting weight. Oh, yeah, Sandburg's room.

"- You're my best friend," the radio continued to blare from his left. "You're in my soul."

Ellison turned towards the radio, intent on flipping the dial off, when it abruptly went silent.

Jim glanced suspiciously at the now quiet radio. That's twice the radio has - rescued me from a zone-out?

What's going on here? He reached for the clock radio, bringing it as close to himself as the cord would allow, then examined the radio. The first alarm was set for 6:45 a.m., Blair's usual rising time, and the backup for 7:20. Nowhere near the current time of - he checked his watch and compared it to the clock radio - 4:17 p.m.. The power button was in the off position, Jim flicked it on.

"I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral," Jim angrily cut off the singsong voices of Barenaked Ladies and hurriedly replaced the radio back on top of the nightstand.

That's it. I'm outta here. Jim rose from the bed and stalked out of Blair's room, making sure that he closed both doors. Spying the grocery list still lying on the dining room table, he grabbed it in passing. Might as well do something usesful while I get some air. He removed his coat from the hook and snatched his keys from the basket then headed out, firmly closing the door behind him.

* * * * *

Damn. This isn't working. Jim shifted restlessly in his bed, then removed the Hollywood shade from his eyes. Stretched out, he could feel and smell the familiarness of his own 200-threadcount blue sheets and pillowcase, and the expected mini-lumps of his own mattress. So why couldn't he sleep? Because of what I can't hear - Sandburg.

Jim tossed the yellow coverlet back and rolled out of bed, automatically slipping on his white terrycloth robe. He walked silently to the head of the stairway and padded down the stairs. Reaching the lower level, he paused for a moment, then quietly made his way to the kitchen. He caught a whiff of chamomile tea - Sandburg's answer to sleepless nights - then blocked it out, reaching instead for a small saucepan. Armed with the pan, Jim walked down the narrow kitchen aisle to the refrigerator and opened the door. He took out the newly-purchased gallon of milk and poured some into the saucepan. Then he carried the pan over to the stove and turned it on, allowing the milk to heat.

Jim busied himself with getting a cup and saucer from one of the upper cupboards while the milk was heating. He set them on the counter next to the stove, then grabbed a wooden spoon and slowly stirred the milk.

When it was just hot enough, he poured the warm milk into the cup, then rinsed the pan out with cold water and popped it into the dishwasher. Jim picked up his cup and saucer and walked over to the living room, settling on the white loveseat, behind the coffee table. As he drank, he wondered what his colleagues at Major Crimes would say if they saw Jim Ellison, the Great Detective, resorting to a namby-pamby cup of warm milk, trying to get some sleep. What's wrong with this picture? he thought, idly putting the empty cup down on the coffee table.

Picture? Where is-? Jim searched the coffee tabletop, but the framed photograph that he knew he'd left on the table was no longer there. Ridiculous, it's gotta be here. Jim cranked up his eyesight and searched again, only now realizing that he hadn't bothered to turn on any lights, his vision had automatically adjusted to the dark and compensated for the low lighting.

Still the picture wasn't there. Jim sat back in the loveseat and looked over his left shoulder at the bookcase along the wall behind him. Two smiling faces from the missing fishing picture grinned at him from the second to top shelf. Jim was on his feet and standing in front of the bookcase almost before he knew it. How did-?

Gingerly, he reached his right hand towards the photograph and touched the frame. He fingers lightly traced the outline of the frame, across the top then down the right hand side. All normal. What were you expecting, lighting bolts? A Kirlian aura? he asked himself sardonically. His sensitive fingers bumped into the small rectangular object next to the picture: Blair's box of micro-cassettes. Jim flinched and drew back his hand, shifting his focus to the lower shelves. Almost the first item he saw was Blair's micro-casette player. He skimmed over it quickly, then scanned the rest of the books and knickknacks on the shelf. Seconds later, his gaze returned to the tiny cassette player and then flicked to the box of cassettes above it. Decisively, Ellison picked up the cassette box in one hand and the player in the other, and walked back over to the loveseat.

Jim sat down and took a deep breath, then placed both items on the low table. He opened the box of cassettes and immediately got a dose of Sandburg, the scent was strongest on the first and most recent cassette. Jim steered clear of that cassette, which was bound to contain Blair's last notes about Alex. He randomly snatched a cassette towards the back of the tray and popped it into the player. Activating the play button, he turned the volume to bare minimum. He didn't want - didn't deserve - to hear Blair's voice. Jim just wanted to hear him breathing. He would leave the cassette player on low, go back upstairs and go to bed. He'd listen to cassette player, and lulled by Sandburg's "breathing", maybe he'd finally fall asleep.

His Sentinel ears betrayed him, focussing full strength on the cassette player...

Blair sighed. "Congratulations, Jim, you're officially drunk."

"And I donn ev'n have my badge or gun," Jim giggled. "Brother Jermy confish - confit - took 'em when we got here."

"All right, Jim, let's sit back down, okay?" The sounds of two people settling down on the ground followed. "Hey, Jim, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Nine." A pause, then Jim continued, "Three there, and there, and there."

"I see, kind of like a stereoscope. So you're seeing three of me and you've got triple Guide power, huh? how many voices are you hearing?"

"One."

"No echoes or anything, right? Just my own voice?"

"Yes."

"Point to where my voice is coming from." A pause. "Good. You remember when you piggybacked your sight to your hearing, to find that helicopter in the Martin case?" Another pause. "I want you to do the same thing now. Use your hearing to refocus your sight, merging the three Blairs that you see back into one Blair, occupying the same space as my voice. On three, okay? One, two, three... Now, how many Blairs do you see?"

"Just one, Chief." Pause. "You've got an outline of golden light around you. A halo, like on that tv show." Pause. "Are you an angel, Blair? Not just my Guidean Angel, but a real one? You can tell me, I won't tell Simon."

"No, Jim. I'm just what you and Simon are always calling me, a kid. A kid who loves rollercoaster rides."

"Be great if you were an angel. Then I wouldn't have to worry so much about getting you killed."

"Whoa, Jim, back up," Blair's voice was much more forceful. "What do you mean, getting me killed?"

"Kidnappers, killers, psychos - I've exposed you to all of them. You're my responsibility, so it's my fault if-"

"Hold it right there, Jim. I thought we'd already covered this. I'm an adult, remember? I am your Guide and your partner because I choose to be. And if - if - I end up killed in the line of duty, I'll know... we'll both know that you did everything you could to prevent it."

"But I didn't!" Jim burst out, totally caught up in the old conversation. He heard Blair's words again, full of absolute confidence and belief. "- you did everything you could to prevent it... everything you could to prevent it."

"Prevent it? I started it. I threw you out of the loft, straight into Alex's open arms." Tears streaked unnoticed down Jim's face as he continued. "Oh, God, Chief, how could I have done that? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" It was the one rock-solid truth of their partnership: that the Sentinel would do anything to keep his Guide safe. And yet Blair's dead. The truth is a lie. Jim buried his face in his hands, and his words from a previous argument struck him like a fist. "I call it a violation of friendship and trust... violation of friendship and trust..."

"I forgive you." The three little words cut through the echoes of Jim's own guilty words.

"I forgive you."

Who said - ? Jim lifted his head up, seeking the source. "Sandburg!?"

Blair Sandburg sat with his legs tucked under him, Indian-style, on top of the coffee table. Jim stared at him, practically at eye level. "And you have to forgive yourself, Jim."

"Sandburg?" Jim asked again, cataloguing every detail of the man? ghost? in front of him. The man certainly looked like Sandburg: loose dark curls, deep, penetrating blue eyes, innocent, young face...

His apparel was instantly recognizable, too: light khaki trousers, black tennis shoes, navy shirt with a double set of stripes on the shoulders, brown belt and dark green jacket. Blair's clothes from - from the fountain... Taking a deep breath, Jim looked deliberately away from the other man, and noted that the living room was not cast in the blue tones of his most vivid dreams. He returned his gaze to the seated man, and saw that his cup and saucer of milk still occupied the far right-hand corner of the tabletop. Mouth set in a firm line, Ellison raised his right hand straight in front of him, towards the other man.

Sandburg leaned backwards, avoiding Jim's touch. "Not a good idea, Jim," he said softly. "I don't want you freaking out when your hand passes through me."

Ellison flashed back to the Panther leaping into him, when he had tracked down his animal spirit to get his senses back. But that time the area was blue. His hand fell back to his side and Sandburg resumed his earlier position on the table. House rule Number 29: no sitting on the coffee table.

Sandburg waved a hand in front of Jim's face. "Jim, talk to me, okay?"

"You're not really here - are you?"

"If that's your round-about way of asking if I'm dead, we both know the answer to that is yes," Sandburg said quietly.

"Why - why are you here?"

"You needed me," Sandburg said simply. "You were zoning out on guilt, and I didn't think the radio would work, this time."

"The radio-? That was you, earlier?" Jim motioned vaguely towards Blair's room.

"Yeah, man. I moved the picture, too. I've discovered that I'm quite an accomplished poltergeist."

"You would be," Jim muttered.

Sandburg smiled, his Sentinel was starting to act like Jim, again. He met Jim's blue eyes, only inches from his own. "I came to remind you of our deal, too."

"Deal?"

"When we were at St. Sebastian's, remember?" Sandburg gestured towards the micro-cassette player and it started playing at normal volume.

"We're going to do what all partners do, Jim. We'll compromise."

"Compromise?"

"I promise that I will blank out this entire conversation from my mind and never refer to it again. Well, except for the part about the panther and Peru. You've got to tell me more about that, someday. Meanwhile, I swear that our little talk here will not influence in any way my ability to be your partner. We will go on exactly as we did before. And you have to promise me something in return."

"What?"

"You have to promise that if I die, you will do nothing to alter the status of your Sentinel abilities for one full year after my death. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross gives the same advice to all newly-bereaved patients: don't buy or sell a house, don't quit or change jobs. In short, no life-altering decisions in the first year after your loved one's gone. It's sound advice, Jim, it gives you time to cope, and to reflect on the consequences of your actions. After a year, you can do whatever you think is right - I won't be around to stop you. Do we have a deal?"

"I'll give you that year, Blair. I promise."

Sandburg's hand cut through the air and the cassette player turned off. Absolute silence descended on the loft. "Jim? Jim! Are you zoning on me, man?"

"No, I was just - remembering," Jim finally answered. For I have promises to keep...

"Remembering is good," Sandburg agreed softly, then rose to his feet, skillfully missing any contact with his partner as he maneuvered around the coffee table. "Acceptance is better."

Ellison stood up and followed Sandburg to stand in the open space in the middle of the living room. "It's harder, too. It's been nine days since -" he swallowed - "since you left."

"I'll always be with you, Jim." Sandburg raised his right hand, flat-palmed and patted the air millimeters from Jim's heart. "Right here." They locked gazes, then Sandburg continued, his tone regretful. "Physical manifestations are hard to pull off, so you will only rarely see me again, but I'll be here."

"So I'm going to be haunted for the next year, huh?" Jim asked mildly.

"We prefer the term 'watched over'."

"We, Chief?"

"We, Enqueri." A voice answered from Sandburg's left.

Jim whirled. That wasn't Blair's voice, it was... "Incacha!"

Jim's Chopec Guide stood in front of the balcony doors, in full body paint and breechcloth. Jim stood spellbound as Blair walked towards the Chopec shaman, then turned around to face Jim again. Both Guides smiled at him. Jim blinked and the group by the balcony doors expanded to include a gray wolf at Blair's side and the panther, next to Incacha.

"Blair?" Jim took a step towards the balcony doors.

"Good-bye, Jim. Take care of yourself," Sandburg spoke in his best Guide voice.

Ten seconds later, Ellison was alone in the middle of the living room, eyes locked on the empty space in front of the balcony. He shook himself. One year. It was going to be a long, hard year. Jim took a last, lingering look at the balcony doors, then slowly crossed the room and headed up the stairs for bed. But I'll make it; I've got friends -- and Guides.

THE END