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

WARNING: Spoilers for "Sentinel Too". Would you like to comment? Email me at TateWG@aol.com

A thousand thanks to my wonderful crew of betas: Joanne, Danny, Mackie, Becky and Robyn. Also, thank you Deb, Georgia, and Angie for your feedback and encouragement. Special thanks to all the kind people who wrote me during the fifteen plus weeks in which this was posted. This story is for all my TS friends!

And Mackie, it's an honor to be a part of your site!
 

Watermark
by Tate

Part I

My eyes are open. I'm seeing but I haven't been processing. I blink, my eyes sting, but the world comes into focus. At least the world as it is, close to me, within my range of sight. It's a world tilted. I'm lying on my side, tangled with tubes, restricted by blankets. My head feels tight, my face blank, and my skin cold. And I see . . . a man sitting beside me on a chair--a dark man, reading a book. He's wearing glasses. I think I wear glasses too, and guess maybe that's why everything's a little blurry. I might need my glasses.

I open my mouth to ask for them, but I make only a soft sound. He hears me, though, and turns. "My god. Blair?"

I try again. I want to at least acknowledge I heard him, but I can't speak. I utter another sound. This one is desperate, conveying exactly how I feel.

"Take it easy, kid. You're okay," he says, taking one of my slack hands in his strong grip. He uses the other to grab something he barks into. I close my eyes at the loudness of his voice because I can't close my ears. "Stay with me," he pleads. He's close again. I smell tobacco on his breath. "Come on, Sandburg, stay with me." His voice has softened. I open my eyes. "That's it. Can you speak? Do you know where you are?"

I move my lips to shape the word "no", but only air comes out.

"It's okay, Blair. You're okay," he assures me, squeezing my hand. "The doctors are coming to check you over. You've been out of it for a while."

That explains the weakness and stiffness of my muscles. I want to squeeze his hand back, but I can only move my fingers a little, pressing them against the top of his hand. I'm scared. I feel trapped, like I can't control my body. Like I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

My vision clouds. I hear myself gasping for air. I start to shake. Strong hands turn me on my back and I hear a litany of words meant to calm, but I can't stop the fear from flooding through me. I can't stop it from stealing my breath.

I hear noises, more voices, and then feel the prick of a needle. Then, blessed oblivion.

 

When I wake again, the man is still in my room. I can see his form outlined by the light from the window. He's talking on a phone to someone, trying to keep his voice low, but his anger causes it to rise.

"I don't care how close you are to finding her, Jim. He needs you here." There's a pause. "No, the doctors don't know if he'll make a full recovery yet. They say it's too early to tell. He seemed to understand what I was saying yesterday, but . . ." Another pause. "What do you mean? I'm sure he wants to see you." The next silence is long. I wonder about the other end of the conversation. "Ellison, if you're not back here tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, you won't have a position in the department to come back to. Do I make myself clear, Detective? Good." He clicks off the phone and looks over at me, finding me staring at him.

His tone changes as he nears the bed. "Blair? Hey, kid, you look better."

Better than what? I wonder. I certainly don't feel any better. I take a deep breath. At least I can breathe. Why couldn't I yesterday? Not wanting to bring on another episode, I try to calm myself. Relax, I tell myself, relax.

A large hand on my forehead draws me out and I look up into sympathetic eyes.

"Just take it easy," he says. "You're going to be fine."

His name comes to me like a flash and almost in the same second, it's on my lips. "Simon." It's barely a whisper with just a promise of a voice, but he understands and smiles.

"I knew you were in there, Sandburg. I knew it." His hand moves down to squeeze my shoulder.

I look around the white room. "Where? How?" I ask, hoping he'll catch my meaning.

"You've been in the hospital for almost six weeks now. Yesterday was the first time you seemed at all lucid. You've come a long way, Blair."

I certainly feel as though I have, like it's been a constant struggle. I have no energy. I want to ask more questions, but I'm afraid of the answers. There are so many holes in my mind that I'm scared I'll tumble down into one and not come up. But for some reason, I'm more afraid of knowing the whole story. I want to know why I'm here, but something tells me that not knowing is better. At least for now.

"Jim'll be back in Cascade tomorrow. He's been dealing with this the only way he knows how, son. Don't be too hard on him for not being here."

"Jim." The name comes out of my mouth stronger than Simon's had. My eyes wander as my thoughts jumble. Jim. My heart jumps. The monitor at my side registers the spike.

"Easy, son," Simon comforts, kneading my shoulder. "Easy, everything will come back to you in time."

"Jim?" I meet dark eyes with my own questioning ones. Why isn't he here? He should be, shouldn't he?

In my mind, I hear Jim's angry voice coming from out of the past. "What the hell did you do!"

What did I do? I don't remember. I know Jim. We live together, we work together, and he's my friend. Where is he? What happened?

"Blair, do you remember how you got hurt?"

I lift a weak hand to my head, feeling bandages that seem to cover my entire scalp. "No."

Simon's face looks pained. "That's okay. They only recently operated on you again to alleviate some pressure that had built up in your head," he explains. After a pause, he adds, "Jim's been out looking for the person who hurt you, but he's taking the first flight back here in the morning. Why don't you rest now? I'll stay here with you. They've got my cell number at work in case something comes up."

I notice for the first time how dry my mouth is. "Water?" I ask.

An expression of shock crosses Simon's face, but then it's gone. "You thirsty?"

"Yeah."

"They left some ice chips here just a few minutes ago." He lets go of my shoulder and reaches for a cup on the nightstand. Sitting beside me on the bed, he drops a few pieces of ice into his hand and then brings one up to my lips. I marvel at his gentleness, remembering that Simon, the man I know, the man I remember, is gruff. He's not mean, but the treatment he's giving me now is probably usually reserved for his own son. Something bad must have happened, something really terrible.

As I let the ice cool and soothe my mouth and throat, I look him over, as though I can find some clue in his expression.

"Don't get any ideas, Sandburg. I'm not going to be playing nursemaid twenty-four-seven. I'll leave that to Jim," he says with a smile.

When I can, I speak again in a slightly stronger voice. "You've been here? Six weeks?"

"Not all the time, but as much as I could. So have the others from Major Crimes--Rafe, Brown, Taggart. Daryl too. We didn't want you to wake up alone."

You had faith I would wake up, I want to say. You had faith, but Jim didn't. That's why he's not here. That's why he's hunting this person--to make him pay. Oh, god, he wouldn't. Would he? Will he? I reach for Simon's arm. "Jim? Alone? Looking, alone?"

I'm surprised Simon can understand me, but he does. "Connor's with him," he replies. "They've been cooperating with the FBI on this, consulting for them. He's not alone, Blair."

I sigh, heavily. Thankfully. Megan can hold her own with Jim. She won't let him do something stupid. At least they're coming home.

"I think you should rest now," Simon tells me. "That's enough excitement for one morning. They'll be coming soon to run some tests and see if you can eat some soft food later today. Why don't you get some shut-eye now?"

I nod, my eyes drifting closed. I feel safe with Simon here. I feel safe knowing Jim will be here soon.

 

"I just need you out of here before I get back."

I'm standing in the loft surrounded by packed boxes. My things. Jim's packed all my belongings. And he's telling me . . .

"I just need you out of here . . ."

". . . out of here."

My vision shifts and I'm in an empty loft. Everything's gone, my stuff and his. Jim is standing, a silent sentinel on the balcony. Megan is beside me. Jim speaks. "Something's going on out there. Something's very wrong. I've never felt anything like this before."

Something's wrong. I know now. Alex. Alex Barnes.

I sit straight up in the bed, arms trailing IVs, head pounding. Gasping. Someone is leaning me back. Someone with a slight accent and strong hands. "Easy, Sandburg, take it easy. You're okay. It's me--Rafe. You're okay."

I look up into kind blue eyes, and choke out his name. "Rafe?"

"Yeah," he answers. His hand is on my chest where I'm sure he can feel my pounding heart. Not that he can't hear the monitor jumping wildly, pinging. "That's some ticker you got there. You want me to call a nurse?"

Before he finishes speaking, one bursts into the room. "Is everything okay here?"

"Nightmare," I manage to explain.

She nods, then adds, "The doctors will be by soon to check on you, so you might not want to go back to sleep."

"Like I could," I quip.

She smiles and leaves.

"You scared the life out of me, kid," Rafe says.

"Me, too," I admit. The images of the dream linger around me. And the name. I test it with my tongue. "Alex Barnes."

Rafe pales, but doesn't speak. His forehead creases. He leans back and drops into the chair beside my bed as though the name I spoke was some kind of curse. Maybe it is.

"Who's 'Alex Barnes'?" I ask, hopeful.

"Blair, I don't think--"

"Who is he?" I repeat.

"She," he corrects.

"She?" I shift my eyes from Rafe's haunted stare. "She?" I repeat, searching my mind and finding an image. A tall, beautiful woman. Blond. Her voice is deep. She's with me in my office and I'm showing her . . . oh, god, I'm showing her Burton's research. His sentinel research.

But the pieces aren't fitting.

The door swings open and someone is ushering Rafe out, telling him it's time for my exam. I let them prod and poke me, answering when I must, but my mind is on Alex. I'm trying to remember. I'm begging my brain to cooperate, but it won't. Why can't I remember?

The hours pass. I'm given a bath and eat some food, but I haven't stopped thinking. Rafe is with me again, speaking softly on the phone as I doze, my mind still working.

"Welcome to the jungle."

My eyes snap open. I find my new caretaker reading beside me again. Simon. He turns toward me and smiles. "Hey, Sandburg."

"Who's Alex Barnes?" I ask without hesitation.

His smile fades into a frown. "Blair, maybe this should wait."

"Who is she, Simon? What did she do to me?" I ask.

"Alex tricked you, Blair," he begins. "She used you." He leans closer, touching my forehead. The contact is comforting. "She was committing crimes you didn't know about. You tried to help her with her senses and she was using them to steal. She'd just gotten out of prison."

"A sentinel," I interrupt. "She was another sentinel."

"Yes," he confirms. "When you and Jim found out it was her, you confronted her. When you were alone at the university, she came for you. She hit you in the head, fractured your skull and left you to drown in the fountain."

At his words, the images returned.

"I can't leave you alive."

She cocks the gun. Aims at me. I close my eyes, but she screams. "Get up!"

I'm walking out into the morning sunlight and she's behind me, gun nestled in the small of my back. We walk to the fountain.

She whispers in my ear. "Goodbye, Blair. Thank you."

Crack. Pain like no other divides my world and I'm falling forward. The water is rushing up to meet me. To fill me.

To drown me.

Oh, god, I'm dying!

My breath is ragged. I'm struggling again, panicking. Drowning. The water is so cold.

Strong hands are holding me. Keeping me from going under a second time. I look up into Simon's face, but I expect someone else's. "Where's Jim?" I manage. "Where is he? Why wasn't he . . . ?" I can't say it, but I think it. Why wasn't he there?

"He's coming, Blair," Simon assures me. "He'll be here soon. You just need to hold on."

 

Part II

I hear Simon's words as though from a great distance. I'm lost, too far away. I'm floating in the fountain at the university, drowning in water and darkness. God help me, someone help me, please! Where is Jim?

Alex got to me first. She opened the door to my office and walked in. I remember thinking about Jim when I saw her, fear gripping my gut. I wondered what she'd done to him. If she'd hurt or killed him. And suddenly, I'm not remembering anymore. I'm there.

At the sound of the door handle turning, I look up, surprised, from a letter I'm writing. A letter to Jim. The last words I wrote--I'm sorry. I've never meant it more. I'm sorry, Jim. I shouldn't have let you push me away. It's probably over now, for both of us.

I speak my enemy's name. "Alex."

She brings the gun up to point at me, and I raise my hands in surrender.

"If it hadn't been for you, I never would have understood what I really am. I owe you that. You wanna know how I really got the sentinel senses? Solitary confinement in prison. I thought I was going crazy. It wasn't until I met you that I realized what I've become."

I defined her--gave her identity.

But I didn't know what she was using her abilities for. "And look how you use this gift. What a waste," I say.

"This is the one thing I really didn't want to do, but I can't leave you alive."

I close my eyes and start shaking all over. An electric current snakes through my body, paralyzing me in its wake. All my muscles tense, bunching up painfully. I can't take this. I'm so weak. It hurts so much.

I'm not with Alex anymore. I can hear Simon's voice. He's shouting for help. His hands are on me, holding me. I want to tell him to move away, because I'm afraid for him. I'm afraid that he'll be shocked, too. But I can't say anything. My jaws are clamped shut and I taste blood in my mouth.

What's happening? What did she do to me? My world becomes a flare of bright light, before the blackness takes me.

 

"A seizure? Sandy had a seizure?" The familiar female voice is the first I hear as I struggle back to consciousness.

Instead of opening my eyes, I let my mind catalogue my body. I feel as though I've been run over by a big truck. I feel more tubes brushing against my skin, the needles pricking into me. There's a breathing tube strapped around my face. I feel it in my nose. This isn't good. Whatever has been happening to me isn't good. I listen, hoping I might get more from the conversation at my side.

". . . due to his brain injury, that and the lack of oxygen," Simon replies. "They don't believe it'll be a permanent condition, but it's too early to tell. The doctors say if he has any more, they'll probably move him back into ICU, but they're hopeful. They've been pumping him full of a drug they believe will keep the seizures to a minimum."

"When Jim got your call, I was so relieved. I thought Sandy would be . . ." Megan's voice sounds muffled and I hear the shifting of cloth.

"He will be, Megan," Simon says softly. "He will be okay. Where's Jim? I thought you said he was right behind you."

Jim. My chest tightens at the mention of his name.

"He was."

A short silence follows, then Simon speaks again. "Stay here with the kid. I'm going to find him."

I hear the door open and close. I hear Megan move toward my bed. I smell her perfume. "Oh, Sandy," she whispers. I swear I've heard her tone before, but I don't remember where or when.

I tilt my head toward her voice and slowly open my eyes. She's leaning over me. She has a beautiful smile on her face, but her eyes look so sad. "Hey, Sandy," she says.

I try to smile back. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. God, I feel so weak.

"You don't have to talk. I just want you to know I'm here. Jim's here, too. Simon went to get him."

Jim.

This time the feeling in my chest translates into fear. Why am I afraid of Jim? Then, I hear his voice again in my head. "What the hell did you do!" I see him standing in front of me, accusing me. His eyes are angry. I did something very wrong. Very wrong.

Just then, the door behind Megan opens and instantly the air around me changes, becomes charged. I hold my breath, though in my condition, it's probably not wise. Two shapes move toward the bed as Connor steps aside. Simon comes forward and behind him, Jim. The captain shifts and bodily moves my partner so he's standing within my view. No, not my partner. I'm not his partner anymore.

Something happened. Before I drowned, something happened.

I'm looking up into Jim's face. He's close enough that I can see him clearly. He stands beside me, without expression, totally cold and shut off. Stoic. He's not meeting my eyes. Damn you, look at me! I want to scream, but I'm only able to whisper his name, and he only hears it because he's a sentinel.

And when our eyes meet, it all comes back to me. Everything. Everything I did, every word he said. Every bit of pain I felt when he pushed me away.

We're in the bullpen, and I've just apologized.

"Chief, I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know if I can get past this. To me, it was a real breach of trust, and that struck really deep with me." His hand moves to his chest as he speaks.

I hear my own protest. "Gimme a break here. How was I supposed to know she was a criminal?"

"Chief, this isn't about her being a criminal. I've gotta have a partner I can trust."

". . . a partner I can trust."

You don't trust me, Jim?

"Have you ever stopped to think about what good all this research is doing anyway?"

"Yeah, I think about it every day. I mean for one thing, it's helped you find out who you are."

He gets defensive. "Whoa, I know who I am. I don't need you or anyone else to define that. Is that clear? Maybe it's just better that you finish your dissertation or doctorate writing about somebody else."

His words echo. " . . . I don't need you . . ."

I'm amazed and hurt. "That's crazy. I know I made a mistake. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get past this, but if you've gotta hang onto it . . . You know where to find me."

You know where to find me--the last words I said to him. Well, Jim, look where you've found me. Look where you left me. I'm shocked by my own anger and, before I know it, I'm crying. I don't have the strength to sob. No voice for sound. My face doesn't change. Instead, I just feel the warm, wet trails slide over my cheeks.

Jim's eyes are locked on mine. They flicker for an instant and then he's gone.

I hear Simon shouting after him, following him. Megan is beside me again. Her hands are on me. She's bending closer, brushing my tears away with gentle fingers. "Shhh," she comforts. "It's going to be all right, Sandy." Her voice breaks.

I close my eyes, drinking up Megan's warmth and willing away the memories drowning me. But like the water in the fountain, they rush through me. Filling me with the cold truth.

I betrayed Jim. I didn't tell him about Alex.

He pushed me out of his life and left me alone to die at her hands.

I let these thoughts pull me under. I let Megan's touch and voice comfort me into the depths. I can't face you, Jim. Not now. Maybe not ever.

 

It takes a while for me to understand who is speaking and what is being said in the next conversation I overhear. At first, I don't recognize the voices and the quiet words make little sense, but I concentrate harder and regain my focus.

" . . . don't know what they argued about before Sandy . . . before he drowned."

The accented voice that replies is Rafe's. "You said Ellison kicked him out of the loft?"

"He did," she affirms.

"That's hard to believe. I've seen them bicker before, most of the time, playfully. I can't believe that Ellison won't come back to see him."

"He says he's looking for Blair's mum. He's trying to track her down now with the same fervor he had when he searched for Alex Barnes. He's driven." She sighs heavily. "I just wish he'd come back here and smooth things over with Sandy. Not even Simon has been able to convince him to come back."

"Poor kid," Rafe says. "He deserves better than this, especially from Ellison."

If you really knew what happened, Rafe, you might not place all the blame on Jim. I don't. I can't. I might want to, but I can't. I'm the one who didn't tell Jim about the other sentinel. I'm the one who should have understood the signs of Jim's territorial imperative being violated. I should have known. I should have done something. And I shouldn't have fallen apart when I saw him again.

Rafe continues, "At the fountain, Ellison was so broken up, I can't imagine he wouldn't want to be here."

"Guilt is a tough emotion to deal with, Rafe."

Megan's voice follows me into darkness as I slip into a dream, where I hear another voice. A memory of a voice coming across a great void, pleading and begging. "Breathe, dammit! Don't leave me, Chief. Breathe! Come on, buddy."

I feel a touch on my face, a breath that my own comes up to meet. And then I'm choking. I'm cold and wet. Strong hands are gently turning me, so I can cough up the water.

"Don't ever leave me again, Chief," the voice says softly. I can hear tears I can't see. "Please, stay with me. Keep breathing." He's smoothing my hair. "Just keep breathing, buddy."

And I do, for him.

 

Part III

I feel weightless, like I'm not connected to my body. Like I'm somewhere far away.

But that changes in a blazing second when I register the touch. A warm callused hand rests on my arm. The touch reconnects me, pulls me back, anchors me. I send my other senses out, sentinel-like, exploring my surroundings while my eyes are still too heavy to open, and I hear deep, heavy breathing. I match my own with it, calming my anxiety and allowing myself to come fully awake. I gather the strength to turn my head and open my eyes.

Jim.

He's sitting beside me on a chair, resting his head against the wall. Asleep. But his hand is on my arm and his fingers twitch. He's so near that I can see his eyes moving behind closed lids. He's dreaming.

And suddenly, he shouts, "Sandburg!" and comes awake with a start.

"Right here, man," I rush to assure him, as though it's the most natural thing.

His eyes flash across me, then he takes the hand he held me with and rubs it across his face. "I was dreaming," he announces, voice muffled.

"I know." I realize my own voice sounds only a bit stronger than the last time I'd heard it. Then again, he is a sentinel. He shouldn't have any problems hearing me.

I study him for a moment, marveling at the fact he's beside me and most likely has been for a time. His clothes look rumpled and he hasn't shaved. I wonder why he came back. Was it Simon? Or did he come to see me because he wanted to? Surely, he wouldn't have been holding onto me if he's still angry, but what was he dreaming about? My betrayal or my death?

When Jim looks at me again, I only see the weariness in his gaze. "You've been out for a while. I'm glad you're awake."

I don't know what to say to him, and by his expression, he shares the feeling. My eyes drift away as I remember our last meeting. I ache knowing that something between us has changed forever. I look back at him, hoping to apologize for giving him such a guilt trip. For crying. "'bout yesterday--" I begin.

He looks at me, puzzled. "Yesterday?"

"When you . . . I didn't mean to--"

"That wasn't yesterday, Chief," he explains, "that was a couple of days ago."

"Days?"

Jim nods. "You've been drifting in and out since then, but you were never coherent." He stands up. "I'm going to get a doctor to check you over."

"You're . . . coming back?" I ask, hopefully.

Jim's jaw clenches momentarily before he replies. "Yeah, I'll be in when they're done with you."

"Okay," I tell him.

He leaves. So much for our first conversation.

 

The doctor arrives with news of my condition. The seizure has set me back, but I should be ready for physical therapy soon, he says, and they're planning to ease me into eating again. It'll take a while, but I should make a full recovery though he can't promise I won't have more seizures. I should be happy at the news, but I only feel wiped out. Too tired to even think about getting better.

The person who comes in after the doctor leaves isn't Jim, it's Simon. He approaches the bed and smiles down at me. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, good to see you awake." His hand pats my leg.

"Hey, Simon," I reply, smiling back.

I don't even have to ask before he says, "I sent Jim home to freshen up. He'll be back in an hour."

"I hope so."

Simon sits in the chair; his hand finds my shoulder. "He will, Blair. This has been hard on him. He doesn't know how to deal with everything that's happened."

"Me either," I admit.

"I know you'll both get through this," Simon insists. "It'll take time, but he needs you Blair. He's not going to throw away your friendship, and I know you aren't about to."

"No, but . . ." I take a deep breath. "What if it's already over?"

"You don't believe that, do you?"

I look away. "I don't know."

 

More than an hour passes during which they come in to change my IVs and prop me up a little. Simon gives me water to drink, and I fall into a fitful doze. I'm fighting against the exhaustion ravaging me, but it seems like a losing battle.

Only when I hear Jim's voice again do I find the strength to come fully awake once more. He and Simon are trading places. The captain puts a hand on his shoulder as he sits down. "I'll be back at the station if you need me," he says to the both of us.

"Thank you, sir," Jim replies in a subdued voice.

I manage a slight nod.

Once Simon has gone, I look Jim over. He's changed and shaved, but doesn't look like he had any time to rest. I wonder how much he's slept in the last couple of days. His eyes meet mine. "Hey, Chief, how do you feel?" he asks.

"Okay, I guess," I lie.

Wrong thing to do around a sentinel. Immediately, he jumps up and turns around. I can see his tall form against the light coming through the window. His hand runs across his hair. "No, you don't feel 'okay'. God, Blair, I'm so sorry."

"What?"

Jim turns toward me, though I can barely see his face because of the light behind him. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "If I hadn't pushed you away, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't have been alone when she . . ." His voice trails and I hear him sigh.

I don't know how to answer him. The only thing I do know deep down is that it wasn't the apology I wanted to hear. 'I'm sorry you almost died because of me' isn't the same as 'I was wrong to say I didn't trust you.' But what can I expect? Should he trust me now? Will he ever again? After a few silent moments that linger too long in the cold air, I finally reply. "Sorry I failed you, Jim."

In a matter of moments, he's crossed the distance between us and is next to the bed. A quick bark of laughter is followed by, "No, no . . . this isn't right. You didn't fail me, Chief. If anything, it's the other way around. I just . . . when you didn't tell me about her and then you told her about me--"

"I didn't!" My whisper is quick and sharp.

Jim's eyes flash, and his mouth opens, then closes. His surprise is evident. Finally, he speaks. "She was in your office when I first saw her--alone."

"My notes, the tapes . . ." I say, closing my eyes. "I was stupid. God--"

He touches my arm again, squeezing gently. "Shhh, no, you weren't. I was--I was to ever think you would betray me like that."

I open my eyes, but I'm having trouble focusing on his face. I blink a few times, trying. I'm so tired, but I'm struggling to stay awake. Now is not the time to leave this conversation. Not when were getting to the heart of it.

He must have picked up on my condition, because he says, "Easy, Blair, rest. That's enough for now."

"Can't," I say.

Jim sits beside me, still holding my arm. "Yes, you can. I'll be here when you wake up. Just wake up soon, okay? Don't go out on me for two days like last time. This old man can't take that kind of stress anymore." He smiles, though sadly.

I manage a slight grin in return and let my eyes fall shut. As I'm slipping into another dream, I find myself thinking of all the time he spent away from me, looking for Alex Barnes, seeking his revenge. I wonder if I'd have woken up sooner had he been by my side. But he couldn't, could he? He probably thought he'd be just waiting for me to die. But this time, I won't be out for days, because he's waiting for me to live. Because I know I can't, in my right mind, hurt him anymore.

Because I know I've hurt him enough.

My thoughts fade into something more vivid, into a scene I never witnessed, but one I was somehow present for.

I'm being pulled from the fountain and turned over. I'm dead. My limp arm makes a dull thump on the ground.

Simon is shouting, all but announcing Jim's abilities to the small crowd. "I don't hear a heartbeat. Do you? Do you hear a heartbeat? Jim! Jim!"

And they're trying to save my life. Simon is compressing my chest and Jim, his mouth over mine, is breathing for me.

The EMTs arrive and my friends move aside, as the attempts to revive me continue.

Jim's mantra is haunting. "This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be happening." He's begging me to breathe, but I won't.

After a time, they quit, but Jim doesn't. He won't give up.

Jim's being pulled away, screaming and for a brief span of time he's still, blocked in by our friends arms, but then he breaks through and comes to me. He drops to his knees, fending off everyone who nears him. And tries again. Seeing his desperation, I make the choice. My choice.

To breathe. To live.

I open my eyes.

"Chief?"

 

Part IV

Awakening and finding myself lying on my side, I seek the source of the voice calling me. My focusing gaze locks on worried blue eyes as I struggle for air. I take a huge gulping breath, as much as my lungs can hold, and suddenly Jim's leaning over me, one hand on my shoulder and the other easing between my face and the pillow. "Easy, buddy, you're okay. Breathe normally. You can do it," he soothes.

His words bring me back to the present, though I hear what must be rain pattering against the window behind him, sounding so much like the fountain spray. Like the last sound I heard before I died. I've made an effort to calm my breathing, but I feel my heart hammering against my chest as though trying to prove to itself it still can.

Jim looks a bit panicked, and I find myself wondering if he had this same expression on his face when he found me at the fountain. And, in a flash, I remember my dream--or was it a vision? A memory? Whatever it was, the image in my mind answers me. His look at the fountain was more disbelieving--the look of someone being quietly destroyed by something unexpected. I saw it. From somewhere, I saw it. And as much as I want to verbally reassure him now, all I see in my mind is the pain he felt then at my loss.

"Blair? Do you know where you are?" he asks, kneading my shoulder. "Talk to me, Blair. Come on, buddy."

Blair. Not Sandburg. Blair.

"Hospital," I whisper, closing my eyes for a moment, and trying to shake the memory and closing myself off from him at the same time.

"Yeah, that's right," he replies. I hear him shift as he eases his hand from my face but maintains contact with the other. Then, I hear the sound of a chair being dragged closer to the bed. "You've been asleep for a few hours again," he explains. Then, reassuringly, "Not too long."

I nod and swallow, keeping my eyes shut. I'm glad he's with me. The idea that he stayed, like he promised, is a start. But the fact he wasn't here when I first woke gnaws at me. He had been miles away chasing after Alex Barnes. Just the thought of her sends an involuntary shudder through me.

I know he felt the tremor, as he moves again to calm me. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe here. I'm not gonna let anything . . ." His voice fades.

Realizing what he was going to say, I open my eyes for confirmation. Jim's expression says it all. His face is drawn in guilt. And though the first temptation is to say, 'yes, you did let something happen to me', I can't. My bitterness is overcome by my sympathy, by the deep and abiding friendship we've developed over the last three years. It can't be gone, because I still feel it inside me. I catch his hand as it slips away. My grip is weak, but insistent. "'s okay, Jim."

"It's--not. God . . ." Jim's fingers close over my hand, as he bows his head. He takes a deep breath, then another. I can almost imagine him reciting the mantra I taught him in his head--'I am relaxed. I am relaxed.' When he looks back at me, though, he seems far from relaxed. His expression is desperate. I recognize the look. He looked at me the same way when Incacha lay dying on our couch. Does he think something else is dying right now? Between us?

Before I can say anything to him, he finds his voice again, and it's husky with emotion. "I left you alone. I didn't protect you, Blair. I should have known she was still in Cascade. I should have known she'd go after you. And when . . . when we found you at the fountain, brought you back, I thought I'd failed you again, that I'd been selfish by bringing you back just to suffer. I didn't think you'd ever wake up. I hated myself so much."

I know immediately how much those words cost him. Jim doesn't share his feelings easily. He finds it safer to repress bad memories and shun emotional discussions. From what I know, he's his father's son, an ex-military man, and a police officer. This naked, clear view into his soul is the greatest gift he's ever offered me. "Don't, Jim," I say softly. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be alive now. We wouldn't be . . . we wouldn't have a chance to work this out."

His hand squeezes mine and I see the smallest spark in his eyes. "Can we? Can we work this out, Chief?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah, Jim, I think we can."

The edges of his mouth quirk into a smile. He pats the side of my face with his free hand and I feel his fingers brush over the bandages above my ear.

Trying to lighten the moment, for his sake as well as mine, I add, "They cut my hair off, huh?"

He gives me his best 'I'm sorry' look. "Yeah, buddy, they did, but it'll grow back."

"I dunno, maybe the women will like this new look better. You know, the GQ Blair Sandburg."

Jim's smile becomes bright and sincere. "They'll like you even if you painted it green."

"You mean like Dwight Roshman of the Jags? No way, man."

Just as we both begin to laugh softly, the door to my room opens and an orderly arrives with my dinner. As the man approaches, I tell Jim to go home and get some rest. At first he declines.

"Please, man, you need it," I insist as I'm being propped up.

Reluctantly, he agrees. "I'll be back tomorrow morning, Chief," he promises.

I nod. I have no reason to doubt him.

 

More than a week later, when they have me try out my leg muscles for the first time in PT, Jim gives me an unexpected opportunity to show my trust in him.

He asked to be with me during the therapy and, though it's not customary, the doctors, with some prompting from Simon, have agreed to let him stay. In truth, he hasn't left my side for very long since he returned to Cascade. We haven't talked much more about what happened between us, settling into a quiet agreement to wait for a while, letting us both become comfortable in each other's company again. I know we'll have to talk more, but I'm willing to wait and let time begin to heal us both. The fact he's with me providing moral support during the PT is enough for now.

In preparation for this momentous event, Jim bought me a pair of comfortable plain white pajamas and new slippers so I wouldn't have to wear a hospital gown and booties.

Jim's urging me on as I stand, aided by Edward, my therapist. My arms shake as they help to support my weight, hands tightly clutching the bars on either side. I take my first careful steps--slowly, painfully. It's been weeks since I've stood upright after lying in a hospital bed in a coma, and I feel every bit like an infant learning to walk for the first time.

"That's it, Chief. You're doing fine." His encouragement is like gold. I look at him, catching his eyes as he sits by watching me. He smiles and claps his hands. "He shoots, he scores!"

"I'd high-five you," I say, "but I don't think I can manage that yet."

He smiles. "No high-fives necessary."

I manage a couple more steps before stalling to catch my breath and when I look at Jim again, his expression has changed. He looks perplexed, almost unnerved.

"Jim?"

He stands and is by my side in moments. "Don't move, Blair," he warns.

"Jim, what is it?" I ask.

Edward is echoing my query as Jim ducks under the bar and stands in front of me. His hands clasp my quivering arms, eyes locking on mine. "Edward," he says, "get a doctor now, please." His voice demands unquestioning action, but Edward is reluctant to leave.

"I can't leave Blair alone--"

Jim's gaze darts over my shoulder. His tone is sharp. "Please, don't argue--get a doctor now!"

As I struggle to stay on my feet, mindful of my weak muscles, I hear the man shift behind me and a door open and close. Sentinel eyes drift back to mine, looking infinitely gentle. "We have to get you down on the floor, Chief. Work with me, okay?"

"Jim, what's going on?" I ask.

"A seizure," he explains. He looks as scared as I feel when the word leaves his mouth.

I shake my head. "It's just the strain. I'm just shaking a little from the strain."

"No," he insists. "You're about to have one. I don't have time to explain, Chief. Just trust me, okay?"

"Okay," I say, my panic growing.

He steps closer, threading his arm beneath my own and resting a hand behind my back. His other hand still holds one of my arms. "Let go of the bars, Blair. I've got you. Together, we're going to the floor mat, slowly."

I nod, feeling him press closer as I loosen my grip, but just as I start to crumple, I grab on tighter.

"I've got you, Blair. You can let go. Just reach for me. I won't let you fall," he promises.

I trust him. I release the bars and latch onto him. In a moment, his strength has lowered us both to the floor in a fluid movement. I wind up on my back with his hand cradled under my head. He's leaning over me gently tugging his other arm from beneath me.

"Nice catch," I say, trying to lighten the moment.

Before he can respond, I begin to shake.

Through my tremors, I hear his voice. "It's okay, Blair. You're all right. Just breathe for me, buddy. Just keep breathing."

And I hear his voice echoing from beside the fountain. "Come on, Chief, breathe. Breathe, dammit!" I can't help but feel guilty about this, about putting him through this.

Suddenly, I feel myself go limp, relaxing into strong hands. "That's it. You're all right now."

I hear another voice, a doctor's, asking Jim to move away. "No," I moan, as I feel him gently let go.

But I hear him. "I'm here, Chief. I'm not going anywhere. They just need to check you over."

As the doctor's image fills my field of vision, I feel a hand grip my own and hear my friend's voice again. My fingers tighten around his. Once more, Jim becomes my anchor. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you, buddy."

The doctor is explaining to Jim and me that I'm going to be fine. He says it's normal to need to sleep after a seizure. He tells me I should close my eyes and rest, but I don't want to scare Jim. I try to hold on to consciousness, but the trauma, though seemingly not as severe as before, won't be denied. My grip on Jim's hand begins to slacken as my vision dims.

"It's okay, Chief. I know you're going to be fine," Jim says, somehow realizing, sensing my struggle. "Everything's going to be okay. I'll be with you when you wake up."

And he is.

 

Part V

At first, I'm disoriented when I wake, hearing the sound of pattering water again. But I'm not at the fountain. It's raining, an almost daily occurrence in Cascade. It's something I'll have to get use to--hearing the rain without thinking of dying.

Pulling my gaze away from the water trailing down the window, I focus on the person sitting beside the bed--Jim. He's asleep with his head leaning back against the wall. His body is slouched down in a large chair, arms folded in front of him. He can't be very comfortable.

I remember what happened in therapy, and I want desperately to ask him how he knew. What warned him I was about to have a seizure? What had his senses told him? I'm positive he gauged my oncoming attack with his sentinel abilities. Even though the trauma of the seizure itself isn't forgotten, I can't help the fact that the anthropologist in me is intrigued by what happened.

"Jim?" I reach for him, but the space between us is too great and my hand brushes only air. As exhausted as I feel, I don't trust myself to sit up and lean farther out, so I call his name a second time.

He hears me and jerks awake. I immediately regret disturbing him when he looks over at me and drags the chair closer. "How're you doing, Chief?"

The concern in his eyes mixed with the weariness in his posture make me feel guilty for wanting to ask about his forewarning. My intentions take a quick detour. "You should go home and get some sleep in a real bed, man," I say. "You look like you need bed rest more than I do."

He smiles. "You woke me to tell me I should get some sleep?"

"No," I correct. "I woke you to tell you to go home. You don't have to be here all the time."

"I haven't been," he insists. His mouth becomes a straight line and his eyes stare beyond me. I'm sure he's thinking about having left me comatose to chase after Alex.

"Please, man," I say. "You need to stay healthy."

Jim rubs a hand across his face, then looks back at me. "Last time you told me to go home and rest, I couldn't sleep," he admits.

"Why?"

His eyes dart away again as he sighs. The silence lingers between us, weighing heavy with the promise of words to come. "This sounds as corny as hell," he replies with a laugh, looking back at me, "but it's not home without you there, Chief."

I don't know how to answer him. I can't think of anything nicer he's ever said, any 'thank you' he's ever uttered that would even come close. He's always showed me he cared by his actions, not his words. He talked me down from an overdose of Golden, when I had a gun in my hand and could have easily shot him. He found me in a warehouse on the waterfront before Lash could kill me. He pushed me out of the way of an oncoming car and shielded me from bullets and explosions with his own body. But these actions are second nature; it's the words that have never come easy to Jim Ellison.

His admission has stolen any coherent reply I could make. What can I say to him now? I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Seconds pass--too much silence for someone expecting the worst.

Jim leans back in the chair and shrugs and, though it's a casual gesture, he looks disheartened. His hands thread together in his lap. "I don't blame you for not wanting to move back. I brought all your belongings to the loft. I'll keep them until they release you from the hospital, until we find a place for you."

We, he just said until we find a place for me. He's willing to help me look for an apartment, though he thinks I'm rejecting him. I rush to set him straight. "Jim, you don't--"

The door opens, interrupting me. It's Simon. He walks over to stand beside Jim, laying a hand on his detective's shoulder. His expression is concerned. Someone must have told him about my seizure. "Hey, Sandburg, how are you feeling?"

I'm glad to see him, mindful of the time he and the rest of Major Crimes spent beside me all those weeks, but I'm also anxious to set Jim straight. "Tired," I say, "but otherwise fine. Jim and I--"

The object of my concern abruptly stands, and Simon's hand falls away. "I should be going," Jim announces. "I have a few things I need to take care of."

"Jim, wait. We have to talk," I call as he heads to the door.

"It can keep until morning, Chief," he says, as though we'd been talking about the Jags being in the playoffs or something and not about the fragile relationship we are trying to rebuild. He's out the door before I can say anything else. He's refined the flight response to an art form.

I look up at the captain and plead, "Simon, you have to get him back in here. This is important, really important."

"He won't get away from me," Simon vows with a reassuring wink.

I'm left alone wondering how things could go so wrong in a matter of moments, and of how wrong they had gone for us in the last few months. I sit up, feeling dizzy, but not giving in. With Jim's abilities, I realize I have a way to reach him.

"Jim, I'm pretty sure you can hear me if you're not too far away. Tune into my voice, man. You've done it before."

I plunge ahead. "You have to come back and let me explain, please. I want to move back to the loft. I . . . just . . . when you said it wasn't home without me, I didn't know what to say, how to tell you how much your words meant to me." My hands are clenching and unclenching in the blanket. "I'm probably going to be a lot of trouble, man, with all that's happened, and the fact that you'd want me home . . . I want to make things work again between us. We've been good partners, Jim, and even better friends. We've had some tough times, but we can get through them."

With some effort, I pull my legs up so that they're tented beneath the blanket. I lean forward, using them as support. I think I'm bracing myself for the likelihood he won't come back. "The last thing I'd want you to think right now is that I'm rejecting your offer. If you give me a chance to explain . . ." I break off for a moment, unable to ignore how my voice is beginning to quiver. I lift my hands and brush them nervously over the little hair I have left, then drop them again to clutch at the blanket. "I need to explain why I thought I was doing the right thing with Alex. I wasn't sure how either of you would react to one another."

I pause again, wondering if he's listening to me at all. Regardless of the fact I know I can't get very far, I make up my mind to try and get up. I push the covers away. Carefully, I ease my legs over the side of the bed and scoot my body closer to the edge with the minimal strength in my arms. At least I can be thankful there are no IVs or monitors to disconnect anymore. As I do this, I decide it's best to start talking again. "I shouldn't have started working with Alex without checking out her story," I say, as my feet touch the cold floor. I have no idea where my slippers are. Wondering why I'm trying to stand in the first place immediately follows that thought. I'd never be able to catch up to Jim. But I'm pushing off the bed, as I begin another round of explanations. "I need you to know . . ." is the last thing I say before my legs refuse to bear my weight, and I'm sliding toward the floor.

Just then, the door bursts open and Jim enters. My hands, still on the bed behind me, have managed to slow my fall, so he has the time he needs to catch me yet again. Before I know it, he's supporting me. "I've got you, Chief," he says, then his arm is under my knees, the other behind my back and I'm on the bed again. It's so quick it makes me dizzy. Sitting beside me, he eases me back against the pillows.

"Whoa, there, I don't think you're going to be running any marathons anytime soon, buddy," he jokes, when I expect him to reprimand me. One of his hands shifts from my shoulder to rest on my chest, and his expression becomes more serious. "God, your heart's racing, just take it easy. I'm here now. I shouldn't have walked out. It was unfair to you. You were right all along about my fear response."

At the reference to my dissertation, perhaps the root of all our problems, I take a deep breath and swallow hard. My eyes sting and I blink back the tears that haven't fallen. My emotions seem to be hovering on the surface, ready to spill out at a second's notice. I wonder if someone else is about to burst in and witness my little breakdown. "Simon?"

"He's gone back to the station," he replies.

"Did you hear . . . ?" I lose track of my voice.

"Every word you said. I tuned into you the second I heard your voice," he says, and shrugs. "Instinct, I guess."

"I meant what I said, Jim. I want to come home."

"I should have never asked you to leave, Chief," he says, then shakes his head. "I should have never kicked you out. I didn't ask," he amends. "I thought--I thought I was doing the right thing, especially after the dream." The hand he'd laid on my chest moves to rub his forehead, but he maintains contact with the other. "It was so real. I was sure I was going to do something to hurt you physically."

"Dream? What dream, Jim?"

Moving his hand away from his face reveals a haunted expression. "I dreamt about being in the jungle. I heard something come into a clearing."

"The jaguar?"

He shakes his head. "A wolf. It wasn't threatening me, but I . . ." he stops, abruptly.

"What, Jim? What did you do?"

"I shot it with my crossbow," he says, jaw clenching for a moment before he continues. "It went down and . . . turned into you. I killed you, Blair. You were lying dead in that clearing by my hand and, when I woke, I could only think of it as a warning. I needed to get you away from me. Hell, I'd already pulled a gun on you at the front door. But it worked out all wrong. I made the wrong choices, made them for both of us. I almost cost you your life by pushing you away." The words are coming freely now, though I can see how much they're costing him.

"We both made choices," I say, trying to ease his conscience while admitting to my own role in our near-tragedy. "I never thought keeping her existence a secret from you would cause any harm. I didn't know what would happen when you met, and I was waiting for the right time. I hope you can trust me again, man. I'm useless as a partner if you don't trust me, but I swear, Jim, I never meant to put our friendship on the line. It's too important to me." I bite my lower lip, trying to hold on to my composure.

Gently, he puts his hand under my chin and rubs his thumb beneath my lip. "Hey, let's not add a split lip to your list of injuries, huh? It's okay. Let it out, Chief."

I release my lip with a sob, allowing his gesture to free my emotions. Still embarrassed, I cover my eyes with one hand. "I can't . . . do this now."

"Shhh, yes, you can. If you haven't noticed, so can I," he tells me.

I move my hand and look up at his face. His eyes are wet. He half-grins at what I'm sure is my surprised expression, and wipes at tears forming beneath his eyes. "We'll get through this, Blair. We've already made it through the worst of it."

The worst of it. Truly the worst has to be in the past--mistakes, secrets, angry words, near death. Surely the rest has to be better--reconciliation, rebuilding our trust, strengthening a friendship that never died.

But Alex is still out there, as is the potential for this all to still end badly.

"We'll find her, Blair," he says.

"Oh, man," I moan. "Please, don't go all psychic on me. Save that for Connor, will you?"

He laughs. "It's only because I know you so well, Chief." He becomes serious on a dime. "And I should have known better, because I do know you."

"Hey, we both should have," I reply. "But it's over now, we can't change what's already happened."

Jim nods. His expression becomes one of puzzlement. It's as if he's an open book now, as though this whole experience has really transformed him. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I've learned how to read him better than before. "You haven't asked," he says cryptically.

"Asked what?"

"How I knew you were about to have a seizure."

"I didn't want you to feel like a lab rat," I admit.

He shakes his head. "It should make an interesting chapter in your book, Chief. I'll tell you all about it if the explanation can wait until tomorrow. I'd like to take you up on your offer and go home for a while."

Trying to contain my enthusiasm at Jim's mention of my dissertation, I focus on his going home. "You're going to try to get some sleep, right?"

"Yeah, buddy, I think so, if I don't strain to hard to hear your heartbeat from across town." He nudges my forehead gently with the tips of his fingers, still wet from his own tears. "Night, Chief."

After he's gone, my hand drifts to the watermark on my forehead.

 

Part VI

It's only midmorning and I feel I've already experienced a day's worth of prodding, feeding, and visiting. Megan has come and gone, as have Rafe and Brown, but still no sign of Jim.

I hope he's sleeping in and not on the job. As I finally lay quietly, watching the television with the sound turned down, I think of him and how far we've come in the last few days, of how much he's suffered in the last few weeks believing I wouldn't recover. Our talk the night before was emotionally draining for both of us, but I know it was necessary.

Voices outside my door, followed by a tentative knock, encourage me to sit up, guessing it could be the object of my thoughts. "Come in," I call.

The door opens, admitting two men in suits, around Jim's age. Federal agents no doubt. I'm not ready for this. How can I be ready for this? "Shit," the word is barely a breath. Jim would have heard it, but he's not here.

"Sandburg? Blair Sandburg?" one asks as they both dig into their jacket pockets.

"Yeah," I reply.

The taller one with a mustache speaks first though both flash their badges. "I'm Special Agent John Sanders, FBI, and this is Special Agent Frank England." The blond man nods at me, while Sanders continues. "We're here to ask you a few questions about your acquaintance with Alex Barnes, also known as Alicia Banister."

"Do we have to do this now?" I ask, not wanting to stir up the memories after just having started to put the most important pieces of my life back together. Besides, I want Jim with me when we do this.

"Would you prefer to have a lawyer present?" England asks and, though his tone doesn't sound particularly accusatory, I feel my heart speed up.

"Am I under suspicion of anything?" I hadn't considered the possibility, and my fear of being officially interrogated by people who think I had something to do with Alex's crimes makes me cold. God, I would have never helped her with her senses if I had known what she was doing.

"We'd just like to know more about what happened so we can get a lead on finding her and putting her back in prison, Mr. Sandburg," Sanders replies, conveniently sidestepping my question. "I'm sure you'd like to see her back where she can't hurt anyone else."

Low blow--of course I don't want her to hurt anyone else. I'm worried about the canisters she stole and all the people she might be targeting, not to mention my fear of her facing off against Jim. My partner is strong, capable and ready for a fight, but I can't deny Alex's own abilities and her cunning nature. I'm afraid for him, especially if it were to come before I'm ready to stand by his side. At the same time, I know I'd face her even if I wasn't ready--I'd do it for him. I owe him that much.

I resign myself to answering. "I'll help you in any way I can."

Together, they come closer to my hospital bed, but neither makes a move to sit in the chair beside me. They were probably taught at FBI school that standing is much more intimidating. And it is.

It doesn't occur to me before the questions start that I'll have to lie to protect Jim. I only realize I've made a mistake after the first one lingers in the air a bit too long unanswered. "How did you come to be associated with Ms. Barnes?"

When I reply, I try to speak as evenly as possible. "I met her at the police station. She seemed kind of agitated, and I asked if I could help."

"Did you know why she was there?"

I nod. The details of my time with Alex came back to me in the days after I'd come out of the coma. "An accident--she'd had a car accident and Megan, I mean Inspector Connor, brought her in for questioning. She thought Alex might be drunk. She wasn't. A test proved that."

"How did you think you could help her?"

"I--uh--she just looked like she could use someone to talk to," I stutter.

"You were attracted to her." England voices the question more like a statement he's daring me to deny.

"If you're suggesting . . ." I begin.

Just then, the door to my room bursts open. It's Jim. I silently thank every deity I know as I watch him enter and pin both men with the infamous Ellison glare. "I don't know what you think you're doing here," he barks.

"Questioning a witness, Detective," Sanders shoots back. He places obvious emphasis on Jim's rank.

"We've been working on this case together, and I thought we'd agreed that Blair would be questioned when he was ready." Though Jim's voice is even, he steps into the personal space of the agents, as though daring them to cross him.

Sanders doesn't back down. "This is our case, Ellison. You and Connor have been allowed to assist us with it, but Alicia Banister became a federal fugitive when she took those canisters out of Cascade. I'd appreciate your cooperation here, but I don't need your permission to question Mr. Sandburg. He's given it himself, freely."

"The man you're questioning was brutally attacked and left to drown in a fountain at Rainier University. Barnes...Banister, whatever the hell her name is, left him for dead, gentlemen." The veins in Jim's head are bulging to the surface, his eyes becoming colder. "He recently woke from a six-week coma. I think you can do without his statement for a few more days."

"Banister is out there with the ability to kill thousands of people with little or no warning, Ellison." Sanders own anger and frustration is apparent in his voice now, too. "I think you'd be--"

Jim pulls out his cell phone and waves the agent to silence as he dials. "Captain Banks, please," he says.

Both agents look at each other with grim expressions.

"Simon, it's Jim. Sanders and England are here at the hospital trying to question Blair." After a pause, he says, "Yeah, that's what I told them. Do you think . . .?" Another silence follows. "Fine. I'll be waiting for you." Jim clicks off the phone. "Captain Banks is on his way. He's also calling your field office to speak with your superior." Jim says, gesturing at the door, "I suggest you go to the lobby and wait for us so we can sit down and discuss this."

"This isn't over, Ellison," Sanders promises, passing my partner, motioning his own to the door.

"It is for now." Jim's voice follows him into the hall.

As a spectator, all I've done is gape at the exchange. Now that the room has cleared, I breathe an audible, shaky sigh of relief.

Jim's eyes turn to me and his expression becomes instantly concerned. "Hey, Chief, are you okay?" He sits beside me on the bed, crossing one arm over my body and covering my hand with his own. It's as though he's shielding me from the threat he's already chased away.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks, man. I didn't realize . . . when they started with the questions . . ." I'm having trouble forming a sentence that actually makes any sense. "I mean, I forgot how much I'd have to cover up, you know, all my sentinel research. I shouldn't have agreed to . . ." I glance down, away from his eyes. I know I shouldn't say what I'm about to, but the words just fall out of my mouth, the memories lingering too close to the surface. "I keep making one mistake after another, huh?" I whisper.

"Oh, Chief," Jim's voice is close to my ear. He leans in and gently pulls me toward him with a hand on the nape of my neck. "You didn't do anything wrong. They shouldn't have come to you like this." I let my forehead fall against his shoulder, relaxing against him, my free arm coming around his back. I can't help but wonder who the man holding me is and what he's done to the Jim Ellison I know, the one who has never been so free with his offers of comfort.

Maybe he died with me at the fountain.

A shudder runs through me as though I've stepped across my own grave, and Jim's hand slips down my back, urging me closer. "God, I'm sorry," I mumble against his shirt. I feel like I'm losing control again. The unexpected visit by the FBI, the sudden fear I would have to come up with a story to cover up my research, and the memories the short discussion dredged up have me on edge. I'm embarrassed at my weakness, but thankful of Jim's support at the same time. "I don't mean to . . ."

"Shhh, it's okay," he says, his hand smoothing circles on my back. "I'm not going to let anyone question you until you're ready." As an afterthought, he adds softly, "God, you're so thin."

I don't think he knew he said the words aloud. I don't reply, not knowing how to. Instead, I say, "If it can help you catch her, answering their questions--"

"I don't think you could tell us anything that would give us a lead, Chief. You told me what you knew when we found out she was the person committing the crimes; anything else can wait."

"What if--what if I just told you what I remember about the attack?"

For a moment, Jim is silent and I wonder what he's thinking. "Are you ready to talk about it, Blair? It's not going to be easy."

"I know." The words are almost inaudible to me, but he hears them. Somehow, speaking for his ears alone is my way of showing my trust. If he's the one to take my statement, I'm sure I can get through it.

Leaning me back against the pillows, he holds both of my shoulders. "Look, I need to go settle things with Sanders and England. Simon will be here in a little while. When I come back we can talk, okay?"

I meet his eyes. "Yeah, okay." Almost without thinking, I say, "Simon--he can come with you. I'll tell you both what I remember." Other than Jim, Simon is the closest to everything that's happened. He truly understands what we were up against, and he's the only other person I trust completely.

"You're sure?"

I nod. "There just might be something that can help you catch her, and even if not, I'll have to go through this soon enough anyway. It'll be easier to begin by telling the two of you. Maybe together we can find a way to gloss over the sentinel stuff, you know, prepare for when I have to talk to the FBI or--or testify or something."

Jim's forehead wrinkles and his face is cast in a pained expression. "I hate the fact you'd have to lie. Maybe it's about time--"

"No!" Even I'm startled by my own vehemence. "Jim, you can't be exposed, especially not now."

"Take it easy," he says, kneading my shoulders. "We'll talk about this when I get back, okay? We'll decide everything together."

As he releases me and starts moving away, I immediately feel the ache of separation. He said 'together,' though. We'll get through this together. And I believe him.

Sitting alone waiting for Jim and Simon, I try to recall everything about my last meeting with Alex. Her words, her actions, my fear at the sight of the gun pointed at me all come to mind with terrible clarity. My body tenses in response. This is what I'll have to share with them, and maybe, eventually, in front others who will question me.

I close my eyes and try to relax. I can do this, I tell myself, wanting desperately to believe it. I breathe in and out slowly, counting each breath--centering myself.

Losing track of the time, I startle when the door opens, half-expecting to see Alex standing there. But it's Jim and Simon.

"It's okay. It's just us," Simon says, entering first, followed closely by my stern-faced partner.

I try to make light of the moment. "You stopped Jim from killing them, right?" I manage a weak smile.

"Only barely," Simon replies, grinning back at me while Jim rolls his eyes.

The captain makes his way over to the bed and carefully sits beside me. Jim takes the chair. "They're not going to bother you right now, Blair," Simon says. "Jim told me you wanted to make a statement, to go over what you remember about Alex coming to the university. Are you sure you're ready?"

I nod. "I need to do this," I insist.

Simon reaches in his jacket and removes a micro-cassette recorder and turns it on. "All right, son. Go ahead."

"We're right here, Chief," Jim says, reaching to cover my hand with his. "It's okay."

Slowly, still afraid of reliving the ordeal, I begin to speak.

On to the Second Half