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

A thousand thanks to those of you who responded to part one of this series, "The Struggle." Your words of encouragement spurred me on to complete part two. (You won't understand this story if you don't read "The Struggle". It would also help if you've seen the "Switchman" episode.) I hope you like this.

Again, a HUGE thank you to Joanne for beta reading this piece!! You are a gem!!

Rated PG-13 for some strong language. 

FOR SANITY AND SENSE
by Tate

Jim's words echoed in my mind as he retreated upstairs. The memory of them tightened my chest and stole my breath. 'Fucking hocus-pocus.' Everything I'd done for him, everything I'd ever tried to do had been summarily dismissed as 'fucking hocus-pocus.' He said nothing had changed. I'd added nothing to the equation. I was nothing to him. Ah, logic.

'All right, then, Nothing,' I told myself, 'get your ass in gear.' I collected my shoes and managed to slip them over my feet. I tried to tie them, but my left hand, attached as it was to my broken wrist, wouldn't cooperate. Any movement of my fingers sent jolts of pain through my entire arm. I gasped, immediately regretting it. Jim could hear me. I had to get out before he came back downstairs.

I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I needed to call a retreat. I'd seen Jim lash out in anger many times, and I'd been on the receiving end before, but his words hurt nonetheless, and maybe more than ever. I wasn't upset at all by the fact he'd just broken my wrist; it'd been an accident. The problem was, I'd failed him. He'd recognized the failure and threw it up in my face. I'd hoped the method I'd chosen to cure his flashbacks would be the right one. It obviously wasn't. For either of us.

Grabbing my keys off the counter, I rushed out the door. I had no doubt Jim heard me leave, so I took the stairs as fast as I dared and made it to the Volvo in record time. I opened the heavy door with one hand and slid in, cursing at the inconvenience one-handed driving would cause. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on the streets at that early hour. As I drove, I kept my left arm crossed over my stomach. The pain pulsed in time with my heart, a constant reminder of what had just taken place.

In a few minutes, I found myself at a park. I drove around it a couple times, wondering if I should stop and get out. I considered walking around and clearing my head. I finally decided not to, knowing he'd probably find me right away if I just took a stroll out in the open. And I didn't want Jim to find me. Besides, it was cold and I hadn't bothered to grab my jacket on the way out. Putting it on would have been beyond my capabilities anyway.

I pulled back onto a main thoroughfare and kept an eye out for a small restaurant or coffee shop we'd never been to before. Finding a place called Rita's Diner, I pulled onto a side street and parked.

Getting unbuckled and out of the car was harder than getting in. Either that, or my wrist was in worse shape. Just moving my arm sent stabbing pains from the tips of my fingers to my elbow. Damn, Jim had a grip of steel.

The short distance from the car up the sidewalk had me shivering. I crossed my good arm over the injured one, rubbing at my shoulder for warmth. Inside, the diner was toasty and quiet. A woman waited for me behind the counter. "May I have a cup of coffee?" I asked.

"Sure, hon," she replied. Her nametag read Esther and she looked to be in her early fifties. "Anything else? How about a donut?"

Immediately, I thought of Jim. I remembered him sitting in a diner like this one, commenting on the smell of a donut. I brought it to him. A drug, Golden, had stolen his sight. I had to put the donut in his hand. He'd needed me then.

I must have had some look on my face for Esther to comment on it.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Feeling a little shaky, I eased myself onto the stool. "Fine," I muttered. "I don't want a donut. Thanks, though."

I placed my injured wrist on the counter, wincing as I did so. She noticed. How could she not? Maybe I wanted her sympathy.

"What happened to you?" She gently touched my hand.

"It was an accident," I replied. Under my breath I uttered, "He didn't mean it."

She smiled sadly. "Things may seem bad now, but they'll get better. Here, let me get you the coffee you asked for." She poured a cup and placed it on the counter in front of me. "It's on the house," she whispered.

I grinned. "Thanks."

I lifted the cup and took a sip. It was strong and hot. Just what I needed. Another customer came in and she went to take his order, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

In my head, I replayed the morning's events. I remembered waking to find Jim leaning over me with a strange look in his eyes, a look I couldn't read. I had no idea what was going on. I asked him, but he couldn't give me a straight answer. And then, he caught me as I was about to brain myself on the coffee table and pulled me into a hug! Definitely not normal. Of course, I could never push him away, even if I'd wanted to. And I didn't want to. Hearing his heart beat loudly in his chest, the thought something was wrong with him came to me. I was sure he was about to tell me he had cancer or something. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine losing him.

But it turned out to be a dream--a nightmare about the Switchman case. He dreamed I died on the bus, that Veronica killed me with his gun. I could barely fathom what it must have been like. I would have freaked if I dreamed of his death. I wanted so much to help him.

When he zoned, flashing back on the dream, I almost lost it. But the answer came to me. Jim had flashed back to the dream! What if I flashed him back to the actual event. Let him relive it as it happened. Good going, Sandburg. Yeah, right.

The trance seemed to be working until he heard me scream for him in the bus. Dammit! I never knew he hadn't heard me. He'd focused so intensely on finding the bomb that he'd blocked out my cries for help. When, in the trance, he heard them for the first time, he grabbed my wrist--instinctively reaching for line to the real world. I lost my balance and ended up kneeling right beside him. His grip was crushing, but I knew he had to finish walking through the events. I talked right in his ear encouraging him to find the bomb while struggling to keep my voice level. But Jim knew something was wrong.

Seeing the look in Jim's eyes when he came out of it and realized he had broken my wrist hurt more than the injury itself. I tried to dismiss it as the accident it was, but he wouldn't work with me. And then, he had to say it--'fucking hocus-pocus.' It was as if everything I'd ever done for him, everything I'd tried to do over the last two years meant nothing at that moment. He said it himself: 'Nothing has changed.' I'd done my best to keep him sane and focused, to help him control his senses. And he practically told me I was worthless. I sighed. "You could have just taken your gun out and shot me." I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until Esther looked at me sideways. "Nothing, it's nothing," I murmured. My own choice of words made me grimace.

Her concerned gaze only intensified as she walked toward me. "Is there anything I can do for you? Anyone I can call?"

"No," I replied, amazed at the depth of her empathy. I attempted a smile as I slid off the stool. Reaching in my back pocket, I discovered I'd left my wallet back at the loft. 'Perfect. Things can't get any better,' I thought.

She must have realized my dilemma. "It's on the house, remember?"

"Oh yeah, thanks. That's very kind of you," I told her.

She smiled. "My pleasure, hon."

I turned toward the door with my wrist pressed against my side, wondering where to go next and what I could possibly do without any money.

As I drove around Cascade aimlessly, I thought back to the last time I'd broken anything--my arm falling out of a neighbor's tree. Now, here I was again, trying to cope with a fracture. 'It was about time. Hanging out with Jim was bound to lead to a broken bone or two, but who knew he'd do the breaking.' I caught myself with that thought, biting my lower lip. It wasn't his fault. He didn't mean to.

'And if you'd be less stubborn, you'd know he didn't mean to hurt your feelings either,' the angel on one shoulder said.

'Yeah, right,' the devil on the other mocked, echoing Jim once again. 'Fucking hocus-pocus.' I frowned, unwilling to let go of the hurt and return to the loft.

I drove for a good hour without a destination in mind. Somehow, I ended up on a road below the Green Street Bridge.

It was one strange coincidence. I'd had no intention of coming back to the scene of the bombing. I pulled the car to the side and parked, making sure I was not obstructing any traffic. Rolling the window down slightly, I let the awareness of the location come to me with the sound of seagulls carried in the crisp morning air. Looking over, I marveled at the difference between the overpass as it currently existed and the skeleton that had remained after the Switchman bombing.

It was still early enough for the traffic to be light. I watched cars pass cross the expanse, hearing their rumble. Most of the commuters had no idea what had happened two years ago. I wondered how many times I'd crossed it myself without thinking about the bus and all the passengers who'd been seconds away from losing their lives. If it hadn't been for Jim's senses, they would have. I would have.

I fell back into the memory I'd asked Jim to relive.

My memory wasn't made up of the exact scene and verbatim exchange. Instead, I recalled feelings and snatches of images. I remembered the fear. The feeling had grown in intensity when I realized Veronica wasn't going to tell us where she'd hid the bomb. But suddenly, I knew Jim could find it. He was, after all, a Sentinel. I told him to listen for it, and almost immediately, he accepted my suggestion. Then, he handed me the gun.

I would never admit to Jim how afraid I was when he gave it to me and asked me to watch her. I'd never held a gun before. I could swear she saw it in my eyes and pegged me for a wimp. Of course, I gave her the chance to make her move when I turned to check on Jim. I was afraid he'd zone-out. I felt compelled to watch him, to be his backup.

With a well-placed kick and a punch, she nearly gained total control. But I refused to give up. We struggled for the gun. It went off. I didn't know if I yelled for Jim before or after the bullet went through the roof, but I remember my fear when I realized I'd have to fend for myself and keep that crazy woman from hurting anyone else. We both made it to the floor of the bus, still struggling, but I had the upper hand and, with no other recourse, I punched her.

And then all hell broke loose--the bomb went off, but not in the bus. Jim had succeeded; he'd saved us with his senses. But it could have gone down differently. It could have ended like his dream. And what would have happened to him? 'What will happen to him if I don't go back?' I thought. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for leaving him. Damn the circumstances. I had to go back. We needed to talk.

A tap on the window drew me away from my thoughts. I turned, startled to see a police officer standing beside my car. He was tall and broad shouldered. A thick swatch of red hair peaked out from under his cap matching his moustache. Rolling down the window all the way, I asked, "Is there something wrong, Officer?"

He answered with a demand. "Hand me your identification, sir."

"My--uh--I don't . . ." I stuttered.

"Is this your car?"

"Yes, yes it is."

"Then, I need to see your identification," he explained.

"Did I do something wrong? This isn't a no-parking zone, is it?"

"Your identification."

I couldn't lie. "I left in a rush. It's back at my place."

"Well, you don't seem to be 'in a rush' now, do you?"

I didn't know how to answer him. Any retort might be considered an affront. Naomi always told me to be wary around cops. "They won't like what you stand for or what you look like," she'd said, but I'd dismissed her cautions after I'd met Jim. Maybe I'd been too quick about it.

"Step out of the car," he demanded. "And keep your hands where I can see them."

I nodded and fumbled with the door. Disgusted with my slowness, he opened it for me. I looked up at his huge form as I exited the Volvo. Big mistake. I tripped on my untied shoelaces. The pavement rushed up at me, and in the second it took me to reach it, I realized that I had to protect my injured wrist. I couldn't quite catch myself and I fell on my face.

This seemed to make him even more angry. He pulled me up by one arm and the back of my neck. "Are you drunk or something, kid? You must be."

I pulled out of his grasp, angry now myself, and hurting. My forehead and cheek throbbed. My right forearm and knee ached from their meager attempt at holding me up. But nothing else was broken. Surprisingly, my next words invited the policeman to inflict some damage of his own. "Let go of me! I'm not drunk, but I am pissed off!"

He looked down at me, one huge hand reaching for my arm again. "That's it, you're coming with me."

"What!? You can't just--you don't know--" I couldn't get any words to come through my rage. Red hot anger poured out of me. I was angry at him for being such an asshole and angry at Jim all over again for having gotten me into this situation in the first place.

"Can't the little hippie speak? What's wrong, kid, did your mama do too many drugs in the sixties?"

Without thinking, I kicked him in the shin. Even bigger mistake. Before I knew he'd moved, I was up against the hood of my car with both arms pinned behind my back. I felt and heard the snap of the handcuffs. The pain in my wrist was unbearable. The tears welled in my eyes as I bit back a cry. I could hear him speaking, reading me my rights. "You have a right to remain silent . . . you have a right to an attorney . . ." My mind filled in its own words: 'you have a right to have Jim beat the shit out of you when he hears about this.'

The officer put me in the back of his squad car, oblivious to my injury. Either he didn't notice the bandage or he didn't care. I fought to keep from putting too much pressure on my wrist, but it was locked between the seat and my body at an awkward angle. I tried to lean forward, but it was hard to keep my balance considering the cop's Indie driving skills. You'd have thought I was a hardened criminal.

If I'd told him about my wrist, he might have loosened the cuffs, but I was prepared to play the martyr. Besides, the pain gave me something else to focus on rather than the repercussions of this little incident.

Before I knew it, he was yanking me out of the car and into the station for booking. But just as we were walking toward the doors, Rafe came barreling around a corner almost running right into us. "Hey, watch where you're going!" he shouted at Rafe.

Rafe looked up at the burly officer and then over at me, surprise registering on his face. He put a hand on the man's chest halting his progress. "Stop right there, McCleod. Where are you going with him?"

"Booking," the man answered tersely.

"I don't think so," Rafe replied, dropping his hand. "I think you need to turn him over to me."

"This kid kicked me!"

Rafe looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. He must have noticed my injuries, because he asked, "Are you okay, Sandburg?"

I nodded, but the pain must have been apparent in my face. Rafe's eyes became concerned. "Let him go, McCleod. Captain Banks wants to see him upstairs."

"Then, I'll take him when he's through booking."

"No, he's going now," Rafe said in a challenging voice.

McCleod looked like he was ready to protest, but Rafe seemed immovable. Finally, he replied. "Then, we'll all go together."

I took a deep breath, knowing I'd soon come face to face with Captain Banks and quite possibly Jim. I had no idea what I would say or how I would explain myself. I knew it had the potential to go down badly.

Soon, the three of us were exiting the elevator heading toward Major Crimes. McCleod had refused to release my cuffs and I hadn't offered my injury as further reason to do so. In a way, I kind of hoped it would give me some sympathy in Jim's or Simon's eyes. As we entered the bullpen, the police officer maintained a grip on my upper arm. Rafe walked ahead of us. I cast my gaze down at the floor, noticing my trailing shoelaces and wondering at the fact I hadn't tripped again.

A booming voice caught my attention. Simon. He shouted from his doorway, moving toward us immediately. "What is the meaning of this?"

I didn't bother to listen to Rafe or McCleod's explanation as their voices trailed atop one another. My gaze was caught by Jim. He sat at his desk only feet away. His jaw dropped open. He was staring at me with unparalleled shock. I must have been a sight with a bruised face and all, but what had to have been painfully obvious was the fact that I was handcuffed and being held by a fellow officer in front of the entire Major Crimes division. At that moment, I could only imagine what was going through his mind. I didn't have to wait long to find out.

He stood, moved out from behind the desk, and walked over to me. I followed his every step, still ignoring the conversation at my side. Our eyes locked, and the anger I saw in his made me more nervous. Jim yanked me out of McCleod's grip with both hands on my shoulders. He spoke loudly at me and at the other men present. "What the hell is going on here?" Jim turned me around for confirmation of my state. I didn't resist. "Get these cuffs off him!" he demanded.

I heard McCleod speak. "The little shit kicked me. He ..."

"His wrist is broken," Jim announced. His voice trembled with what I supposed was barely controlled rage.

"I didn't know tha--how could you know that?" McCleod stuttered. He sounded almost sorry. Almost.

"Because I broke it," Jim replied. I imagined you could have heard a pin drop in Major Crimes after that admission. Jim continued, oblivious to the audience. "Now get them off him or I'll have you brought up on charges!"

"Jim, he didn't do anything. I fell. It's not--"

"Shut up, Sandburg," Jim growled.

I didn't stop speaking because he told me to; instead I stopped because of his tone. He wasn't only angry at McCleod. He'd made it clear that I wouldn't get out of this without bearing his wrath. Of course, it's what I had expected, but I never believed it would go as far as it did.

Once the cuffs were off, Jim turned me around and began a tirade unlike any other. "What were you thinking! You left and you didn't even tell me where you were going. I can't believe you . . . and how could you let him handcuff you? What did you do? You're doing this just to spite me, aren't you?"

I looked up at him as he loomed over me. I couldn't answer him. He'd struck me dumb, yet again. He must have heard my heart speed up and felt my muscles tense under his hands. Couldn't he tell I was afraid? Why didn't he stop?

Then, he did what he did only when he was out of control--he shook me, just like he had when Incacha died. "Answer me," he demanded. "Damn it! Sandburg, say something!"

I couldn't think of anything to say that would appease him. My vision started to cloud and my throat tightened up. Now, sure that my voice would break, I really couldn't answer him. And I think it only made him angrier. In those moments, I felt as though I'd really misjudged Jim Ellison. He wasn't the man I'd thought he was. He was someone else entirely, someone who truly believed I was worthless.

Simon stepped into the fray. He placed his hands on Jim's arms and pulled him away from me. "Easy, Jim," he muttered. "We'll settle this. Just take it easy."

I think Simon's calming voice brought some order to the chaos of Jim's thoughts. It's something I was supposed to do, but I'd suddenly become the cause and not the cure. Jim looked around, finally noticing his surroundings and, perhaps, the gravity of the situation. He started to speak, but the captain shushed him. "I'm taking the kid to the hospital. I want you to stay here and work with Rafe to straighten this out."

"Simon, I . . ." Jim's voice trailed as he looked over at me. Immediately, I dropped my gaze. "Blair . . . god, I--"

"Save it," Simon interrupted. He placed a gentle arm around my shoulders and led me out of the office.

We reached the elevator and the captain ushered me in with a guiding hand on my back. Once the doors closed, he asked, "Are you okay, Blair?"

Looking up at him, I let out a pained laugh. "Other than a broken wrist and some bruises and the fact that my best friend thinks . . ." I couldn't finish the smart retort. "I don't know, Simon. I really don't know," I said instead.

"Jim's been out of his mind with worry. I'm sure this will all die down once you two have a talk."

I didn't have an answer for that. I honestly didn't know if I agreed with him. So much had changed in the last few hours, and though I'd expected Jim to be upset, I didn't believe he'd lose control. I wondered if he would have hit me if Simon hadn't pulled him away. Then, I wondered how I could ever think that, since before this morning, I never would have believed him capable of hurting me, not intentionally anyway.

We passed the first part of the drive to the hospital in silence. I leaned my head back against the front seat of Simon's car cradling my throbbing wrist against my body. Finally, Simon spoke. "I'm not use to you being so quiet, Sandburg," he turned to me with a reassuring smile. "If you need to talk, I'm right here."

"Thanks, man, but I wouldn't know what to say other than it hurts."

"They'll fix you up, give you some painkillers and you'll be right as rain."

"Not that. I mean what Jim said and what he did back there hurts. It's like--I dunno, like he suddenly realized what a pest I am."

Simon tried to make light of the situation. "I knew you were a pest all along," he said with a laugh. I looked at him, rolled my eyes and almost managed a smile. "Really, kid, he's been pacing, berating himself, hoping that you'd go to a hospital and not end up, well . . ."

"End up getting harassed and arrested by some Neanderthal?"

"Did McCleod hurt you, Blair?" Simon turned serious on a dime.

"No." I shook my head. "I fell over my own feet and landed on my face." I raised my injured arm slightly. "I couldn't save myself with this. He did call my mom a druggie from the sixties," I said, frowning at the memory. "That's when I kicked him and when he slapped on the cuffs."

"I never intended that to happen."

Confused, I asked, "What do you mean?"

"Jim asked for an APB on you."

"Oh." Simon was making my world a clearer place. Now, Jim probably blamed himself for my little scuffle too. Pile anger upon guilt upon anger, and you get one pissed off Sentinel.

"I should have released more information. I'm sorry, Blair."

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have walked out in the first place, but when he said . . ." I couldn't repeat the words again. "He said that I hadn't changed anything for him, with the dream--he told you about the dream didn't he?"

"He said he'd had a nightmare and you'd tried to help him by inducing a trance. He broke your wrist unintentionally, yelled at you, and you walked out."

"That's basically it, basically," I muttered. I leaned my head back again, and turned my gaze toward the window, willing myself to keep my emotions in check. I promised myself I wouldn't lose control in front of Simon.

We pulled into the parking lot and Simon pulled the vehicle to a stop in a space near the emergency entrance. He nodded toward the building. "Come on, let's go have them patch you up."

Getting out of the car, he walked around to my side as I stood. Before we started toward the sliding doors, Simon put a restraining hand on my chest, looking down at my feet. "Just a second," he said, kneeling in front of me and tying my shoes. "I think one tumble is enough for today," he explained, straightening, "but if you ever, I mean ever, tell anyone I tied your shoes, you're looking at some serious time."

His gesture made me feel warm despite the blowing wind. "Thanks," I said.

Almost three hours later, Simon and I emerged from the hospital. I'd been x-rayed, prodded, and drugged. My wrist was in a cast and sling. A bandage covered the more noticeable scrape on my forehead and the one on my right knee. I was tired, hungry and, despite the medication, still in pain.

"We'll get the prescription filled and drop you off at home so you can sleep."

"I owe you," I said as Simon opened the passenger door for me. I ducked in.

The captain shook his head. "Just as long as things are squared between the two of you, I'll be happy."

I frowned. I had no idea how to start 'squaring' them. What could I say to Jim to make things right again?

"Don't worry. I'm going to have a little talk with Jim, and then, when you wake up, you can have a talk with him. It's going to be okay, Blair, really." I guess my expression spoke for me. "Nothing is as bad as it seems," he continued. "Remember that."

I nodded, not really believing him. I wasn't welcoming our talk. It seemed neither of us had been able to communicate like sane people since the dream had invaded Jim's mind.

As promised, we stopped for my painkillers and then parked in front of the apartment. A sudden fear gripped me. What if he was already home? Did I have to face him now? How could we even begin to turn this around? My hesitance must have tipped of the captain. "I called him before we left the hospital and asked him to wait at the station."

I sighed with relief.

"Don't be afraid of him," Simon said. "He'd hate himself if he thought you were afraid of him, Blair."

"It's not--I just don't know how to deal with this."

He patted my shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside and settled."

Simon walked me up the stairs and into the loft. "Do you need anything before I go?" he asked.

"I'm okay," I replied.

"Get some rest. When you wake up, things will be different. Believe me." He fished the prescription out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

"Thanks, Simon. I really mean it."

"Yeah, well, just remember the shoelaces are between us." He shook a finger at me playfully.

I dropped the bag on the coffee table and lifted my right hand to twist an invisible key in front of my mouth.

"Good boy," he said, smiling. He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

I walked over and threw the bolt, remembering not to chain it. Jim would be home sometime soon. The thought sent a feeling of foreboding through me. I wanted to escape our next confrontation any way I could. Of course, pulling the same stunt would be unforgivable--I couldn't just take off again.

Overcome with weariness, I leaned against the kitchen counter and closed my eyes. All I could see was Jim's face--the look in his eyes when he shouted at me this morning and the gaze that had struck me dumb at the station a couple of hours ago. I dreaded seeing him walk through the door with the same expression, telling me he'd had enough. Telling me I'd have to go. "Is that what you want, Jim?" I spoke softly, opening my eyes and allowing the tears to finally fall. Sniffling, I reached up to wipe them away. I was sure he'd probably freak if he found me crying.

I moved over to the sink to fill a glass with water. Returning with it to the living area, I set it down while I pulled the prescription bottle out of the bag. I hated taking drugs and almost never did, but this was different. I scanned the label: two tablets every four to six hours for pain, may cause drowsiness, do not operate heavy machinery. 'Perfect,' I thought. I flipped the bottle open with my thumb, glad for the non-child proof cap.

I turned the bottle in my hand and half a dozen capsules spilled into my palm.

THE END