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

If you haven't seen the pilot, "The Switchman," this might not make much sense to you. I've watched it several times. It's my favorite episode. But I've always wondered what possessed Jim to give Blair a gun and have him hold it on an obviously dangerous suspect. Here's what's come out of my musings.

Rated PG-13 for one instance of strong language and some violence.

Thank you, Joanne, for beta reading this! Your help is GREATLY appreciated.

THE STRUGGLE
by Tate

The explosion flung Jim Ellison through the aisle of the bus. It had been a powerful blast, one that would surely have destroyed the vehicle and killed everyone aboard had he not flung the bomb out the back window.

It took Jim a few seconds to shake off the effects, and when he did, he was shocked to find himself an arm's length away from the anthropology student's inert form. The young man was unconscious and lying on his side. Jim looked around for Veronica Saris. She, too, had been disoriented by the blast and was only just beginning to stir.

Jim got to his feet and carefully walked around Sandburg. He took out his cuffs, and before she could even make a move, he snapped one around her wrist and the other around the pole. He grabbed his discarded gun off the floor of the bus and replaced it in his holster. Jim then bent to check Blair, trying to calm the crowded bus as he did so. "It's okay everyone. Help is on the way."

The scent struck him like a blow. Blood . . .

The spreading stain on Blair's jacket and the small hole in the material caught his eyes. Lifting the jacket confirmed his fears. Blair had been shot. Veronica must have overpowered him, taken the gun, and shot him. She'd shot him with Jim's weapon. Dammit!! How did he expect a grad student to hold out against ex-military?

The wound was in Sandburg's upper chest. Even without his heightened senses, Ellison knew it was life threatening. But his gifts cursed him with the ability to hear Blair's heart struggling and his breath catching. He ran his hand along the kid's back, searching for an exit wound with his sensitive fingers. There wasn't one. The bullet was lodged somewhere in his chest.

A trained medic, the detective left one hand on Blair's back, and pressed the other over the wound, hoping to stanch the profuse bleeding.

"Sir?" someone called. Jim looked up to see the driver standing by the door.

"Get everyone off the bus." Jim shifted the focus of his hearing from the body he held, to the distance. Sirens were nearing. "Help is on the way," he said. "It won't be long."

The driver nodded, stepped around Jim and began ushering people out the front and side doors.

"He's going to die, too. You can't save him," Veronica's voice taunted. "Just like my father. You caused it. You let him die."

Jim turned to her and shouted, "Shut up!"

Veronica continued speaking, but Jim blocked her out. He fixed all of his senses on the young anthropologist. He could see the bright red blood seeping though his fingers; he could feel its obscene warmth against his skin. He heard Blair's failing heart pumping life out of his body. Veronica was right. He'd caused this. The kid had had no business holding a gun. He shouldn't even have been on the bus in the first place.

Guilt rose in Ellison's chest. Blair had helped him. He'd brought understanding to madness, all the while enduring Jim's frustration and anger. He'd risked his own life to save Jim from a dangerous zone-out. Together, they had solved this case, and Jim hadn't even had the chance to thank him. Now, he might never be able to.

A hand on his arm pulled him out of the darkness. "Here, press this against the wound. It's clean," a female voice instructed.

Jim turned to look at a middle-aged woman who was kneeling beside him, with a rolled up t-shirt in her hands.

"I'm a nurse," she explained. "I can help you."

"Thanks," Jim whispered. He released his pressure and quickly positioned the shirt under Sandburg's own, and pressed his hand down over it. The woman reached for Blair's arm. Shoving his jacket up, she felt his wrist for his pulse. She frowned. She set his arm down and reached across Jim to place her hand against Blair's neck. "It's weak and slow," she announced. "He's lost too much blood."

Veronica's voice intruded again. "He's dying, Ellison, and you're responsible!"

At her shouted words, the younger man stirred. His eyes flickered open and a moan escaped his lips, followed closely by a breath in the form of a name. "J-Jim?"

The detective's brow creased in sympathy for the young man. His jaw twitched in anger at the woman who had shot him. He couldn't believe Blair had regained consciousness. "Shh, it's okay. Don't talk. You're going to be okay."

Pain-filled blue eyes connected with Jim's own. "Bomb?"

"I found it thanks to you. It's gone. Everyone is safe."

The young man closed his eyes, and a sigh of relief left him, but when he tried to take another breath, it caught. His eyes flew open and he struggled in Jim's grasp. "No, stay still. Just take shallow breaths, Sandburg, shallow breaths. Do you hear me?"

The kid stopped moving and tried to follow Jim's instructions. Blair's eyes pooled with tears as he fought for breath. Oh, god. This was heartbreaking. Ellison fought for his own composure. 'This isn't happening,' Jim thought. 'This can't be happening.'

The woman at his side rested a gentle hand on Jim's arm, providing comfort. With the other she reached over him again and stroked Blair's hair. "Easy, easy, sweetie. You're going to be okay," she soothed.

After a few tense moments, the kid spoke again. "Hurts," he moaned.

"I know it does, honey, just try to stay calm," she said. "Can you do that for us?"

Blair nodded, almost imperceptibly. Then, he turned his eyes to Jim again. "Sorry," he muttered.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. You did good. Just don't talk, okay? Save your strength," Jim replied.

"He's going to die," Veronica announced. "You're killing him, just like you killed my father!"

If Jim could have left Blair's side, he would have punched her. "Damn you, Veronica, shut up," he snarled, keeping his voice low and threatening.

The sirens were on top of them now. Emergency vehicles pulled in all around the burned out bus. People shouted to each other outside. The woman beside Jim removed her touch and rose to her feet. "I'll get help in here right away," she announced. Brushing past Veronica with an angry glance, she exited the bus.

Jim leaned over Blair, closing the distance between them. He spoke in quiet tones, willing his own voice not to break. "Stay with me, Sandburg," he murmured, stirring his long hair with his words. "I can't do this without you. I need you."

Jim drew back. Blair's eyes met his own and the younger man's tears fell. Tears of pain? Regret? Empathy? Jim didn't know, but they touched him. They touched a place inside where the Sentinel cried for a young man he'd only known for a short time, but one who had given him a new life.

Blair didn't speak. He probably couldn't. His eyes closed, tears trailing across his pale skin. And it happened in quick succession. Blair's breathing ceased; his heart stopped. It was over. He died in Jim's arms.

Veronica's taunting voice followed Jim into oblivion.

Jim Ellison came awake with a start. For one horrifying moment, he thought he was alone and that Blair had died on the bus. The dream had been more like a memory--vivid beyond compare. It overwhelmed all the true memories in his mind, replacing them with a shadow of misery.

But then he heard it--the sound of a heartbeat not his own and slow in sleep.

The loft was bathed in the faint glow of a pre-dawn hour. Turning his head toward the clock, Jim read 5:40 a.m. He sat up in his bed, untangling himself from the sheets. Clad only in his boxers, he walked down the stairs to the living area desperately seeking visual confirmation. He didn't even have to go into Sandburg's room. The anthropologist lay on the couch asleep. The coffee table beside him was covered in papers, a laptop, and several textbooks.

Yesterday's mundane events slowly took shape in Jim's mind. Sandburg had stayed home all day to grade papers. After Jim returned from the station, they'd taken a break together to watch a movie and share a pizza. Jim had gone up to bed around midnight, and Blair had remained awake to finish his task. There'd been nothing obvious about the day to trigger such a terrifying dream. What could it have been?

Ellison flipped on a light, and then positioned himself between the table and the couch, looking down at his partner. The younger man lay on his side, forehead pressed against the back cushions. His right arm pillowed his head; his left fist was propped under his chin. He wore the same clothes he'd had on the day before--jeans, a green flannel shirt, and gray socks. His hair had been tied back yesterday, but it was now loose and obscuring part of his face.

"I hear you and I see you, but I swear I lost you," Jim whispered. He turned for a moment, arranging a space to sit on the table. Lowering himself, he looked back at Blair.

The gentle rise and fall of his Guide's shoulders was almost hypnotic. But Jim needed more confirmation. He needed touch.

Reaching out a hand, he grasped Blair's shoulder and carefully pulled the younger man toward him. Sandburg didn't wake. He resettled himself on his back, and Jim noted a slight change in his breathing pattern, but nothing more. In truth, Ellison wanted him to wake. He needed to see the life in his eyes and hear his voice. This still wasn't enough.

He studied the serene face of his Guide, which had barely aged in the two years they'd been partnered. It looked too much like the face he'd seen in his dream--too much like the death mask Blair wore as he lay on the floor of the bus. But it didn't happen; he hadn't been shot. He was alive. Seeking more assurance, Jim rested his fingers against the pulse point at the juncture of Blair's jaw and neck. His keen tactile sense felt the rushing blood and beating heart with preternatural clarity.

'Blair is alive,' Jim said to himself. 'He's alive. Next, I'll be counting all his fingers and toes.' For the first time since waking, the detective smiled.

For the first time during the inspection, his subject stirred and opened his eyes. "Jim?"

Self-consciously, Ellison withdrew his hand. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"What is it, man? Was I snoring or something?"

"No, Chief," Jim replied. "Nothing like that."

Blair pulled himself up into a sitting position. He glanced behind Jim at the mess on the coffee table. "Oh, I'm sorry about all that. I'll clean it up right now."

The young man swung his feet to the floor and was about to stand when Jim placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. I'm not mad."

The questioning stare that greeted Ellison was so full of life the detective had to restrain himself from commenting on it. "What, then? What is it?"

"Nothing, Chief, really. Don't worry about it." Jim released Blair's shoulder and stood. He looked down at the confusion in his partner's eyes and wished he had the courage to tell him the truth. He deserved no less. But Jim couldn't, not now and maybe not ever. It had been too real. Ellison turned toward the kitchen, mumbling about putting some coffee on.

"Is it your senses? I've been so busy with school I haven't noticed anything. Is that it?" Blair stood. He took a step to follow his Sentinel, but he tripped over his own discarded sneakers. He probably would have banged his head on the coffee table if Jim hadn't rushed forward and caught him.

The Sentinel heard and felt the quickening of Blair's pulse in response to his scare. Instead of righting the young man, he pulled him closer. His arms encompassed the slighter body, hugging Blair against his chest. For all the times he'd touched his friend--the playful pats on the face, a tousle of his hair--he'd never held him, at least not when the young man was conscious. Jim winced inwardly at the Golden incident. Just like then, this was more for him than for Blair.

Sandburg didn't pull away. Clearing himself of the offending shoes, he leaned into the embrace. It was almost as if he knew that Jim needed this. And as long as Jim wasn't letting go, he wasn't either.

With heightened senses, each opened to welcome the slightest sign of life emitted by his partner, Jim assured himself the nightmare had ended, and it had never been real. He hadn't lost his closest friend. And if it was in his power, he would do anything to see that the nightmare would never become a reality.

Finally, after several heartbeats, Jim gently pushed Sandburg away. Blair didn't release his hold, though. He grasped Ellison's upper arms and stared up into his eyes. "Is there something you're not telling me, Jim? You're okay, aren't you? You're fine, right? Please, tell me you are. No, I need the truth. I really do. I don't know what I'd--"

Jim broke free of one of Sandburg's hands and placed his own above Blair's mouth, hoping to stall the rush of words. The young man looked stricken, as though he expected the worst. "I'm fine, Blair, really. I'm not keeping anything from you except a bad dream. That's all. It's nothing for you to worry about."

As Jim removed his hand, Blair released his own hold, but he wasn't about to drop the subject. "A dream about me?" he prompted.

"Yeah," Jim admitted, taking an unconscious step back. He didn't want to reveal the details of the nightmare. Doing so would reveal all of his deepest fears. Unknowingly, his expression became rock-hard and immovable.

"You're shutting me out, man. How can I help you if you shut me out?"

"Sandburg, I--"

"Please, tell me," Blair interrupted.

Jim passed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. "It's not something I really want to share," he said.

"You said a 'bad dream.' Did I die?"

Ellison didn't answer. Instead, he turned away from the conversation and started toward the kitchen. "Are you hungry, Chief? I am. How about some toast?"

"Jim?"

The Sentinel had only walked as far as the table when his Guide's voice stopped him cold. It had been a soft, questioning plea--the same voice he'd heard in his dream. Like an echo from the cavern of his deepest fears, it turned his blood to ice. He thought if he turned, he'd be back on the bus, standing over Sandburg's wounded body--his dying body. 'You let him die.' Veronica taunted. 'You let them all die.'

"Jim!" The voice was closer now, stronger. It called him back to himself and away from the returning nightmare. "You're zoning, man. Come out of it. Listen to my voice. Follow it back."

Jim let out a breath he'd been holding, and turned toward the voice. Blair stood beside him, a hand on his arm. His concerned stare seemed strangely incongruous. 'I should be looking at you like that,' Jim thought. 'God, I don't know, maybe I am.'

"Are you with me, Jim? What's wrong? What happened?"

"The dream--the nightmare . . . I think I had some kind of flashback."

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

"No," Jim replied, "but I've never had a dream like that before. It was vivid, real in every way. All of my senses were heightened. I don't usually dream with heightened senses."

The revelation brought a curious rise to the younger man's eyebrows. "Some people dream in color, others in black and white," Blair muttered. He dropped Jim's stare and retreated into his mind. It was a mode Ellison recognized as a quest for answers. When the younger man returned his attention to Jim, a look of quiet determination lit his expressive face. "You have to tell me. I can't help you if you don't tell me what you dreamed about."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because . . . because I can't."

"Because I died in your dream, and that scares you, right? Look, you need to get past this. The only way to overcome your fear is to confront it."

Jim didn't reply. Instead, his face hardened again. Jim could feel his jaw muscle jump with tension.

"Dammit! Why don't you trust me on this?"

There it was. Jim couldn't argue with Blair's logic any longer. He did trust his Guide with his life and his sanity. Jim pulled a chair out and slumped into it. "I dreamed about our first case," he admitted.

Blair followed his lead, dropping into the chair next to Jim. "The Switchman--Veronica Saris," Sandburg prompted.

"The dream started right after the blast. Veronica was down," Jim paused for a moment. He then looked into Blair's eyes for a reaction, "So were you."

The kid just nodded. "Go on."

"I went to handcuff her, then I knelt beside you. You'd been shot, Chief. She shot you in the chest with my gun."

"What else happened?"

"What more do you need to know?" Jim didn't want to relieve the death scene in his mind. It had been more traumatic than anything he'd experienced in the waking world.

"Everything, man, everything, or I can't help you."

Jim took a deep breath and continued. "This nurse came out of nowhere to help me with you. She gave me a shirt to press over your wound. The blood . . . god, I could feel it, see it, smell it. It was so real."

"Was I conscious?"

"For a little while. You said--you asked about the bomb and," Jim smiled sadly, "you told me you were sorry. I told you I needed you, and I asked you not to leave me, but . . . you died. I felt--I heard your heart stop."

"I'm sorry," Blair said. The sympathy in his Guide's eyes was meant to comfort. Instead it set him spinning again. The look and voice saying the same words--apologizing for getting shot, apologizing for dying. For being dead.

Jim saw the body--the closed eyes and peaceful, youthful face. He heard the sirens arriving too late and Veronica shouting her victory. How could this have happened? He looked down at the blood on his hands. This should never have happened. Never.

"Jim! Jim, don't go there, man! Can you hear me?" Blair was standing over him, shaking his shoulders. He wasn't dead. Not dead. "That's it. Follow my voice back. I'm right here."

Ellison took in every detail of his living partner's form. He breathed in familiar scents; he heard the recognizable heartbeat and touched an arm that rocked his shoulder. And the sight--Blair's face had gone pale. His hair fell forward against his cheeks, his pupils dilated in the half-light. "You're not dead," Jim said aloud, still trying to assimilate the words as fact.

"No, I'm not, Jim," Blair said, softly. "I think I have to prove that to you."

"What do you mean?"

Blair released his shoulders to pull his own chair closer to the Sentinel. He sat down, lightly resting one hand on Ellison's arm. "We have to take you back to that bus. You have to relive the incident as it actually happened. I think by replaying it, you can drive the dream into the background, where it belongs. It's not a memory. As vivid as it was, it never happened. Your mind has to believe that. I think this is the only way."

"I don't know about this."

"I don't know either, but I think it's worth a try."

"Right now?"

Blair nodded. "If you have a flashback in the field--"

"People could get hurt," Jim interrupted.

"You could get hurt."

"Or you," Ellison returned.

"Whoa, there." Blair put his hands up to stall the exchange. "Now that we've gone over every possibility, I think we need to start with the remedy."

"Okay, let's start." Jim wanted nothing more than to be done with the horrific visions in his mind. Maybe Blair was right. If they replayed the real events, his mind would embrace them as the truth and not the nightmare.

Sandburg gestured toward the living area. "You might be more comfortable over there."

Jim nodded, and together they returned to the couch. Jim kicked his partner's sneakers under the coffee table before he got comfortable. Blair sat on the armrest with his feet on the cushions and one arm draped across the back. His fingers skimmed the top of Jim's bare shoulder. "Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Block out everything but the sound of my voice."

Ellison didn't want to block everything else out; he wanted to hear the familiar heartbeat. But he trusted Sandburg. Reluctantly, he let go of his surroundings and of the precious, rhythmic thrum and used only Blair's voice as a lifeline.

"That's it," his Guide said. "That's good. Take a deep breath. All right, let it go. Good. Again. That's it. Just relax."

Jim did as told. Soon, he felt disconnected, floating, as if he could go anywhere--visit any time or place.

"Okay, now I want you to think back to the Switchman case. Back to when you first got on the bus with Veronica. You're coming through the back window, Jim. Can you tell me what's happening? Can you tell me what you see?"

"I'm standing up. The glass is falling off around me. I feel the cuts on my face, but I can't let them claim my focus. She's aiming a gun at me, and I bring my own up toward her. 'Okay, first the gun! Put it down,' I say.

She says, 'No, remember my message? This is the end of the line. I want to die.'

Her voice is shaking. Her hands are shaking. I see my chance and I take it.

I yell, 'And I want an arrest,' and I aim at the barrel of her gun, knowing I can make the shot. I fire. The gun jumps out of her hand. She's shocked. I rush at her, tackling her.

You're behind me and I turn. You have a camera in my face. 'What the hell are you . . .? Put that down!'

I bring her up with me. You're standing behind me. 'Where's the bomb?' I ask her.

'Find it,' she says.

I say, 'Tell me.'

She won't, all she says is 'You let him die. You let them all die.'

It's her voice, she said . . . I let . . ."

"No." Blair's voice intruded on the scene, bringing order to a mind tumbling into chaos. "No one is dead. Go on. It's okay. Let the memory play out as it happened. Exactly as it happened."

"I don't want to hear her say that. 'No,' I say.

'You left me alone.'

I say, 'Your father was my friend--I never hurt him. I tried to save his life. Veronica, you've got to believe that. Now, where's that bomb?'

Her face is blank. She doesn't care anymore. 'Tick, tick.'

'Please,' I beg.

'Time's up,' she says.

I turn to you. 'Help me look for it.'

You say, 'Don't look--listen.'

The faith in your voice convinces me. And then . . . then I give you the gun. 'Watch her,' I say. God, what was I thinking? I put it in your hand and shift you in front of me. How could I? Blair? Chief? How could I?"

"Easy, Jim. Listen to me. You have to let this play exactly as it happened. I'm right here. She didn't shoot me. Let it continue, just as it happened. Tell me."

"The driver stands and makes for the door. I shout at him over your shoulder, 'Don't touch the door, Driver. It could be wired!' I turn toward the passengers, telling them, 'Okay, everybody just relax, okay? We're going to get you out of here safely.'

I walk down the aisle of the bus, straining to hear the ticking sound over everyone's racing heart. So many. There are so many other sounds coming at me, but I'm trying to focus, trying to . . . I hear you. Chief, I hear you shouting for me and the sounds of a struggle.

'Ellison! Ellison! Ellison!' you scream.

And then gun goes off. I hear the gun go off."

"I'm fine, Jim. Listen to my voice. You can keep looking for the bomb, okay? You can keep looking for it."

Ellison ignored his Guide's words. Instead, his mind went over the sound he hadn't heard before--the plea he hadn't answered, and the crack of the gun. He desperately wanted to turn, but he couldn't. He had not turned around.

"I never heard that before," Jim admitted. "I never heard you call for me. You didn't tell me you called for me."

The voice that had become Jim Ellison's thread to the outside world let out a soft exclamation of pain. The Sentinel heard it beyond his own musings. He heard it over the panicked sounds of the passengers and the faint ticking of the bomb. "Blair?"

"Find it, Jim." The words were strained.

"What's going on, Chief?"

"Dammit! Just find it!"

The message couldn't have been any plainer, but the method of delivery was still in question. What was happening? He didn't have time to think about it; the scene was changing before him.

"People stumble out of my way as I walk to the back of the bus," Jim said, continuing his narrative despite his growing concern. "I can hear it now. I hear the ticking and I'm trying to pinpoint its location. It's under that seat. I reach for it and pull it out. The timer reads 5 seconds. I toss it out the back window. I shout, 'Everybody get down!' As I turn, it goes off and I'm propelled through the aisle."

"What happens--what's next? What do you see?"

"I'm sitting up and I see you." Jim clears his throat. "I see you."

"Go on." The pain in only two words was evident now, unmistakable. Unmasked.

"What's happening to you, Blair? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. You have to tell me what you see. What do you see, Jim?"

"You're sitting in the aisle shaking your hand. Veronica is out cold. You smile at me and--and you hand me the gun."

"That's it. It happened just like you remembered, not like the nightmare. The nightmare wasn't real. You must accept your memories and deny your dream. It didn't happen. I wasn't shot. I didn't die. I'm right here," Blair spoke rhythmically. The words drifted around the Sentinel as he watched the scene in his head, as he took the gun from his new partner, as he returned the smile, beaming with pride at the younger man.

"I know," Jim affirmed the truth. "I know these are my memories, not the dream."

"Yes, Jim," There was a catch in Sandburg's voice now. What the hell? "You have to come back now. Leave the memory and follow my voice back. We are in the loft. Take a deep breath and end the vision in your mind. Come back to the loft, Jim. Open your eyes."

After a deep breath, the Sentinel did as his Guide instructed. He wasn't prepared for what he'd find. Blair was kneeling on the couch right beside him. Sometime during his trance, Jim had crossed his arm in front of him and grabbed Blair's wrist. He held it still in a crushing grip, feeling the fragile bones grating against each other beneath his hand. With recognition and lucidity, he released his hold. "God, Blair," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't . . ."

His partner leaned back against the armrest and pulled his injury against his chest, covering it with his hand. "It's okay. Everything's okay now."

Ellison could see the unshed tears brimming in Blair's eyes. "It's not okay," Jim returned. "I don't know--why didn't you . . .? You could have brought me out of it. Told me to let go."

Blair shook his head. "You had to play it through. I couldn't connect you with your body. You had to go through the scene in your mind."

"So you let me hurt you?"

Sandburg shrugged. "It's nothing, man."

"Let me see," Jim held his hand out palm up.

"It's nothing," Blair repeated.

"Sandburg, please."

Blair dropped Jim's gaze, but offered his wrist for inspection. Ellison winced at the sight. Beneath the cuff, the wrist was beginning to swell. Gently, the Sentinel unbuttoned the cuff and folded it back, revealing yet marks in the shape of his own fingers.

Jim looked up from the injury and into his friend's face. Blair still wasn't meeting his eyes. He was looking straight down, biting his lip against the pain. "Chief, I think it might be broken," Jim said. "Will you let me touch it? I can feel the bones with my fingers."

Blair looked up with absolute trust in his eyes. "Go ahead."

Jim skimmed the surface of Blair's wrist. Even at the slight touch, Blair gasped. "I'm sorry," Jim said, pausing for a moment.

"It's okay," Blair replied. "Go on."

Continuing, Jim's sentinel touch detected what he had feared. He felt one, maybe two breaks. He withdrew his fingers and carefully removed his hand from beneath the wrist. "You need to have this set, Chief. It's broken." Jim announced. "Try to keep it elevated above your heart and close to your body." Ellison stood. "I'll be right back."

Blair nodded, following Jim's instructions. "It's not your fault."

The younger man's attempt to ease his friend's guilty conscience fell on deaf ears. Jim's only focus was the damage he'd done. He went into the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, Ellison reached in for some gauze and tape. He wasn't surprised to notice the tremor in his hands. Dropping everything into the sink, he gripped the porcelain. He had to regain control before he went back out there to take care of Blair's wrist. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw the despair in his own eyes. 'I can't go out there like this,' he thought, taking a deep breath. "Control," he muttered. "Take control."

After a few moments, he released his hold on the sink and gathered the gauze and tape. He walked out of the bathroom and toward his friend, willing himself to remain stoic--detached.

Without a word, he sat in front of Blair and motioned for his wrist again. The younger man offered it without hesitation. 'He trusts me,' Jim thought. 'How have I earned his trust? By putting him in danger? By breaking his bones?' The Sentinel struggled to remain calm as he wrapped the bruised flesh with expert care. His eyes remained locked on the work he was doing and not the friend he'd just hurt. Ignoring Blair's poorly disguised painful breaths, Ellison soon finished.

Standing, he said, "I'll get dressed and take you to the emergency room."

"Jim, it's not your fault."

Ellison didn't reply. He started toward the stairs, walking away from Blair's effort to release him from his guilt.

"Jim, are you listening to me? It's not your fault."

The Sentinel turned, eyes flashing. "I'm to blame for what just happened to you, and for what almost did on that bus, Sandburg! I know that!" He jabbed a finger at the young anthropologist. "You can't change the truth, Blair, as much as you'd like to try with your fucking hocus-pocus. Nothing has changed--nothing!"

The young man stared back, mouth agape. Blair didn't say anything, but he paled. His shock was apparent. Ellison instantly realized what the kid must be thinking, and what his tirade had sounded like. 'Good going,' Jim thought to himself. 'You just negated all of his efforts to help you. You just made him the guilty party.' Ellison didn't trust himself enough to say anything else. He bounded up the stairs without looking back.

Jim muttered a curse as he pulled some clothes out of his closet. He could hear Blair moving around in the living area. He winced on hearing a sharp intake of breath--no doubt Blair had jostled his arm. Shaking his head, Jim closed his eyes for a moment. He'd broken his friend's bones and literally added insult to injury. As he dressed, he practiced an apology. He didn't even suspect he wouldn't have a chance to voice it.

At the sound of the door opening and closing, Jim Ellison froze.

THE END