Disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to Pet Fly Productions and UPN. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is exchanging hands.

Inspiration for this one comes from an Outer Limits episode. The gist of the story was that we all create our own realities, as confusing as they might become. And speaking of confusing, this is told from the first person point of view and switches back and forth between Blair and Jim. It's fairly easy to note the changes, at least I meant it to be that way. Hope you like it!

Once again, I'd like to thank my beta reader: Joanne. You are way too good to me!!! {{{{Joanne}}}}

Rated PG-13 for violence and some language. Also, I am issuing an Intense Smarm Alert! Please be warned! If you don't like smarm, please don't read this.

REALITY ECHOES
by Tate

My head--god, why is it killing me? Why does it feel like I've been knifed in the brain? "Wake up, come on, buddy." The voice speaking to me sounds distant, as though I'm trapped in a well. A deep well.

It sounds like . . . but he . . . no, a flood of deeper emotional pain washes through me. Jim's dead. "Jim?" I whisper his name without opening my eyes, wanting--no, needing desperately to know it's him, but fearing . . . knowing . . . it isn't.

"Open your eyes, please."

Please? Since when does Jim say 'please.' I must be hallucinating. The thought sends me back into the darkness, searching and stumbling through a dizzying field of nothingness. Hoping and praying he's alive, I call out to him without a voice. 'Jim?' But he can't be alive, can he? I saw his body. There was blood everywhere. His blood. Everywhere.

I feel strong hands grip my shoulders. One glides behind my neck beneath my hair, gently supporting my head as the voice returns, still sounding distant. "I've called an ambulance. They'll be here any minute, but I need you to open your eyes."

"Not if you're not real."

I don't realize I've said the words aloud until he answers me. "I'm real. I'm right here. You're safe now."

I take a deep breath and try to lift my head, immediately regretting it. Pain stabs at my left temple. Searing, mind-blowing pain. I moan. Even though I want to find out if my 'Blessed Protector' is really leaning over me and very much alive, I feel myself slipping away again. Down, down, into waiting darkness. Into another dream . . . or another reality.

****

Blair has gone limp in my hands, losing consciousness again. God, where is that ambulance? His injuries don't seem life-threatening, but his reluctance to open his eyes and his confused exchange with me make me think the blow to the head he sustained could have caused some real damage.

Even though he can't feel me, I don't withdraw my touch. It's like I have to feel that he's alive though I can hear his heart beating. And the second he begins to come to again, he'll know I'm with him. "Please, Chief, don't give the old man a heart attack," I whisper. "You need to wake up."

****

"Wake up, Sandburg." A hand is shaking my arm. I open my eyes and turn toward the voice, lifting my head off the window. Jim is sitting beside me, grim-faced. He shifts his hand to the steering wheel as I notice the truck's engine is running. I blink a few times, letting a dream slip away. We're in motion before I can fully understand what's happening. "Risley is on the move," Jim explains. "We need to follow him. Buckle up."

"Great," I mutter, clicking my seat belt into place as Jim pulls the Ford onto a main road.

I remind myself that Chet Risley is an informant who has apparently crossed back over to the other side. He's suspected of tipping off a local drug dealer about a bust. Now, they believe Risley's preparing to make another such tip-off. Jim and I have been assigned to the detail of following the turncoat and making sure his path doesn't cross with that of Cascade PDs new focus--a suspected arms dealer. How fun for us--especially on a Saturday night and especially when I've had little sleep for the last couple of days.

The bust is going to go down in the morning. Jim hasn't been working on the case, but since we just wrapped up another one, Simon gave us this assignment. No rest for the weary. I know Jim is at least as tired as I am. Glancing over at him, I don't need Sentinel senses to see how haggard he looks. I admonish myself for not being able to stay awake to make sure he didn't zone-out.

"What's wrong?" he asks, aware of my appraisal.

"Nothing," I reply. "Are you able to focus on Risley okay?"

Jim nods. "Yeah, he's playing some of that alternative stuff you like. I'm tuning into it."

I smile and turn back to look out the front window. At midnight, the streets of the city are still alive, though traffic isn't as thick as it had been earlier. Jim is staying well behind the Dodge so as not to give us away. I notice that we're driving though the seedier part of town. Pimps and hookers walk the sidewalks, pushers slink down allies, the poor and homeless stumble around becoming easy targets for trashed-out junkies who know no better than to prey on people who have nothing. I shrink a little in my seat, glad the man sitting beside me is a cop--a big, sentinel, tribe-protecting, Sandburg-saving cop. God love him.

He must have picked up on my agitation, maybe my increased heart rate. "Everything's okay," he assures me. "I don't think Risley is going to be stopping around here. He lives on Howard, at least five blocks north of the worst of this. My guess is that he's heading there now."

"Oh," I reply softly, not know what else to say and a little embarrassed about my reaction to our surroundings. I've been in bad parts of town before without Jim. I guess it's just the stress of the last few days and the fact I've been looking forward to some downtime. And now, here I am back in the middle of it, sworn to protect and serve a man who is sworn to protect and serve the whole of Cascade.

After a minute or so of silence, I think of an intelligent question to ask him. "Is his phone tapped? You know testifying you can hear him tipping them off from around the block won't hold up in court."

"He doesn't have a phone, Chief. If he makes a call, it'll have to be from someone else's phone or a pay phone. Besides, if he does tip them off, he'll probably do it in person."

"Oh," I say again.

Jim looks over at me for a second and smiles. Returning his eyes to the road, he lets one hand leave the wheel and lightly swats my cheek. "Good try though. I'll make a cop out of you yet."

I laugh. I'm amazed at the fact that though we are both spent, we're able to share a pleasant moment while tracking yet another bad guy. I guess friends can share moments of friendship at the strangest times. And though the streets around me are filled with cold misery, in here beside him, I feel the warmth of the bond between us.

God, I must be tired. I usually don't get this sappy unless I'm half asleep or drunk.

We've crossed though the worst of it and into some run-down but quiet neighborhoods, just like Jim promised. Looking through the darkness, aided by the glow of street lamps that aren't broken or burned out, I see crooked houses, junked cars and dark apartment buildings.

"He's stopped a couple blocks up. I think it's Howard street." Jim turns to me. "We'll probably just end up parking by his place and spending the night. If he makes a move, we'll catch him."

I struggle to suppress a yawn. "I hope he doesn't make a move," I say.

"You and me both, Chief," he says as he pulls onto Howard and parks across the street.

I can't help myself--in moments I'm leaning against the window again, slipping into another dream. I feel Jim lift my head off the cold glass and slip something warm between as a cushion. I must have mumbled something, but for the life of me, I don't know what I said.

"Shh, it's okay. Just sleep," he says.

****

"Blair, please, wake up. I need you to wake up." The words are muffled but understandable.

Can't Jim make up his mind? One minute he's pillowing my head and the next he's telling me to rise and shine. Didn't I just close my eyes? I grumble something.

"That's it, come on. You've taken a bad blow to the head. Risley whacked you with his gun. Open your eyes, buddy. I'm right here."

Risley? Oh, god, no. Risley shot Jim. He went down. Jim went down. Too late. I was too late. Blood. There was blood. Jim's blood.

Not wanting to give into another delusion, I try to turn away from the sound of the muffled voice. The voice that isn't Jim's. That can't be. Pain flashes and I see white against my closed lids. I jerk back and though someone's hand is holding the back of my neck, I manage to bang my head. The pain is unbearable. I choke with it, not caring if I block my breath. Not caring, not wanting to take another.

****

I wince as he manages to knock his head back against the concrete. "Easy, Blair. Take it easy," I caution. Right then, he starts coughing, as his breath becomes labored. Still, he hasn't opened his eyes. "Blair, listen to me, try not to move. Calm down. You're okay. Do you hear me? You're okay." I wonder if my words are true; I pray they are. His breathing slows as he loses his grip on consciousness yet again.

A few pedestrians have gathered around us, but no one has offered to help. Just then, a car pulls up. One of ours. Brown steps out with Rafe close behind. They both kneel beside me and my partner. "A uniform picked up Risley about a few blocks away," Brown announces. "How is he?" He nods at Sandburg.

"Stubborn," I reply. "He took a bad blow from Risley's gun. At first I thought he'd been shot." The admission costs me a fair fraction of my composure. Remembering my fear when I found Blair lying on the sidewalk with blood pouring from his head and the smell of gunpowder in his hair, the anger I felt for the traitorous snitch returns full force. God, I'd even heard the gun discharge with horrible clarity before I ran out of the liquor store. "Dammit! Where's that ambulance!" I shout. Instinctively, I turn my hearing up until I locate the sound of a siren. It won't be long now.

I bow my head, returning my attention to Sandburg. The blood on his face and on my hands is already drying, but a thin trickle has started to run from his nose. "No." I mouth the word and close my eyes for a moment. It could mean a serious brain injury. I take a deep breath opening my eyes again. Keeping my right hand behind Blair's neck, I use the other to touch the uninjured side of his face, smudging the blood from under his nose with my thumb as if I can somehow erase the possibilities. "I need you to hang on, Chief. Just hang on."

****

"Buckle up, Chief." I hear the words in my half-awake state. Moments before, a hand had touched me, jarring me from yet another much needed nap.

Lifting my head, I feel a slight weight settle on my shoulder. Pulling the jacket away, I drop it in my lap as I reach for the seat belt again. My hands seem to be acting on auto pilot as I snap the belt into place. I blink a few times and my eyes focus on Jim who is pulling the car onto the street again. A strange sense of déjà vu comes over me before I realize what's happening. It must have registered on my face.

Looking back at the road, Jim explains, "Risley's on the move again."

I don't reply, instead I try to read my watch in the dimness of the passing street lights. "It's 2:40," Jim offers.

"Mmm." I can't manage much more that a sound, I'm so tired. I scrub my hand over my eyes and yawn.

"I'm sorry, Blair," Jim says, as he turns the Ford back onto a main street. "You're wiped. I should have left you at home." There isn't a hint of anger or disappointment in his voice. There should be. Instead, he sounds like a father apologizing to his kid for keeping him out late at a ballgame.

"No, I'm sorry, man. I'm lousy backup tonight," I reply.

"Son-of-a-bitch . . ." Jim utters, staring out the front window.

"What? What's wrong?" I ask.

"He turned off his radio." Jim's jaw clenches. He knows what can happen if we lose this guy. Someone, one of Cascade's finest, one of our friends, could get hurt tomorrow morning. Or worse.

"Okay, Jim," I begin, knowing how much he needs me. "Each car has a distinctive sound. You've been hearing it along with the music. Just hone in on that sound. Let it lead you."

Jim takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His face hardens with concentration. I know that his feelings of responsibility are weighing heavily on his shoulders. I know because I'm feeling the same way. Reaching out, I lay a hand on his arm, gently so as not to disturb his focus. I just need him to know I'm with him and I believe he can do it.

"There," he says. "I hear it. He's turned left up ahead, not far in front of us." Tilting his head slightly, Jim continues to speak, "I just caught a glimpse of the Dodge before it passed behind a building."

I let out a breath I'd unknowingly been holding and pull my hand back. It's okay, everything would be okay now. Especially if this guy is just out for a joy ride, but of course, I know it won't be that simple. In seconds, Jim confirms my fear.

"He's stopped."

Without knowing what I'm doing, I grip the door handle as though it can offer some support. I look over at Jim waiting for him to say something else.

"The engine is still running, but he's stopped."

"At a light?" I offer.

"No, I don't think so." I'm studying Jim's features so strongly even in semi-darkness I can make out the look of confusion crossing his face. A hardened look of anger replaces it. "Dammit!" he swears as he takes the corner quick enough that I slide against the door, despite the seat belt.

"What? What is it?" I ask, bracing my hands against the dash and the door as he speeds through a light turning red.

"He's holding up a store!"

"What?"

"The bastard is committing an armed robbery!"

"Now?"

Jim looks over at me as if to say 'of course, now.' He returns his focus to somewhere up ahead and in a matter of a few more seconds, he swerves the truck over to the side, blocking the Dodge that's parked along the sidewalk and jumping the curb in his haste. The truck jerks to a halt.

"Stay here and call for backup!" he shouts as he opens the driver door. He tosses his cell phone at me. Jumping out, he pulls his gun and checks it. With one more look at me, he warns, "Do not, I repeat, do not get out of this truck, Sandburg!" He slams the door, and though I gape after him, I know he's only trying to protect me.

I watch nervously as he enters the all-night liquor store, gun at his side. I'm dialing as he walks through the door. Automatically, like so many times before, I give our location and situation in the calmest voice I can muster. But calmness be damned when I hear the first shots.

I find myself standing on the sidewalk staring through the glass.

****

The ambulance is pulling up and suddenly, the body in my arms convulses. Blair's heart speeds up. His eyes open but he's looking beyond me at a point somewhere over my left shoulder. It seems as though he's witnessing a scene only he can see. His hand reaches up and grasps my jacket. I want to hold onto it, but I'm busy supporting his head. I refuse to let him do more damage to himself. "Shh, it's okay," I say softly. "Just take it easy."

Brown is beside me, trying to still Blair's legs as they thrash. "It's all right, kid," he adds.

"No, no, plea . . ." Blair's cries are slurred. His blue eyes wander, but don't settle on either of us. "J-Jim went in . . . shot . . . was shot . . ."

"Shh, I'm right here, buddy," I say. "You weren't shot. He hit you with the gun."

"No . . . not . . . not me . . . Jim," Blair insists. "God . . . no . . ." His eyes close and he takes a deep shuddering breath. My heart almost stops, but I realize that he's still conscious. He's still holding onto my jacket for dear life.

Behind me, I hear the EMTs moving in with their equipment. Someone is standing right over my shoulder. "If you can hold him steady for a couple more seconds while we set up the board and collar."

I nod in understanding. They aren't taking any chances with him. He could have a neck injury too from the force of the blow. Right then, Blair starts to move again. He releases me and raises his hands to his head. Brown let's go of his legs and goes for his hands, but is too late. Blair's already woven his fingers in his hair. His eyes are still shut tight. "He's dead," he moans. "Jim's dead. It hurts. It's all black."

I can feel the pain in his words and I try to reassure him. "I'm not dead, Chief. I'm right here. I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay. Just stay still. Do you hear me? Stay still."

Of course, being Mr. Obedient, or not hearing me at all, he uses his now-freed legs to get some leverage, kicking out and twisting against my hold. Releasing his head, he pushes at the ground with his hands. Somehow, he manages to lift his upper body, though he's unknowingly turning toward me rather than away. I reposition one hand behind his back, trying to keep his neck straight with the other.

"Blair, stop it!" I shout, afraid he's doing more harm.

His eyes open and he looks up at me, meeting my stare for the first time. The fear he'd lost his sight is erased by the look he gives me. It's a look of utter surprise. He quiets in my arms. "I couldn't save you." The words are a whisper. I don't think anyone else can hear them, but they tighten my chest. He still thinks I'm dead.

"Blair . . ." I begin, but his eyes have already closed. His body is going limp. It's heavy in my arms. Beside me, Brown is adding his hands to Blair's back as the EMTs move in.

****

I can't wait.

I'm not waiting.

'You can't make me wait out here, Jim Ellison.' I don't say the words aloud because I know he can hear me. If . . . if he's okay. I stride toward the glass door. Visible on the other side, I can make out shelves of alcohol. I hear the sounds of shouting. And another gunshot. There's a flash of movement.

I'm being stupid. I know that, but I can't help myself. My hand is on the door when I see someone moving toward it from the other side. My heart leaps into my throat. It's not Jim. I'm held in place by that revelation and the door hits me as it's flung outward.

Suddenly, I'm sitting on the concrete staring up into the face of Chet Risley. He aims a gun at me. I flinch at the sight of the barrel. Risley pulls the trigger and . . . it clicks. He's out of bullets. He swears. Sirens in the distance catch his attention and instead of bothering with me anymore, he bolts.

Catching my breath, I get to my feet and rush into the store, calling Jim's name. Praying, begging, pleading with every deity whose name I can remember that he's okay. Please, please, please, be okay. But even before I see him, I know he's not. If he had been, he would've been right behind Risley.

The sight knocks me off my feet. I'm on my knees moaning and Jim, he's . . . he had fallen back against a shelf of broken glass and there's blood on his sweater and blood pooled behind him, blood on the glass shards around him. So much blood. He's dead. I know he's dead before I even touch him, before I slip the gun out of his lifeless fingers.

The reality of it all crashes down around me as I lean forward and pass my hand over his face to close his eyes. For a few seconds, I let my hand rest against his cheek. Jim's dead. He's dead and I couldn't save him. I didn't save him. Some piece-of-shit snitch killed him. Killed the man who's life was committed to saving others, who's life was my whole world.

The gun feels heavy as I shift it to my right hand. I'm sobbing now, caressing the gun between both of my hands and wanting desperately to turn away from the scene in front of me. "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm so sorry." I rock slightly, hearing glass crunch beneath my knees. I would never have believed that I could think the thoughts running through my head. More than anything I want to find Risley and put a bullet in his brain. I also want my own pain to end. I want this all to be over. All over.

****

As I sit beside him in the ambulance, Blair starts to moan. "Sorry, Jim. I'm so sorry," he murmurs.

Leaning forward, I grasp his arm. "Sandburg, it's Jim, I'm right here," I say.

An EMT is working on him, lifting his eyelids and shining a light in them. "One's dilated," he announces. "I think it's more serious than just a concussion. You said he's been fading in and out?"

"Yeah," I reply. "He was hit about six or seven minutes before you got there."

"He probably took another blow from the fall," the man suggests. "Has he been lucid at all?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't think he knows what happened. He seemed very confused."

Blair moans again and begins to mumble. I can barely make out the words, even with my abilities. "Risley . . . have to get . . .Risley . . . for Jim . . . have to . . ."

I squeeze his arm. "Risley's in custody. It's over, buddy. It's all over."

His hand clenches into a fist. "Over?" His eyes open only slightly.

"We're taking you to a hospital, Blair. Just hang on."

****

I can barely hear someone talking to me. I can barely see an out-of-focus ceiling and I can't turn my head. Someone says it's over and I'm going to the hospital. But why? What's happened? Why does my head hurt so much? Why can't I think straight? And Jim . . . the memory steals my breath . . . Jim's dead. And I must have . . . Jesus . . . I must have shot myself in the head.

That's it isn't it? That must be it, but I don't even remember putting the barrel to my head or pulling the trigger. I just remember holding the gun. Holding it and then

feeling . . . oh, god . . . I hear it . . . the sound of a gunshot and the painful explosion. And then I was falling. Warm blood, it was pouring down the side of my face.

But the truth is I am alive. I'm still breathing and he's not. Jim's not. Why am I still breathing? If I did this, why couldn't I do it right?

The darkness still wants me. I feel it behind my eyes. If I just let go, let go and let it have me, maybe, just maybe, I can have some peace.

****

"Chief?" I grasp his arm tighter as his eyes slip closed again and his breathing pattern changes. "Blair stay with me, come on. You need to stay awake."

The EMT is echoing my words, trying to rouse Blair, but we both fail. There's no response. None at all. "We'll be at the hospital soon," the tech says, repositioning an IV bag. "There's not much we can do until we know how bad the brain injury is."

I nod, knowing that's what it is. A brain injury. It's not just another knock on the head or slight concussion. Blair had suffered more of those than I could count. He'd been knocked around by mountain men, psycho-killers, kidnappers. But this was much worse.

Below the EMT's voice, I'm listening to Blair's slowed heartbeat. It frightens me, terrifies me. Why didn't he stay in the truck? I rub my free hand over my face. 'Damn you, Sandburg, you should have stayed in the fucking truck.' I want to say those words, to shout them at him, but I know it wouldn't do any good. Besides, it's really my fault. I should never have brought him. He should have stayed at home, where he'd be safe. Where I could've walked in and heard him sleeping peacefully after this long night of surveillance. Instead, I know I'm in for a long night of hell.

We're pulling into the drive of Cascade General. I hear people on the outside moving toward us. A cold gust greets us as the doors are thrown. Together, we manage to glide Blair out of the ambulance with as much care as possible. They wheel him toward the emergency doors. I'm still beside him, holding his arm though I know he can't feel me. The cold turns to warmth as we step across the threshold, but I still feel the chill inside. I realize the blow Risley dealt him could kill him; I know he could very well be bleeding internally, his brain bruised and damaged. I know he might never wake up.

Someone, no, more than one person is pulling me away from him, telling me I can't follow, but my voice follows. My voice screams his name as if he could hear me, telling him if he leaves, if he dies, I will never forgive him. "Sandburg!"

"Jim, easy. They're trying to help him." Simon is spinning me around and I'm suddenly looking into his concerned face, taking in his slightly disheveled aspect. They must have gotten him out of bed with the news. "What happened? I only have sketchy details."

He's trying to claim my focus and draw me away from my perceived helplessness. No, not perceived, very real. There isn't a damn thing I can do to save my partner. My thoughts are lost in the revelation, so much so, I stare without speaking at my captain.

He shakes my shoulders. "Ellison!"

I take a deep breath, release it and swallow. "It was Risley," I begin. "We were following him and I heard him robbing a liquor store. I told Sandburg to stay in the truck. When I entered, I found a dead clerk and Risley going through the cash register. We exchanged gunfire. He knocked over a shelf between us, and by the time I got around it he was out the door. Blair . . ." I take another deep breath, trying to ease the sharpness of the memory. "I heard Risley's gun go off. When I came outside, Blair was lying on the sidewalk with blood all over his face."

Simon's own breath becomes a gasp. His grip tightened on my shoulders. "Jim . . ."

I wave the captain to silence. "I thought Risley had shot him. I couldn't leave Sandburg, but I relayed Risley's direction while checking on the kid. I smelled gunpowder in his hair. God, Simon, I was so sure, but all I found was a gash. The gun must have gone off when he struck Sandburg with it. The amplified force and the blow from his fall . . . Simon, I think he might have brain damage."

He releases me and takes a step back. "You're not a doctor, Jim. You can't say that for . . ."

"No, I'm not," I interrupt. "But I have medic training. Blair's been fading in and out of consciousness. He has no idea what really happened. While I was holding him, he started bleeding from his nose and his pupils are responding differently to light."

The captain shook his head. "You don't know, Jim. I'm sure the doctors can tell us something more definite after they've examined him."

****

Darkness. Darkness and loss. Pain. Pounding, flashing pain. And I'm alone. Coolness brushes over my skin. And a sterile smell. Someone is positioning me. I feel hands touching me. Pain. But yet I'm alone. If there were a million people trying to heal my head, I'd still be alone without the one I've spent most of my waking hours with for . . . two years. Hundreds of days and thousands of minutes. All gone, past and lost. Beyond claim. Even my memories seem to be slipping away. But I do know . . . I do remember that Jim's dead. And I'm not. Not yet.

****

Simon and I listen as Dr. Jensen explains Sandburg's condition. "We still don't know the extent of the damage. We've run some tests, a CAT scan, and determined he is not hemorrhaging, but frankly, we know so little about the brain that it's difficult to say how this will turn out."

I felt the anger rising in my gut. *This,* as he so casually said, is my partner's life--our life. And Jensen couldn't tell me a damn thing.

"Will he live?" The question comes from Simon, not me.

"We don't know yet. The next 48 to 72 hours should tell us that much."

"Is there anything else you can tell us, Doctor?" Simon asks, hopefully. "Has he been conscious at all?"

"For brief spans of time, he has, and he's called your name, Detective."

****

"He thinks you're dead?" Simon asks after I explain Blair's reactions during his brief episodes of consciousness.

I nod. "Somehow he's gotten the idea that Risley killed me. I haven't been able to convince him otherwise. Knowing Sandburg, he probably blames himself for what he thinks went down. I need to see him. I need to reach him."

"The doc will be out here when he's ready for you to go in. You heard him," Simon assures me.

"Yeah, now if I can only get Blair to hear *me,*" I say.

****

The pain has lessened, but it's near, waiting. And my world is spinning, turning. I feel as if I'm moving though I know I'm lying down, still. Sounds drift to me from the left. The ringing in my head distracts me, claims me. I'm climbing closer to the surface, but I don't want to break through. There's nothing for me above. No one.

Then, there's a hand under my chin, fingers laying against one side of my face and a thumb pressing against my cheek. It turns my head, slightly, carefully. I moan. 'No more,' I want to say. 'Just leave me alone.'

But then I hear his voice. Close to my ear, close enough I can feel the breath behind each word. "Chief, I'm not dead. I'm right here waiting for you. Can you hear me? I'm right here. Jim's right here."

The image of his lifeless body flashes in my mind. In a matter of moments, tears seep through my closed lashes. If I open my eyes, he'll be gone. If I open my eyes, Jim will be dead. 'Please say something more,' I beg. 'Please don't leave me.' The words don't leave my mouth, but he continues to speak.

"I know you're afraid. I am too. I know you're conscious. I need you to open your eyes, Blair. Believe me, I'm not going anywhere." The hand on my face moves. And I feel a touch wipe the tears running down my temple. I bite my lip against the sobs building in my throat.

'I want to believe you,' I say in my head. 'But how can I?' A shiver runs through me, waking the pain.

"Easy, shh, I know," Jim's voice continues. His hand moves to rest against my chest and strangely, I wonder if his senses can feel the anguish building there. "But I promise you, I'm right here. Please, Blair . . . please."

I have to--I have to know. Slowly I open my eyes. Someone is with me, watching me. God, let it be Jim. I shift my gaze and move my head, wincing at the pain. Everything is a little out of focus, but he's near enough to recognize. The sound that escapes my mouth is a sorry attempt at his name, but he understands it.

"Yeah, Chief, it's me."

I try to close the distance between us, but only manage to cause more pain in my head, back, and neck. It takes my breath.

"No, don't move," he cautions. He bends over closer to me. "You took a pretty bad knock in the head, Sandburg. Just stay still."

I lift one hand between us and press it against his chest, just to confirm to my own dazed senses he is alive. He covers it with his own. He holds it close for a moment and then gently pulls it away. The fuzzy edges of his image have cleared and now I can make out his relieved expression.

"I don't know who was more scared, Chief," he says, "me or you."

"Me," I mouth.

"No, me," he whispers back.

I manage a smile and he laughs softly. He pats my face again before he puts a little more space between us, holding himself above me with one hand pressed against the bed and his arm straight. "You need to do me a favor, Blair," he says.

"What?"

"Stay awake, okay?"

"If you . . . me one," I reply, my voice isn't quite cooperating.

"What?" he asks.

"Stay alive." I truly mean what I say. I couldn't stand it if this was just another trick of my mind.

Jim winks. "I think I can manage that, Chief." He starts to move away, blurring in my field of vision. I panic and grab for him as he's about to turn. I wince with the effort it takes just to close my hand around his forearm. He leans forward again, placing his hand on top of mine. "Okay, bad move," he concedes. "I need to let someone know you're awake though."

"Wait?"

"I'll wait, for a little while at least." He leans over me again and flashes a couple of fingers in front of my face. "How many fingers am I holding up, Chief?"

"Two," I reply.

"Good," he says. "Is your vision blurred at all?"

"A little."

"That's okay. It should be back to normal soon. What about your hearing?"

For the first time, I realize he sounds a bit muffled as though I'm listening in mono. "It's funny," I answer.

He nods. "The doctors think you might have some temporary loss from the gun going off so close to your ear."

Oh, no, I didn't . . . I . . .

****

Blair's eyes widen. His breath starts to come quicker and his heart speeds up. For a second I think he's about to have a seizure. "Blair . . ."

But he starts to speak between gasps. "I . . . shot . . . I . . . your gun . . . me . . .," the words he utters are disjointed, but I understand. He thinks he shot himself.

"Chief, no," I tell him, grasping his shoulder. "You were hit. Risley hit you in the head with his gun and it went off." The idea that he would even think he had shot himself in response to my death is horrifying. Would he have done that? Could he have possibly been so shattered by it that he would have taken my gun, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger? Once he's stronger, we are definitely having a long, long talk. A talk about survival, about life.

****

The last few weeks have been difficult. Therapy. Headaches. More therapy. Frustration. But I'm almost back to normal now. Sometimes I have trouble holding things in my right hand. I've dropped more than one glass. But I'm getting much better. The slight ringing in my left ear hasn't abated, but white noise helps me sleep at night. Sooner or later, it'll either go away or I'll get used to it.

Then there's my memory. I have trouble recalling some things. Most of them are trivial--phone numbers, birthdays. But what really irks me is that I remember very little of that night. It has faded into a blur. A haze of disjointed images.

But one image remains. My battered mind turned my worst fear into a vivid scene--a vision of the death of my closest friend. I remember seeing Jim dead and believing he had died. It's the most horrifying experience I've ever had--a memory that isn't real, but will forever stay with me.

And Jim, he occasionally throws these strange looks my way. Contemplative looks. Sorrowful looks. Like he had a hand in my injury somehow. Or like he knows something I don't.

He's told me what happened--more than once, because I've asked him more than once. But I think he's leaving something out. Whatever it is, it must be important. A piece of the puzzle that will finally bring that horrible night into focus.

The fact that Risley is behind bars awaiting trial is a small consolation. I'm grateful he's off the streets and unable to hurt anyone else, but my encounter with him has shaken me like no other. The blow he dealt me with his gun injured more than just my brain. It left me with the fear that even though Jim is a Sentinel, life could end as easily for him as it could for me. As it almost did for me.

The loft is quiet at this early evening hour. I'm sitting at the table with a pad and pencil, trying to work on some notes for school but my thoughts have been intruding. I look over to the couch. Jim's sitting there leaning over the coffee table. He's been pouring over a new case file for the last half-hour or so. He straightens. Resting his back against the cushions, he folds his arms behind his head, cradling it as he stretches from one side to the other. He sighs, then leans forward again.

This is a good time for a break. A good time for a talk. I stand and walk over to the couch, perching carefully on the armrest beside him. He looks over at me and smiles. "What's up, Chief? You getting hungry?"

I shake my head. "No, not really."

His forehead wrinkles. He must be reading something in my face. He turns his whole body toward me. "Are you feeling okay?"

"There's something you haven't told me, man. What is it?"

"Blair, . . ." he begins.

"I won't freak. Really," I add, hastily.

"Maybe now's not the time, Chief."

"Then when? You've been looking at me like . . . I dunno, like you need to tell me something. What about that night are you saving, man?"

Jim lays a hand on my knee. He looks deep into my eyes, like he's trying to find out if I can handle whatever it is he has to say. Finally, he speaks. "When you were coming to in the hospital, you told me you thought you'd shot yourself in the head."

"I'd never do that," I reply immediately, feeling the heat rise to my face. Some of the memories and all of the pain come flooding back. The hallucination--holding Jim's gun and thinking, oh god, thinking I'd put the barrel against my temple and pulled the trigger--replays itself, devouring every other thought in its wake. I feel myself beginning to shake. "I'd never . . ."

"Promise me, Chief," Jim says. I didn't see him move, but he's standing over me now. Both hands are resting on my shoulders, gripping them tightly, kneading them. "Promise me you wouldn't."

I look up into his eyes. Most people who know Jim say he's unreadable, but he's never seemed that way to me. I can tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Now it's fear. I have to do something to erase that fear.

"I promise. I swear I would never do something like that. Never."

He does the strangest, but most natural thing. He leans forward and plants the whisper of a kiss on my forehead. "Consider that a blessing on your hard head, Chief," he says. "And a promise from me to you that I'll do my best not to leave you."

I sigh, blinking back the moisture in my eyes. He releases my shoulders and gently pats my face between both of his hands. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I am now," I reply, smiling up at him.

"Me too." He returns my smile.

THE END