Strong enough to be your friend

by Kim Heggen

Disclaimer: If you recognize the name, then the character isn't mine. Sadly, the boys belong to Pet Fly and I'll have to give them back. This is fanfiction and generates no financial compensation for me.

Summary: An injury in the line of duty forces Jim and Blair both to make agonizing decisions, and leads them on a journey of grief, betrayal and redemption. In other words, it ain't a comedy, folks.

Ratings: Probably PG-ish. The occasional cuss word; no graphic violence. Medical doublespeak warning, smarm warning.

Disclaimer #2: Part of the plot is stolen from one of my favorite SF authors, and I'll give that reference when the story is complete. Hey, plagiarism is a relative thing, right?

Spoilers: I think this will be set post S2P2, but I don't anticipate major spoilers.

Thank you to all who helped me with this story: to BJKira, for wanting some JimAngst; to Tegan and Christina, for faithful (sometimes almost daily!) feedback; to Iris, for, um, backing me up when I needed it, and for wnnepooh, for kicking me (very nicely) a few times when I needed it!

Thanks to all who had enough faith to read along, and to all who had enough patience to wait until it was finished.

And DawnC...special thanks to you, for all your on-line chitchat and companionship over the last couple of months. You have no idea how much you've helped me during my time of spousal deprivation. You're a pal!

Feedback is welcome, be it public, private, positive or negative. You may discuss it, praise it or hold it up to be sneered at. Just make sure you warn about spoilers if you discuss the plot on the list.

Happy reading!

Part One

"You know, Jim, it was my turn to cook dinner tonight," I venture, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand.

"'Was', Junior?" he responds, lifting an eyebrow. "It still is."

It's been a long day for both of us. Jim left early for some crack-of-dawn briefing about this suspected serial killer, and when I caught up to him this afternoon we went out chasing wild geese, dead ends, and red herrings. Yes, we have left no cliche unturned. Then I let Jim sucker me into helping him with the disaster on his desk.

"Oh, c'mon, Jim," I groan. "It's almost eight o'clock, man. Give me some credit, here. You're the one who wanted help with paperwork. If you'd let me go home, I'd be there already with dinner on the table. Can't we just stop and pick something up?"

Jim snorts. "Your car's in the shop, Sandburg, remember? How were you going to get home?"

Oops. Jim's right; I'd had to scrounge a ride from a fellow T.A. over to the station this afternoon.

I open my mouth to take another stab at the dinner issue, but I notice that Jim isn't listening...well, not to me, anyway. He's got that funny focused look on his face that he gets when he's dialing up his hearing.

"What?" I demand. "What do you hear?"

Jim pulls a flagrantly illegal U-turn. "I'm not sure, Chief, but it didn't sound right. Just a lot of yelling from a few blocks away, and some odd smells. Hang on." This last is delivered a bit too late, as the truck practically catches air.

I curse mentally. Yes, I'm always glad to see Jim's senses working at their top potential, but I'm hungry and tired. Jim, on the other hand, is constitutionally incapable of ignoring a possible crime in progress. Oh well, maybe it'll be nothing.

I hear a muffled sound in the distance, and I see Jim visibly flinch. "What?" I ask again.

"Shots fired," he replies mechanically, eyes straight ahead. Ouch, he must have had his hearing cranked up when he heard the shots, and that probably didn't feel too good. Great, I think to myself; something's going down. So much for dinner of any kind tonight.

As Jim predicted, we're indeed only a few blocks from the ruckus. We round a corner and pull into a small, poorly lit industrial area. Jim skids the truck to a stop in front of a huge grey warehouse with its main door flung open. There's a late-model silver BMW parked at an angle out front, and two police cars about twenty feet closer to us.

Jim leaps out of the truck and I follow, since he hasn't said anything to me about staying in the truck. The yellow and black sign on the building reads Cascade AgriChem, and I can see coveralled workers coming out of the building. Apparently, they run a swing shift here...though at the moment, no one seems to be doing any work; in fact they all look rather alarmed.

Grabbing at the elbow of the man nearest him, Jim flashes his badge and turns on the ol' Ellison charm. "Cascade P.D.! Tell me what's happening in there, now!"

The man goggles at Jim for a moment, then finds his voice. "The cops are chasing some guy. I think he stole that car out front. He just pulled up and ran inside, the crazy bastard. The cops are in there," he jerks him thumb over his shoulder, indicating the warehouse, "lookin' for him. We've heard shots, too."

Peeking inside, I see rows of metal barrels as well as large glass bottles and some crates. Jim takes a few steps inside, wrinkling his nose at the chemical odors, then turns back to me.

"That guy could be hiding in here anywhere, Chief. I want you to stay here, in case he comes back out this way." He starts cautiously down one of the aisles, his weapon in his hand.

"Uh, Jim?" I call out. "What if he's armed?"

"Then you duck, Sandburg," comes the rapidly fading answer.

I wait at the entrance, peering into the gloomy interior and wishing, not for the first time, that I had even a little bit of Jim's heightened senses. The warehouse employee, a thick-necked fellow who looks like he could have had a bit part in "Clan of the Cave Bear", stands his ground next to me, to my surprise.

"You a cop?" he asks curiously after a few moments.

"No," I hesitate, wondering exactly which version of my standard answer I should use on Mr. Sloping-Forehead here. "I'm, uh, sort of a civilian advisor. Detective Ellison is my - -"

A series of noises interrupts my explanation...first a gunshot, followed infinitesimally later by a crash. Then, a sound taken straight from my nightmares: Jim's voice, screaming in agony and dying out in a strangled gurgle.

I'm off and running before I realize it, homing in on that horrible scream. A foul stench comes billowing toward me, burning my eyes and throat. Around me, I can hear shouts and running from the other officers, but I ignore them. Pulling the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose in an attempt to shield myself from the noxious gas, I fight my way towards Jim.

When I find him, he's lying on his back, hands clenched at his sides. Around him are pieces of broken glass and a pool of some horrible oily liquid. I don't see any blood, but his eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. As soon as I kneel next to him, coughing, and search frantically for a pulse, he takes a long shuddering breath. His back arches, and his arms and legs began to twitch rhythmically.

Through a haze of fumes and stinging tears, I become aware of one of the other officers next to me. "We need to get him out of this stuff," I shout. "He's having a seizure!" I no longer really care about the car thief or whoever the hell they were chasing...all that matters is getting Jim to safety and to medical help.

The officer isn't all that much bigger than me, but together we're able to drag Jim out of the spill and slowly, painfully, we're able to get him out into the cool fresh night air. Jim continues to jerk and twitch as we drag him, seizing violently.

"Ambulance is on its way!" I hear someone yell. I kneel back down next to Jim, gulping. The tremors seem to be slowing a bit, but he's still stiff and unresponsive and he's starting to look slightly blue around the lips. He's still breathing, though slowly. One of the warehouse employees runs up with hose and starts spraying Jim with it. I bounce up to my feet, and it's all I can do not to slug the guy.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shout. "You'll make him hypothermic!"

"Got to get that stuff off of him, kid!" the guy yells back. "That's malathion! Nothing else stinks like that. We need to start getting his clothes off, too. The ambulance'll have blankets for him."

I take a deep breath and try to help. A lot of the water spray hits me instead of Jim, and pretty soon my teeth are chattering so hard that my jaw aches. By the time we peel Jim's outer clothes off, the ambulance is pulling in.

The paramedics walk over, cool and professional, and begin assessing Jim. Never have those calm voices sounded so welcome. I'm seen my partner ill and injured before, but I'm not sure I've ever been so frightened for him. I sit down where I am in the wet parking lot, listening dully to the medics work.

"Okay, he's not protecting his airway, and his O-2 sats are only 75. Get the O's on him, and let's get ready to intubate."

"We've got IV access. What meds do you want?"

"Let's give him point one per kilo of lorazepam and see if that does it; might stop the seizures too."

"Give me a cuffed seven point five tube. Where's the suction?"

Silence for a few moments. Then, "Got it! Tape!" When I finally gather up my courage to look, things look decidedly more peaceful. They've got a breathing tube taped in place, and he's now just lying still. His chest rises and falls rhythmically as the medic squeezes the bag to make him breathe.

Something blocks the light for a moment, and I look up blearily. Oh.

Simon stands in front of me, holding out his hand to help me up. Someone must have called him. Right now, he's very definitely a welcome sight. "Sandburg, what the hell is going on here? What's happened to Jim?"

I let him pull me to my feet, and stand there, swaying slightly. I must be a sight: drenched with icy water, stinking with that chemical that we found all over Jim, my face stained with tears that I know are not all from the irritating fumes. Simon takes off his coat and drapes it around my shoulders. I try to answer him, but my tightening throat and chattering teeth make things difficult.

"W-we on our way h-home and Jim heard s-something." I huddle deeper inside the coat. "C-car thief, in the warehouse. S-shot up some of the bottles. P-poisonous...he was having a s-seizure."

Simon frowns. "Jim was poisoned? Is that what I smell?"

I nod slightly, and look back over at Jim. They're loading him on a gurney and rolling him into the back of the ambulance. He's still lying there quietly.

I feel Simon's arm about my shoulders. "Come on, Blair. I'll drive us to the hospital."

Part Two

I hate hospitals. I hate hospital waiting rooms the most, especially ER waiting rooms. Old magazines, bad coffee, odd-looking people, screaming children. Even under the best of circumstances, this is not my favorite place to be.

Let's just say these are not the best of circumstances.

Since Jim has come in by ambulance, Simon and I are forced to stay out in the waiting room until someone comes out to get us. Every time the automatic doors open, I sit up and crane my neck in an attempt to see back into the department. I can't see Jim, of course, but at least I don't see people running or hear them yelling things like "We're losing him!" or "Get that to me STAT!". That seems like a good sign to me, and I cling to this observation as the only crumb of information I've got.

I'm more than half tempted to just cruise on back the next time the doors open; sometimes you can accomplish quite a bit by simply looking like you know where you're going.

But for now, I try to wait patiently, knowing that Jim will need me. Once they let me see him, they'll have to pry me away from him with a crowbar.

Simon handles the stress by being officious. He's made at least four trips up to talk to the poor volunteer whose job it is to keep the waiting room under control. He's buttonholed the receptionist for information. And when he's not doing that, he glares at the other people in the waiting room as if resenting their presence.

To top it off, my gut is most unhappy with me. Whether from nerves or from all that stuff I inhaled in the warehouse, I make about three trips to the bathroom while we wait. After the last visit, I know I look pale and sweaty, and I'm just hoping Simon won't notice how sick I am. The last thing I want is to be a patient myself today.

Just as I'm starting to give more serious consideration to the idea of waltzing on in like I own the place, the automatic doors slide open again and a tall man in blue scrubs walks straight up to Simon. His nametag reads Dr. Roberts.

"Are you Captain Banks?" he asks. He's got a pleasant, humorous face, but there are fatigue lines around the eyes.

Simon nods. "Yes. Jim Ellison is one of my detectives. How is he? Can we see him?"

Dr. Roberts smiles, to my intense relief. " Yes, you can. Come on back, and I'll fill you in on the way."

I assume that the invitation includes me as well, and Dr. Roberts doesn't even ask who I am. Right now, that's fine with me.

As we pass through the sliding doors, the ER physician begins to explain. "He's been exposed to a rather large amount of a particularly nasty pesticide. I won't go into the pharmacology of it all - - it's complicated, and I can't remember it all myself - - but it works by keeping the body from breaking down used-up nerve chemicals like it's supposed to."

I swallow, and a chill passes through my body. "Like nerve gas?"

"No, not nearly that bad, but there are are a few similarities, I suppose." We round a corner and stop in front of a curtained-off bed area. I can hear the steady, reassuring beep of monitors coming from behind the curtain.

"When Mr. Ellison got here, the medications that the paramedics gave him to stop the seizures were wearing off. We gave him a lot more sedative to stop them, as well as atropine and pralidoxime, which are a couple of specific antidotes for this kind of poisoning. He's responded very well, but he's going to be pretty shnockered for a while."

Before I can collapse with relief, the doctor twitches back the curtain and motions to us. I slip inside, with Simon following close behind me.

Jim still has the breathing tube down his throat, but now it's hooked up to a ventilator. They've cleaned him up and put a hospital gown on him. His color is good, and at least he looks relatively comfortable. I slide into the hard plastic chair by his bed and capture his hand in mine, while the doctor continues to talk with Simon.

"In smaller doses, the effects of this pesticide are usually limited to vomiting, diarrhea, sweats, trembling, things like that," he says. I blink. Ah, so that's why I feel so rotten. Maybe I can sneak away at some point and ask Dr. Roberts how long it's supposed to last.

"With massive exposures, or in people who are particularly sensitive to the effects, we see seizures."

Simon pulls up another chair and sinks into it. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He should be fine. He'll need to stay on the ventilator until all the sedation wears off, but I anticipate that will likely take only a few hours. They're getting an ICU bed for him as we speak." He clears his throat. "You're welcome to stay here with him for now."

Simon thanks the doctor, who nods and leaves us alone with our friend. Almost reverently, I lift Jim's limp hand and hold it to my own clammy face, feeling the warm blood course through it, sign of the warm, breathing life inside. So different from the stiff cold hand I'd touched in that parking lot, in that scene from my nightmares. Tears of relief slide from under my closed lids and drip noiselessly onto Jim's hand.

"Hey, big guy," I whisper. "You're gonna be okay. Just take it easy and sleep. I promise I'll be here when you wake up. Just don't make me wait too long." I close my mouth tightly, knowing that any further words out of it will be accompanied by more tears than I'm prepared to deal with right now. I'm shaking, and I don't know if it's from emotion or that damned pesticide.

I hear Simon get up and walk behind me, and I feel those strong hands rest on my shoulders. He doesn't say anything, but his presence helps steady me somehow, and the shaking stops. The three of us form a silent, unmoving tableau until they come to move Jim up to the ICU.

Part Three

Once we get up to the ICU with Jim, Simon performs an exercise in futility and tries to talk me into going home for a while.

"No way, Simon," I insist. "Not until he wakes up and sees me...then I'll consider it."

Simon shakes his head ruefully. "Blair, you're exhausted, you're still in wet clothes, you smell like that pesticide, and I can hear your stomach rumbling from here."

Ugh...don't remind me, Simon...that's not hunger, that's churning nausea that I'd rather not think about. Aloud, I say earnestly, "None of that matters, Simon. I'll get something hot to drink, and maybe they'll let me have a blanket so you can have your coat back. I'll be okay." I slip out of his coat while I'm saying this.

Simon takes off his glasses and rubs his face. "Why do I even try to win arguments with you, Sandburg? All right, have it your way. Do you want me to swing by the loft and bring you anything?"

"No...thanks, though." I find myself yawning, tired from after-reaction.

"Take care of him, Blair," he adds, and leaves.

Simon must have stopped and made a few suggestions at the nursing station on his way out, because a few minutes later one of the nurses comes in bearing a couple of blankets and a cup of cocoa. She's plump and motherly, and pats me on the head while she settles me down in the surprisingly comfortable chair.

"There you go, dear. Put your feet up on this," she sticks a folding chair under my feet, "and take a snooze. You look tired, and your friend'll be asleep for a while."

She gives my head a final pat. "Call if you need anything. It's slow in here tonight, thank God."

I sip the cup of cocoa slowly, and it stays down. Tossing the environmentally-unfriendly styrofoam cup in the nearby trash, I scoot closer to the bed and take Jim's hand once again. I lean back and settle into the blankets and close my eyes.

* * * * * *

I'm dozing, in an odd shallow state of near-sleep in which I still hear the beeping monitors, when I feel Jim's hand move in mine. My first terrified thought is that he's having another seizure. I sit up straight and look at him closely, but he appears to be resting peacefully. I also notice that my neck is stiff, my butt has gone to sleep, and my clothes are almost dry, so I guess I've been out for a while.

Experimentally, I squeeze Jim's hand...and am rewarded by an unmistakable return squeeze.

"Jim!" I whisper excitedly, mindful of the other patients in the ICU. "Can you hear me?" This time I get a faint nod in return. He even opens his eyes briefly, although they don't track very well.

I squeeze his hand again, then let it go. I wriggle out of my cocoon of blankets and pad barefoot over to the nurses' station, where I spot my cocoa-bearing angel of mercy writing in a chart. This time, I remember to look at her nametag, which reads "Doris". She looks up and smiles.

"Uh...Doris? I think Jim is starting to wake up. Will they take that tube out of him soon?"

"Probably." She closes the chart and comes over to Jim's bedside. I watch with groggy interest as she pinches his toes, asks him to nod (which he does) and asks him to squeeze her hand (which he also does). She next turns her attention to the ventilator dials, and nods with satisfaction.

"He's been breathing completely on his own for the last hour, dear, so I'll put in a page to the doctor on call. By the time he's able to get here, your friend will be awake enough to get that tube out."

* * * * * *

The on-call doctor arrives in short order, and apparently agrees with Doris. They make me step outside while they take the tube out; I take the opportunity to visit the facilities after I hear the first gurgly suction sounds coming from behind the curtain. Yuck. At least my stomach seems to be settling down; until I heard those sound effects I was almost hungry.

When they let me back in, the tube and ventilator are gone, and Jim is wearing an oxygen tube under his nose. He opens his eyes as I sit down in my chair and pick up his hand again.

"Hey, Chief," he manages to croak. "You look like hell."

Relief surges through me as a palpable wave. Despite what the ER doctor said, I'd been unable to shake the fear that Jim wouldn't wake up, or almost worse, wouldn't know me. Brain damage, from the horrible moments when he looked so stiff, so blue...that's all I could think of.

"You don't look so hot yourself, man," I murmur. "You took a bath in some toxic pesticide. Do you remember anything?"

"Not really," comes the hoarse response. "I feel like crap."

Now I can smile. "That's an amazing coincidence, 'cause you..."

"..look like crap," he finishes. "I know."

He smiles back, faintly, and closes his eyes. I reach up and lay a hand on his forehead in benediction as he falls asleep again.

Part Four

Two days later, they discharge Jim from the hospital. I think this has less to do with him getting better, and more to do with the exasperated nursing staff begging the doctors to send him home. Me, they loved...but after a few of Jim's remarks about the food, the lack of privacy, and his too-small hospital bed, the nurses were ready to sedate him and hook him back up to the ventilator. Not exactly a model patient, that's my partner. I point this out to him as we walk carefully out to my car, Jim having somehow gotten out of the regulation wheelchair ride.

"Jim, I can't believe they let you out so soon, man. What did you do?" I open the passenger door of my old Volvo for him. He may have won the arguments about going home and skipping the wheelchair bit, but there's no way I'm letting him drive.

He waits to answer until I'm settled in my seat as well. "I merely pointed out to them that unless they could prove to a judge that I was incompetent to make my own health care decisions, they had to let me go, and they might as well make the best of it."

I cluck my tongue disapprovingly. "Tact, Jim, when are we going to teach you some tact? You're lucky they didn't call your bluff." I turn to grin at him momentarily as we pull out of the patient loading zone. "Between us, I bet Simon and I could have found a judge who would do it." Jim growls something unintelligible, but he's smiling.

Simon's words of earlier that morning come back to me. I'd stopped by the station to talk to him on my way to pick Jim up, and he'd warned me in no uncertain terms that he expected Jim to rest for the rest of the week before coming back. Somehow, he'd seemed to think that I might be able to get Jim to behave.

I have my doubts about that.

"Do you have to go back for follow-up?" I ask casually, in search of potential nagging material.

Jim's jaw works briefly. "The neurologist, on Friday," comes the short answer.

"Do you want me to come along? I can rearrange - -"

He cuts me off. "No, Sandburg, I can go to a doctor visit by myself, without you along to hold my hand."

Geez, what's crawled up his butt this morning? "Sure. Fine. Whatever." I shut up, and concentrate on driving.

I hear Jim sigh softly a few minutes later, as we're almost home. "Sorry, Chief. Didn't mean to bite your head off."

"That's okay," I lie.

"No, it's not," answers Jim. "But I'm not in the best mood to be pestered right now. I'm tired, I ache, and I've just had no privacy at all for the last two and a half days." He sighs again as I park my car in its usual spot. "I think I just need some time to myself, Chief."

We climb out of the car and head up the stairs. I try to sound light-hearted even though something in Jim's manner worries me just a little. "Hey, as long as you follow the doctors' instructions to the letter, sleep eight hours a night, eat nutritious food, and stay away from the station until next week I promise I'll leave you alone."

Jim smiles at me absently, sadly. "Deal, Sandburg."

* * * * * *

To my surprise, Jim seems to take the deal seriously. He takes a nap in the afternoon while I grade essays, and eats a substantial dinner without prompting. He even compliments me on my cooking, which tonight hardly qualifies as being worthy of the term. I've been too busy for anything fancy, so dinner is merely disguised leftovers. He even goes to bed early.

I stay up far later than I intended, first grading essays, then going over some of my notes on Jim's abilities. What with teaching and an unusually heavy caseload for Jim lately, I've been neglecting my documentation. I pull out my notebooks and laptop and get to work trying to get the mess organized.

When I find myself reading the same paragraph for the fifth time without really comprehending it, I know that it's time to stop for the night. I tidy up the coffee table and pack my papers and computer back into my room.

On impulse, I walk softly up the stairs leading to Jim's room, and stand halfway up listening to his quiet breathing. The normal, slow respiratory rhythm of sleep...nothing like his stuttering, struggling attempts during the seizure, or the harsh hiss of the ventilator.

I turn to go back downstairs, and curse to myself as the stair creaks...then I hear him roll over, and cough lightly, and I know he's suddenly awake.

"Chief?" comes the soft query.

"Sorry, Jim," I answer, pitching my voice low. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I...just felt like checking on you." I bite my lip, realizing I'm doing exactly what I said I wouldn't. "Sorry," I repeat.

Silence for a moment. Then, "Come on up for a moment, Chief."

I pad up the remaining few stairs, and perch hesitantly on the edge of Jim's bed. There's just barely enough light drifting up from below to keep me from tripping over anything. Not that there's ever anything up here to trip over; no randomly scattered items on Jim's floor.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see Jim sitting up against his pillows. He's got the same half-sad smile he was wearing earlier, in the car. The late hour, my fatigue, the darkness...all of this makes it somehow easier to talk to him instead of harder. "I'm surprised I was able to sneak up on you at all," I half-whisper. "You must have had your hearing really dialed down."

Jim closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. "Yeah. My head hurts, and my nerves seem to be a little raw still. I think I was hearing every keystroke you made," he admits. "So I cranked it back down...that's mainly where I've had all my senses, the last couple of days."

I frown. "Jim, level with me, man. How do you really feel? Is anything wrong?" A faint wisp of foreboding curls across my gut, like a brief cramp.

He shakes his head. "No. Nothing other that the obvious. Nothing I can really put my finger on. I'm just...irritable, I guess."

"I still wish you'd let them keep you in the hospital longer," I plead.

This time, Jim doesn't get mad. He smiles again, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "Chief, do you know the real reason they let me come home?"

I shake my head, mystified.

"I told the doctors I would get better faster, here at home, with you to look after me. The nurses agreed with me. One of them said to the doctors...something that I'll never forget."

He reaches a hand out to me, and I clasp it, comforted by the reassuring warmth. "What?"

"She said, Chief, and I quote, 'That young man just pours out healing to those around him.' Meaning you, Blair. You're constantly healing me, and I'm a rotten patient. I'll try to be better."

Now I'm smiling back. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jim?" I quip.

"Don't get smart with me, kiddo." He frees his hand and cuffs me lightly on the cheek. "Go get some rest, Chief. I'll see you in the morning."

Part Five

The next couple of days fly by, for me. I'd begged one of my fellow T.A's to cover for me while Jim was in the hospital, but in payment I'd agreed to teach her Thursday and Friday lectures so she could sneak off for an ultra-long weekend. I don't really mind; I do love to teach, and sometimes I feel guilty about the amount of time I spend doing things for the police instead of concentrating on my teaching responsibilities. This enforced "down time" will give me a good chance to reconnect with my academic life.

I'm initially a little concerned about leaving Jim by himself all day, but he seems to be doing so much better that I push the annoying worries away. The gloom that had fallen over him the day I brought him home from the hospital seems to pass, and I'm relieved to see and hear him acting much more like his usual self. He assures me several times that he feels fine, and so I plunge into an enjoyable haze of classes and reading.

Friday afternoon, I come home early after proctoring an exam for Leila's "Myth and Mysticism" class, laden with blue books to pass on to Leila on Monday. As I let myself in, I realize that the lights are off and there's no sign of Jim. Come to think of it, I hadn't noticed his truck down below. I'm about to get seriously worried, when I remember what he'd said about the neurologist appointment being today. He must not be back yet.

I toss my backpack in my room, and head for the kitchen to look for dinner inspirations. I'm definitely in a mood to cook something messy and creative. Hmmm...I've got tortillas in the freezer, and enchiladas are always fun. You can put just about anything in an enchilada and it will still be authentic, as long as the sauce is right. Let's see: here's onions, and sweet potatoes, and some of that Jack cheese with the little jalapenos in it...

Just before I put the kettle of sweet potatoes on to boil, I realize that I haven't got any tomatoes for the sauce, not even canned. Damn! Can't make enchiladas without sauce, after all. Since it's a nice day, I grab my keys and elect to walk to the small corner market three blocks away. Their prices are a little higher, but I hate the idea of driving just to get a couple cans of tomatoes.

Of course, once I'm there I have to pick up a carton of ice cream and a few other things; it's about forty-five minutes later when I walk back up the stairs with my groceries. The door swings open; Jim must be back.

"So, how was the doctor visit, big guy?" I plop the bag of groceries down on the counter before turning to look for Jim...and freeze.

I expect to see Jim sitting up on the couch, or perhaps hear him moving around in the bathroom or upstairs. But he's not in any of those locations; instead, he lies sprawled on the floor by the fireplace...once again, twitching irregularly, his eyelids fluttering.

My feet finally answer the shrieking demands of my brain, and I race to his side, almost tripping over his recumbent form. I sit down on the hard floor, and reach out to shake his shoulder.

"Jim!" Oh my God, I can't believe this is happening again. "Jim! Can you hear me?" Of course he can't, I berate myself. Seizure victims...what were you supposed to do with a seizure victim? He's breathing this time, at least. I need to call an ambulance, now.

But as I start to climb to my feet to get the phone, the shaking stops and all of Jim's muscles relax. His breathing becomes more regular, and his eyes close fully. I let out the breath that I hadn't realized I was holding, and sit back down on the floor next to him. With shaking hands I loosen the top buttons of his shirt, then pull his head onto my lap. He opens his eyes at the motion.

"Chief?" The barest whisper, in a strained voice...but there's recognition in his eyes, and bewilderment. "Wha' happened?"

"Sshh," I reply automatically, looking him over quickly. He doesn't seem to be injured anywhere, but my heart gives a painful lurch when I realize how close he must have come to striking his head on the fireplace when he collapsed. "You've had another seizure, Jim. Can you tell me...Jim, are you hurt anywhere?" I try to keep my voice calm, but it shakes anyway.

He shakes his head, and his eyelids drift shut again. "Not...'nother one. So tired...cold..."

I frown. Jim, cold? Not that he's exactly firing on all thrusters at the moment, but...if I lean all the way to my left, I can just reach the pillow that's on the chair. Lifting his head, I carefully squirm out from under him and slip the pillow underneath. He mumbles something incoherent, and rolls over onto his side.

"Hey, Jim, don't go to sleep on me, man," I say softly. "There's no way I can move you. You should be in bed, or at least on the couch."

In the end, though, I settle for tucking a couple of blankets around him where he lies. He's completely out, but breathing comfortably, so I figure I should just let him sleep it off.

And then what, Einstein? Call the neurologist? I don't even know the guy's name. Call Simon? Yeah, and have Jim string me up by my big toe when he wakes up. Besides, what could Simon do other than sit here with me and worry?

I move slowly to the kitchen and put my groceries away, all of my interest in cooking having fled. I notice absently that the ice cream hasn't melted too badly, and I toss it in the freezer. I put the sweet potatoes on to cook anyway, since I went to the trouble to peel them. Then I move over to the chair by Jim, and sit there thinking while I watch him sleep.

"This is not good, Sandburg," I say aloud. "Not good at all."

Jim hasn't said anything to me about expecting more seizures. Of course, he can be a bit elusive at times. I mentally curse myself for not going along to the neurologist appointment, for leaving Jim alone the last two days, for going to get groceries. Not very logical of me, to blame myself...but I can't help it.

After a few more minutes of circular thinking and mental dead-ends, the timer dings and I go to drain the sweet potatoes. Jim stirs and mutters at the sound, then goes back to sleep. I set the colander in the sink abruptly, thinking of Jim's few confused words after the seizure.

"Not another one," he'd said, or words to that effect. Was he referring to the initial episode in the warehouse? Or had there been another episode that I hadn't heard about?

I shake my head. "Buddy, when you wake up we are going to have a few things to talk about."

Part Six

Jim slumbers away on the floor while I go through the half-hearted motions of preparing dinner anyway. I make my enchilada sauce and finish concocting the filling. I'm just setting things up on the counter to assemble the whole mess when he finally stirs and sits up.

"Chief?" He rubs his eyes, looking extremely puzzled. "What the hell am I doing sleeping on the floor?"

I turn off the burners and walk back into the living room to stand beside him. "What do you remember?" I ask carefully.

"Sandburg, what happened? I feel like crap." Jim rubs the back of his head. "My head hurts."

"You were having a seizure," I say, watching him for his reaction.

And I see it, the tiny inconsistency in his facial expression. Not the utter shock and disbelief that I would have expected as his response to this shattering news, but something else. Dread, followed immediately by guilt: both quickly clamped down.

Jim seems to deflate slightly, like a man who's just...well, like a man who's been told bad news that he was halfway expecting. Oh, I know him so well by now. Damn you, Jim, you've been hiding things from me again.

"What do you remember?" I ask again, finally sitting down on the couch.

He leans forward and rests his head in his hands for a moment. "I came home, and saw that you'd been here and started cooking, that your car was here. I figured you weren't far away. I remember dialing up my hearing, trying to see if I could tell where you were, hearing you walk up the street." He swallows and lifts his head. "That's it, until I woke up now."

His eyes meet mine, and I lock my gaze onto his, willing him not to look away. I need honesty from him, and I need it now. "Jim, how many other times has this happened that I don't know about?"

He can't look at me any longer, and I know his answer before he gives it. He grimaces as he answers.

"Besides the initial one? One other time, in the hospital, the night before I came home. No big deal." He picks absently at some loose stitching on the blanket.

"And they still let you be discharged? What were they thinking? What were you thinking, Jim?" I bounce to my feet on that last comment, my hands clenched at my sides.

"Settle down, Chief," Jim says tiredly. "And don't shout. My head is killing me."

I bite back any further response, and wordlessly collect the bottle of Tylenol from the bathroom. I shake out two and hand them to Jim with a glass of water. He swallows them, and slowly begins to lever himself off the floor with the aid of the chair behind him.

"Here, let me help," I say softly, and go to support him as he stands and walks over to the couch. I may be mad at him, but I don't want to watch him slip on the blankets and bean himself again. I think Jim's noggin has had enough punishment for one week.

I sit down beside him and take a deep breath, trying to continue the conversation in a more normal tone of voice. "Jim, why did they let you come home if you were still having seizures? Shouldn't you be on medication, or getting scanned, or something?"

"I talked to the neurologist about that before I came home," Jim says slowly. "She gave me a couple of options. I could stay there longer, or I could come home and continue my work-up as an outpatient. She didn't seem to think it would be a long-term issue, just an after-effect of the poisoning."

She? Whoops, Sandburg, you're being sexist. "And medication? To keep this from happening?"

"We talked about that too, Chief. She didn't think it was necessary yet."

"What about today? Did you go to your appointment?" I hate to badger Jim, but I need the information.

"Yes. She told me that I looked fine, that my EEG was normal, that I could return to work on Monday," he answers, a touch defensively.

Work. I haven't even thought about that yet; I've been too busy trying to just make sure Jim is going to be all right. I fall silent as the implications sink in, and the images rise in front of my mind's eye: Jim, having one of these episodes while working a case, or worse yet, while driving to one. Jim, lying helpless and unable to protect himself, with me miles away on campus.

"When are you going to tell Simon?" I ask.

"I'm not," he says simply, his eyes daring me to take the discussion further.

"Jim, are you nuts? At the very least, you should be on desk duty until this gets sorted out!"

His voice rises. "Sandburg, a couple of...of episodes doesn't make me an epileptic. I'm still just trying to get this stuff out of my system. I probably reacted differently than most people, that's all. I've got the weekend to rest up." He takes a deep breath. "I'll be fine."

"Jim...I wish you would listen," I plead. "C'mon, man! At any moment, this could happen again, and you'd be helpless."

"That's always been the case!" he counters. "Ever since my senses came on-line, I've been in constant danger of a zone-out. That leaves me just as helpless, and we've learn to deal with that possibility." His voice softens. "Come on, Chief. Help me out, here. Between you and me, we can figure this one out." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Just work with me a little longer on this."

I look down at the couch, not meeting his eyes. In a way, he's right. The whole problem isn't that much different that the zone-out issue. And the rules at Cascade P.D. have always been a little different for Jim, not to mention for me. But I'm still scared for Jim, for his safety.

"Promise me you'll put a time limit on this," I ask, raising my eyes again to look at him. "Two weeks, Jim. If you're still having trouble in two weeks, we tell Simon and your specialist. And promise me, you'll take me with you whenever possible when you're working."

Jim meets my gaze for a minute, and I can read the pain and uncertainty there. My righteous anger melts away; this courageous man, my friend, is frightened by this betrayal of his own strong body. All of his posturing and bravado can't change that, and he needs my help. Impulsively, I slip my left arm around his broad back, and he leans against me for a moment.

"I promise, Chief," he answers, almost inaudibly against my hair. "Two weeks."

Part Seven

All that weekend I watch Jim covertly. If he notices, he gives no sign. I change my plans of studying in the library all day Saturday and instead arrange to check out the materials and bring them home.

Jim goes down to the basement and brings up a set of battered wooden shelves, and announces his plans to refinish them. "With all of your books and oddities, Chief, I figured we could use the extra shelf space," he explains nonchalantly.

Other than a brief trip to the hardware store for sandpaper and stain, he doesn't leave the loft. He sets up his work area in the living room, moving the furniture and putting down newspapers. He works diligently and carefully at his task for the rest of the day.

Between paragraphs, I sneak surreptitious glances at him. He kneels, absorbed in his work, feeling the smooth wood for any tiny roughened spots. I smile to myself: it's an unusual application of his talents, but certainly a piece of furniture sanded by a finicky Sentinel would turn out satiny smooth.

There's no trace of last night's brief discord, and I feel once again as if Jim and I are in synch, in communion. It's as if he knows, without my specifically mentioning the subject again, that I need to watch him and know that he's safe. And truly, being with him like this does help.

We pass the rest of this weekend largely in silence, in quiet. There are no further signs of seizures: no staring, no twitching, not even the slightest hint of a zone-out. By Sunday night my anxiety is fading, and I make no further comments against the idea of Jim returning to work in the morning.

Monday and Tuesday pass routinely. I go to my classes and teaching sessions at Rainier as scheduled, trusting that Jim will call me on the cell phone if he needs me. "There's been nothing active, Chief," he tells me. "We're just going over old cases. Go ahead and get caught up on school for a change."

Wednesday morning the phone rings during breakfast. Jim snatches it up. "Ellison."

I listen to his tone of voice and watch his face. Calling at this time of day, it's almost certainly Simon.

Jim's eyebrows raise almost to his hairline...no mean feat. "Really? Huh. Well, it's the least we can do. Sounds good. What's the address?" He leans over to the counter and scribbles something on a scrap of paper. "Okay. Sandburg and I can take tonight's shift." He looks over at me questioningly; I nod. I'm not sure what I've just agreed to, but I'm not letting him go by himself.

"Right," he finishes. "Talk to you later, sir."

"What's up?" I ask.

Jim sits back down and attacks his breakfast again. "Seems that the state police office in Seattle thinks they might have an I.D. on this serial killer, and their suspect's mother lives right here in Cascade. They're reasonably sure he might end up here eventually."

"So we're staking out the house?" This doesn't sound too bad.

"We're helping out the state police. They'll take some of the shifts and we'll take some. I figured that tonight would be better for you, Chief." He frowns. "You don't have to, you know. Do you have classes tomorrow?"

"No, actually. I'll be fine, Jim."

"Good." He gets up and carries his cereal bowl to the sink. "Take a nap if you can. I have the feeling this is going to be boring."

* * * * * *

We arrive at the stakeout site at about 8 that evening; the state police team is just packing up their stuff. We chat briefly; they've seen no one entering or leaving except the elderly woman herself.

"We were lucky to be able to get this house," one of them comments. "It was already vacant and up for rent, and you've got a perfect view of the front door." We're in a little grey house directly across the street from a battered aquamarine trailer. A few tired blades of grass grow out in front of the trailer, along with some brightly-colored plastic daisies that spin jerkily in the breeze.

After the state cops leave, Jim twitches aside the curtains. "Nice place," he comments.

I stare thoughtfully out the window. "Most killers grow up in poverty, Jim, within impaired or dysfunctional families. In primitive societies with fewer class distinctions, violent crime is much less common."

Jim grunts in reply and drags a chair up to the window to watch, sucking on the straw of an enormous paper cup of cola that he bought on the way to the stakeout. I guess he figures he'll need the caffeine. After a few attempts at conversation, I settle down in the other chair with an article that I've been putting off reading, dealing with dowry practices in sub-Saharan Africa. "Dry" doesn't begin to describe it.

By the time I finish reading and put the article aside, I'm starting to yawn and my neck is stiff. Jim's still staring out the window; his face expressionless. He rubs a hand across his eyes, then looks over at me as I put my neck through various contortions in an attempt to get the kink worked out of it. He smiles slightly.

"Hey, Chief," he says slowly, "drag your chair over here for a minute." He turns so that his left side faces the window and motions me to sit in front of him. Mystified, I comply, sliding over next to the window, facing away from him.

"Okay, watch the trailer for a sec."

"Why?" I ask curiously. "I mean, I'm glad to, it's my turn, but," I try to turn around to look at him, which yanks on my sore neck. "Ow." I reach up a hand to rub the offending muscles. "It hurts when I do that."

A low chuckle from Jim. "So don't do that." He puts a hand on the side of my chin and gently redirects my vision out the window. "Hold still for a few minutes, if that's physically possible for you, Chief."

Then he puts both hands on my shoulders and proceeds to massage my sore neck. It feels wonderful, especially since I spent the day doing research instead of taking the recommended nap. I have trouble keeping my eyes open and fixed on the trailer across the street...until I feel the ice slide down between my shoulder blades. I open my mouth to yell. "Jim, you - - mmph!" A handful of ice, presumably from Jim's soda, lands in my mouth as well, and I slide off the chair howling with laughter and indignation.

"C'mon, Chief, get off the floor," says Jim with a creditable attempt at a straight face. "It's your turn to stare out the window."

Part Eight

The night wears on, and we both get increasingly punchy. Jim, I'm sure, is expecting retaliation for the ice incident, but I really haven't any hope of getting past his guard. I have to be satisfied with making him slightly nervous instead.

At about 3:30, I'm pouring the last of the coffee out of the thermos when Jim suddenly sits up straight and frowns...and gets that listening look on his face.

"What?" I ask, setting down the thermos.

"I'm not sure. I hear something..." Jim puts one hand to his forehead, as if in pain.

"Headache?" I ask.

"No...lights, too bright..." he mutters, his voice oddly thick.

And then I stand frozen as he stiffens in the cheap plastic chair, his head thrown back, his face contorted in an eerie grimace. Once again, I watch helplessly as the seizure overcomes him with its fury, as the tiny spark of awareness that is my friend is engulfed in a terrifying neurologic electrical storm.

I grab the chair to keep it from toppling, and cling grimly to Jim's jerking skull while still trying to keep one eye on the trailer across the street. Gradually, the motions subside; as his body become boneless I struggle to ease the chair out from under him and manage, grunting, to lay him out on the floor.

Then I return to my vigil, staring miserably out the dirty window, trying not to think about what I'll say to Jim when he awakens.

* * * * * *

He sleeps for about an hour. This time, when he awakens, the confusion is short-lived; I can tell from the horrified look on his face that he realizes what's happened. I remain seated where I am, my attention focused out the window but with my eyes making occasional anxious flickers to Jim's face.

"How long?" he asks, finally.

I'm momentarily disoriented by the question. How long was the seizure, or how long since it happened? "The seizure was only a few minutes, but you've been asleep for about an hour." My voice sounds flat and accusing to my ears.

Painful silence for a few minutes. Then, "I'm sorry, Chief." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him lift himself slowly to a sitting position.

A pressure builds up behind my eyeballs, and I can feel my temper rising. Even the heat of anger seems to carry more life that the blankness I've been feeling since tonight's seizure.

"You're sorry," I repeat bitterly. "Gee, that helps a lot, Jim. That makes me feel so much better." I stand up, and turn to face him. "Here we are, on an official stakeout assignment, and you've been lying there unconscious for over an hour."

"Chief, I said - -"

"Let me finish, Jim." My voice drops, low but intense. "We've been incredibly lucky. What if I'd seen our suspect walk out that front door? What if your seizure hadn't stopped by itself? I think that an ambulance pulling up in front of a supposedly vacant house would have been a little suspicious, don't you?" I turn around and go back to the window, where I don't have to see the hurt in his eyes.

"This can't go on, Jim. You've go to do something, or I will."

Jim staggers to his feet and walks uncertainly to the house's tiny bathroom. He doesn't quite get the door closed, and I can hear him retching. At that sound, I feel the bulk of my anger radiating away.

Eventually he comes out and sinks back into his chair. He doesn't say anything.

"Are you all right?" I finally manage to say. The words sound pitifully weak compared to my heated outburst of a few moments ago. Way to go, Sandburg...kick your sick partner when he's down. Even if he is being an idiot.

Jim sighs and leans onto the table, his head resting on his folded arms. "Depends on what you intend to do next, Chief," he says finally.

"What do you think I should do, Jim?" I answer. My throat tightens. As my fury dissipates, the tears threaten to wreck what little composure I've got left. Dammit, this whole situation is tearing me apart...I can hardly imagine what it must be doing to Jim.

"You promised me two weeks," he reminds me, his voice hardening slightly.

So I did. Not one of my smarter moves, in retrospect.

"I guess...I didn't expect it to happen again," I explain half-heartedly.

"Neither did I," Jim whispers, burying his face in his arms.

Hesitantly, mindful of my earlier angry words, I reach out to lay a hand on his arm. He's still trembling slightly with the after-effects of the seizure, and his skin feels cool and sweaty.

"Please, Jim." My voice comes out hoarse, clouded with suppressed emotion. "Please tell Simon about this, and take some sick time." I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

"We'll talk about it later, Chief," he insists, raising his head. I can almost feel him gather up his will, feel him lock up his own insecurities in some lost compartment for which I don't have the key. "I'm all right. You've watched long enough; let me take over."

Reluctantly, I move aside, but I continue to watch both Jim and the trailer's front door. We sit in silence until morning, and a palpable curtain of tension falls once more between us.

Part Nine

Rafe and Brown show up a little early to relieve us, about 7:30 a.m; the state cops are planning to take the next night shift. Both detectives greet us cheerfully, but I can only manage a weak smile in return. Jim just grunts.

"What's with him?" Rafe asks me quietly, as I slip out the door.

I shrug. "Just tired, I guess. It was a long night," I explain, and hurry out to the truck.

Briefly, I consider arguing with Jim over who should drive. But it's a short trip, and I decide not to push it. I'm going to need every ounce of will and determination that I have if I'm going to convince Jim to deal with this problem.

As soon as we get home, Jim tosses his keys in the basket and starts to head upstairs. I snatch at his elbow.

"Wait, Jim. I need to talk to you."

Jim sighs. "Sandburg, I'm tired, I've got a massive headache, and I want to go to sleep. Can't this wait?"

"No, I don't think it can." I talk quickly, afraid that he'll simply walk away and ignore me. "I need to know what you intend to do about this...this problem, Jim. Besides your strategy of just hoping that it will go away, that is." Drat...too sarcastic. There's a fine line to arguing with Jim. Too harsh, and he'll just shut down completely...but if I'm too conciliatory, he won't take me seriously.

Jim glares at me. "Sandburg, this is my problem, and my responsibility. You can either help me, or stay out of my way. You are not my conscience." He turns away again.

"No, I'm not...but I'm your friend, and your Guide. Doesn't that count for anything?" Haven't I earned the right for you to listen to me? I add silently.

Jim closes his eyes. "Just what do you expect me to do about this, Chief?"

"I already told you, Jim. Take some medical leave, and go back to your doctor."

When he opens his eyes again, his face remains shuttered. "It's too late now," he says woodenly. "It's gone too far, now. I can't tell Simon until we've got this licked."

At least he's saying "we" now. "But you're not doing anything to find a solution, Jim. That's what I'm trying to tell you." My voice breaks, despite my best efforts.

"I don't think this is anything the doctor can help me with, Chief." He rubs his hand across his face. "She didn't expect me to have any more seizures, and told me everything was normal. I think it's a Sentinel thing, and I think you'll have to be the one to figure it out. If anyone can." His voice sounds so tired, so devoid of hope.

"Then give me that chance to fix it!" I grab his wrist and hold it. "Right now, no one knows about this but us. Take a few days off, and just tell Simon you're not feeling well. Which is true." I lock eyes with him, willing him to agree with me, to give me some assurance.

He looks away after only a few seconds. "Maybe, Chief," he sighs. "Let me think about it." He gently removes my hand from its death-grip on his wrist. "I really need some rest now." He turns and ascends the stairs.

I stay there for a few moments, my soul aching, and finally walk slowly to my own room.

* * * * * *

I sit in the middle of my bed, a colorful pillow clutched to my stomach.

I've tried to sleep, but my mind won't let me. The one time that I drifted off, I dreamed of Jim...running toward a steep cliff while I shouted at him to be careful. Jim's been upstairs for two hours now, presumably asleep, but I'm still sitting here hashing out arguments with myself.

I'm faced with a choice I never wanted to face. Despite my best efforts, I cannot get Jim to promise to seek medical attention. I cannot get him to promise to take time off. He might come around eventually and agree with me, but how long do I dare to wait?

Every day that he goes untreated might make it that much harder to find a cure. Every day that he's out on the streets is another chance for him to collapse behind the wheel of his truck, or falter in the course of his duties...to endanger himself, the people of Cascade, and the excellent men and women who are his colleagues.

No oaths bind me to protect the people of my city, like the oaths that bind Jim; I have no contract, no paycheck from the Cascade P.D. But in my own way, I've served them both, with my body and with my blood...in a thousand ways. And it's reciprocal: this city, even with all its blemishes, has become my home; through Jim, the Major Crimes crew has become in a sense my family, their souls enmeshed with mine. Where does my ultimate responsibility lie?

I have two choices, as I see it. I can continue to keep Jim's secret, as he's essentially asked me to do...and keep hoping that I can convince him to take action. By doing so, I would implicitly condone his decisions, and share in any blame.

Or, I can go to Simon and tell him everything. Betray Jim, at least in his eyes, even if for his own good.

Once, this would have been easy. Before I met Jim, it never would have occurred to me to take responsibility for another person's choices. Now, things aren't as clear for me.

My mind tells me that I must act; my heart and gut weep at the thought of doing this to Jim. He's not just my research subject; he's my best friend, my partner, my Blessed Protector.

I lay back on the bed, fighting back tears and a sick feeling in my stomach. What we've got...can it survive this? If I tell Simon about Jim's seizures, will my friend ever forgive me?

Maybe not...but maybe he'll at least be alive long enough to have the chance to do so.

I reach over and set the alarm to allow for a nap. I need a little sleep to be safe to drive. With Jim upstairs, I can't just pick up the phone and blab to Simon; I'll have to go down there in person. And, realistically, I need to take the time to gather up a few things, as there's no guarantee that I'll have a place to stay after tonight. Maybe Simon will put me up for a few days if things get ugly.

I finally fall asleep, still clutching the pillow.

Part Ten

Brrriinnngggg!

I roll over and pick up the alarm clock. First, I try to turn it off, then I realize that the ringing is coming from the other room.

Brrriinnngggg!

It's the phone. Of course.

I pad out to the kitchen and snatch up the phone, glancing at the clock as I answer. It's 2:14 p.m.; my alarm would have been going off in a few minutes anyway.

"Hello?" I barely restrain myself from just saying, "Yeah?"

"Sandburg? I need to talk to Jim." It's Simon.

I'm momentarily confused. Wait a minute here, I wasn't going to call Simon; I was going to go talk to him in person. Only I haven't done it yet...have I? So why does he want to talk to Jim?

"Sandburg?" comes Simon's voice. "Hello? Can I talk to Jim?" Now he sounds irritated.

"Uh...sorry, Simon. Hang on, here he comes." The object of the conversation is striding into the kitchen now, in boxers and half-askew bathrobe. He grabs the phone from me. "Ellison."

"You're welcome," I mutter under my breath. Now I remember...I haven't talked to Simon yet; the phone call is just a coincidence. But why would Simon bother us after an all-night stakeout?

Jim's already hanging up; I've missed most of the conversation while in my sleep-stupid state. "What's up? " I ask cautiously. I feel as if my decision to betray Jim's condition to Simon must somehow be visible on my face.

He doesn't seem suspicious, though, merely slightly wary. "Rafe called in; he thinks the suspect has just shown up at the trailer. They're waiting for back-up, and then they'll go in. Simon wants me there as well." He goes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and returns fully dressed in a remarkably short period. He hesitates at the door just for a second. "Are you coming?"

This is crazy...but what choice do I have? "Sure. Hang on just a moment." I snatch up my shoes, stuffing my feet into them. I hadn't bothered to undress for my nap.

Jim touches my shoulder briefly once we're in the truck. "Chief...I'll stay out of trouble. Simon just wants me there to make sure none of the evidence gets missed. I'll let Brown and Rafe wave their guns around. Most of the action will probably be over by the time we get there."

* * * * * *

As we pull up in front of the now all-too-familiar trailer, though, the team is just assembling on the trailer's tiny porch. Rafe and Brown, plus three state police, all vested and armed to the teeth. Jim's right...they don't really need him, just someone with a dustpan to sweep up the pieces.

We climb out, and, true to his promise, Jim hangs back and merely waves at Rafe. Rafe grins back. One of the state cops rings the doorbell; when there's no answer, Brown counts to "3" with finger gestures and Rafe kicks the flimsy door in with a crash. "Police!" someone shouts, and they cautiously make their way in, with drawn weapons.

Even distracted by my worry for Jim and my heartache over my decision, I can feel a little bit of curiosity eating at me. When Jim walks up onto the creaking porch and peeks in, I follow him. From inside the trailer, I can hear the sounds of the guys thumping around, looking for the suspect...and the sound of frantic sobbing, presumably the old lady. I step inside, still at Jim's heels. Yes, there's the elderly mother, sitting on the couch; Rafe's talking with her and trying to reassure her, looking most uncomfortable.

We walk into the kitchen; Jim keeps one hand on his gun. The place is unbelievably filthy. My sneakers slide unpleasantly on the greasy kitchen floor. An odor of stale cigarettes, rotted food and unwashed bodies permeates the air. I sure hope Jim has his sense of smell turned all the way down, or we'll all be treated to the spectacle of watching a Sentinel lose his lunch. Not that he's had any.

Brown and the state cops emerge from the trailer's single bedroom, leading a handcuffed fortyish balding man. Brown looks pretty pleased with himself; the suspect looks...creepy. I can't really put my finger on what it is about him that bothers me; something about his eyes. He stops briefly in the kitchen and stares at me; until the state cop jostles him from behind.

"Get moving."

After the guy's eyes pass over me, my skin crawls. Brrr...what a nasty-looking dude. They take him outside and stuff him into a patrol car. I walk out the front door again, with Rafe close behind me.

As we join up with the others on the sidewalk, Rafe and Brown start arguing good-naturedly.

"Man, I bagged him; I did all the work. You should have to go downtown and get the dude booked and processed," gripes Brown.

"That's just it." Rafe smiles winningly. "He's your suspect now, and your responsibility."

"My responsibility? Just 'cause you were busy holdin' hands with his mama?" Brown feigns indignation.

"Oh, c'mon, take him in and get started. I'll go over to the stakeout house and get all of our stuff."

Brown grumbles something inaudible, but climbs into the patrol car and leaves. Jim comes back out of the trailer.

"Whew, what a stench." He turns to Rafe. "Good work, for both of you. I wasn't looking forward to any more night-long stakeouts, listening to the tribal customs of the Abudabu Indians or whatever it is he talks about." Jim jerks a thumb at me.

I don't think he means anything by this, he's just making conversation...but I feel my face flush anyway.

Rafe catches my eye and grins, then shrugs. The meaning is clear: I shouldn't let Jim get on my nerves. I feel a little better, but only a little. The real problem isn't something I can just let slide off my back like Jim's occasional cutting remarks.

As Jim and I start to walk back to the truck, Rafe calls out to us. "Hey, I just remembered. We were just tearing into a pizza when the suspect showed up. You guys want some?"

Jim perks up visibly, no doubt already smelling the pepperoni and grease from where he stands. "Pizza? Sure."

We accompany Rafe back across to the grey stakeout house, and up the porch stairs. Jim gets to the door first, and puts his hand on the doorknob...and stops. "Do you smell that?" He wrinkles his nose.

"Smell what?" laughs Rafe. "How can you smell anything after being in that trailer? My nose still burns."

Jim's hand jerks on the doorknob, and for a fraction of a second I think he's just having trouble getting the door open. Then I glance at his face, and I see his eyes roll back into his head.

"Jim!" I scream, and dive for him, but I'm too far away.

He sags and collapses, back into Rafe...who's caught with his left hand in his pocket. Rafe's other arm flails wildly as he falls. Jim's weight is enough to knock the poor guy backwards, completely off the porch; he lands on his outstretched right arm with a sickening crunch.

Part Eleven

There's too much happening here, too much at once.

Finally, I understand a tiny bit of what is must be like for Jim, zoning out on sensory overload. Instead, I've got emotional overload. My best friend lies on the porch, his body stiffening in yet another seizure, his face stretched in a horrible parody of a grin. At the bottom of the stairs, I can see Rafe's crumpled body, moving feebly; worse yet, I can hear him scream with pain.

I don't know who to help first.

It seems like I stand there for minutes in an agony of indecision, but it's probably only a second or two before I run down the stairs to Rafe's side. I tell myself that Jim will be okay, he's been through this before; I'm just going to have to hope that he keeps breathing and comes out of the seizure on his own. The realization that this is, in some sense, Jim's fault, is not something that comes to me in any coherent thought...but I can't remember another time when I wouldn't have rushed to Jim's side first even if someone else needed me more.

Rafe's legs are still on the bottom step, at an awkward angle, while his body is mainly on the sidewalk. Blood pours out of a laceration over one eye. Even before I get to him, I can see that his right arm must be broken. It certainly wasn't mean to bend there, just above his elbow.

"Rafe!" I shout, trying to get his attention through the haze of his pain. "C'mon, man, calm down and let me help you." I look for a place to touch him without hurting him further, and settle for putting one hand on his chest. "Take some deep breaths; you're hyperventilating."

He tries to comply, drawing deep, shuddering gasps of air. "Oh, God, this hurts. My arm hurts."

"Your arm's broken, Rafe," I say, trying to keep my own voice steady, "but you'll be okay." I reach out to touch his left hand and the uninjured arm. "I need to go call an ambulance for you. I'll be back as fast as I can."

"All...all right. H-hurry." Rafe's teeth are chattering with reaction and shock; I slip off my sweater and lay it on top of him as I get up. Not much, but maybe it'll help.

I sprint back up the stairs, stopping a moment to check on Jim. He's stopped seizing and appears to be breathing okay. I run past him, into the house. Thankfully, the department had the phone hooked up here just for the stakeout, otherwise I'd have to waste time getting Jim's keys off of him to get the cell phone out of the truck where we left it. I make the call and give the dispatcher what information I can, then hurry back down to Rafe's side.

He's a little calmer now; I reach over to take his good hand. "Ambulance is on its way. Just hang in there, buddy."

He nods. "What's...what's the matter with Jim, Blair? Where is he?"

I have to look away. "He's okay. He's...not feeling too good right now."

* * * * * *

As I sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the Emergency department waiting room, I have a curious sense of having come full circle, back to the beginning. Maybe...maybe if I try hard enough, or wish on the right star, I'll find everything back the way it was when I sat here last time. Maybe the last week was only a dream, a nightmare brought on by too much studying and odd hours.

Last time I sat in this waiting room, I feared for Jim's body. Now, I fear for his psyche, his soul...not to mention his career, and our friendship.

I've already talked to the ER doctors about Jim. They looked him over and did another CT scan, which was normal. They tell me that he's waking up, and I tell them about the previous episodes so that they understand what they're dealing with. In light of the frequency and severity of the seizures, they want to admit him overnight for observation.

They offer me the chance to see him, but I tell them I'll wait until he's in a room. Then I go back to sitting in the waiting room, staring numbly at my hands.

Simon shows up, eventually. Someone from the hospital must have notified him; I didn't. In fact, I don't really want to see him. I know that I have no masks left, nothing to hide behind. There's nothing left of me but brutal honesty.

I'm only half-aware of Simon as he sits next to me in the waiting room. He must sense that I'm not really quite myself, because he doesn't bluster, doesn't yell, just lays a big hand on my shoulder and speaks to me gently.

"Sandburg, what's going on here? What happened to Jim and Rafe?"

I blink at him, puzzled, for a moment. "How long have you been here, Simon?"

He sighs. "Long enough to talk with the doctors, and long enough to find you. What are you doing, over here in the corner like this?" I'd chosen the darkest, furthest corner of the waiting room to hide in. "I almost didn't see you." He looks at my face, and frowns. "You look shell-shocked, Blair."

"That's a pretty accurate observation, Simon. I feel like I've just been through a battle."

"What happened?" he asks again. "The doctors tell me that Rafe has a bad fracture, that he's going to surgery. How did it happen?"

I don't answer; Simon persists. "And they tell me that Jim had some kind of seizure. Were you there?"

"Every time, almost," I whisper.

"What do you mean, 'every time', Sandburg?" Simon's voice grows deeper, more ominous.

Oh, Simon, you don't want to hear this. Don't make me tell you what your star detective has been doing to himself; it's too late now, anyway. I put one hand in front of my face.

"Jim's been having seizures since he came home from the hospital," I tell Simon in a low voice, unable to look at his face.

"What?" exclaims Simon. "Jim hasn't said anything about this. Are you sure?"

"Oh, very sure, Simon. I wish I was wrong. He...wouldn't go to the doctor, wouldn't let me tell you." I feel unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. "I'd made up my mind to tell you, this morning, after he had a seizure during the stakeout." I can hear Simon's sharp intake of breath at that piece of information. "But...I never got the chance, and now it's too late."

I can see a blend of emotions cross Simon's face, out of the corner of my eye. Disbelief, fury, and worry all war for precedence in his eyes. I try to get up, to run somewhere, to be anywhere other than here...but Simon still holds me down by one shoulder. "I want the whole story, Sandburg. What happened to Rafe?"

I reach up to wipe tears off my face. "He fell off the porch." I explain, dully. "Jim had a seizure, and slammed into him. Is he..is Rafe going to be okay?"

"I hope so." Simon puts his free hand on my other shoulder, and forces me to turn slightly. "Sandburg, look at me. Look at me!" he repeats sharply. Reluctantly, I comply. "Yes, you should have told me. I'm not happy about that." He lets that sink in a moment. "But Jim Ellison is a hard man to say 'no' to, and you trust him. I can understand how this happened, I think."

He looks at me, taking in my misery and my guilt, my reddened eyes, my defeated appearance. "Sandburg, I want you to do something for me."

I nod in aquiescence, not trusting my voice.

"I want you to go back in there, and sit with Jim. Stay with him. He's going to need you when he wakes up from this. He'll be in bad shape when he finds out what happened."

Part Twelve

At Simon's words, I sigh and drop my head into my hands. "I was afraid that's what you were going to ask," I say softly.

"Sandburg..." Simon sounds exasperated. "Sandburg, what the hell's the matter with you? Why do I find you skulking out here in the waiting room, when you should be with Jim? I mean, it's almost one of the laws of the universe! Where I find one of you, I find the other. Especially when something is wrong." He pauses for a moment. "Are you that mad at him?"

"I guess so...I don't know." I rub my tired face. "I've tried...to feel something, Simon. Other than worry, anyway. I can't seem to get really angry with Jim, but I'm just not ready to face him, either." I don't understand my own feelings, my ambivalence. Or really, my lack of feelings.

"Blair, you can do this," says Simon, dropping his voice. "You've been through worse with Jim. It's not as if he's really done anything to hurt you, this time."

I nod half-heartedly. What Simon says is true; we've been through worse.

"Think about it this way," Simon continues. "As Jim's immediate supervisor, I'm extremely disappointed in him for ignoring his medical problems at the expense of one of his colleagues. Yes, I'm angry. But I'm also his friend, and as his friend I'm worried about how he's going to react to the consequences of his actions."

Simon stands up. "As his boss, there'll be some decisions I'm going to have to make, based on what you've told me. As his friend, I don't want to talk to him about any of this until he's in better shape, and that means having you at his side, supporting him. Apologies and explanations can wait.

"Jim's honor is his life. We both know that. Sandburg, if you can't find it in your heart to forgive Jim for this...this, stupidity and pride of his, if you can't start feeling again, being the friend and Guide that Jim needs...then you may as well just take his gun and point it at his head. Save him the trouble." Simon's voice becomes harsh.

I leap up. "Jim would never...Simon, you can't make me responsible for him like that!" I say this louder than I intended; a couple of people turn and stare from the other side of the waiting room. They're too far away to actually hear us, though.

Simon's just trying to scare me, right? Jim wouldn't do anything to hurt himself. Would he?

A terrifying vision swims before my eyes...of me, coming home to the loft one day, and finding Jim. Swinging from a rafter, his face purple, his heartbeat stilled forever, the blue eyes clouded in death...

I don't realize that I'm crying until I feel Simon's arm around my shoulders, forcing me to sit down next to him. "Easy, Blair. It's okay. He's going to be all right."

"Oh, God, you're right," I gasp into his suit jacket. "This could kill him."

"Sssshh," Simon says. "No, it won't. We won't let it happen." He pats my back. "Now you're thinking like a Guide again, Blair."

And I'm feeling again. It hurts. The numbness hovers near, just out of reach...but I won't go there. I choose to be flesh, not ice; I choose empathy over detachment. But oh, it hurts.

"How can I help him?" I pull back from Simon a little so that I can see his face. "He hasn't exactly been taking my advice, lately."

"How will you know, Blair, until you try?" Simon pauses to let that sink in. "Think about it a little more, think about what you need to say. But go talk to him, Sandburg. Fix whatever's wrong between you, and you'll go a long way towards making him feel better."

He takes a deep breath, and stands up. "I'm going to see if they will let me see Rafe before he goes to surgery. Jim's in the exam area number three, on the left. The nurse will let you in."

I shake my head, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "I'm ready, now. Show me."

* * * * * *

My legs wobble uncertainly as I walk through the Emergency Department. I stand nervously for a moment in front of the indicated curtain, then yank it aside.

Jim's in the bed with his eyes closed, but they open at the sudden sound and movement of the curtain. To my utter relief, he looks at me with recognition. He doesn't smile at me, but there's a sort of yearning on his face as his eyes meet mine. There's a chair by the head of the bed; I step inside and close the curtain and sink gratefully into the chair.

"Hey," I say softly, taking his cool, sweaty hand in mine.

"Chief," he murmurs. "I was beginning to wonder if they'd ever let you back here. Made me think something was wrong with you."

A sharp pang of guilt stabs me in the gut. "No," I reply haltingly. "I'm okay. How do you feel?" That seems fairly safe.

"Just a headache, and I'm a little woozy." He looks away, and sighs. "It happened again, didn't it? No one's telling me much, but I assume I'm not here because somebody bonked me on the head."

"No...you had another seizure. How much do you remember?" I ask carefully. How much have they told him?

"I remember coming out to the trailer, watching the arrest...then, not much. Laying down. The EMTs talking to me." He frowns. "Chief, why'd you have me brought to the hospital, anyway? How long was I out?"

"Long enough." I don't want to go there, just yet. Obviously, no one's told him about Rafe and his injury; I guess that will be my joyous task. But first...

"Did anyone else see me go down?" Jim persists.

I take a deep breath, and release Jim's hand. "Jim, the doctors know about all of the earlier episodes. I had to tell them; I thought it was important for them to know. And," I hesitate only a second, "I told Simon as well. He needed to know, Jim."

"You what?" he hisses. "You had no right! The doctors, maybe, I can see that. But you should have...Dammit, Sandburg, you should have let me tell this to Simon myself!" He half-sits up in the bed, eyes blazing.

"Jim!" I push him back down. "How long, do you think, before he found out anyway? You were unconscious, man. I did what I thought was right." I did what you should have done a week ago, my mind adds. "You didn't give me much choice."

We lock eyes, and just for a second I witness a brief glimpse of the full Ellison fury. A bit like looking into a nuclear reactor, I suppose. But I stand my ground; this time, I'm going to win.

Then he sags defeatedly, and his gaze falls away from mine. I take his hand again, squeezing it; he returns the gesture half-heartedly. "I'm sorry," I whisper. Not sorry for my choice, but sorry for what Jim's going to go through. He can interpret my words however he chooses.

He reaches up his free hand and touches my face briefly. I'd debated stopping to wash away the evidence of my emotional conversation with Simon before coming back to talk with Jim, but I think I was somehow afraid of returning to that frozen state of un-feeling. When Jim speaks, I can hear a faint shake in his voice.

"You've been crying, Chief."

I nod at him without answering. The hand returns to my face, gently tracing the tear-tracks. "That's not like you. Were you that worried about me, about this mess I've got myself into?" Apprehension creeps into his voice. "Or is something else wrong?"

I'm saved from answering by one of the nursing staff, who pokes her head in. "They've got a room for you upstairs, now, Mr. Ellison. We'll roll you up in just a moment." She smiles at both of us.

Part Thirteen

It takes a while to get Jim settled in his hospital room, and I try to use the time to regain my emotional footing. I nip down the hall for a cup of coffee, rather than stick around and observe the admission process. I know, from entirely too much personal experience, what will be involved. First, the nurse will ask all of the same questions that have already been asked downstairs. Then Jim will have to put on his silly hospital gown, and complain about how it hangs open in back. After that, if he's really lucky, a different doctor will be along to examine him again and order more tests.

All perfectly calculated to send an already impatient, tired and slightly confused Sentinel over the edge.

I, on the other hand, am starting to feel a bit better. The coffee helps; bitter, acidic and scalding though it is, the caffeine lifts my mood considerably. I lean against the wall outside Jim's room, half listening to the faint grumblings inside, half watching the activity around me. Most of the other patients, from what I can see through some of the open doors, look a lot sicker than Jim. One old guy walks up and down the hall, pushing his I.V. pole as he shuffles; his skin has a ghastly bilious color, and a thin plastic tube hangs from his nose.

As he gets closer, I can see that his face doesn't look right at all, mainly because half of his jaw just isn't there. I shudder briefly and find something else to look at.

Okay, so maybe having a few seizures isn't so bad. Sure, this is a serious fix Jim's gotten himself into...but no one's dead...and from what Simon said, maybe Jim's career can recover from this. He hasn't been fired yet, anyway.

I walk back to the main elevators, where I remember seeing a public restroom. I wash my face and comb my hair, fishing an elastic band out of my pocket to pull the whole mess back into a neat ponytail. I have the distinct feeling that I'm going to have to get seriously tough with Jim in the hours ahead, and I want my appearance to reflect my persona of the Sentinel's All-Knowing Guide rather the the Scrawny Roommate Who Can Be Pushed Around.

"That's right," I say to my reflection, who looks back at me uncertainly. "Sandburg is going to kick some butt here, verbally, and Ellison is going to listen for a change." I clench my jaw, and try to look like Jim. No, I need to stick my chin out a little more...

The restroom door opens, and I jump. It's Simon, who looks at me oddly.

"Sandburg, you all right?"

"Uh, yeah. Fine." I clear my throat. "How'd you find me?"

"I wasn't looking for you, precisely. But, since you're here...how's Jim?"

"The nurses are still tucking him in," I answer. "I haven't told him about Rafe, yet...but he knows that you know about his seizures." And surprise...he hasn't ripped my arms from my body for telling you, either.

"Hmm."

"How's Rafe?"

"He's okay." Simon folds his arms and leans back against the wall. "I got to see him for a few minutes, before he went to surgery. He was pretty groggy, but feeling no pain. He was, uh, worried about Jim, though."

I grimace. "Well, that makes three of us. I guess...I'd better get back before Jim starts getting antsy. Unless there's anything else?" I raise my eyebrows at Simon.

"Sandburg, I didn't come here looking for you." Simon looks meaningfully at the urinal.

"Oh. Right." I make my escape.

Back in the hallway outside Jim's room, I hesitate briefly. Spine of steel,Sandburg, spine of steel, I remind myself. I creak the door open.

Some of my forced jauntiness fades at the sight of Jim. He's sitting up in bed, scowling, with a thermometer in his mouth while the nurse takes his vital signs. The nurse smiles at me; I think I see a flash of recognition in her lively brown eyes. Maybe she remembers me from Jim's last admission, since we're on the same floor as before.

"Come on in, Mr. Sandburg. We're almost finished here." She reaches over and removes the thermometer, and records something on the chart. "We've called Dr. Philpott. She's just finishing up at her office, and she'll be over in a little while to talk with you." She glances again at her notes. "She's ordered a regular diet for you, Mr. Ellison, so we'll call the kitchen and order you some dinner. Do you feel like you could eat?"

Jim nods without much enthusiasm. "Sure. Anything's fine."

She favors us both with another brilliant smile, then leaves and closes the door behind her.

I take my place in the chair by Jim's bed, feeling suddenly awkward. "Who's Dr. Philpott?" I ask, searching for a conversational opener.

"My neurologist," Jim answers flatly, looking away.

"Oh." How do I tell him about Rafe, about the way his colleague was injured because of him? "Well, maybe she'll have some idea of what's wrong with you." I take a deep breath. "Jim, there's something else you need to know."

He looks back at me. "Out with it, Chief," he says finally. "I could tell you were hiding something." His face remains carefully blank.

"Jim, when you had this last seizure, you fell. We were all standing on the porch, at the stakeout house. Do you remember?"

His brow wrinkles as he thinks. "Sort of. Not much, though."

"You fell backwards, and you knocked Rafe off the porch. He's going to be okay, but he's got a broken arm. He...doesn't know what actually happened, just that you fell. I don't think he saw all that much."

"Jesus...not Rafe..." Jim whispers, and look at the wall again for a moment. When he turns back, his face is bleak. "Sorry, Chief. You warned me, and I should have listened to you. Too late now."

Silence. I've wanted to hear Jim say those very words, but now I take no joy in hearing them, no satisfaction in being right. "I wish I'd been wrong," I answer softly. "But...if you didn't listen to me then, will you listen to me now?"

"Maybe." He gives me a grim smile. "Depends on what you've going to say."

"Deal with this. Talk to your doctor. Work with me on this, just like we've always done with your senses. Stop burying your head in the sand, and stop evading the truth." My words are clipped and abrupt.

Jim doesn't answer me. Instead, he points to the white plastic bag on the floor labeled "Patient's Belongings".

"Is that the rest of my stuff there on the floor?"

"Yeah," I answer, puzzled. "All except your gun, anyway. That's in the hospital safe; I had to sign for it. Why?"

"Give it here."

I hand him the bag. He digs around until he comes up with his badge, which he cradles in his hand for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at me, and smiles sadly.

"Not much of an ending for all your hard work, is it, Sandburg?"

"I don't understand," I say slowly, beginning to understand all too well.

"Do me a favor, Chief," he says woodenly. "Call Simon for me. Tell him I've got something to give him."

Part Fourteen

I stare first at Jim, then at the badge he holds in his hands.

"You're going to resign? Just like that? Jim, you haven't thought this through, man. You can't do this!" I tend to babble when I'm stunned.

"Sandburg," Jim explains wearily, "it's inevitable. There'll be a lot of pressure on Simon to fire me, if word of this gets out. I'd just rather...skip that, if I can. Take my own destiny into my hands," he adds bitterly.

"Simon's not going to..." I start to reassure Jim, then bite my lip uncertainly. What, exactly, had Simon said? That he would have some decisions to make once Jim was feeling better, that he wanted me by Jim's side to support him. Right then, my mind had breezed right past the meaning of Simon's guarded words, but now they sound downright ominous.

Still...even if Jim might lose his job anyway, I can't just let him quit. I can't let him just sit back and take the easy way out. Jim Ellison giving up his badge is just too damn close to Jim Ellison giving up on life. It's just not like him.

All right, time for a different tactic, then. Now, I need that spine of steel I was harping about earlier.

"No!" I reply heatedly, and jump to my feet.

"No, what?"

I return his gaze steadily. "No. I won't have anything to do with it. You want to quit, you call Simon yourself. Actually, he's still here in the hospital, over in the surgery waiting area. I'm sure they could page him overhead.

"But if you do...if you hand Simon that badge, we're through. Finis, end of story, sayonara, adios, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out." I talk rapidly so that I won't feel the pain behind the words quite so much. How many different ways are there to say 'goodbye', in all the languages of the world? Are there any peoples who don't view even a temporary parting as sorrowful?

"The roommate thing, the friend thing, the Sentinel thing, all of it. I'll head out right now and pack my bags, Ellison. I'll find something else to do my dissertation on. Is that what you want?" I keep my voice down, in deference to the undoubtedly thin hospital walls, but I try to put every ounce of my own determination behind my words.

It's all I can do not to look away from Jim, and the hurt in his eyes. "So, that's how you feel, then, Chief?" he murmurs, with obvious bitterness. "If I'm not a cop, you don't want to work with me any more. That's pretty low. I have to say, I wouldn't have thought it of you."

Now I reach over and whack the mattress with my fist, which doesn't make much noise but serves for emphasis in a pinch. "You're not listening to me, Jim! Will. You. Shut. Up. And. Listen?" Whack, whack, whack, whack.

"All right, Sandburg, enough!" Jim glares at me as he shouts. "I'm listening, though God only knows why."

"I said...if you quit, I'm out of here. If you give up on yourself, without a fight, without even trying to see this through...I don't think I can stand to be here to watch you slowly self-destruct, because you'll destroy me as well." I fling myself back into my chair, arms folded.

This began as a spur-of-the-moment bluff, to get Jim's attention, shake him up a little. The more I say, though, the more I begin to believe that I may be telling the truth. Don't think about it, just keep going.

"But if you give it your honest best effort...if you get the medical help you need, and jump through Simon's hoops, or apologize, or whatever it is you need to do...if, in spite of all that, you still lose your job..." I unfold my arms, and lean forward, trying to get Jim to look at me.

"Then I'll still be there for you, even if you end up a security guard at K-Mart. Or flipping burgers at Wonderburger. We make a hell of a team, Jim, no matter what we're doing."

He meets my eyes, now, searching my face. Probably listening to my heart rate as well, I suppose. For a few tense seconds we both sit there, neither of us yielding. Sort of like the North-Going Zax and the South-Going Zax, if you're into Dr. Seuss. Finally he nods.

"If you really mean that, Chief..." he says slowly.

"I do," I say. "I'm not sure when I realized it, but I do. I can't stand by and watch you make such a mess of your life."

"You leave me no choice, do you?" His face is unreadable...then he smiles ever so slightly. "When did you become so stubborn, Sandburg? What happened to that easygoing anthropology student that used to hang around with me?"

"He's still here," I say softly. "But he's spent the last couple of years learning coercive conversational techniques from this high-sphincter tone cop with a thing for house rules and having his own way. It's taught him a lot." I put out my hand. "Do we have a deal, then? You promise not to take the easy way out, here? On anything?"

I don't know whether Jim picks up on the second meaning of those words, but he nods and clasps my hand. "Deal, Chief." He squeezes my hand, and releases it. "So now what?" He looks at me expectantly and with no small amount of relief. "I don't suppose you'd had the chance to run to the library while I was unconscious, research this, and come up with a miracle cure already?"

It's a feeble attempt at humor, but kind of absurdly funny, so I snicker and play along. "Oh, sure, Jim. And then after that, I developed a cure for cancer, a solution for world peace, and created a miracle hair-restorer that I'm sure you'd be interested in."

"Very funny, Junior. Besides, if I ever lose all my hair, I could always have a wig made out of all the hair that you leave in the shower drain. It might take me two, three weeks of saving hair clogs, but it could be done." Now he's actually grinning, even though it seems a little forced.

"Okay, okay." I run my hands through the hair in question, trying to think. "We may as well just hypothesize that this has something to do with your Sentinel abilities, for now. That seems more productive to me. How many seizures have you had, not counting the first one in the warehouse?"

He thinks for a moment. "Four, I think. You were there for all but the first one."

I snort. "At least we know I'm not the one causing it. Let's see...the location was different each time. You were pretty tired for the last two. Could sleep deprivation be playing a role, d'you think?"

He shakes his head. "I was pretty well rested the first two times. In fact, the first time, when I was still in the hospital, I'd been asleep most of the day, and I was incredibly bored. So bored that I..." He stops in midsentence and whistles softly, a look of suprised comprehension appearing on his face.

"What? What?" Jim's onto something, I can tell.

"I was so bored that day, I was trying to listen to the conversations going on at the nurses' station. That's the last thing I remember, until I woke up to see my nurse standing over me after the seizure." He snaps his fingers. "Every time it happened, Chief, I was just starting to extend one of my senses. That must be it!"

Part Fifteen

I frown at Jim. "Are you sure? That seems a little too simple." Meaning, he's probably right, but I wish I'd thought of it first. "You were using your senses every time?"

He nods. "The first time at home, in the loft, I was listening to see if you were on your way home yet with the groceries. Nothing very difficult, but that's the last thing I remember. Last night at the stakeout, I was listening to see how many heartbeats I could actually hear inside the trailer. And today..." Jim looks sheepish.

"Today, what? Were you listening to something? Maybe it's just your hearing that messes you up, then," I suggest.

"No, I don't think so. Today I was smelling to see what kind of pizza Rafe and Brown had ordered." A short, bitter laugh from Jim. "Canadian bacon and pineapple."

I mull over Jim's observations. "What about the rest of the time? I mean, I assume you haven't had a seizure every time you've tried to use your senses." Either that, or there's a whole lot going on that he hasn't told me yet.

"No, you're right. It doesn't always happen," he agrees. "Maybe there's some other factor involved...stress, or doing too many things at once, or how long it's been since I've had a seizure. I don't know."

"Jim, if this is true...how can we even begin to fix it?" Now I'm even more worried. I'm not sure I have the expertise to deal with this by myself. I've never run across any references to a Sentinel developing a problem like this.

"I don't know, Chief," he admits. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

I shrug helplessly and glance at the clock. It's getting late. "Where's your doctor, man?"

"Probably got held up in traffic." He looks down at the scratchy hospital blankets, picking idly at a seam. "You know, Chief," he says slowly, "maybe it's time we enlisted some outside help."

I raise my eyebrows at that. That's the last thing I'd expect to hear Jim say. "Outside help? What do you mean?"

"No offense, Blair, but this time the problem seems to be both medical and Sentinel-related. I think you need a consultant. Maybe, if we're cautious, we can get my neurologist involved, tell her at least part of the story."

"I don't know, Jim," I answer cautiously. "I hate to take the risk of word getting out about you." Or, having him end up as someone else's research project, even with confidentiality maintained.

Okay, so I'm jealous. Not a pretty thought...but he's MY Sentinel, after all. I'm the one who found him and identified his abilities.

But...I can't afford to ignore anything that might help Jim. And, he's at least including me in the decision, discussing it with me instead of making a unilateral declaration. So, I halt my flow of objections, and try to listen.

"Tell you what, Chief," he's saying. "Stick around and meet her. You've got good people instincts. Right now," he looks into my eyes, with a directness and honesty that's been missing for so many days, "right now I think I trust your judgement more than I trust my own. If you think she'll be able to keep things confidential and work with us, then you tell her. It's your call."

Control. He's giving up control here, something that I know is very difficult for Jim. Letting me make this decision is an incredible demonstration of trust on his part, of faith in my ability to judge character. I look down at my feet for a moment, feeling the burden of Jim's trust settle almost as a physical weight upon my shoulders.

When I look back up at him, he's smiling. A weary smile, to be sure, but one that his whole face participates in.

"After she takes a look at me, Chief, have a talk with her. Take her down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, and feel her out."

I can't resist the obvious vulgar crack. "As opposed to feeling her up, of course." I dodge Jim's well-aimed swipe at my head.

"Behave yourself, or I'll make you wait in the waiting room," he snorts. "Besides, she's a little old for you...not that that ever stops you from trying."

I contrive to look as innocent as possible. "Me? I don't know what you're talking about, Jim. I don't deliberately set out to charm all of these women, y'know."

* * * * * *

Jim's neurologist finally shows up about ten minutes later. She's a short, slight woman of about Jim's age, with short dark hair and a brisk birdlike manner. She immediately apologizes for keeping him waiting.

"I'm sorry. One of my partners is on vacation, so my clinic ran later than usual." She touches Jim's hand briefly. "I'm also sorry to see you back in the hospital so soon."

"It wasn't my idea, Doctor. Believe me." Jim answers her wryly.

She turns to me and extends her hand. "You must be Mr. Sandburg." She shakes my hand firmly, appearing to give me a quick appraisal with her alert grey eyes.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," I stammer. Huh. Jim must have been talking about me, the big lug. Will wonders never cease?

"I'm Dr. Heidi Philpott. Your friend has told me a few stories about you." She smiles at me, amusement dancing in her eyes...something that makes me wonder exactly which stories Jim has been telling her.

She pulls up a chair and starts talking with Jim, taking occasional notes on a clipboard. For once, I sit and listen and don't interrupt. He tells her all of the events of the past week, except for the details involving his senses. She nods sympathetically when he gets to today's seizure and its unfortunate results.

"I have a little good news for you on that front." she tells us. "I stopped off in post-op before I came here. Your friend Rafe has had his surgery to have his fracture pinned, and is doing fine."

Jim sinks back into the pillows and closes his eyes. "Good," he says quietly. "That's...a relief."

"I need to examine you now, Mr. Ellison." She reaches for her bag and pulls out a stethoscope and some other instruments.

I stand up and clear my throat. "I'll, uh, go take a little walk." I know I'm supposed to be helping to find a solution for Jim's problem, but I feel a little weird watching his doctor examine him.

Jim shrugs. "Suit yourself, Chief. Stay out of trouble."

"This won't take long," Dr. Philpott adds.

I walk around the ward for a while, and poke around out by the elevators and restrooms...half-hoping to run into Simon. He's nowhere to be seen, though. I kill a little time with an ancient, tattered National Geographic, then head back to Jim's room.

I knock softly, and stick my head in. Jim's sitting up on the edge of his bed, his eyes closed. Dr. Philpott is poking at his feet and legs with what looks like a mangled paper clip. I sit down in my recently vacated chair, fascinated.

"All right, keep your eyes closed...Now: two points or one?" She manipulates the paper clip so that one point touches Jim's foot.

"One." With his eyes still closed, he waves in my general direction. "Hey, Chief."

"Now?" She pokes him with both ends of the clip, about an eighth of an inch apart.

"Two."

"Good." She repeats the same test in several other locations, including his hands. The last time, I notice, the two points are so close they're almost touching. "How many now?"

"Two," Jim replies without hesitation. Dr. Philpott's eyebrows rise, but she maintains the same cool expression.

"That's enough of that, Mr. Ellison. You can open your eyes. You know, you've got excellent two-point discrimination. Most people would have perceived that last one as just one point," she comments, rummaging in her bag.

I'm watching Jim's face, so I see the brief startled look that crosses it, before he carefully schools his expression back to blandness.

"All right, Mr. Ellison, one last test." She pulls a tuning fork out of her bag, whacks it on the edge of my chair, and touches the humming piece of metal to the side of Jim's head.

He jerks away immediately and yells, clapping his hands to his head. "Eeeeyowww!"

Dr. Philpott nearly drops the tuning fork. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Was that painful?"

"Uh...you could say that. I've got...sensitive ears." Jim rubs the offended appendages.

"Hmm." She stows the tuning fork, and stands up. "Well, I needn't subject you to any more torture with that. It's just a crude device for determining hearing loss, and clearly your hearing is fine." She purses her lips and looks speculatively at Jim.

"So..." I butt in. "Any ideas, Doctor? Can you tell me why he's having these seizures?" I don't want to badger this obviously busy woman, but I'm remembering Jim's request that I try to assess her as a possible confidante and ally.

She sighs. "To be honest, no, not really. He's in the best of health, apparently, with a very normal neurologic exam. I'm going to have to think about this one."

Well, at least she's honest. That seems to be a plus.

She turns back to Jim. "I do want you to stay here in the hospital tonight, Mr. Ellison. You seem fine, but you've had two significant seizures in twenty-four hours, for no apparent reason. I'll be back in the morning, and we may be doing some more tests. Oh, and I want to start you on some medication to prevent the seizures, probably Tegretol." She hoists her bag of tricks and seems to be about to leave.

Jim looks concerned. "Is that absolutely necessary, Doctor? I was hoping to avoid taking medication."

She shakes her head. "I can't force you, of course, but I certainly recommend it. At least for short-term." She puts her hand on the doorknob. I'll be by early, probably about seven."

Jim shoots an unreadable look at me. I stand up, manage to wriggle in front of Dr. Philpott, and courteously open the door for her.

"Uh, Doctor, can I talk to you for a moment?" I say as soon as we're both in the hallway.

She gives me a weary, less-than-enthusiastic look. "Mr. Sandburg, usually when a friend or family member wants to talk to me alone, it's something that I shouldn't be hearing without the patient's permission. Your friend certainly seems like a competent adult."

All right, so confidentiality is important to her. Definitely a point in her favor, if I can get her to listen.

"Jim is the one who wants me to talk to you. I do have his permission," I explain.

She looks dubious, so I take a few steps back and stick my head back in Jim's room. "Jim, can you convince your doctor that I have your permission to talk with her?"

He chuckles. "You want me to write you a note, Sandburg?" Looking over my shoulder at Dr. Philpott, he nods. "It's okay. I have no secrets from Blair, not any more." He smiles wryly. "Keeping secrets was what got me into this mess."

The simple statement rocks me for a moment. No secrets from me, he says. Then Jim beckons to me. "Come here for a moment, Chief."

I walk back to his bedside. "What?" I ask curiously.

He reaches over to the small table next to his bed. "Just in case Simon comes by to talk to me, I want you to hang onto this for me." He hands me his badge. "So I won't be tempted to do anything foolish with it."

I close my hand on the badge's leather cover. "You got it, Jim."

Part Seventeen

Dr. Philpott, still somewhat dubious, agrees to go with me down to the hospital cafeteria. The place is practically deserted; a few hospital staff occupy the rectangular tables here and there, but we have most of it to ourselves.

The sight of food, hospital or otherwise, reminds me of how ravenous I am. I snag a sandwich and a cup of coffee and head for the cash register.

My dining companion lingers over the selection, then sighs and picks up a sandwich identical to mine. "I'm so tired of the food here," she confesses as she waits behind me in line. "I keep telling myself I need to go home and cook a real meal, but it's so much easier to just eat here." She smiles ruefully. "Hospital food's the same everywhere, you know. I feel like I've spent my whole life eating it."

We end up at a table tucked off into the furthest corner of the room, shielded from view by a rather pathetic attempt at atmosphere: some lattice and a couple of artificial ficus trees. At least here, we'll be able to talk without being overheard very easily.

I unwrap the sandwich and look at it, trying to come up with a coherent opening line. Dr. Philpott doesn't give me that luxury.

"So...Mr. Sandburg, what did you want to tell me? Or ask me?" she asks, paying no attention yet to her own dinner.

"Call me Blair, please," I stall. "When I hear myself referred to as 'Mr. Sandburg', I look around for a student."

"You're a teacher?" She gives me an appraising look.

"A teaching assistant and grad student, over at Rainier. Anthropology." Okay, good. Small talk. I can do this.

Her eyebrows raise. "And your friend's a detective with Cascade P.D.? What do you and he have in common?"

"Well, uh...I guess that's sort of what I wanted to talk with you about." I look at her face now, her eyes. I wish I could listen to people's heartrates, like Jim can. This woman is so reserved, how can I possibly know if I can trust her? Jim should be doing this himself...but for some reason, he thinks I have this amazing ability to read people's intentions. He's counting on me. And, let's face it, Jim's own self-esteem and faith in himself is sort of shot right now.

All right, the hell with it. Full speed ahead, Sandburg...if she doesn't believe me, she'll just think I'm a nutcase. No harm done. And surely, she'll be bound by ethics not to discuss this with anyone, at least right away.

"Jim is...sort of exceptional." I toy with the anemic-looking tomato from my sandwich. "Around the department, they think he's just a very good cop with incredible intuition and luck."

She nods at me expectantly. "But?"

"But he's more than that. He...has extremely sharp vision, hearing...all of his senses, really." The repeated self-conditioning is hard to break; the "never tell anyone about Jim's senses" injunction that I've laid on myself is almost impossible to overcome. It's the first time I can ever remember discussing Jim's senses with someone other than Simon.

She nods again, her face betraying nothing. "I'd noticed that he performed extremely well on my neuro exam, especially on the tests that measure touch perception. I didn't formally measure his visual acuity, though. Should I?"

I'm a little startled by her casual acceptance so far. "Uh, no, that won't be necessary. In fact..."

Now we come to the crux of the problem. Confidentiality, that is. I've got to find a way to get help for Jim, while keeping any mention of his special talents out of the formal medical record.

"In fact, Doctor...I need to tell you more, but I can't without some assurances." God, that sounded stiff. Like a lawyer or something. Or a terrorist with hostages. Yeah, I've got hostages all right: my best friend's career, his heart, his life. My life, really...they're sort of the same thing.

Now it's her turn to fiddle with her sandwich filling. "Blair...I'll tell you what I tell all my patients when they worry about what will happen to information that they tell me. Anything you say is confidential, unless I have reason to believe that you or Mr. Ellison is a threat to someone else's safety...physical or otherwise." She sighs. "As a matter of fact, I'll have to contact the Washington DMV about your friend. He shouldn't drive anymore, at least not until we get this under control." She looks at me again, and now I read a bit of concern through her expression. "Does that help?"

"Some," I admit. "What about the medical record?"

She looks back at me steadily. "You're going to have to trust me on that one, Blair. I have some discretion over how detailed, or how readable," she smiles, "my notes are. If there's an important reason to...gloss over something, yes, I can do that. I have to use my professional judgement, though."

I finally take a bite of that dratted sandwich, to cover my agonized indecision. No guarantees here, but did I really expect that? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...do I tell her or not? "It's your call," Jim told me. Dammit, why do I gripe about Jim making all of the decisions? Right now, I sort of wish he'd appear at my elbow and give me a little direction here.

I glance back up again...to see kind grey eyes looking at me with more concern now. "Blair..." she says, hesitantly. "Whatever's wrong, it won't get better if you can't talk about it." She continues to hold my gaze for a moment, and in that instant I try to think with my heart, not my head. My heart says...when I force myself to listen to it, it tells me that at some point, I need to trust.

I smile a little, a bit shakily. "I think I can, now. But please, eat your sandwich, because this may take awhile."

So I tell her the entire story, starting with my interest in Sentinels and Jim's experiences in Peru, to our meeting in Cascade. I explain our unusual partnership and working relationship as best I can. I recount some of our "adventures", and give an overview of what Jim is actually capable of.

"Although I'm still learning that, really," I hedge. "It's hard to get Jim to agree to testing sessions. Maybe when this is all over, he'll let me. There's still so much we don't know about the way he works." I finish the last of my coffee. "So, the way I see it, his seizures are somehow tied in with all of this. Every time he's had one, except for the first one when he was poisoned, he's been starting to use his senses, turning up the dial."

She nods slowly. "Yes. Somehow, doing that lowers his seizure threshold." She thinks for a moment. "And he has voluntary control over...these 'dials', as you call them."

"Most of the time, but not always," I admit. "That's my job. If I'm around to help out, then yes, everything stays under control." Usually, I amend to myself.

"All right," she says decisively. "That answers one question, anyway. I won't need to put him on anticonvulsants - - seizure medications - - if he can avoid using his senses." She looks at me again, and I feel like I'm being sized up. "I'll speak to his nurses about bringing in a cot and letting you stay with him. I'd feel better about not using the Tegretol then."

"Good, I'd like that anyway. Usually, I'm pretty hard to get rid of if Jim's hurt or sick." I take a deep breath. "You'll help us, then? And try to keep the Sentinel stuff out of the chart?"

She looks faintly offended. "Of course I'll help you. Mr. Ellison - - Jim - - is my patient, and I'll do my best to find an answer for him. As far as the other...right now, it's not really pertinent from the standpoint of the chart. We'll have to take it one step at a time. I can understand the need to keep his abilities quiet, for his own safety, and for the sake of the police department."

She pushes back her chair and stands up. "Let's go back upstairs. I don't want you away from him for very long yet, until you're sure he understands the new ground rules. He mustn't use his special senses at all until we have some answers. Then I need to go hit the library." She looks at her watch and makes a face. "And sleep, at some point."

"Thank you," I say hesitantly.

She grins wickedly, bringing out laugh-lines around her eyes. "Oh, don't thank me. You're going to be my research assistant, young man."

Part Eighteen

Jim's door is cracked open, and as we approach I can hear voices. One isunmistakably Jim's; as I knock briefly and push the door aside I realize the other voice is Simon's. Uh oh...hopefully I'm not interrupting a major ass-chewing here. On the other hand, in Jim's current state he might appreciate being rescued.

To my relief, though, no one's shouting, and Jim and Simon both look relaxed. Tired and drained, to be sure, but relaxed. Maybe Simon is waiting until later to be a hard-nose about Jim's actions; maybe he's just wise enough to know that Jim's conscience will do a more thorough job of making Jim miserable than Simon could ever do.

I step aside to let Dr. Philpott in. Jim eyes me, the unspoken question plainly written across his face. For a few seconds, I savor the luxury of being the only person in the room who knows the entire story. Let's see: Jim doesn't know if the doctor knows, the doctor doesn't know if Simon knows, Simon doesn't even know we were thinking about telling her...Yup, I'm in control here, at least briefly.

But I hate to torture Jim.

"Dr. Philpott, this is Captain Banks of the Cascade P.D. He, uh, knows all about Jim; you don't have to worry about him. Simon, this is Jim's neurologist."

Simon stands up and shakes the doctor's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

I turn to Jim, who now looks as if he'd like to strangle me for keeping him in suspense. "Jim, I told her, and she's going to help us."

Jim falls back against his pillows. "Thank God."

Simon frowns. "Sandburg, what the hell is going on here?" Someday, I'm going to have that phrase made up into a button for Simon to wear...he says it so often, I'd like to save him the trouble.

My partner comes to my rescue. "Simon, we think the seizures have something to do with my Sentinel senses," he says wearily. "I asked Blair to explain it all to Dr. Philpott."

Blair? The big guy must be feeling mellow.

Unexpectedly Simon laughs, a full, rich sound that we just don't hear very often. "Dr. Philpott, welcome to the Sandburg zone. Now you know what Jim and I have to put up with." He stretches in the (for him) undersized chair. "I must say, though, I'm a little surprised. Not that they chose to tell you, but that you found their claims believable. I took quite a bit of convincing, when this Sentinel thing first came up."

Dr. Philpott keeps a straight face. "Actually, I find it very believable. Mr. Ellison displayed a number of rather unusual responses on his neurologic exam. Not abnormal...just better than I usually see my patients perform." She turns to Jim. "You may have been trying to hide it, but you've probably forgotten what the limitations are for the average man's senses."

Jim looks a little nonplussed at this. The doctor continues. "Anyway, I've got some research I need to do now. I'll be back to torture you in the morning. You," she points at Jim, "are to keep these hypersenses of yours dialed down, or locked up, or whatever you call it. And you," she points at me, "are to stay with him. I may have the medical library send up some articles I want you to read, but don't leave him alone for more than a few minutes." She looks at both of us sternly. "If you can both agree to that, I won't order any anticonvulsants."

"Sure, I can do that," I answer brightly. Jim just nods and mutters something inaudible.

"Good," says Dr. Philpott. "I'll have the nurses scare up a cot for you, Blair."

"Doctor," interjects Simon, "you do understand that Jim's...abilities need to be kept secret?"

She nods. "Don't worry about that. I have no intention of letting this get out," she reassures him, as she leaves.

I climb onto on the foot of Jim's bed, as Simon has commandeered the only chair. Jim works the controls to make the bed sit up, and pulls his feet out of the way to make room for me. I sit cross-legged facing him, resting my chin on my hands, listening as Simon seems to pick up where he must have left off before we entered.

"Jim," he says quietly, not in his usual bluster, "I can't promise you anything. You did make some serious errors in judgement that indirectly resulted in the injury of another officer."

"I know, sir," answers Jim hesitantly. "I'm not asking to escape the consequences of my actions. I screwed up, big time. I don't want you to cover for me."

"Hang on a moment, Jim. Since Rafe's injury was a fall, an accident, it's really more of a jobsite safety issue. Internal Affairs isn't going to be interested, unless someone complains to them. I'm not going to cover anything up, but I see no reason to tell IA about this. It's not as if you shot someone, Jim."

Jim sighs. "I may as well have. I'm not looking forward to...talking to Rafe about this." He looks up at Simon, and I can see lines of pain etched onto his face. "I want to tell him, though. I want him to know the truth, that it was my fault."

"Yes...you should tell him. It would be worse, I think, for him to somehow find out later. But not yet," suggests Simon. "Wait until the morning, when you'll both be a lot more coherent."

There's a knock on the door, and a red-headed volunteer wheels in an odd-looking sort of recliner. It turns out to be a chair that folds out into a surprisingly comfortable little bed. She shows me how to work the mechanism, and hands me a pile of bedding. "We borrowed it from the Mother-Baby unit." she says shyly. "It's what the new dads sleep on while they're here."

"Thanks," I look quickly at her nametag, "Marissa. I'm sure I'll sleep verywell on it." She's all of about fifteen, kind of cute, and blushes slightly as she leaves.

Simon stands up. "I'll let you both get some rest now. That's an order, by the way, not a suggestion. And Sandburg..."

"Yes, Simon?"

He talks to me, but keeps glancing at Jim. "You and your doctor friend...find a cure for this. And bring this man back to me when he's well. In body, and mind, and spirit." He turns back to Jim. "Officially, you're on medical leave. For as long as you need," he adds gruffly.

"And stay away from the candy stripers, Sandburg," he adds, slipping through the door.

Part Nineteen

After Simon leaves us, I make up my makeshift bed and stretch out in it. With the chair-bed opened up, there's hardly room to walk around in the tiny hospital room, but at least we're both comfortable.

Jim thumbs distractedly through a Sports Illustrated that one of the aides brought him, but he doesn't really look like he's reading it. When I count five yawns from him in as many minutes, I sit up and gently pry the magazine from his stubborn fingers.

"You need to get some sleep, man. You heard Simon." I close the magazine and lay it on the floor. "And you heard Dr. Philpott. She's coming back in the morning to do more test on you, so you need to rest.

"I always have trouble sleeping in the hospital," Jim grumbles, settling down against the pillows and punching them a few times. "The pillows are lumpy, the mattresses always creak, and there's usually a nurse coming in to take my vital signs every few minutes."

"Complaints, complaints, that's all I get," I respond lightly. I get up to turn out the overhead light, leaving on the soft light over the head of Jim's bed.

"Jim, who are you kidding? You're so tired, you're barely coherent," I snort. "Besides, if you've got your senses dialed all the way down, you shouldn't notice any of that stuff." I pause for a moment, after I climb back into my little bed. "You do have the dials all the way down, don't you?"

Jim sighs, sounding exasperated. "Yes, Sandburg, I do. Quit nagging me. Do you want to watch me brush my teeth, too, Mom?"

I grin goofily at him, refusing to be baited into an argument tonight. "Forget it, man. I've seen you brush your teeth. It's truly scary. Do you know you go up and down each tooth exactly twenty times? Now, that is the most anal-retentive -- oof!" Jim's pillow smacks me hard in the belly, momentarily knocking the wind out of me. But I'm up in a second, my own dense hospital pillow in my hands, climbing up onto Jim's bed. I wind up for the killing blow...

.only to find the pillow snatched away, and both of my skinny wrists trapped easily in Jim's iron grasp. I try to break free, but I'm laughing too much to struggle effectively. Jim switches his grip, pinning my arms at my side. His fingers wiggle against my ribs, threatening to tickle...and succeeding rather well.

"Anal-retentive, Sandburg? Got anything else that you want to call me, now that you can't run away?"

"Yeah," I gasp out between helpless spasms of laughter. God, it feels so good so hear Jim have a bit of fun again, even if it is mostly at my expense. "How about over-muscled? Or thick-necked? Hair-trigger temper? Paranoid?"

Jim releases me and laughs softly. "Get out of here, Chief. Go lay down so I can get some sleep." He hands me my pillow, still chuckling. "And take your projectile with you where it belongs."

I sit on his bed a moment longer, with the pillow on my lap...savoring the brief lapse into silliness, I guess. And, I confess, briefly debating the merits of bopping Jim on the head with my pillow while making a fast retreat. Hmm, no, probably not such a good idea. I don't want to get myself kicked out for breaking some obscure hospital rule involving late-night pillowfights between consenting adults.

"Hey, Jim," I call to him softly. "I'm sorry. I mean, breathing down your neck like this, keeping an eye on you twenty-four hours a day. It was your doctor's idea."

Jim becomes more serious in turn, appparently sensing my mood. "It's okay, Chief. I'm glad you're here." He reaches out a hand and squeezes my shoulder. "It looks like I've got a choice between having you as a babysitter and getting pumped full of drugs I'd rather avoid, with side effects that could be unpredictable in me." He smiles slightly at me again. "Given the choice, Chief, I'll take you."

* * * * * *

Sleep proves elusive for me, although Jim drops off soon after I crawl back into my fold-out bed. He really is exhausted, and I hope he'll get some decent rest. I lay on my back, thinking about everything that happened, and worrying about tomorrow.

It's time for the inevitable "what-ifs" and "if-onlys". Say what you will about the futility of second-guessing...but we're all vulnerable to that kind of thinking. Especially after a bad day. Especially late at night.

Especially when...people we care about have been hurt, or are hurting, because of something we've done. Or, in my case, not done. Sins of commission, sins of ommission.

So, even though my higher cortical centers tell me gently that it's a waste of time, I wonder what I could have done to give today a happier outcome. I ponder my actions of the past few days, worrying at my decisions over and over like a dog with a bone.

What if I'd gone right away to talk to Simon, instead of taking a nap? Then he would never have sent us to that arrest, and Rafe wouldn't be somewhere else in this same hospital, with metal pins in his arm.

If only I'd put my foot down that first time I came home and found Jim having a seizure. We could have gotten everything out in the open, right then, and it would have stayed a relatively minor matter.

What if I'd stuck closer to Jim during the first hospitalization? Then I would have known something still wasn't right, even before he came home.

If only...if I'd gone into the warehouse with him in the first place, maybe I could have done something.

I sigh, and roll over on my stomach. Again, the logical part of my brain prods me, telling me that in all probability nothing would have made a big difference. No matter what action I chose, in the end I think Jim would have gone on until his weakness caught up with him in some spectacular and horrible way. Maybe, just maybe, we're all getting off easy.

But as I finally slide into a troubled sleep...the wilder, more instinctive part of my mind whispers that I will always share some of the guilt, some of the pain.

Maybe we will both learn from this.

Part Twenty

I'm awakened briefly several times during the night by nursing staff who come in for a few minutes, flick on a light, and talk softly to Jim. Once, someone lays a thick stack of papers on the floor near my head. I stare blearily at the papers after they leave, recognizing the top sheet as the beginning of an article from a medical journal. Ah, must be my light reading assignment from Dr. Philpott. I contemplate sitting up and starting in on the articles, for all of about two-tenths of a second, but then fatigue claims me again.

When I awaken next, it's light out and Jim's sitting up in bed working his way through a breakfast tray. I can smell eggs, hot toast, and coffee.

Coffee, now there's a lovely thought. A blissful thought, in fact. I sit up, yawning and blinking, and reach for my shoes and jeans. "Hey, Jim," I start off, in what I hope is a reasonably cheerful tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than you look, Chief," he answers equably. "I was beginning to wonder if the nurses slipped you a sleeping pill or something. I've been awake for an hour, at least, listening to you snore."

"I do not snore, Jim," I respond automatically to Jim's recurring accusation as I finish getting dressed. "That must have been my empty stomach rumbling."

I walk over to Jim's bedside and cast a speculative eye on his breakfast, or what's left of it. Drat; the human garbage disposal has already eaten most of it. Although that blueberry muffin only has one bite out of it...

Jim slaps away my hand away just as I've almost captured the muffin. "Go get your own breakfast, Sandburg. I'm a sick man. I need to keep up my strength."

Oh well, can't fault a guy for trying.

* * * * * *

I troop downstairs to the hospital cafeteria, where I'm cheered by the sight of fairly decent looking and rather cheap food. Securing an enormous coffee and a blueberry muffin that looks even better than the one on Jim's tray, I pay for my purchases and escape back upstairs.

When I get back to the room, Jim's in the shower. Knowing that he's got his senses dialed down and won't be able to hear me over the shower noise, I use the momentary privacy to make some phone calls. I need to arrange for someone to cover my afternoon lecture today, unless I want to drag Jim along to class with me. Jim's feeling guilty enough about this whole affair; hopefully I can keep him from knowing that I've been having to make sacrifices.

I finally reach Leila, who covered for me during Jim's initial hospitalization.

"Blair, it's Friday. I wanted to go skiing," she whines.

"You went skiing last weekend," I point out. "Besides, it's a one o'clock class, and they're just supposed to watch a video anyway, with a little discussion afterwards. That still gives you plenty of time to get out of town." My voice takes on a pleading tone. "Please, Leila. It's very important. Just name your price."

"Cover my nine o'clock lecture on Monday, and I'll do it," comes the response.

"I can't, Leila. I can't promise I'll be free by then. Try something else."

I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she thinks of a suitable punishment...uh, price for me. "Okay, Blair. Dinner at Cavanaugh's, with all the trimmings. And wine. And dessert. Especially dessert."

I think quickly. I can't afford this, but maybe Jim will help me out here. Although I might have to tell him the truth in the process.

"All right, you've got a deal, bloodsucker. Dinner at Cavanaugh's it is," I answer, with some desperation. "We'll have to decide on the date later."

"Deal!" she crows triumphantly. "And wear that adorable blue shirt that matches your eyes," she adds before she hangs up.

I look at the phone quizzically for a moment. I have an adorable blue shirt? Leila even knows what color my eyes are?

Huh. Maybe I didn't just strike such a bad deal after all. I mull the conversation over as I tear into the muffin.

A light, familiar voice interrupts my thoughts, and my eating. "Good morning, Blair."

Dr. Philpott stands in the doorway. "Where's your troublesome partner? You didn't let him get away from you already, did you?"

I choke slightly on half-chewed muffin, and have to cough a few times before I can speak. "No, he's just in the shower," I reassure her. "Should be out in a moment."

She nods, and picks up the nurses' notes hanging outside the door. As she studies them, Jim emerges from the shower, clad only in a towel. "Chief, have you seen a bathrobe anywhere? I thought they brought me one last - -" He catches sight of the open door and the profile of Dr. Philpott, still looking at the chart, and flees back into the bathroom.

Laughing silently to myself, I pick up the blue-and-white striped hospital bathrobe and hand it to Jim through the partially opened bathroom door. "Is this what you're looking for, Jim? This thing lying in plain sight across the bed?"

"Just give it to me, Sandburg!" he growls, snatching it out of my hand.

Dr. Philpott clears her throat as she sets the chart back down, ignoring our exchange. "It looks like you had a quiet night, Mr. Ellison. How are you feeling this morning?" she asks casually, closing the door to the hallway.

Jim comes back out of the bathroom, tying the belt of the robe with a little more vigor than seems absolutely necessary. "Actually, other than being unable to do anything with my senses, I feel basically normal," he admits, sitting down on his bed. "Are you going to let me go home, then?"

"I think so. We've got our work cut out for us, though." She sits down in the lone chair, and I follow suit, sitting on my fold-out bed. Jim raises his eyebrows at the doctor.

"What did you find out?" he asks. I can hear the touch of nervousness in his voice.

She sighs. "I ran across a few references to individuals with unusually acute senses, but nothing very helpful. Certainly no accounts of seizure activity in any of them." She motions to the stack of papers by my bed. "I made copies of the reports for you, Blair. They're mostly anecdotal, but I thought you might have some use for the information for your dissertation."

I'm taken aback by this unexpected favor. "Thank you, Doctor," I say sincerely. "I appreciate it, believe me. " And I do...not so much the information, but the recognition of my academic pursuits.

"So what I'm left with," she continues, "is trying to understand why the toxin affected you the way it did. Since we don't even know how or why your senses work the way they do, that's rather a tall order.

"The toxin doesn't cause any permanent damage per se, at least in normal people; it causes seizures by its very presence in the blood and CSF. That's the fluid surrounding the brain. What I'm wondering...maybe your nervous system just isn't clearing out this garbage like it should. I'm hypothesizing that when you 'dial up' your senses, you're doing something that increases the excitability of your nervous system, and chases this leftover toxin out of wherever it's hiding."

"Therefore giving him a seizure when he tries to use his senses," I say slowly. I'm really just thinking out loud, making sure I can follow the conversation.

"Right." She turns her attention to Jim. "Mr. Ellison," she begins.

"Please, call me Jim." He smiles at her. "You're making me feel old, Doctor."

"Jim, then. I want to get simultaneous blood and CSF samples on you, just before and right after a seizure." She takes a deep breath. "We need to try and trigger one of these seizures, on purpose."

Part Twenty-one

Jim frowns. "Trigger a seizure on purpose? I suppose...we can do that, if you think that's what we need to do. If you really think it's necessary."

"I think so," she replies, her face now grave and serious. "I'll be able to have the lab do assays not only for the original toxin, but for the neurotransmitters - - or brain chemicals - - that are released as a result of the toxin. Then, maybe we'll be able to come up with a solution for this."

She points to the I.V. on the back of Jim's hand, which isn't currently hooked up to anything. "The blood is no problem. We can draw it through your I.V., right before we trigger the seizure, and right after it stops. The CSF will be a little more involved. I'll have to do a lumbar puncture, a spinal tap."

I shudder in sympathy. "Ow."

She smiles at me briefly. "It's not really that bad, Blair."

"Yeah, sure," I mumble, unconvinced. Dr. Philpott turns back to Jim.

"I'll numb you up first with some local, Jim. The tricky part will be keeping the needle in while you're having the seizure," she adds matter-of-factly.

Is it my imagination, or has Jim just turned a shade paler? "Doctor," I speak up with some hesitation, "is this safe?"

She sighs. "Blair, I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think the risks outweighed the benefits. I can't make you any promises, but I'll do everything I can to make it as safe as possible."

Dr. Philpott stands up. "I'd like to do this now, and get it over with. We'll go down the hall to the treatment room; it's better set up for this sort of thing." She looks at me closely.

"Blair, normally I would do this sort of procedure with just the patient alone, or a nurse for support if the patient was significantly ill or uncooperative. I'd like you there, though, if you think you can handle it. I think your presence would be very helpful."

Okay, I have to admit that watching Jim get poked in the back with a big needle is about top on my list of things I'd rather not do. Not to mention watching him thrash around again, out of his head with another seizure, with only myself and a petite neurologist to help him.

But I think this falls in the category of Things That Friends Do For One Another. Or to put it another way: if our positions were reversed, Jim would have no hesitation about being by my side during any uncomfortable procedure that had to be done. Of course, he's had Army medic training, so he's not squeamish about this kind of thing, and he's certainly big enough to hold me down and sit on me if necessary.

He would do it, though, without question. That's what really matters.

All this passes through my mind quickly. I square my shoulders and look across the room at Dr. Philpott.

"Of course." I take a quick, deep breath. "Just tell me what I need to do."

* * * * * *

We assemble in the treatment room, a tiny space at the end of the hall. Jim climbs onto the hard naugahyde-covered exam table, and Dr. Philpott directs him to lie down on his right side. I sit on a rolling stool by Jim's head, carefully positioning myself so as to be out of the doctor's way. Hopefully, I also won't see a whole lot from here, either.

"Okay, we'll take the blood first," she says. She hooks up a syringe to the I.V. in the back of Jim's hand, and swiftly collects two tubes of blood. She pops them into a waiting bowl of ice chips. Noticing my puzzled gaze, she explains.

"The neurotransmitters tend to be unstable. We'll get better results if we keep everything on ice until I can get it to the lab." She stands up. "All right. Just let me get set up and get my gloves on, and we'll do the lumbar puncture."

She fusses with some equipment for a few minutes, then comes back over to paint Jim's lower back with a brown antiseptic. Jim wrinkles his nose at the smell.

"Keep it all dialed down, Jim, remember," I whisper. "I'll tell you when it's time to dial something up."

He just grunts slightly. I glance back at the doctor, who's draping pieces of what looks like blue paper towels over Jim's back. "Okay, Jim. We're ready. Now, I need you to curl up into a little ball. Bring your knees up as far as you can." She sits down on another rolling stool, placing her at eye level with Jim's spine.

I have to snicker slightly at that. "Curl up into a little ball?" I murmur to Jim. "Who's she kidding? You barely fit on the table, man." Jim smiles at that, as I'd hoped he would.

"Okay, a little sting while I numb you up," she calls to us.

I turn my attention back to Jim, and rest my hand on his head as I resolutely try not to pay any more attention to what the doctor is doing. I can hear her clinking around with something on the tray, and then a few minutes later she speaks to Jim again.

"Hold still, Jim. You're going to feel some pressure, but hold as still as you can."

Jim grimaces, but holds still. I reach for one of his hands, and squeeze it against the pain I know he must be feeling. Pressure, my ass! Why don't doctors ever just come out and say, "This is gonna hurt"?

"Ah, we're in," she says happily. "Hang on a second, while I collect some fluid." Silence for a few moments, then Dr. Philpott stands up and removes the blue drapes. "Okay, the stylet is back in the needle, so you won't leak spinal fluid everywhere. Jim, I want you to slowly straighten out your legs, then roll over onto your stomach."

Carefully, Jim does so, now resting his head on his folded arms. "That's better," he says with relief. "My back was getting stiff." I glance at his back reflexively, but look away again quickly. Okay, the needle isn't that big, but I'd still rather not think about it.

The doctor walks over to stand at Jim's feet. "All right, now for the tricky part," she says lightly. "Now we need to try to trigger a seizure event. Blair, our job is to make sure that Jim stays on the table. If things get out of control, I'll need to pull that needle out and we'll just have to put a new one back in afterward."

Jim closes his eyes, and I lean even closer, our heads almost touching, to whisper to him. "Okay, Jim, let's start with hearing, that seems to have done the trick a couple of times now. See the dial in front of you. Crank it up, quickly. Focus on, uh," I rack my brains briefly, "focus on the people working in the cafeteria, down in the basement. Maybe you can find out what you'll be having for lunch," I joke.

He opens his eyes. "This is tough, Chief," he murmurs. "It's like trying to pee in a cup for a drug test, with someone watching."

"Yeah, well, maybe that comes next, buddy. Come on, concentrate. Find out what they're really putting in that green Jell-o salad. I've always wanted to know." I grip Jim's arms, just above the elbow, waiting for the moment his muscles will start that nightmarish jerking again. "Take a deep breath. Now, turn up your sense of smell, too, send it along with your hearing. Look for that Jell-o, man."

"Cheap fruit cocktail, Chief," he answers, eyes closed. "And..."

"And what?"

"Coconut?" His brow wrinkles in concentration. "No, I think..." He trails off.

Then every muscle in his body spasms at once.

Part Twenty-two

I must not have had the best grip on Jim's arms after all, because they go flying out of my grasp. In the process, one of his clenched fists smacks me on my right cheekbone, hard. I fall backwards and land on my butt on the hard floor.

Tiny Dr. Philpott clings to Jim's ankles. "Keep him on the table! We can't let him fall!"

I scramble to my feet and grasp him by the shoulders, holding on tight as he shudders. Jeez, he's strong. His back muscles arch in another spasm, causing his head to come up and clock me on the chin so hard it feels like my teeth are going to fall out. I must be the first guy ever to be beaten black and blue by someone who is essentially unconscious.

After the first few violent jerks, he settles down into a pattern of alternate stiffening and twitching. This isn't particularly reassuring either, but at least he's easier to keep on the table. And he's no longer swinging at me.

Dr. Philpott abandons her post at Jim's feet, and comes up to look at his face. She frowns. "I don't like his color." She graps a clear plastic mask, plugs the attached plastic tubing into a small hole in the wall labeled "Oxygen". The mask hisses, and she clamps it over Jim's face.

I stand by, feeling as helpless as I've ever felt. I don't like Jim's color either; he looks ghastly and grayish. The seizure seems to be subsiding, however, and after a few minutes of the oxygen he starts to look more like a human being and less like some pickled specimen from a jar in the Biology department.

"Whew," says Dr. Philpott. "I wouldn't want to do that every day. Okay, I think we're done with the seizure now. Help me roll him back on his side, so I can collect that second sample."

Easier said than done, as Jim has become absolutely limp. After a certain amount of grunting and wrestling, we get him propped back up on his right side, his arms flopping like a dead salmon as we roll him. I try to position his head and neck in a way that looks comfortable.

"Does he still need this oxygen mask?" I call out to her as she snaps on fresh gloves.

"Probably not, but it's not hurting anything. Just hang on a second...okay, there, I've got enough. Needle's out." I see her unwrapping a Band-Aid, which she sticks on Jim's back. "Done."

She comes around and gently removes the mask from his face. "He'll be fine. Most people are pretty out of it after a seizure." She lifts his eyelids, and shines a penlight at his eyes. Apparently satisfied with the response, she lets his eyes close again.

"I'm going to run these samples out to the nursing station, and find a wheelchair. You stay here with him." Huh, as if I would do anything else. She snatches up the plastic tub of ice and little vials, and slips out into the hallway.

I snag the rolling stool I was sitting on earlier, and sit back down by Jim's head. "Hey, Jim, wake up. Can you hear me?" I slap his cheek lightly, and he groans.

"Chief?" comes the hoarse reply.

"Yeah, it's me. We're all done. The doctor went to get a wheelchair. Can you wake up a little? You're pretty hard to lug around when you're unconscious." I try to keep my tone light, to not betray the pain I feel at having had to watch Jim go through this again.

"Uhhh..." is the only answer.

"Come on, Jim. Stay with me." The door opens to admit Dr. Philpott, a wheelchair, and thankfully, a large male nurse that I don't recognize.

Between the three of us, with occasional attempts at helping from Jim, we get him into the wheelchair. Dr. Philpott waves away the nurse. "We can manage it from here, Andy."

We can? I shoot her a concerned look as we push Jim down the hall, his head lolling slightly. "He thinks I sedated Jim for the procedure," she whispers conspiratorially. "I don't want him talking to Jim's regular nurse and comparing notes. This is all a little irregular."

Once in Jim's room, I shut the door behind us and then kneel in front of Jim. "Hey, Jim, come on now. Wake up. You've got to help us."

His eyelid slowly lift, and he looks at me foggily with eyes that don't track. "Help you?" he echoes.

"We need to get you into bed. Come on." I lock the wheelchair brakes so it won't move, and sling Jim's left arm over my shoulders. Dr. Philpott takes his other arm. "On three...one, two, three!"

Somehow, Jim gets his legs under him, and we drag him stumbling into bed. I get him tucked in and comfortable, then collapse into the chair.

"Thank you for your help, Blair," says Dr. Philpott quietly. "I couldn't have done this without you." She looks at her watch. "I'll call over here this afternoon from the office. If Jim is doing okay, he'll be able to go home. But I want to see him tomorrow in my office for a follow-up."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I remind her.

She shrugs. "I'll be there. The nurses will set it up for you, and hopefully I'll have some information back on the blood and spinal fluid. Oh, and he's going to go home with that I.V. still in him. I may want to take blood out of it tomorrow." She turns to go, then stops with one hand on the doorknob. "Blair?"

"Yes?"

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," she says softly, then leaves.

* * * * * *

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Jim wakes up after about only forty-five minutes this time, but remains quiet and seems withdrawn. I leave him alone, for the most part, content to curl up and read through the articles that the doctor brought me. Jim watches television, channel-flipping distractedly.

At one point, I catch sight of my face in the mirror in Jim's tiny bathroom. The bruises on my cheekbone and chin are starting to color up nicely, a lovely shade of purple. I free my hair from its ponytail, trying to hide the marks, and keep my face buried more deeply in the article I'm reading.

They discharge Jim in the afternoon, with strict orders to show up in Dr. Philpott's office at nine a.m. tomorrow. Simon comes to pick us up.

"Where's my truck, anyway?" asks Jim as he climbs into the front passenger seat of Simon's car. I slide into the back, behind Jim.

Simon smiles ruefully. "Still parked across the street from the trailer. It's fine, though. I checked on it this morning. If you'll give me the keys, we'll get someone to drive it home for you."

Jim wordlessly disconnects his truck keys from the ring and hands them to Simon. "Sure," he says listlessly, "that would be great. I guess I won't be driving for a while, though."

Simon doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and turns his attention back to driving. I lean up against the headrest behind Jim, aching inside at the waves of depression that seems to be coming off of him. Last night's spontaneous pillow fight and tickling session seems to have happened in another lifetime, to some other pair of friends.

I hope we have some answers soon. I can't take much more of this.

Part Twenty-three

Simon drops us both off at the loft, but doesn't come in. As I'm climbing out of the backseat, he grabs my arm.

"Sandburg," he says quietly, "keep an eye on him. And call me if you need anything."

I nod in response, and he releases my arm.

As Simon pulls away, I hurry to catch up to Jim. "Hey, wait for me. Remember, you're not supposed to go anywhere without your Guide dog," I joke, trying to get a smile out of him. "Doctor's orders, Jim."

Jim flashes me an unreadable look, and keeps climbing stairs. "And just how long is this going to go on?" he asks, with surprising venom. We reach the top, and he pulls the door open.

I'm a little taken aback by his words. "As long as it needs to, I guess. Until we find a fix for that head of yours, and the doctor says you can use your senses again."

He snorts. "Maybe we should just find a way to turn them off forever. Then I won't have to worry, will I?"

"Jim, no!" comes my automatic answer. "You promised me. You said you wouldn't give up."

His eyes grow hooded, distant. "Chief, I was a cop even before my senses came on-line. I can be a cop without them, if I need to."

He tosses his house keys in the basket, then walks abruptly to the living area and sits down. He doesn't look at me, just stares off moodily into space. I watch him for few seconds, considering trying to talk to him, then shrug and walk into my room to gather up some clean clothes. Time for a shower, since I'm feeling decidedly gross. And if Jim's in too much of a snit to listen to me, I'll only make things worse by bugging him about it.

As I stand under the deliciously hot water, I have to admit to myself that he's got good reason to be worried. What if the neurologist can't offer us any hope of a cure? What if Jim has to take medication for the rest of his life? What if he has to take a desk job, give up the detective work he loves so much? What he's saying to me, what I'm seeing in his behavior toward me and the rest of the world...it's not just fatigue and irritation, it's fear.

I lean against the wall of the shower, resting my hot face against the still-cool tile. What if Jim's life as a Sentinel has come to an end? What if...he doesn't need my help anymore? Not as a Guide, and not even as his ever-present but informal partner in the department? Where does that leave me? I squeeze my eyes shut as tears begin to leak from them, mingling with the water on my face.

Jim's not the only one here who's afraid.

* * * * * *

That evening, after several fruitless attempts at getting Jim to participate in the "what-should-we-have-for-dinner" discussion, I give up and order a pizza. I can't seem to drum up much enthusiasm myself about eating, but I want to have some hot tasty food here in case I change my mind. And I'm determined to make Jim eat something.

When the pizza arrives, the aroma perks me up a little bit and I find I'm hungry after all. I swear, the smell of hot pizza must be buried somewhere in the ancestral memory of the American male. For me, it's a delicious olfactory experience that I associate with parties, company, and friendship. It brings forth memories of informal meals consumed in the living room, accompanied by a cold microbrewed beer. It makes me think of late-night conversations in dorm rooms, long ago when I was an undergraduate and the world seemed a straightforward place.

And, come to think of it, pizza makes me think of Jim. Yes, Jim, that unmoving granite statue sitting there that bears a close resemblance to my best friend. Gradually, the tiniest whisper of an inspiration begins to take shape in my mind.

Instead of setting the pizza box on the dining room table, I carry it over to the living room and plop it down on the coffee table, directly in front of Jim. He's still sitting in roughly the same spot as when we came home, half-heartedly watching the news. He doesn't bat an eye when the cardboard box lands in front of him. I return to the kitchen and grab a couple of bottles of a particularly tasty locally-brewed stout, and bring those over as well.

Then I sit down next to Jim, my stocking-clad feet propped up on the coffee table in a blatant disregard of The House Rules.

"So, Jim, are you going to mope all evening, or are you going to eat?" I pull off a piece of pizza for myself, watching as the cheese stretches and snaps. "Boy, this smells good. Real mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, yum."

I twist the cap off my bottle of stout, using my shirt to protect my hand against the scraping of the twist-off top. "Look at the color on this stuff, Jim. You can't even see through it when you hold it up to the light." I take a long swallow. "Umm. Rich, dark, a little chocolately, and pleasantly bitter with just the right amount of hops. A true Northwest masterpiece."

I shut up for a few moments while I eat my piece of pizza, casting occasional sidelong glances at Jim. He eventually reaches for some pizza and the other beer, chewing and swallowing mechanically. He continues to stare at the television as the news comes to an end.

Huh...all right, time for part two. I get up and casually slink back to my room, returning with a randomly picked Sheryl Crow CD and a soft lambswool throw that Naomi sent to me from New Zealand. I toss the blanket on the couch where I've been sitting, and grab the remote from the table next to Jim.

"Okay, I think that's enough television for a while." I walk to the stereo and slip the CD in, half-expecting to hear a growl of protest from Jim at my unusual high-handedness. "I think we need something nice to listen to." I press "play" and return to the couch, snuggling down under my cream-colored throw.

I reach down and stroke the wool appreciately as the opening notes of the wistfully sad music fill the room. "Wow, this is beautiful stuff, Jim. This throw must have cost Naomi a fortune. You can't get wool like this anyplace but New Zealand. So soft..." I hold it to my face. "Mmmm. Like a kitten." I hold a corner to Jim. "Here, feel it."

Jim sighs and pushes away the blanket. "Sandburg, does this monologue of yours have a point? I feel like I've wandered into the Home Shopping Network, dammit!"

It moves! It speaks! It's looking at me like I've gone completely insane!

Well, maybe I have.

Now I jump to my feet, the blanket forgotten. "Jim...I'm just trying to show you something."

"Show me what? That you're becoming a beer snob?" he sneers.

I know Jim isn't trying to be funny. In fact, I think he's trying to be as unpleasant as possible. But his response still makes me smile.

"No, Jim. I'm too poor to be a beer snob." I stand in front of him, mentally beseeching him to look at me. "No. I just wanted you to realize how much even my ordinary senses mean to me, and how lost I would be without them.

"With your Sentinel senses, you see....and hear, and smell, and taste, and touch the world in ways I'll never be able to. Even when you try to explain what it feels like, I can't understand fully. It's like trying to explain a rainbow to a blind man."

I realize I've started to pace. I halt myself, and sit back down next to Jim. He's looking at me dubiously.

I keep going before he can interrupt, turning to face him. "You talk about giving up your senses somehow, so you don't have to worry about the seizures coming back. Jim, that's like...cutting off a body part so you won't get cancer in it, or something." I reach up and give his shoulder a little shake. "These senses...they're a trust, in a way. Not entirely your own, to do with as you want."

Jim sags forward, his head in his hands. "Chief...why won't you just leave me alone? I'm in a rotten mood, and I don't want to hurt you any more," he whispers raggedly. "I know you're trying to cheer me up, but...I don't think there's much you can do," he finishes.

"Try me," I whisper, Sentinel-soft.

He doesn't lift his head, and I have to lean closer to hear him when he speaks again. "This morning...when you were trying to get me to trigger the seizure...and at first I couldn't do it. I thought maybe that meant they'd gone away, by themselves. Then waking up later, and realizing..." he trails off. Then he raises his head, and I see that his face is tear-streaked. "I was so out of it today, I forgot all about going to talk to Rafe, to see how he was doing. I'm a selfish bastard, Chief."

I can't help but smile slightly. "Technically, I'm the bastard here, Jim."

He tries to smile back, but can't quite do it. "Technically," he whispers, but his attempt at a chuckle comes out more like a sob. "Oh, Chief. You should just go away and let me be miserable."

"Is that what you want me to do?" I ask softly.

"Yes...no...I don't know."

I lean forward and pull Jim close to me. "If you're that undecided, I get the tiebreaking vote," I breathe into his ear. "I won't lecture you any more. Just...just sit here, and let me worry for a while."

He leans against me, burying his face in my neck. He's absolutely silent, but I can feel the occasional hot tear making its way down my back. I wrap my arms more tightly around him, and stare sightlessly over his shoulder as I half-listen to the words of the Sheryl Crow song that's playing:

"God, I feel like hell tonight

Tears of rage I cannot fight

I'd be the last to help you understand

Are you strong enough to be my man?"

Okay, so it was written for a totally different kind of relationship than the friendship I have with Jim. But the situations, the emotions are almost the same. I close my eyes against Jim's shoulder and listen to the rest of the song.

"Nothing's true and nothing's right So let me be alone tonight

You can't change the way I am Are you strong enough to be my man?

Lie to me, I promise I'll believe

Lie to me, but please don't leave"

"I won't leave," I mouth soundlessly, knowing that Jim can't hear me with his senses dialed all the way down. "I won't."

"I have a face I cannot show

I make the rules up as I go

It's try and love me if you can

Are you man enough to be my man?

When I've shown you that I just don't care

When I'm throwing punches in the air

When I've broken down and cannot stand

Will you be strong enough to be my man?"

I'm strong enough, I vow to myself. No matter what, Jim, no matter what kind of crap you throw at me, I'm strong enough to be your friend.

We sit there for a long time, until I feel his knotted muscles loosen up, until I feel the uneven respirations grow steady and slow. We sit there for the rest of the CD, in fact.

Then I shake him gently. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."

Part Twenty-Four

The next morning, I drive Jim to his neurology appointment. It is perhaps a measure of his persisting inner sense of disturbance that he doesn't argue with me as I direct him toward my car and slide into the driver's seat.

A few blocks from the loft, I catch him casting sidelong glances at me. What's he looking at? Unconsciously, I raise my right hand to my face...maybe there's toothpaste on my chin or something. Everything clicks into place when my fingers encounter the still-tender bruises on my chin and right cheekbone.

Damn. I've been careful, most of the time, to keep Jim from getting a good look at my face. I've been leaving my hair down, and last night's beard shadow helped. But this morning I shaved and pulled my hair back, forgetting the injuries, my mind busy with other worries. And Jim's position in the passenger seat gives him just the right angle to see the marks.

As we wait at a stoplight, he reaches out his left hand and briefly touches the injuries. "Where did these come from, Chief?" He frowns. "They're only about twenty-four hours old, from the feel of them."

I say the first response that pops into my head, which isn't necessarily the best one. "It's not important, Jim. Don't worry about it."

"Cut the crap, Sandburg. What happened?"

He suddenly sounds so much like his usual self, so much more in control, that I decide to tell him. Besides, if I don't, he'll just keep digging away until he gets an answer.

"You, ah, accidentally walloped me a couple of times yesterday, Jim. While you were having your seizure."

He recoils in shock, pain rising afresh in the too-vulnerable blue eyes. "I did that? God, Chief, I'm sorry."

"Hey, man, it wasn't your fault." The light changes, so I have to content myself with occasional glances at Jim as I drive. "You were out of it. You're not responsible. And it really doesn't hurt, Jim."

He's silent for a few minutes, then begins to speak in a low tone while looking out his window. "You know, Chief, when I was a little kid I knew a boy who had epilepsy. He had it really badly, used to fall down several times a day with seizures. His parents finally had to put a football helmet on him, to keep him from getting hurt when he hit his head."

"Jim, that's not gonna happen to you. We'll find - -"

He turns back, and once again touches the darkening bruise on my chin with that questing Sentinel's touch. "No, Chief. What I meant to say was...if we don't find a good treatment soon," he smiles sadly, "I'm going to buy a helmet for you. To protect your head, from me."

* * * * * *

When the elderly nurse calls "Mr. Ellison!", Jim flashes this apprehensive, almost-frightened look at me. It says, as clearly as if it were written on his face, that he wants me to come back with him...to share in the news, be it good or bad. So I rise to my feet and unobtrusively follow him back.

Dr. Philpott greets us cordially, and seems relieved to see me. "Oh good, you're here, Blair. I hope this means that Jim is taking the no-driving prohibition to heart?" She grins at me, and gestures at Jim. "Has he been behaving himself at home?"

"He never does, so I'd be worried if he did," I quip in return, relaxing slightly.

She examines Jim briefly, tapping on his knees and shining a light in each of his eyes. Then she sits down and pulls out Jim's chart, leafing through it until she finds the page for which she's apparently been looking.

"I've got some of the results back from yesterday," she explains. "Jim, let me see that I.V. in your hand for a moment. Is it still working?"

"It's fine," he asserts, but removes the dressing to uncover the I.V. site.

Dr. Philpott takes a syringe out of a drawer of the exam table. "I want another sample, just blood this time, then we can take it out. I want to confirm something." She draws blood from the I.V. then pulls out the tiny plastic catheter in one smooth motion. I look away too late, cringing at the sight.

"Doctor, can you tell me some of the results?" asks Jim, as the neurologist transfers the blood sample to a glass tube.

"Just a second, Jim. I want to get this straight to the lab, so they can run it stat." She slips out the door, leaving Jim frustrated and fuming.

"Dammit, Chief," he growls. "She knows something, and I want to hear it."

"Jim, take it easy," I soothe. "Be reasonable. She probably wants to wait until she's sure."

He sighs and rubs a clenched fist across his forehead. "I suppose so. I just want to know what to do about this," he says in a low voice. "Makes me impatient, Chief."

I have to laugh at that. "Oh, waiting for answers makes you impatient? Gee, I hadn't noticed." I make sure he sees my face so that my grin will take the sting out of the teasing words.

Dr. Philpott returns in a few minutes, looking satisfied. "Good," she says. "I should have some results back on that by this afternoon." She sits down, and meets Jim's gaze squarely.

"I think we're onto something, Jim, but I'm not entirely sure of the implications. And I still have some more research that I want to do today. Do you want to hear what I have so far, even though I'm not sure?"

Jim nods. "Please, Doctor." He smiles wryly, and gives me a slightly sheepish look. "The waiting is starting to get to me."

"All right. If you remember, I took samples of both blood and spinal fluid before your seizure, then after." She stops herself, looking uncomfortable. "Well, you won't remember the 'after' samples. Anyway, the CSF and blood after your seizure showed very high amounts of acetylcholine, one of the neurotransmitters. The CSF showed the original pesticide as well, a fairly small amount.

"When we analyzed the 'before' samples carefully, we found small but measurable amounts of acetylcholine in both. In each case, it was still many times higher than we would expect in a normal healthy young male."

Suddenly Jim smiles, and the effect of the expression on his face is pure sunshine. "Hey, Chief, she said 'young'. Remember that." He digs me with an elbow, which I ignore.

"And what does that mean?" I ask Dr. Philpott when she pauses.

"I'm hoping that today's sample will tell us whether yesterday's seizure did anything to deplete the toxin from your body."

Jim mulls this over. "When will you have the results?" he says at last. I get the distinct feeling that's not the question he originally meant to ask. Even Jim sometimes knows when not to push.

"This afternoon," she answers. "I'll call you."

Part Twenty-Five

As I drive us back to the loft, I try to think of something positive and interesting we can do for a few hours to keep Jim from brooding about the test results. He's doing a lot better than he was last night, but I'm still keeping a careful eye on him for telltale signs of stress and emotional strain.

The weather's actually decent, which gives me an idea. Without consulting my preoccupied passenger, I take a different turn than the one which would lead us back to the loft.

"Hey, Chief, where are we going? Are you lost?"

That's my buddy, always assuming the worst. "No, I am not lost. We're going to the park, O Great Sentinel."

"Why?"

"Why not? I've got a frisbee in the trunk. I thought we could throw it around for a while and see how long it takes for you to get it stuck in a tree."

Jim raises his eyebrows. "Me? I'll have you know, Junior, that I throw a frisbee with uncanny accuracy."

"Oh, that explains it. You've just been accurately aiming for all of those trees."

Jim reaches over and punches me lightly on the bicep. "Hey, at least I get distance. That's more than you can say, spaghetti-arms."

"You get distance all right, Jim," I snicker. "The last time I went by the park, I noticed my blue frisbee is still stuck at the top of that Douglas fir tree, where you threw it last summer. I think I saw a couple of ospreys building a nest in it."

* * * * * *

An hour or so of frisbee-tossing does us both good. Jim, of course, really does throw a frisbee with uncanny accuracy, just as he does everything else. It's a relatively new pastime for him; I don't think his control-freak father ever encouraged that sort of freewheeling leisure activity. I mean, not many high schools or colleges have frisbee teams, okay? You can't get a frisbee scholarship, and flinging a flying toy around is not an activity that will make your resume shine.

Not to mention that, if you're going to fool around with something as beautifully useless but as satisfying as one of these brightly colored plastic discs, you need to have a good friend to go to the park with in the first place. Jim wasn't exactly long on friends before I came along, and I enjoyed teaching him this superb method of wasting time.

So, for most of what remains of the morning, we take turns watching this inanimate object take flight and soar gracefully through the sky, carrying the kinetic energy transferred from our arms. We run, we laugh helplessly, we make impossible leaps, and occasionally we make spectacular crashes. I acquire some impressive grass stains from the ever-damp turf, and Jim almost wraps himself around a tree trying to make a desperate catch. He misses, and does a belly-flop on the dirt with an audible "whump" as the blue frisbee rolls away from his outstretched fingers.

A little concerned, I run towards him. I can hear him laughing as I get closer.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he assures me, pulling himself to his feet and looking ruefully at his mud-smeared shirt. "Which is more than I can say for my clothes. It's too early in the year for us to be doing this, Chief. The ground's like a wet sponge."

I grin at him. "Well, I guess that means if you lose the frisbee we can always mud wrestle," I retort, walking over and picking up the escaped toy.

"Not on your life, Sandburg," he warns. I notice that he's rubbing his elbow.

"Too much throwing for the old man's elbow?" I tease, pointing at his arm and making sure I first duck out of reach of any Sentinel-powered mud clots.

He grimaces. "No, I banged it on the tree when I fell. It's fine, or will be in a moment." His eyes grow hooded for an instant, and a shadow passes across his face. When he looks at me again, I feel a psychic chill despite the warmth of the day.

"What?" I ask softly.

He looks at his watch. "Chief, will you do me a favor? Chauffeur me somewhere, after we both get cleaned up?" he says slowly.

"Of course I will," I assure him, responding to the changed mood by falling in step with him as we head back to the car. I stow the muddy frisbee back in the trunk, and open the passenger door for Jim. I wonder what he's thought of just now that precipitated the end of our playtime.

"Where do you need to go?" I ask him, as I back out of the park's tiny parking area.

He sighs. "I'm actually not sure." He pulls out his cell phone, and hits a number on speed dial. Even without Sentinel hearing, I can recognize the voice that answers. It's Simon, but that's all I can tell.

"Simon, has Rafe gone home yet?" Pause. "Why? I thought they were sending him home yesterday?" Pause. "Oh. That's true. Right, thanks, Simon." Pause. "No, everything's fine. I...just thought it was time I talked to him, told him the truth about what happened." Pause, a longer one this time. "Thanks. I'll call when I know something, sir. Good-bye." He presses "end" and closes the phone.

"To the hospital, then?" I ask, already turning onto the boulevard that will take us back to Cascade General. "Or do you still want to go back to the loft first?"

"No, straight to the hospital after all," he says tonelessly, looking out his passenger-side window. "I need to take care of this, Chief. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Jim. Always. You've driven me around enough, you know."

He nods, but doesn't answer. The guilt shows on his face again, just as it did Thursday evening in that hospital room when I told him what had happened to Rafe. The night he threatened to resign. The night I told him I would leave his life if he didn't try with all of his heart, soul, mind and spirit to fight against the despair, against the temptations of giving up.

I know him well enough not to ask what brought all of this to mind and ruined our brief sojourn in the sun, momentarily free from worry. Here is Jim, the one who screwed up big time, at least in his own eyes...playing in the park just a few minutes ago, laughing and running. Perfectly well, at least to the eyes of anyone who doesn't know about the Big Problem.

And he slips, and bumps his arm against a tree, and thinks of his friend who lies in the hospital with a serious injury that probably could have been prevented if one experienced detective and Sentinel had been more careful.

It's a short drive. When we pull into the parking lot, Jim sits there for a moment without moving.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I venture. I should go with him, anyway. I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on him for the doctor.

He closes his eyes for a second, then nods. "Yeah. It feels like a cop-out to take you along, but yeah."

I place a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder for a moment, feeling the tension in the powerful muscles beneath the skin. "Come on."

Part Twenty-Six

"Why is Rafe still here, anyway?" I ask Jim in a hushed voice as we peer at the room numbers on the surgical floor, trying to locate Rafe's room without having to bother the nursing staff. "Is he having complications?"

"Not really," Jim answers distractedly. "Simon said that the medications were making him too nauseated to keep anything down, so they wanted him to stay another day and get I.V. fluids. He might go home tonight."

I spot the room we're looking for. "Here it is," I whisper, raising my hand to knock. "Ready?"

Jim closes his eyes momentarily and takes a deep breath. "Ready, Chief. But...you go in first."

I knock lightly and poke my head in. "Hey, Rafe," I call softly to the pale figure in the bed. "How are you feeling?" From here, it's easy to see the enormous cast on his right arm, propped up by pillows.

"Hey!" The young detective's face lights up. "Hello, Blair. Thanks for coming by. I'm okay; they're going to let me go home tonight as long as I don't throw up any more. Come on in."

Okay, moment of truth here. Does he know, or doesn't he? "I've got someone else here who wants to see you," I say, with some hesitation, and step aside to let Jim in. I watch Rafe's face closely, as Jim walks forward and sits down at the bedside...

...and I watch several emotions slide across Rafe's handsome pain-etched features, each one quickly replaced by the next. Pleasure at seeing me, then surprise...then relief, and at last compassion.

No anger, no resentment. I breathe again, watching from my post in the doorway. If Rafe knows the role Jim's cover-up of his disability had in the accident, he seems to have already forgiven him. And if he doesn't know, then this will be Jim's chance to make things as right as they can be.

Jim's sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chair, almost as if feels the need to be able to jump up quickly and run away. He licks his lips and clears his throat. "Hey, Rafe," he says at last. "How are you feeling?"

You know, with all of the time Jim's spent sitting at my bedside in the hospital, you'd think he could come up with a more original conversation opener than that one.

"Not bad," answers Rafe. "A lot better than yesterday." He smiles slightly. "Now I just have to learn to get used to this damn cast." He gestures with his good arm.

Jim winces visibly as his eyes travel to the fiberglass-encased appendage. "Yeah, it's a pretty big one."

Silence.

Geez, Jim, you're drowning in the water, here, man. I mean, I knew you were conversationally impaired when I met you, but you've improved so much in the last couple of years.

Or maybe I'm the only one you can really talk to.

Rafe comes to Jim's rescue, though. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he looks up at the tense and miserable figure perched uncomfortably on the chair. "How are you, Jim? Are you okay? They tell me you were sick, that you were hospitalized, too."

Belated, I realize that I've left the door open. Not entirely sure that I'm doing the right thing, I step all of the way into the room and close it behind me. There are no other chairs, so I stand at the foot of Rafe's bed, trying to be semi-invisible.

Jim's jaw works for a moment, but no sound issues from his throat. "Jim?" Rafe asks again, now sounding more concerned. "Are you okay?"

I can see the blood vessels pounding on the side of Jim's neck. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak. "Rafe, I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. "I'm so sorry you got hurt. It was...it was my fault." He looks away, apparently unable to make eye contact with the young man that he perceives as his victim.

Genuine confusion springs to Rafe's eyes. "Your fault? Jim, you were sick, and you fell against me." I notice that his faint accent is slightly more noticeable than usual. Must be the pain meds. "How does that make it your fault? I'm just glad no one else got hurt."

Jim, still looking away, sighs. "Rafe, trust me, it's my fault. I had a seizure, and I've been having them since...since I was poisoned with that pesticide in the warehouse. I kept it quiet from Simon, and kept working when I shouldn't have." Now he turns his agonized gaze back to Rafe. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you." He barks a short, humorless laugh. "I tried to resign, but Sandburg won't let me."

Rafe looks shocked. "Resign? Jim, no! Don't give up your career. It was just a stupid mistake." He reaches out with his good hand, rests it hesitantly on Jim's hand where it clutches the bed rail. "It's all right. I'm all right."

Now, I sense, is the time for me to leave. I slip out the door and close it behind me.

* * * * * *

Jim comes out a few minutes later, and almost collides with me where I'm leaning up against the wall.

"Hey!" I grab his arm, laughing a little. "Watch your step, you big moose. A person could get hurt around you."

I don't need to ask how the rest of the conversation went. Jim's body language has changed dramatically from when we entered Rafe's hospital room. He stands tall and relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he in turn leans against the wall next to me. His face, which only a few minutes ago was taut and expressionless, now sports a goofy smile.

I grin up at him. "I take it that Rafe has forgiven his fallen hero?"

He throws a companionable arm around my shoulders, and we walk down the hall. "Yes, even though the fallen hero is an idiot."

"You said it, not me. Just remember that, man." I poke Jim in the ribs.

"Come on, Chief, let's get some lunch. And I don't mean hospital food."

Part Twenty-Seven

Jim's relief is evident as we leave the hospital parking lot, but I decide to pry a little anyway. Hey, what's a Guide for, anyway? I'm convinced that a little therapeutic needling is part of the job description.

"I take it you feel a bit better about...about what happened the other day, with Rafe," I venture, peeking into the rearview mirror as I merge onto the main thoroughfare.

He's quiet for a moment before answering. "He doesn't blame me at all,' he says, with what sounds like a touch of wonder.

"Did you really expect him to? Come on, Jim, you're human, and the guys know it." I reach across to lay a hand on his shoulder. "In fact, they may like you better now. Sometimes you seem a little too formidable, too superhuman. You scare them sometimes." I draw my hand back, wondering if I've gone too far with that last comment.

Jim shakes his head slowly. "How is it that I don't scare you, Chief?" he asks almost to himself.

All right, that one catches me by surprise, and I turn my attention quickly back to driving...staring out the windshield to hide the emotions on my face. Jim scare me? Well, I've been scared on his behalf, lots of times. And worried about him, and annoyed with him. Sometimes I've been mad as hell. But I don't think I've ever actually been frightened of him, and I hope I never am.

As I do so often, I take refuge in levity. "Hey, you scare me all the time, man. Your driving, your cooking, your eating habits, your obsessive need for control..." I pretend to dodge slightly, as Jim directs a mock-swat at my head. "Personally, I find those all very scary, Jim."

Jim laughs. "Sandburg, you're impossible."

* * * * * *

We drive home, and Jim goes upstairs to change out of his mud-caked clothes. I head for the kitchen to see what edibles there are for lunch, since it's already 1:30. Huh, not much, but I can throw together some sandwiches. I begin pulling Ziplock bags out of the fridge, and check the bread to make sure it hasn't gone moldy yet.

Jim comes downstairs in his bathrobe. "I still feel like I've got an inch of mud on me. I think I'll take a quick shower before I begin to harden permanently."

I wave a mayonnaise-covered knife at him. "Adobe is definitely not a recommended building material in this climate, Jim."

"Smartass," I can hear him call out as he closes the bathroom door.

I've got bread and sandwich goodies lined up assembly-line fashion on the counter, so it goes quickly. A little of this, a smidge of that...what does Dagwood have that I ain't got? I'm standing there wondering just how much onion I should put on Jim's sandwiches when the phone rings. I zip over and pick it up carefully, mindful of the mayonnaise and mustard on my fingers. "Hello?" In my current slightly manic mood, I'm sorely tempted to tag on, "Sandburg's Sexy Sandwich Salon!" but I think better of it.

And a good thing, too. "Blair? This is Dr. Philpott."

I sober up immediately. To tell the truth, I'd sort of forgotten she was going to call. "Jim's in the shower, Doctor, but I can haul him out. Or have him call you back, if that's better."

"That won't be necessary, Blair. Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like both of you to come back down here. I'd like to talk you face-to-face about the results."

Oh, geez. This does not sound good. This does not sound good at all. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to think of a way to stall while I somehow get Jim out of the bathroom. He'll be pissed at this. "Um...are you sure? I mean, we can, but..."

"Just come on down," she breaks in. "I'm done seeing patients for the day, but I'll wait. See you when you get here, Blair." Click.

I frown sourly at the phone, feeling used. Yeah, that's me: chauffeur, sandwich chef and bearer of bad news. Jim probably wouldn't have heard the phone ring, since he's got everything dialed down so far. Come to think of it, he's been doing great at that; I haven't had to help him at all. The next thought that follows depresses me completely: it's a good thing he's getting so good at keeping his senses dialed down. He might just have to do that for the rest of his life. And then what will I be? A Guide with a permanently disabled Sentinel?

I finish making the sandwiches, but all of the fun has gone out of the process. Jim emerges from the bathroom, dressed in his jeans and toweling his hair. I hand him a sandwich.

"What, no plate?" He seems amused.

Damn, I hate to ruin his good news. "We'll have to eat them on the way," I explain. Actually, Jim can eat his sandwich on the way...I think I've lost my appetite.

"On the way to where, Chief?" He takes a bite of his sandwich.

I fiddle absently with a bit of lettuce. "Dr. Philpott called. She wants us to go back down there and discuss the test results in person." I pop the plate of remaining sandwiches back into the fridge.

Jim's eyes widen slightly above the sandwich, but his face becomes otherwise carefully blank. "Damn," he says, his voice slightly muffled by food. "That sounds...bad." He sighs. "I'm not surprised, though. Giving bad news over the phone...most doctors won't do it. At least that's been my experience."

I swallow. "You think it's that bad?"

"It's got to be," he says quietly, closing his eyes for a second. "I think she'd tell us right away if things were great."

"Maybe it's just too difficult to explain over the phone," I hazard.

"Maybe," Jim sounds unconvinced.

I nod and grab the keys. "Well, we won't find out standing around the kitchen."

"Hang on a sec, Chief," says Jim, coming up behind me.

"Yeah?"

"Wouldn't you prefer to get the mustard out of your hair before we go back to the doctor's office?" Jim reaches behind my ear, holds up one yellow-besmeared lock.

"Ah, crap. Hand me that dishtowel."

Part Twenty-Eight

Dr. Philpott's office appears deserted when we get there; the shades are drawn and most of the lights have been turned off. I knock hesitantly on the front door, and she opens it instantly. She must have heard us drive up.

"Come on in," she says, holding the door open. "That was certainly prompt. I hope you didn't break any traffic laws, Blair."

I guess she intends that to be funny, but it's sort of lost on me at the moment. Neither of us answers the comment, and Dr. Philpott bites her lips and motions us back.

"Back to my conference room."

We follow her back to a medium-sized room with an oval table and several chairs. Jim and I sit on the far side of the table; she sits across from us with his chart.

"I have the results on the blood sample I took from you this morning," she begins without further preamble. "The levels of acetylcholine in it are definitely lower than the levels on the blood sample taken before your last seizure. I can't be positive, but it would appear that each successive seizure lowers both the amount of the original toxin in your body, and the amount of acetylcholine your nervous system has to work with."

Jim frowns. "So...does that mean I'm going to have a certain number of these, then stop?"

She shakes her head. "Only if they were fairly closely spaced together. Otherwise, your body has too much recharge time, too much time to make fresh supplies of neurotransmitters. I used a computer program to try to estimate how long it would take." She pulls out a graph. "Jim, if you had one seizure a week, it would take over twenty years to rid your body of the original toxin."

He sits back, looking stunned. And...something else, a look on his face I've seen repeatedly this week.

Jim looks defeated.

"So that's it?" I ask incredulously. "That's all we can do?"

She shakes her head. "Not quite. We can try to modify the seizures with medication; but given their unique cause, Jim, it may not help you. Even if we find a drug that helps, I'm not sure you'll ever be able to go back to active duty." She looks down at the table, nervously tracing spiral designs with one finger. "I've got a few articles that I still want to look at again. But...if the drugs don't help, I think your best option would be to keep your senses turned all of the way down. Permanently."

I want to yell, rage, scream. I want to leap across this table and shake this poor woman until she gives me an answer that my heart can live with. I want to blame someone, anyone, as loudly and unreasonably as I can. I want to weep out my frustration, shed tears of helpless anger.

Of course, I don't do any of these things.

Instead, I look at Jim, trying to read his thoughts behind the mask he's created of his face. He avoids my gaze, staring instead at the blue formica of the table. For a moment, I fear that he's zoned out...which ought to bring on a seizure faster than anything else.

But then he speaks, and his words bring a tiny chill of dread rippling through my body. "Doctor...you implied that things might be different if the seizures were spaced very closely together."

Oh, Jim, no. Tell me you're not thinking what I know you are thinking.

She answers him distractedly, looking at the back of the page that showed the graph. "For a seizure frequency of about thirty minutes, theoretically it would only take about forty-eight hours to drive both the toxin and the neurotransmitters down to a level that would be unlikely to cause seizures."

Now she looks up and meets Jim's eyes. "But that doesn't help us. It's impossible; having that many seizures could kill a patient." She shakes her head. "You wouldn't regain consciousness long enough between episodes to trigger another seizure within that time window anyway."

"But..." Jim leans forward, suddenly intent. "Even if we were close? Every hour, maybe? I don't think I've ever stayed out longer than an hour. Have I, Chief?" He turns to me; reluctantly, I shake my head.

"I think an hour was the longest, Jim. But --"

"Couldn't we try it?" Jim pleads with her, cutting me off. "Couldn't you put me back in the hospital, the ICU even, and give me I.V. fluids so I won't get dehydrated, and I'll just trigger one seizure after another? You could monitor me, and --"

Dr. Philpott interrupts. "No. Absolutely not! It's incredibly dangerous, Jim. That's called status epilepticus, and it's considered a medical emergency. There is no way I would let a patient do that to himself purposesly." She leans forward, appearing every bit as determined as Jim. "It would also be highly irregular, and would be considered experimental therapy. The nurses would report it to the medical staff president in no time. I'd lose my hospital privileges, and probably my license as well."

Jim and his doctor lock eyes across the table for a few seconds more, then Jim finally looks down and sighs. "So you won't help us?"

"That is not what I said!" She's getting louder. "I will help you to the best of my ability, and the best of my sane medical judgement! I will not be a party to your willing suicide, because that is what it would be!"

"All right, Doctor!" Jim stands up. "I would prefer to do this in the hospital, with your help, but if I can't have that, I'll just have to do the best I can."

"Uh, Jim," I begin uneasily. I'm ignored, as the Affronted Alpha Male and the Indignant Physician continue to bristle at one another.

"You cannot do this on your own, either, Jim," she warns. "It could kill you."

He puts his hands up to either side of his head. "Losing my career forever will kill me! It won't happen all at once, but it will kill me all the same! And to go through life always having to keep my senses locked down...I'll go insane. There's just no way."

"You will not do this," she repeats. "It's too dangerous. You've got to understand that."

"Sandburg will help me," he answers her, belligerently. "He can do it. Hell, he's helped me through worse."

I have? I can? Jim, buddy, your confidence is touching, but...

Jim turns to me, putting both hands on my shoulders. "C'mon, Chief. You can do it. You know how to keep watch over me." He speaks softly, beseechingly. "Be my Guide, for this. Who else can I trust?"

His gaze compels me to answer, almost against my will. "Jim, I don't like it," I whisper. "But I'll help you, if that's what you want." He looks down at me, smiles slightly, and releases me.

Dammit, that's not what I meant to say. I meant to refuse, to tell him that he's clearly out of his flippin' mind, that there's no way I can stand by and watch him place himself in such danger.

Now Dr. Philpott turns to me. "Blair, listen to me. I know you love your friend, but this is not the way to help. You don't have the kind of training needed here."

"I know CPR," I retort, stung by her words. "And I've picked up a lot of stuff from here and there. And I know Jim better than anyone else."

"Blair," she says, almost desperately, moving closer to me. "You've got to understand. If you are both foolish enough to go ahead with this, Jim will be basically unconscious for several days. His metabolic rate will be increased to three or four times its normal rate, because of the seizures. He probably won't be able to eat or drink because he'll be too groggy, so he'll get dehydrated and begin to starve."

Jim interrupts. "I used to be a medic, I can start an I.V. in myself ahead of time. Just give me the materials and the fluid."

She ignores him and presses on with her arguments. "At any time, he could choke to death on his own saliva, or possibly vomit and aspirate and get pneumonia from that. He could simply stop breathing in the middle of a seizure. He won't respond to your or recognize you most of the time. He'll be totally helpless, and you won't be able to sleep or leave his side for an instant."

I look at Jim, silently pleading with him to change his mind. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "It's your call, Chief. I can't do it without you."

Part Twenty-Nine

I look down at the table, unable to bearing Jim's pleading look or the doctor's anguished horror.

"Isn't there something else we can do?" I almost-whisper, to both of them. "Jim, I'll help you in any way I can, you know that. But I don't want to risk your life in the process." Forty-eight hours, or more, of standing by and watching while Jim convulses uncontrollably to rid his body of the poisons? Maybe we don't need a doctor. Maybe we need an exorcist.

"Neither of you should be making decisions when you're this upset, Blair," says the doctor, sounding calmer now. "Please. Think this over before you do something rash." She places a hand on my arm.

I remember a comment she made earlier, which had been itching at the back of my mind. "You said you had some more articles to go over, more research."

She nods resignedly. "Yes. I don't really see how they'll be helpful to you; they're just case reports. But here, you're welcome to them." She hands me a manila folder, heavy with papers and redolent of toner.

"Go home, both of you," she then instructs. "Get some rest, think about this. But please, I mean it when I say that your plan is too dangerous." She fixes Jim with a steely gaze, standing in front of him with her arms folded. "Jim, if I thought for one moment that I could make it stick, I'd throw you in the hospital on a two-physician court hold to keep you from trying this."

He glares back down at her. "Don't try it," he warns.

"I won't. You're not insane. You're perfectly competent, so it would never hold up. But you are the most stubborn, bullheaded, unmanageable patient I've ever had." She shakes her head. "Blair, I don't envy you your decision...or your task."

She shows us to the door, turning out the rest of the office lights along the way.

"I'll call you later in the week, Jim, to touch base. Blair, take care of him." She locks the door behind us.

Jim doesn't say anything until we're a few blocks from the neurologist's office. When he speaks, I'm startled by the bitterness in his voice.

"Thanks, Chief," he says sarcastically. "Thanks for backing me up like that."

His words slice deeply into me, almost as a physical pain. "Jim, you heard her. It's too dangerous --"

He cuts me off. "I thought you would pick it up and run with it --"

"-- too dangerous to try unless it's our very last resort!" I manage to finish my sentence before Jim shouts again.

"-- but you just backed down in there! If we had kept arguing, maybe she would have let us try it in the hospital after --"

"SHUT UP!" I yell, surprised at the force of my own voice in the confined space of my small car.

Jim opens his mouth, then closes it, then turns away and stares out the window.

I try to ignore him and concentrate on driving us home in one piece, my hands trembling slightly from the emotional overload. Maybe Jim can drive and argue at the same time, but I can't. Of course, if you look at Jim's driving record while on duty, maybe he can't either.

About a thousand years later, it seems, we reach home. I park the car and kill the ignition, and turn my attention to my stone-faced roommate.

"Jim," I begin, but my voice squawks. I clear my throat and try again. "Jim, if we had kept arguing in there, all we would have accomplished is getting you hospitalized. Even if it had just been temporary, you would have hated it. Not a good idea, man."

No answer from the Man of Marble in the passenger seat. Doggedly, I continue.

"I said I would help you in any way I can. If it turns out that the marathon-seizure thing is the only way, then I'll help you do it. But only if we exhaust every possible alternative solution first."

He nods, almost imperceptibly, still with his head turned away from me.

"In any case...even if we have to go with the seizures, we need a few days to prepare first. And we can't do it until Friday night."

That gets a response. "That's almost a week away. Why? We don't need that long to set up," he says, still a little coldly.

"I've missed enough of my classes lately. I'm not going to miss any more, not for something that can just as easily wait a few days. We've got a three day weekend coming up at the University, and I don't teach on Tuesdays this semester anyway. That gives us from Friday evening until Wednesday to...do what we have to do." I glance sidelong at Jim, who now at least appears to be listening. "Jim, if you want me to do this, we do it my way."

He turns back to me, and his eyes meet mine...reluctantly, it would appear. I know him so well that I can almost read his thoughts as we stare at once another. I can see him waver, between anger and acceptance. I can tell he's torn between agreeing with me and throwing a few choice expletives in my face.

But if Jim is stone, then I am wood: a young tree, flexible in the winds of change but unbreakably strong when I need to be. He'll not find it easy to overcome my will on this issue.

At last he looks away, a trace of guilt in his eys.

"Sorry, Chief," he mumbles. "I'm being a butthead, again. I keep forgetting that your life goes on, even though mine seems to have come to a grinding halt." Abruptly, he opens his door and climbs out. "Friday it is, then." The words float back to me, still sitting in the driver's seat.

I lean my head forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. "Sandburg," I whisper to myself, "how do you get yourself into thesemesses?"

Part Thirty

That night, after a dinner more notable for its restrained silences than for any exceptional culinary qualities, I curl up on the couch with the stack of articles from Dr. Philpott and begin slowly plowing through them. I've got both the folder she gave me today, plus the pile she sent to me when Jim was still in the hospital. It's a formidable amount of reading, but it's not going to read itself, is it?

I read until my eyes ache, until the words and phrases swirl around in my brain like oil trying to combine with water, until my mind grows fuzzy around the edges.

Somewhere in these papers I've got to find something else to work with, some other way to help my friend, some other way to redeem my word to him. I've promised to help, even if it's on my terms...but I know Jim well enough that I can't stall forever. I've got to deliver, or he'll just take matter into his own hands.

I'm having trouble concentrating on the articles, though. Dr. Philpott did entirely too good a job describing the ways in which Jim would behave under the influence of the continual seizures, and the mental image painted by her words swims before my eyes. It doesn't help that I've already witnessed a few of these events. Every time I come to the end of a paragraph, I have to fight to keep the same visions from tumbling through my mind: Jim on the floor by the fireplace, twitching helplessly; Jim and I in the stakeout house, alone while he shudders and trembles; Jim falling down the porch stairs, in slow motion...Rafe screaming in pain...

I come abruptly back to the present, as a weight settles on the couch next to me. I blink a few times, and focus on Jim. He hands me a steaming mug that smells delicious. Ah...hot chocolate. Instant, but who's complaining?

He looks at me obliquely. "It's kind of chilly in here. I thought you could use this."

Jim, you creampuff! Who are you kidding?

"Thanks, man. That's just what I need." And I mean it. Not the hot chocolate per se, but the attention and the unspoken appreciation. I take a slurp, nearly burning myself on the hot liquid, and settle back more comfortably against the arm of the couch. Jim's very presence as his normal, non-convulsing self helps to banish the demons of my imagination, and I pick up the article again.

"Are you going to read all night?" Jim asks me after a few minutes of companionable silence.

I grin up at him with mock belligerence. "What, is it past my bedtime already? You gonna make me go to bed?"

"No, Einstein, you're a big boy. You want to read until your eyes turn red, you go right ahead." He shifts his weight slightly. "But if you don't mind, I think I'll stay with you a while. Make sure you don't get sidetracked."

"Okay." I return to my article. This one seems to be the most helpful so far. It's a case account from a medical journal, published about twenty years ago. It tells of a man who was poisoned by a pesticide in the same general class as the one Jim was exposed to, and who went on to have recurrent seizures that were refractory to the usual treatments.

Dr. Philpott's stack of papers contain two additional accounts of individuals who had similar experiences, and who went on to have a lifetime of seizures. None of the three victims are described as having unusual sensory abilities, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

But there's one reason I remain fixated on the account I now hold in my hand. There's one reason I've now read this brief summary three times. Unlike the other two, this guy's seizures went away.

Abruptly. On their own, without any apparent medical intervention. Approximately four weeks after the initial exposure.

I read through it again, searching for clues...but Jim's lowered voice again interrupts my churning thoughts.

"Hey, Chief. Thanks for sticking with me." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I jumped down your throat earlier. I know you're trying to do the right thing."

"I know," I murmur. "This isn't easy for you."

"It isn't easy for either of us." He searches my face for a moment, his own countenance deadly serious. "Blair...I sometimes wonder what I've done to deserve you."

"Probably you were just really rotten in a previous life. Cruel to animals, or something," I quip.

"Always the wiseguy." He smiles briefly. "I think I'm going to go back on what I said earlier. Go to bed, Chief." He collects the empty mug. "There, you've officially been nagged. Are you going to listen?"

"Yeah," I agree. "I need to sleep on this. I feel like I'm close to something."

"Well, maybe it'll come to you in a dream or something. Weren't there a lot of scientists who made great breakthroughs that way?" Jim stands up, and extends a hand to me. "Come on. Up you go, and off to bed"

* * * * * *

No inspiration finds its way into my dreams that night, however, at least none that I remember. Then again, at least I don't have nightmares involving Jim and repeated seizures. I guess I should be grateful for small favors.

After breakfast I tackle the article again, with a fresh cup of coffee by my side. Let's see...the author describes the patient as a "Thirty-four year old white male, married. Employed as a security guard by a large chemical manufacturing firm. Exposed to multiple acetylcholinesterase inhibitor pesticides during an mild earthquake which knocked several bottles off their storage shelves."

Well, there's a few minor similarities there. If this guy was a closet Sentinel, maybe being a security guard was a good career choice for him. And the methods of exposure are very close.

The article goes on to explain how the patient was hospitalized and treated. Just as in Jim's case, the scans and tests all came back as normal, and he was discharged. He continued to have recurrent seizure episodes, despite several trials of medications. And then...the article states that the patient was "lost to follow-up" for about six months. When the man finally returned to his physician, he stated that his seizures resolved about a month after the poisoning, rather abruptly.

The author of the article finishes up with no clear explanation of the reason for his patient's apparent cure.

A germ of an idea forms in my mind. I pull out Dr. Philpott's card, and reach for the phone

The doctor's a little startled when I call her on a Sunday morning, but she also sounds relieved to hear from me.

I explain to her that I want her help in order to locate the author of the case history that I've been puzzling over. "Maybe if I talk to the author, or even to the patient, I can find out why his seizures stopped so suddenly. Maybe this guy did something, or had something happen to him, that could work for Jim."

"H'm," she says. "Well, it's a long shot, but I guess it can't hurt. I like it better than your other idea, anyway."

I grate my teeth to keep myself from forcibly reminding her that the "idea" she's referring to - - the plan of letting Jim have continuous seizures for a couple of days - - is Jim's idea, not mine. I want this woman's help, and arguing about her statements isn't going to get me anywhere.

"I should be able to locate the researcher for you, at any rate," she continues briskly. "He's a neurologist, so he should be listed in the directory I have of board-certified neurologists. Give me that name again," she asks, and I can hear a pen scritching as I spell the name to her.

"Okay, I have to pop in at the office later, and I'll look the guy up when I do. I'll give you a call with what I find," she promises, and hangs up.

With a feeling that I've finally set the wheels in motion on something that may possibly be productive, I head for breakfast and a shower.

* * * * * *

I spend the rest of the morning working on readings and outlines for class. It's a relief to read something academic, something I can look at with distance and cool objectivity. I need this break, need the chance to think about a topic other than finding a cure for my friend.

Jim channel-flips for a while, then goes on a cleaning frenzy. He starts with the bathroom, and from time to time I hear him muttering in there as he finds House Rule violations to be annoyed about. From what I can hear, most of his comments seem to be directed at the ever-present reminders left behind by my mop of hair.

Okay, so I have a lot of hair. I've never quite understood why it bugs Jim so much. I mean, if he ever remarried, and she had long hair, would he make such a big deal of it? Would he follow her around with a special filter for the shower drain? Would he curse every time he found a long, curling strand in the sink?

I snicker at the thought of Jim laying down House Rules to a new bride, and I'm still laughing softly to myself as Jim comes out of the bathroom, sponge in hand.

"Something funny, Sandburg?" he says belligerently.

"Uh...something I was reading, Jim," I lie blithely.

"Huh," he grunts. "Well, if you can tear yourself away from that unusually funny anthropology reading, maybe you can help me out here. The kitchen's filthy. If you do the dishes and countertops, I'll start in on the floor." He smiles, taking the seriousness out of his mock-grumpy words.

Of course, I'm elbow deep in suds when the phone rings. Jim answers it.

"Ellison." Pause. "Oh...hello, Doctor. Yeah, he's here, but he's doing dishes. Yeah, hang on." Jim grabs paper and a pen. "Okay, got it. I'll tell him." Pause. "Yes, I'm fine. No...not yet." Pause, then a tense change in Jim's neutral tone of voice. "No, Doctor, I still won't promise that. I appreciate your concern, and we appreciate your help. Good-bye." He hangs up, blows out a deep breath, then looks at me.

"She gave me the phone number and e-mail address of some other specialist, in San Francisco. What's this about, Chief?"

"Just a possible lead, Jim. Someone I want to contact," I explain reluctantly, still with my hands plunged into the dishwater.

He frowns. "Sandburg, I'm not excited about getting dragged off to another specialist. I've had enough of doctors for a while."

"It's nothing like that," I shake my head. "I just want to talk to the guy. I won't involve any of the Sentinel stuff, Jim, I promise."

"Why? What does this guy know about my nervous system that you don't?"

I almost choke on that casually-offered statement of faith in my abilities. "He...had a patient, once, who may have had the same problem, but got better." I take a deep breath. "Jim, please. Let me just pursue this. I don't want to get your hopes up," or mine, "until I know something."

"Okay," he agrees. He eyes the sink. "Those dishes aren't going to wash themselves, Chief."

I grin at him and, impulsively, scoop up a hefty handful of suds in the palm of my hand, hiding the motion from Jim. When he turns back to his task of floor-scrubbing, I stretch out my arm and delicately lay the quivering blob of bubbles onto the top of Jim's head. It rests there like a dollop of whipped cream on a sundae, apparently unnoticed by the victim.

You see, if all goes well, someday Jim will get to use his senses properly again. And I won't be able to sneak up on him and try things like this. So, I'd better enjoy it while it lasts.

I return to innocently washing dishes, and smiling to myself.

Wait for it.

"Sandburg!"

I turn and run for the balcony, but slip on the wet floor. I can only sit there laughing as Jim retaliates with TWO large handfuls of soapsuds, rubbed thoroughly into my hair as I struggle.

Well, it was still worth it.

Part Thirty-Two

That evening after dinner, I sit down at my laptop and compose an e-mail message to the neurologist in San Francisco, deciding that might be safer than calling him and trying to wing it. I use my academic role as a cover, saying that I'm a psychology PhD candidate interested in unusual acquired (as opposed to congenital) seizure disorders and their effects on human personality.

"The case study you described in your article certainly qualifies as a seizure disorder resulting from an unusual poisoning episode," I write. "I would be interested to know whether the subject's personality changed with the advent of the seizures, or after their spontaneous remission. Perhaps, with your permission, I could interview your subject and perform psychometric testing. If this is not possible, perhaps you could consult your office notes on the subject for further details not outlined in your article."

I stop for a moment, mentally cross my fingers, and add one more paragraph.

"In the process of collecting subjects for my study, I have run across one individual with a seizure disorder acquired very much in the same manner as your subject. He has been told by his physician that his problem is essentially untreatable. Should I find out any helpful information relating to a possible treatment from interviewing your original subject, I would also like to pass that on to the treating physician for review."

I glance over what I've written. Well, it's not entirely the truth, but it's close enough to the truth that I should be able to keep it straight. If I am allowed to interview the subject, I'll have to review what little I remember from my undergraduate Psych minor days or coerce one of the Psych department fellows to tag along with me.

Nervously, I sign it and hit "send".

That was the easy part; now comes the waiting. I stand up and stretch out the kinks I've developed from sitting in front of the computer for too long.

I head for the living room, where I'm surprised to find Jim sitting on the couch hunched over a notepad. Not a usual Jim sort of thing to do. He doesn't even have the TV on. I sit down next to him, fluffing a cushion and sticking it behind my slightly-aching back.

Upon closer inspection, it looks like he's making a list. I nudge him with one elbow. "Grocery list?"

He grimaces. "Not really. Supply list and to-do list. In case we have to...you know, for Friday night."

Oh.

Suddenly, I wish I hadn't asked. But...dammit, even though I'm hoping with all my heart to come up with an alternative solution, I know that I need to be involved in the planning of this venture. I can't just close my eyes and hope it will go away.

"Can I see?" I ask softly.

Slowly, he hands it over. In Jim's precise handwriting, he has the page organized into "Supplies" and "To Do" sections. The first part seems sensible enough: sports drinks, easily digestible food, extra sheets and blankets, things like that. It looks like he's given up the idea of starting an I.V. on himself, anyway.

It's the second section that causes my breath to catch and my vision to blur with sparkling unshed tears:

Meet with lawyer, get Sandburg named power of attorney. Pay all outstanding bills. Review disability insurance policy. Write out advanced directive. Make out will.

Make out will.

I fling the notepad away from me, violently, as the impact of those words hits me. I don't really realize that I've jumped up and ran until I'm fumbling open the balcony door.

Undoubtedly, Jim will follow me out here...but for a few seconds I'm alone. I lean against the wall, feeling the foundations of my world tremble, feeling a chill creep into my soul despite the warmth of the evening.

Part of me, the coldly rational part, knows that he's just being sensible by thinking of these things. It's what a soldier going off to war would do, and Jim has been a soldier. He's thinking of me, and of his family, not wanting us to have to deal with anything that he can streamline ahead of time before he goes into battle against his body.

I don't want to think about it. It was one thing to hear Dr. Philpott threaten and bluster about Jim's safety if we try this. Somehow, I had the idea that Jim didn't really believe the risks, and that his sense of invulnerability might somehow protect him from harm. But to see it written out, in his own hand, like that...I now know that he has accepted the very real possibility that he might not survive his ordeal.

Soft footsteps sound behind me as Jim joins me on the balcony.

"Chief, I'm sorry," he says, coming up close by my side. "I was afraid you would react like that, but I thought it was better that you knew...that I was making preparations. Just in case." There's no hurt in his voice, no defensiveness, just sad resignation.

"I know," I whisper raggedly, staring straight ahead into the lights of the city. "I'm just still hoping that none of it will be necessary." I can't look at him. If I do, I'll lose it completely.

"You've got five more days, Blair. If anyone can come up with an answer, it will be you." He places a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly toward him. "But if you don't...do I still have your promise to help? To stay by my side, to watch over me as my Guide?"

Reluctantly, I look at him, nodding with a quick dip of my chin. "I promised you, Jim. I'll be there," I whisper.

For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. I turn back to my view of the city, leaning against the wall, listening to the faint traffic sounds from far off. I slip almost into a semi-meditative state, my own private little zone-out.

I jump slightly when Jim speaks again, even though his voice is so low I can barely hear it.

"Chief, there's something else I want you to promise."

I swallow, trying in vain to ease the ache in my throat, and my heart. "Sure, Jim," I answer, trying to keep my tone light. "Anything."

"If we do this, I want us to go into it...together. As a team. Without any old wrongs or misunderstandings between us." He draws his hand over his eyes. "Damn...Chief, you're better at this sort of thing than I am. Just..."

Oh, Jim. I move closer to him as his voice gets even quieter.

"Blair, if there's anything I've ever done or said to hurt you...and I know there must be, after all the time we've spent together...will you tell me? So that I can know, and ask your forgiveness? In case..."

He's unable to finish his sentence. I put my arm around his waist. "Jim, don't. You'll be okay, and then you'll be embarrassed that you said all of this." I grin through my own tears. "Although maybe I should really milk it for everytime you yelled at me for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor."

He looks down at me, not responding to my attempt to lighten the mood. "I mean it, Chief. I want us to be okay, before we try this."

"If we try this, Jim," I correct gently. "If. Don't give up yet, man."

"All right, if." He slips an arm around my shoulders. "Are we okay, then?"

"We're okay," I whisper.

Part Thirty-Three

Jim basically kicks me out of the house in the morning.

"I know you've got stuff to do over at Rainier, Sandburg. Go ahead and go over; I'll be fine."

I frown. "You're sure? I was just going to wait until the last minute, then come home right after class. I don't want to leave you here alone all morning."

"I'll be fine, Chief," he insists. "I'm going to clean out the basement storage area. That should keep me occupied for hours."

I grin up at him. "Beware the Sentinel with a nesting instinct." I reach for my backpack and sling it onto my shoulder. "You won't try to drive, will you?"

Just for a second, there's a flash of pain in his eyes, quickly covered. "No. I can't, Chief. Dr. Philpott notified the DMV; my license is temporarily suspended because of the seizures." He straightens up and tries to smile. "But I shouldn't need anything."

"Okay, if you're sure you'll be okay. I could use some time in my office, to tell the truth." I pause at the doorway for a moment, stalling.

The real truth...well, I'm not hovering because I'm worried about Jim having seizures while I'm gone. It's just that after last night's conversation on the balcony, I'm acutely aware of how few hours there really are between now and Friday evening. I lay awake last night for a long time, thinking, after we'd talked. I guess I'm reluctant to give up any time I have left with my friend.

"Go! I may not be functioning one hundred percent, Sandburg, but I can still whip your ass!" He waves a mock-threatening hand in my direction. I git.

* * * * * *

After I complete my one o'clock lecture and the students file out, I trudge back to my office. Not one of my better sessions, really. I've been so preoccupied with Jim, that it's been hard to drum up the proper amount of teaching enthusiasm.

How long, I muse, can a person survive in this state of perpetual worry, before it takes its physical toll? I remember the experiments from undergraduate psych courses: the lab animals reared in constant stress who failed to thrive and gain weight. I suppose with a human being, the real world and its comfortable everyday concerns creep in eventually, a defense mechanism to provide some relief from the constant emotional bombardment.

All I know is that my body may be here, but my mind and heart are not fully engaged in what I'm doing...because they're busy watching over one stubborn Sentinel.

I sigh and unlock my office door, breathing in the slight hint of academic mustiness that I always notice: the comforting cluttered aroma of old books and nameless tribal artifacts. I set my backpack down with a thump on my desk and check the office phone for messages that might have come in while I was in class. No calls, not from Jim or anyone else.

Messages...I swing around and grab my laptop, opening the e-mail program.

And there it is: one piece of e-mail from someone at ucsf.edu. This will be my answer. It could be Jim's salvation, or the death of my hopes that we'll be able to escape the seizure ordeal. With hands that shake only slightly, I open the message.

"Dear Mr. Sandburg:

Thank you for your interest in my May 1997 Neurology Annals article. Regrettably, I must inform you that the subject of the case report is now deceased, as he was killed in a motor vehicle accident only two years ago according to the county authorities.

However, upon reviewing my chart notes on the patient in question, I note that they are unusually extensive. I recall that I had a medical student spending time in my office that month, and he appears to have done an exceptionally thorough job of taking a history. If you believe these notes will me of any help to you, I would be glad to arrange to have them faxed to you. The subject's name will of course be deleted for confidentiality purposes, just as in the article."

I nod to myself, cautious relief flooding through me. Okay, so I won't be able to interview the guy. But this might be even better, and quicker. I tap out a properly grateful answer, giving the number for the Anthro department's fax machine, and send it off with a victorious keystroke.

As soon as the message has been sent I gather up all my stuff and run down to the department secretary's office.

"Hey, Blair," she smiles at me. "What's the big hurry?"

I smile as winningly as I can. "Look, Diane, can you do me a favor? I'm expecting a very important fax from San Francisco. If you'll call me at home when it comes in, I'll come back and pick it up."

"Sure, Blair. Oh...that's right. Leila Van Horn was looking for you earlier, too."

Leila...oh, crap, probably about that deal I made with her, the whole "dinner at Cavanaugh's" thing. Good thing we haven't decided on a date for this little overpriced evening out, 'cause I am most definitely not in the mood for that right now.

"Uh...thanks. Did she say where she'd be?" So that I can be somewhere else?

"The library, I think."

"Ah. Well, maybe I'll stop by on my way home," I gabble, suddenly feeling pursued. "Thanks, Diane."

"Anytime, Blair. I'll keep an eye out for your fax."

Part Thirty-four

The fax doesn't arrive until almost six that afternoon. Diane calls me from her office to let me know, true to her word.

"I'm going home, Blair, but if you want me to I can just slide it under your office door. It's three pages, so that should be no problem."

"Hey, great!" I look around at the disarray that surrounds me. "I'll, uh, pop down this evening and pick it up."

When I arrived home after class today, Jim had finished cleaning out the basement storage unit. Meaning that he'd sorted through his meager and scrupulously well-cared for belongings, and carried up four or five boxes of my clutter for me to deal with. So now I sit on the floor, attempting to make some order out of it all.

Personally, I don't understand the point. I mean, isn't that what basements are for? You're not supposed to be able to find anything in them, right? But Jim wants less clutter in the storage area, and I'm happy to oblige if it will please him. This week, neither of us is going to pick fights over petty differences.

I'm almost dazed by the amount of junk I've accumulated since I moved in with Jim. Oh, some of this stuff is old and dates back to the days when I was living in the warehouse, but most of it is relatively new. Papers, photos, impulse purchases, gag gifts, old greeting cards, clothes that have gotten too frayed even for me to wear, unclassifiable miscellaneous tidbits of stuff. Once, I could have packed all of my important belongings into a bag or two and left the rest behind without a second glance. Now, I'm struck by how rooted I've become: both to this place, and to its other inhabitant.

Even the lines between "his" and "mine" have become blurred, which is pretty amazing when you consider the differences in our taste. Over the last couple of years, I've been introduced to a new concept, a new possessive: "our".

Our food. Our newspaper. Our bills. Our view. Our neighbors.

And our problem, not just Jim's.

Today I've got the leisure to sit on the floor and sort old papers because Jim is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and has ordered me not to help him at all. And he's not ordering a pizza, or throwing together some spaghetti, or even omelettes...he's the picture of deep and serious concentration as he makes eggplant Parmesan, by my recipe. Jim doesn't really even like eggplant, though he tolerates it when smothered with enough goodies. No: this painstakingly cooked ethnic meal, loaded with more garlic and herbs than he would really prefer to eat, is a shyly self-conscious offering to me, his friend and Guide. The idea touches me beyond words.

I set the cordless phone carefully back down, precariously balanced atop a stack of old term papers. "Hey, Jim," I ask casually. "What's the schedule on dinner? Do I have time to run down to the university?"

Jim opens the oven door and peers in. "Actually, this is starting to bubble, and the salad is ready."

"So that would be a 'no', then. All right, I'll go after dinner."

He shakes his head. "It'll stay warm if I put the oven on low, won't it?"

"Yeah, it keeps for hours." I grin. "That's one of the reasons I like it."

"Then go ahead and go run your errand, Chief." He sets a bottle of red wine on the table, and uncorks it. "That way, you'll be able to relax and enjoy dinner."

"Okay. I'll be back as quick as I can." I grab my keys and drive over to Rainier, taking a few shortcuts that help me get around the tail end of rush-hour traffic.

Hargrove Hall is deserted when I get there, except for the cleaning people and a few straggling students. As promised, the fax is under my door, all three pages of it. I snatch it up, start to look at it, then think better of the idea and stuff it into my jacket pocket. This can wait until later.

I head back to my car, back home to my dinner. Despite the tension of the last few days, I laugh delightedly to myself: who else can claim tonight that he will get to eat a meal personally prepared for him by a Sentinel?

* * * * * *

The eggplant Parmesan comes out wonderfully tasty, dripping with cheese; the salad is crisp and perfect, and the wine fills a rich and fruity supporting role. We linger over dinner, savoring the harmony both of the food and of our spirits. We don't talk very much, but somehow the very silence itself seems full of an unspoken bond.

After dinner, I take a glass of wine with me and curl up on the couch with the fax from San Francisco. It takes me a while to puzzle out the medical student's handwriting and abbreviations, so I decide to take additional paper and re-transcribe it for myself as much as possible. I'm reminded, obliquely, of the hours I've spent scrutinising ancient documents or tribal accounts.

On a separate sheet of paper, I make a list of terms that I don't understand, so that I can look them up later. This whole process takes me about an hour, and at the end of it I have four closely written pages of notes with which to work.

Then I sit back and read through my expanded version. The first section, where the medical student is recounting the events that have occurred in the patient's life in the six months since he was seen, gives me the most hope. Paradoxically, then, I skip that, heading instead for the technical neurologist-speak mumbo-jumbo that makes up the rest of the account.

As near as I can tell, the guy was essentially completely normal when he came back for his belated follow-up exam. There's no mention of enhanced senses per se, but the student notes that the patient's vision was 20/15 and his hearing completely intact. There's a section describing the neurologic exam in detail, some of which I recognize from watching Jim being examined, but the student summarizes his findings with the statement "completely neurologically intact". There's a statement about spontaneous remission of the seizures, and the note closes with a recommmendation to return in another six months.

I return to the narrative in the first section. "Patient is a thiry-four year old white married male who returns today for follow-up on his seizure disorder. He is on no medications. He states that he has had no seizures for five months, and is here to get a note so that his driver's license can be reinstated. He is feeling well and has no complaints. He states that he experienced almost-daily seizures for about one month after his release from the hospital and that they ceased abruptly. Since onset of the seizures, he has been on disability but now wishes to return to work as a security guard.

"Social history: lives with wife, three-year old son and 7-month old twin girls. While on disability has been the primary caregiver for the children. Patient notes that the seizures ceased around the time that one of the twins was hospitalized during a severe viral respiratory infection."

That's it. I read it again, and a third time. Nothing jumps out at me, other than the stated fact that the seizures stopped when one of the children was hospitalized. But that doesn't make any sense to me. How could hospitalizing the child affect the parent? The stress? Seems like that should bring on seizures, not stop them.

I glance surreptitiously over at Jim, who's watching an old movie on television. I hope he doesn't see the crushing disappointment on my face, the evidence that I've failed him.

He looks over at me. Damn, he must have somehow felt my eyes upon him. "Hey, Chief, how goes the research?" he asks lightly.

"Oh, all right," I answer nonchalantly. "Nothing yet, but the handwriting's pretty bad and I've still got a lot left to go over. But," and I half-fake a yawn, "I'm a little short on sleep. Think I'll turn in and give it a try in the morning. You know, sleep on it, like we were talking about the other night."

I slip into my room before he can call me on the lie, forgetting momentarily that Jim can no longer risk casually listening to my heart rate.

Part Thirty-Five

For what seems like the fiftieth time, I roll over and thrash about, trying to get comfortable. Tonight, the bed that usually feels blissful seems lumpy and hard; the bedding feels scratchy. I hear every little creak and squeak in the building. Huh, maybe I've suddenly acquired Sentinel abilities.

Not funny, Sandburg. Definitely not funny.

No, as much as I'd like to blame my body's discomfort for my inability to sleep, I have to admit that it's my mind keeping me awake. My mind, and my conscience. As my brain frantically processes and re-processes the problem, re-reads the notes from the San Francisco doctor...as my mind works away diligently, my conscience berates me.

You have no right to lose faith, it says. No right to give up hope. No right at all.

Angrily, I mentally shove aside the proddings of that inconvenient little voice. Jiminy Cricket is the last thing I need right now.

Again I ask myself: how did I get into this mess? My best friend, rather than submit to a desk job and a lifetime of the threat of seizures, wants to try an unproven treatment that's suicidally dangerous. Oh, and he's got my promise, my word, to aid and abet him in this whole proceeding. Unless, of course, I can somehow find a solution in the next few days, working with next to nothing.

This is nuts, Jim. How can you expect this of me?

He's counting on you, responds my conscience. He expects great things of you, because you are his Guide and he has already seen you work wonders.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, as if I expect it to offer some great inspiration. All right. If I'm not to be allowed to sleep, I may as well try to use my time well. I sit up and head over to my little desk, flicking on the lamp. I scrounge up some random paper and a pen, and sit, thinking.

Okay, let's make a list of every possible variable introduced into the life of our mystery man, the patient in the case study from twenty years ago. First of all, let's give the poor dude a name. Let's call him...Mr. Magoo. It's taken, but who cares?

He had his toxic exposure, he was hospitalized and he went home. Then, a month later, he spontaneously got better. What else happened in that time?

Well, he got to stay home with the kids, at least one of whom was sick. So, what about this virus? I don't know what it was, and probably never will. There's too many different kinds to choose from. And I don't think that randomly exposing Jim to every kiddie flu we can find is such a good idea. If that's the answer, I'd really rather not think about it.

So, write down everything associated with babies: diapers, spit-up, crying...okay, this isn't an area I know much about. Maybe we should just arrange for Jim to babysit sick newborn twins (plus a two-year-old) for a few days and see what happens to him. The idea makes me smile in spite of my gloom and insomnia: Jim, burping a baby, changing diapers, singing a lullaby, dragging his groggy and sleep-deprived self out of bed for the 2 a.m. feeding...

I sit up straight in my chair as words from the other night come back to me, faintly:

"I need to sleep on this..."

"Maybe it'll come to you in a dream..."

Newton was bonked on the head by an apple; Archimedes was splish-splashing in the tub (on a Saturday night, perhaps?) when he had his bright idea. Creative insight knows nothing of logic or of timing, and inevitably the great intuitive leaps come to us when we least expect them. Grumpy, discouraged, sick at heart and unable to sleep, I'm only been trying to make sure I've exhausted all the possibilities in order to make my nagging conscience shut up.

I didn't expect to actually be struck by a thought.

For once, I truly understand the meaning of that phrase. I feel like I've been flattened by that garbage truck that, so long ago, tried to ground Jim into the pavement. All of the nerve cells in my brain seem to freeze for a moment, as I try to get this flash of inspiration to take shape in my mind as a rational thought.

Sleep deprivation.

Poor Mr. Magoo, the out-of-work security guard, with his circadian rhythm no doubt messed up anyway, comes home from the hospital and plays Mr. Mom. The twin babies keep him up at all hours, the two-year-old bounces out of bed at the crack of dawn. And when the one infant gets very ill, it's probably even worse. I can picture this worried father, standing at his child's bedside, afraid to sleep lest he wake up too late...trying to be there for his baby.

I remember from the psych courses that sleep deprivation does interesting things to the brain. It's always been a favorite topic of the grad students doing their research: cheap, and they're surrounded by a campusful of subjects who never get enough sleep anyway. People get exceedingly strange when you take away their REM sleep; it's a lot like being drunk.

And even Dr. Philpott implied something about sleep recharging the neurotransmitters. Could it be, that if I can keep Jim awake long enough, that we could somehow burn all of this out of his body without subjecting it to the violence of seizures?

It's all I can do not to run out of my room and tell Jim, or call the doctor, or something. Even Archimedes was supposed to have leaped out of the tub and gone running through the town naked. But it's 11:30 at night, and I don't think that Dr. Philpott would appreciate being woken up over this. And there's no way I'm going to get Jim's hopes up until I've discussed it with her, to see if it even sounds remotely feasible.

I turn off my desk lamp and move slowly back to my bed, which suddenly seems a little more inviting than it did a while ago. I crawl in, feeling the knots in my neck and back finally loosen. As I drift off to a welcome sleep, I almost fancy I hear that little Jiminy Cricket voice again:

Rest well, Guide, for your work has only begun.

Part Thirty-Six

Since I conked out so early the night before, I'm up the next morning long before Jim...unusual in itself. But as I putter around the kitchen looking for food, I can hear him upstairs breathing the long slow breaths of deep sleep. He must have stayed up pretty late, probably worrying. The idea gives me a quick twinge of irrational guilt.

Well, Jim being asleep makes my first task of the day easier, at any rate. I pick up the phone and call Dr. Philpott to explain my idea of last night.

What seemed brilliant and insightful while alone in my darkened bedroom now seems pale, poorly thought-out, and fragile; and as I relate my whole sleep-deprivation theory to Dr. Philpott I'm afraid that she must be only listening to humor me. When I finish, I hear only silence at the other end of the line.

I can't stand it any longer. "So, what do you think?"

She answers me slowly. "Blair, you may be onto something here." A pause, and I can hear her taking a deep breath. "Certainly, it's much safer than the other scheme. And you're right, sleep deprivation can do some interesting things to the brain chemistry. It just might work, and I think you've done a fantastic job even coming up with this. But I have two concerns that you should know about before you try this."

"What?"

"First of all..." she trails off. "First, you have to realize, Blair, that you could be completely wrong. There's a change that depriving Jim of REM sleep may not only not be helpful, but that the process could actually trigger seizures. If that happens, you need to promise me that you'll back off and end the experiment."

I think for a moment. "If that happens, I won't have a choice, anyway. Jim always goes straight to sleep after a seizure. I wouldn't have a prayer of being able to keep him awake."

"The second thing...He might get pretty crazy on you, Blair. He could become extremely irrational after about the first twenty-four hours or so. You should have someone else with you to try this, so that you can take turns resting and back each other up if necessary."

"I think we can manage that," I grin into the receiver. Oh, Simon is gonna love this...but at least he's big enough to sit on Jim if it becomes necessary. And really, who else can we ask? "I'm sure that Captain Banks would be glad to help out."

"All right, then. If you can meet those two requirements, you have my unofficial blessing to try this." She sighs. "Officially, I have to advise you and Jim that there appears to be no effective treatment. That's what his chart in the office will say." She pauses. "What does Jim think of this?"

"He, um, hasn't heard it yet," I squirm. "I thought I'd bounce it off of you, first."

"Good luck," she says obscurely. "Call me if you need anything, and be sure to keep me posted. When she speaks next, I can hear a little bit of longing in her voice. "If this works...Blair, it's a shame we can't publish this, together."

Ah yes, there's a sentiment I can relate to. "Sorry," I respond lightly. "I don't think it would be a good idea. Jim gets pretty nervous about that word, 'publish'."

"Yes...it was just wishful thinking. Take care."

* * * * * *

I plan to tackle Jim with my proposal after he's had some breakfast. He's got other plans, though.

"Can you take me to run some errands today, Chief?" he says around a mouthful of toast.

I've got a pretty good idea of what those errands are, from looking at that sad little list the other night. "Uh, sure, Jim. But - -"

He looks at me with just a hint of irritation showing on his face. "We hashed this all out the other night, Blair. I need to take care of these things."

"I know, Jim. But what I wanted to say --"

"Look, it's hard enough for me to ask you to drive me around like this. I hate feeling this helpless, and I'd really rather deal with these affairs on my own. But --" Jim stops as my hand covers his mouth.

"Jim. Shut up." I remove my hand, and grin at him. "I'm trying to tell you something here, man"

"What?" he answers, somewhat testily.

"I think I may have stumbled on...on a better solution for your problem. Better that the one we've been dreading, anyway."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

I can only laugh at that. "I've been trying. It's like trying to keep a bull from charging." I made swooping gestures with an imaginary toreador's cape.

To his credit and my relief, Jim listens to my idea with cautious optimism.

"I'm not sure how long we'll have to keep you awake," I conclude. "We'll just have to figure out a way to test you, find out whether or not it worked. I figured we'd start with a weekend a go from there. If Simon agrees to help, I should be able to manage without missing a lot of classes." And if I do end up needing someone to cover my classes, there's always Leila...who is no doubt upping my bill to include the fancy dinner AND sexual favors.

Ah, the sacrifices I make for my friend.

Jim is nodding slowly. "It's a bit of a reach, Chief, but...hell, it does make some sort of sense. I'm willing to give it a try, though." He shudders. "It certainly sounds better than having seizures for two or three days straight. At least I'll be in my right mind."

Ummm....right. Well, mostly in your right mind, Jim. "I thought I'd call Simon, see if he can help. Or you can call him," I suggest hopefully.

"You go ahead, Chief, it's your idea." He waves at the phone, parked over on the kitchen island. "Just how are you going to keep me awake that long, anyway?" he asks as I pick up the phone, his voice curious.

"Lots of caffeine, Jim. Lots and lots of caffeine. Oh, and loud music...and stories." I can't help but allow an evil grin to appear on my face. "You, lucky man, are going to get to hear everything interesting I've ever done in my entire life. My captive audience."

"Oh, just great," he grumbles. "The Sandburg Travelogue Torture. Just what I needed."

But I can hear the gratitude behind the sarcasm, and I smile again as I dial Simon's number.

Part Thirty-Seven

Friday morning, six o'clock. I rise slowly into awareness at the sound of my insistently bleeping alarm.

It's D-Day, H-Hour. For the next seventy-two hours I will use every available resource to keep Jim more or less awake, in hopes that he can once again become the vital, fully functioning police detective that I first met so long ago.

Upstairs, I can now hear the answering echo of Jim's alarm clock, and the low groan as he responds to its auditory nudging.

I slip out of my room and pad halfway up the stairs. "Hey, Jim," I call softly...remembering with a twinge the days when I could have just called to him from my room, and know that he would have heard me. "You awake up there?"

"Uhhhh...yeah." A sigh. "You know, Chief, knowing that I'm not going to crawl back into this bed for the next three days makes it look a lot more attractive than usual."

I smile into the semidarkness. "Okay. I'm going to go start some coffee. No fair falling asleep again up there."

As I putter sleepily around the kitchen, I mentally review our plan of attack. Today should be easy for both of us. I'll get Jim moving, then head off to Rainier and take care of as many of my academic responsibilities as possible. Simon's going to take the afternoon off so that he can have a good long nap, then head over here for dinner. Looking at my shopping list, I feel vaguely like I'm merely planning an all-weekend party; I have to keep reminding myself of the reality of the situation.

So, tonight we'll have pizza and poker,(but no beer) followed by movies and popcorn as it gets later. After about midnight tonight, Simon and I plan to trade off in roughly six-hour shifts, one sleeping while the other keeps Jim company. I expect that towards the end, though, I won't get much of a chance to sleep at all.

Simon has been really cool about this. He only rolled his eyes a little when I explained the sleep-deprivation theory, and immediately offered to help without my even having to ask him. I think he'll be a big help, since I'll be no good to Jim if I don't get some sleep here and there.

Choosing seventy-two hours as our target came about partly by research, partly by guesswork. I've been around Jim when he's been up for twenty-four hours, and he doesn't do half bad. I figure it will take a couple of days without sleep to get him seriously messed up. According to the sources I looked at, though, the incidence of psychosis goes up pretty dramatically after four days without sleep.

So, we go for three days, and hope that the cure isn't worse than the disease.

Jim emerges from the bathroom and comes over to pour a cup of coffee. He picks up my shopping list and chuckles.

"Pizzas, coffee, chips, popcorn, cookies, donuts, Jolt...Chief, you're scarin' me, here. This is not the usual Purina Sandburg Chow."

I snatch my list back. "It's called bribery, Ellison. Forty-eight hours from now, when you're on your hands and knees begging me to let you sleep, I intend to distract you with a glazed old-fashioned buttermilk."

Jim appears to consider. "Yeah, that'll probably work." He grins. "For a while, anyway. Hey, Chief, I didn't think you even knew about Jolt."

"Hey, I was a teenager when that stuff came out." I shudder. "What was their motto? Twice the caffeine, and all of the sugar? I drank an entire six-pack at one sitting, once." My stomach roils uneasily at the memory.

"Why? Trying to stay awake to study?"

Suddenly, I remember why I've never told Jim this particular story. "Uh, no. It was an, uh, initiation rite, sort of." I start heading for my room. "You done in the shower?"

He grabs my elbow, ignoring my question. "Initiation rite? Blair, exactly which primitive civilization uses super-caffeinated soda pop for an initiation rite?"

I sigh. "The primitive civilization known as American higher education, Jim."

"Sandburg, you're not going to try to convince me that you were in a fraternity?" He hoots with laughter.

Oh, I am going to enjoy torturing him this weekend. "A club, not a fraternity. A dorm club, almost an anti-fraternity. Very unofficial, and most definitely co-ed." I smile in spite of myself. "That was a great bunch of people."

Jim just smirks at me. "It was a geek club, wasn't it? The truth, Sandburg, the truth!"

"Jim, if I tell you all my good stories now, how am I going to keep you awake this weekend?"

* * * * * *

After my afternoon lecture concludes, I run to the grocery store (wincing inwardly at the assortment of junk food in my cart) and then to the video rental place. I wander the aisles for a while, scoping out the movies, then eventually settle on some cheezy action flicks and comedies. Nothing too cerebral tonight.

I get back to the loft by about five o'clock. Eleven hours down already, sixty-one to go. Jim's parked on the couch watching the local news, but he gets up to help me unload the goodies. I'm not going to dignify this stuff by calling it groceries.

"Just leave the pizzas out, we'll be putting them in the oven soon anyway." I stow the Jolt in the fridge. "This stuff was a lot harder to find than it was when I was in college."

"You got everything done over at the University that you needed to?"

I nod as I pile bags of chips and cookies on the kitchen island. "Yeah. If necessary, I'll be able to get my Monday afternoon lecture covered."

"Hey, Chief," Jim stops me for a moment, with a hand on my arm. "Before Simon gets here..." He looks down at his feet for a moment, then back at my face. "Thanks for everything you're doing, Blair. I mean that." He swallows. "There's no way I could do this all on my own."

I grin at him. "Does this mean you'll lend me a wad of cash so I can take Leila the Barracuda out for dinner before she has me kidnapped and delivered to her in a burlap sack?

Part Thirty-Eight

It's ten p.m. now, and the three of us sit around the table with our piles of loose change in front of us. My turn to deal.

"Okay, the game is five-card draw. Jokers and one-eyed jacks are wild, and spit in the ocean." I start to deal, and Simon cracks up.

"Sandburg, what the hell does 'spit in the ocean' mean?"

Oops. "Um...to tell the truth, Simon, I don't remember. I think I heard it once in a movie. Just never mind that part." I continue dealing the cards, face down.

Simon sighs. "I hope that this movie didn't also include a gunfight at the poker table." He picks up his cards and looks sourly at them.

We'v been fairly evenly matched so far. I have to admit, I've been curious to see whether or not Jim plays poker any differently with his senses off-line. He's always assured me that he would never use his hearing to listen to our heart rates while we play, but I always wonder if he can somehow tell subliminally whether or not I'm bluffing.

Jim picks up his cards. "Chief, how could you deal me such a pile of crap?"

I grin at him. "I gave all the aces to Simon. After all, he's the captain."

"Yeah, but I know where you live. And how ticklish you are."

I level a stare at my partner. "Jim, Old West card sharks are not ticklish. It's beneath their dignity."

"You have dignity?"

The banter continues, along with the game. I win some hands, lose more, and start to get a bit punchy. It's after midnight, and I need to think about getting a little sleep.

Simon gets up and goes to the fridge. I sidle up next to him as he frowns at the cans of soft drinks. "Try the Jolt, Simon. Or maybe the Mountain Dew. They're not bad."

He grabs a can of Coke. "This stuff is all revoltingly sweet."

"Tell me about it," I agree. "But it's loaded with caffeine, and Jim likes it, and it'll help keep him going." I run my hands through my hair. "Think you can take over for a few hours? I'm getting a bit goofy."

He nods at me. "Get some rest, Blair. I'll pop in a movie or something." He pauses, and a slow smile appears on his face. "You know, we could alway continue the poker game tomorrow night, after you and I have both had a little rest. See how Jim plays when he's really starting to feel the effects."

"Sounds like a plan."

Jim calls from the table. "Hey, no plotting in the kitchen. It's my deal. Get back in here and take your punishment like men."

* * * * * *

Six a.m., and the alarm goes off just like it did twenty-four hours ago. I sit up in bed, momentarily disoriented.

Okay, it's Saturday morning, right? Why am I waking up so early, and why do I still feel tired?

I get out of bed and stagger out into the living room. The television's on, and Arnold Schwarzenegger is chasing someone to the accompaniment of dramatic background music. Simon and Jim are both sitting on the couch, watching with varying degrees of interest.

They both look up as I enter the room. Simon looks exceedingly glad to see me.

Oh yeah. Right. Now I remember.

"Change of shift, guys." I plop down next to Jim. "Simon, you may as well go upstairs and take a nap in Jim's bed. It's not like he's going to get to use it. And Jim..."

He goggles blearily at me. "What, Chief?"

"Grab a shower, man. And then I'm taking you out for breakfast and some fresh air." I grab the remote and put Arnold out of his misery.

* * * * * *

A shower, coffee and hot food restore Jim to some semblance of normalcy...or what passes for normal in his case. Leaving Simon back at the loft to rest up for the later onslaught, I drag Jim around town, taking advantage of the stretch of nice weather we've been having. We visit the Saturday Market, watching jugglers and street musicians; later we go poking around Chinatown, where we're both amazed at the profusion of Chinese vegetables and herbs spilling out of the shops onto the sidewalk.

Jim actually seems fascinated by some of the shops, perhaps because he's so punchy. I elbow him in the ribs to get his attention.

"You know, Jim, maybe you should get out more. Spend some more time playing tourist in your own town. There's lot here that I bet you've never seen."

He sighs. "Usually, I'm seeing it from the other side of a badge. That makes a difference." He looks down at me. "You're right, though. This down-time has made me think about some things a little differently than before."

We stop at a corner, and I study a public wall map of the downtown area. It displays the public transportation routes, and has tourist attractions marked on it. Jim watches me as I scrutinize it, looking for other activities to kill time.

"Hey, Jim! What about - -" I point to the map.

"Forget it, Chief. I've got to draw the line somewhere. You are not dragging me to the zoo." He studies me, then his watch. "And speaking of dragging, which is what you're starting to do...let's get on back to the loft and wake up Simon. I think it's his turn to baby-sit me."

"I'm doing fine," I protest. "I'm a grad student. We're not supposed to sleep. They put that in all our contracts."

"Blair, the longer I go without sleep, the more I'm going to need you at my side, awake and alert." He grimaces. "Simon tries, and he means well, but I think by tonight I'm going to need a serious dose of Sandburg Chatter."

"Never thought I'd hear you'd say that," I punch him lightly on the arm, grinning.

Part Thirty-Nine

It's after noon when we get back to the loft, so I turn Jim over to Simon's custody while I head to my room for a nap. As I close the doors, I can hear the opening sounds of another action movie starting on the VCR.

I lay there for a while, thinking. Let's see: we're now thirty hours into the Great Jim-a-thon, and so far things are going well. He's tired, but not even all that irritable yet. Certainly there's been no indication that we're going to actually trigger any seizures by this process, so I guess I can quit worrying about that.

Tonight, though...tonight, when it gets dark, and every cell in Jim's body starts screaming for sleep...that's when it will begin to get difficult. I'll need to be my most creative from here on out.

I guess I drift off, because Simon wakes me up a few hours later. Uh...more than a few, it turns out.

"What are we doing for dinner?" he asks softly, sticking his head into my dimly lit room. "We're both getting hungry out here. Takeout?"

I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. Geez, did I sleep that long? Must have needed it. "Sure. Whatever Jim wants."

Simon chuckles. "You're letting a sleep-deprived cop with bad eating habits choose the menu? Sandburg, you're spoiling him."

"He's worth it," I grin up at Simon. "Besides...he's bigger than me and he might get irrational at any moment. Oh, and he may have forgotten, but he's buying all weekend anyway. May as well give the man what he wants." I sit up in bed and reach for my shoes. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"Pretty well. I've had to watch him more closely though. He's started to nod off a couple of times." He looks back out to the living room, as if suddenly remembering his charge. "Jim? You awake?"

An answering groan. "No...but there's some one here who seems to be wearing my body, and he's awake. Sort of."

* * * * * *

Surprisingly enough, Jim opts for Mexican food, not hamburgers, so we decide to risk taking him out in public to a nearby restaurant that he and I have been to a few times. He's definitely quieter and more subdued than he was this morning, and beginning to get grumpy.

He stares vaguely at his menu, with his chin propped up wearily on one hand and his eyes unfocused. "Chief?" he asks at last. "What did I get here last time that I liked so much? That burrito with the sausage, or something...Very spicy."

"And very greasy. The chorizo burrito, Jim." I shudder slightly as I supply the name. "That stuff is gross, it's made out of miscellaneous pig parts. How can you eat it?," I continue, intentionally needling him a little bit. "Remember that time you gave me a bite, and I found - -"

"Never mind, Chief, I doubt Simon wants to hear what you found it my burrito," he answers, with some of his usual acerbity returning. "Besides, I never really believed you."

"Hey, I saved it and showed it to one of my friends in Biology. She said it looked just like a pig aorta."

Simon's reaction amuses me; I didn't think it was possible for a man with such dark skin to turn such a shade of green. "Cut it out, Sandburg," he says sharply. "Hmmm...after that, I think I'd better just get the cheese enchiladas."

After the waitress takes our order, I look at my watch. Six-thirty. I raise my glass in a toast. "We're more than halfway there, guys. Here's to success." Our water glasses clink together.

Our food, when it arrives, isn't half bad. Despite my pig-aorta experience, I like Mexican food once in a while, and this place does have some good choices...fat-free refried beans and so forth. They also make a killer margarita, but that's probably not such a good idea tonight. And the disgusting sausage story has given me an idea.

As we finish up, I make a proposal to Jim and Simon. "I think we've had enough movies for a while. When we get back to the loft, I think it's time we heard some good true-life stories. We can take turns telling them. You know...funniest moment, most embarrassing moment, best memory...that sort of thing. What do you think?"

Jim looks doubtful. "I don't know. You're the storyteller here, Chief."

"But you must have had all number of interesting things happen to you over the years, Jim." Not to mention the fact that you'll probably get less inhibited as the night wears on. "And Simon, I know you've got some tales you can tell us."

Simon grunts. "Long as we can inspect you for recording devices, Sandburg. And you can have the honor of sharing the first story."

* * * * *

Back at the loft, I wave the guys toward the living room, where we all take seats. I choose the floor, sitting cross-legged where I can see both Jim and Simon. I'm exceedingly tempted to look at Simon and start off my story with, "Hear then, O Mighty King," but I'm not sure he's familiar with the whole 'Arabian Nights' bit. And I probably don't look much like Scheherezade.

"All right. This one definitely goes into the most embarrassing-moment file. You're both going to get a good laugh at my expense. This is the Tale of the Trolley." I pause for dramatic effect.

"I was in junior high, I think in the eighth grade. The school I was at had an Ecology requirement for all of the eight graders. Towards the end of the year, we were given an assigment that sounded like a lot of fun. We were to split up in groups of two or three, and come up with a demonstration that showed the differences between 'clean' energy sources and 'polluting' energy sources."

Jim mutters something under his breath about liberal educational brainwashing, which strikes me as pretty funny...especially considering Jim's love of the great outdoors and his intolerance towards those who would spoil it.

"Hey," I add defensively, "this was, oh, about 1981. The Reagan years, man. The requirement and the course were both axed a year later. But it was a good class; I learned a lot.

"Anyway...I teamed up with my friend Jeff. He and I, well, let's just say we were sort of the class misfits. He was the class computer geek and mad scientist, and I already had a reputation as the local earth-muffin and fast-talker. We both got really good grades, though, and pretty much knew most of the stuff without having to study it more than once.

"Jeff and I decided that we wanted to graphically demonstrate the diffences between 'clean' hydroelectric power and 'dirty' fossil fuels. 'Course, it's not really that black-and-white...after all, hydroelectric power comes from dams, and those are slowly depleting the salmon population...but I didn't know that, then.

"There was a locally produced kid's cartoon show that always had the host of the show ride out from backstage on this fake little trolley, while his studio audience of children would cheer. There were always school or scouting groups making up the studio audience. All of the little kids loved the show, and anybody over the age of about eleven hated it. For some reason, we decided to use the show's trolley as our example.

"The electric one was easy; we just found a cheap battery-operated trolley car. But we couldn't find a miniature gas-powered version, and we didn't know quite how to build an internal-combustion engine ourselves from scratch." I pause for a moment, remembering Jeff the Mad Genius. "That was probably just as well, considering what we did end up doing.

"So we decided not to worry whether or not the damn thing actually went anywhere, and decided to just make it as polluting as we could. We build a model trolley out of cardboard scraps in Jeff's basement, with a toilet paper roll smokestack."

Jim frowns. "I've never seen a trolley with a smokestack."

"This one needed one, believe me." I shake my head. "We stuffed the inside with crumpled newspaper, and just before the demonstration we soaked all of the newspapers with kerosene."

"Oh, no," says Simon, starting to laugh. "You didn't."

"Yes, we did," I sigh. "We poured a whole bottle of the stuff in there. After I gave a little spiel about the differences between electricity and fossil fuels, Jeff pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the newspapers."

Jim's cracking up. "Chief, wasn't the teacher supervising your projects? How'd you come up with such a boneheaded idea?"

"Well, Jeff and I had a reputation, like I said. The teacher, Mr. Douglas, didn't really pay much attention to us because we were his best students. It was a required class, and there were a lot of kids in there who just screwed around. He knew we were working busily away at something, so I guess he wasn't worried.

"Anyway...as soon as Jeff lit the trolley, he just disappeared from view. Completely. There was black smoke billowing out from the smokestack and from everywhere else. To this day, I'm still not sure why the fire alarms didn't go off; I wonder if they were defective. The class loved it, for a few seconds anyway, but Mr. Douglas blew a gasket. He yelled at us to put it out, so we did.

"We weren't complete idiots. We knew we'd have to have a way to put out the fire after it had started, so we'd come prepared with a little one-shot CO2 fire extinguisher. I sprayed it on the trolley and got it under control, and we opened up all the doors and windows to air the place out. Mr. Douglas wouldn't let us finish our demonstration, and we were banished back to our seats to listen to the other students' presentations."

Now I start to get the giggles. "Okay, this is where it gets funny. I'm sitting at my desk, with this smoldering thing on my lap, and feeling unfairly persecuted...when the kid next to me leans over to look at the trolley. About halfway through some hideously boring presentation about the food chain of the mountain lion, the kid whispers, 'I dare you to light it again.' I look down, and notice that when I picked up the trolley, I'd also snatched up Jeff's lighter."

"Oh, no, Sandburg," laughs Jim. "I never figured you for a fire-setter. Tell me you didn't."

"I still don't know what came over me. It was one of those pivotal moments in history, and I've always wondered if there was some higher power at work. The really stupid thing was, I think I thought that if I just lit one corner, we could just get a little smoke, enough to crack the class up again. I figured I could just pretend it had spontaneously re-ignited.

"Well, it went up in seconds, again billowing black smoke out of it. Mr. Douglas turned to me and yelled, 'Sandburg, just get that thing outside! Now!'

"So, I picked it up, still on fire, and ran for the school entrance. The box was getting hot, though and I could see I wasn't going to make it. Then, just in front of me, I saw a nice big metal trash can.

"Fortunately for the entire school, the trash can was empty. So I tossed the trolley in there and put the lid back on, knowing the fire would be smothered. And then I went back to class."

"What happened to you? Were you expelled?" asks Jim curiously.

"You know, nothing ever happened." I explain. "Looking back, I'm sure that Mr. Douglas didn't want to have to explain why he let us nearly burn down the school, so all he did was yell at us."

I pause for a moment, relecting on that long-ago memory. "He never finished the term. He left on a medical leave of absence about a month later. I guess we were too much for him."

Simon eyes me warily. "Somehow, Sandburg, I find that ominous."

Part Forty

"Okay, Simon, you're next," I prod him, grinning. "C'mon, tell us a story."

Simon looks at me sourly. "A story. Sandburg, most of the things I've seen in my career would inspire nightmares, not sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams are not the goal here. Entertainment is." I sit forward, with my best wheedling expression on my face. "How 'bout funny family stories? Dumb things that your son has done, anything."

He appears to consider for a few minutes. "Okay. Here's something that I remember from when I was a kid. It's one of those bits that comes up at family events. Daryl always thinks it's funny.

"When I was a little kid, my parents had both a regular dining table, where we ate on Sundays and when there was company, as well as a built-in restaurant-style booth in the kitchen that was for everyday. Dad sat on a chair at the end, and Mom was usually too busy in the kitchen to sit down much at all. We kids were crammed into the booth, with the youngest ones squashed up against the wall where we couldn't get up and mill around. I spent a lot of time crammed in there, waiting patiently for everyone else to finish eating. The table was just formica, but Mom always kept it as smooth as glass.

"I remember sitting in there one night when I was about six years old, eating hamburgers and French fries, when my oldest brother asked for the ketchup. For some reason instead of handing it to him, I gave it a good push, and it skated down the table. We'd already taken the top off of the bottle earlier in the meal, and no one had bothered to put it back on.

"This was a brand-new bottle, and it was one of those Heinz Keg-o-Ketchup bottles, very big and heavy. I remember sitting there, horrified, watching the whole thing as if in slow motion. When the bottle got to the end of the table, it didn't just fall over and spill like I expected. No, I swear: it seemed to hang there for a second, like--"

"Like Wile E. Coyote when he runs off the edge off the cliff?" I supply, helpfully.

Simon looks at me with mock severity. "Did I interrupt your story, Sandburg? But yes, that's what it did. Then it fell, straight to the floor, landing squarely on its bottom. A second later, this fountain of ketchup comes out, and sprays all the way up to the ceiling." He pauses. "A tomato-flavored Old Faithful. It was one of the most impressive sights of my childhood."

"And then what?" I prompt. It's hard for me to even imagine Simon as a child, let alone the perpetrator of condiment crimes of this nature.

"Oh, my brothers and sisters almost fell out of the booth laughing. Dad jumped up and slipped in ketchup and landed on his butt. My mom just sat there on one of the kitchen stools, laughing so hard she was crying. My dad kept looking at her reproachfully...but who can blame her? It really was funny.

"I had to clean it up, of course...all except the ceiling, which I couldn't reach even on the stepladder, so Dad had to deal with that. Our kitchen ceiling was always slightly pink after that, until Mom finally got fed up with it and painted it over."

Jim snickers. "Never thought of you as a sneaky little kid, Simon." He stands up and stretches.

"All right," he says."It's my turn, but I warn you...this one is disgusting. Much worse that a ketchup geyser." He returns to his seat on the couch, and leans forward intently. "This is a me-as-a-little-kid story, but much younger than you were, Simon. I must have been somewhere between a year and a half and two years old."

He pauses, and gets an odd expression on his face. "You know, my dad used to tell this story when he wanted to embarrass me, to make me feel bad. He used to tell it to my friends who came over, not that I had many of those...especially if he thought I was getting to be too much of a smart-ass."

"Jim, if it's got bad memories associated with it, you don't have to tell it," I say quietly to him. "This is supposed to be a way to pass the time, not a way to humiliate you."

He shakes his head. "It's not the story itself, just the way that Dad used to tell it. I think telling it to you guys will be good for me...good to hear someone laugh with me, instead of at me.

"I don't remember this happening, of course; I was way too young. Young enough to still sleep in a crib, and young enough to...well, you'll see.

"According to my father, he and my mother were sitting out in the livingroom late one evening. They had company over; I'm not sure who. Probably some business-related associates, since Dad has never had a lot of friends. I was in my room, in the crib, and was supposed to be asleep.

"Suddenly, out in the livingroom, all of the adults stopped talking at once. You know how that happens sometimes in a conversation? One of those awkward moments, when everyone looks at each other, which nothing to say?

"Only it wasn't completely silent. All four of them could hear me, in my room...talking to myself, repeating the same phrase over and over. 'Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy. Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy.'" Jim somehow manages to give his voice a little-kid sound to it.

"I guess the guests must have thought it was pretty funny, and according to Dad one of them said, "Oh, how cute! He's talking to himself? What do you think he's talking about?"

"They all sat out there and listened to me for a few minutes, and I kept repeating it. 'Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy. Bad boy.'

"Finally, they couldn't stand it anymore, and everyone trooped into my bedroom to see what cute little Jimmy was up to in there. They opened the door, and took a few steps, and didn't get much further before the smell hit them and they realized what I had been talking about.

"I was sitting up in the crib, with this sweet innocent look on my little toddler face, absolutely covered in --"

"Oh, no," I start to laugh helplessly, as does Simon. "You weren't. You didn't."

" -- baby shit," Jim finishes solemnly. "Yes, Chief, it's all too true."

"Man, Jim, your dad must have had an absolute cow." I'm almost choking here. I can see this, in my imagination's eye. The adoring guests, eager to view the Ellison scion; the authoritarian father looking like an idiot; the beatifically smiling child, covered in the unthinkable and unmentionable.

Jim shakes his head ruefully. "Yeah, and so did his guests. It's hard to be sure, as the tale seemed to get worse every time I heard it. Dad claims that I had smeared it not only all over myself, but all over the crib and the wall right next to me as ell." He smiles. "I bet those folks never came back over to our house, though."

Simon recovers first, while I'm still hyperventilating and rolling on the floor. "You know, Jim, that's a funny story...but it's sad that your dad used it the way he did. He could have told it without being so cruel." He grins at Jim, his eyes glinting. "It's not my turn yet, but that reminds me of something Daryl did once."

"Uh, oh," I laugh. "Go ahead, Simon. I hope it's not as gross as Jim's story, though."

"It's not," he reassures us. "It's related, but kind of cute. Daryl finds it embarrassing, but he's at that age where I embarrass him just by being around.

"When Daryl was about three, and his mother and I were still married, there was one summer day when we were invited to go swimming at a friend's house. We didn't know these people all that well, but somehow we got invited along with a lot of others for a barbeque and swim party. Daryl loved the water, and I spent most of the day splashing around in the pool together while Joan talked to our friends.

"Inevitably, the moment came when he paddled up to me in his little water wings and said, 'Daddy, I have to pee.'

"Well, I had a choice. I could haul him out of the water and hustle him inside, with both of us dripping all over our hosts' beautiful hardwood floors...or I could be practical about this. I decided to be practical.

"I looked around and made sure that everyone else was busy and not listening. Then I leaned close to him and whispered, 'Just do it in the pool, Daryl.' He looks at me like I've gone nuts, so I repeat, 'It's okay. Everyone does it.'"

Jim snickers. "Remind me not to go swimming with you, Simon."

Simon leans back on the couch. "The next thing I know, he's standing on the edge of the pool - - we were down in the shallow end, anyway, by the steps - - and he drops his trunks and just stands there peeing a perfect arc into the pool. And worse, he announces it by saying, 'Like this, Daddy?'"

I whoop with laughter. "I bet you guys didn't get invited back!"

"Not until Daryl was a few years older, no." He stretches and looks at his watch. "Well, I think it's your shift for a while, Sandburg. I'm going to crash out for a while."

I look at the clock. Hey, it's almost midnight. Only thirty hours to go.

"G'night, Simon. Get some rest." Jim waves to him as Simon climbs up the stairs.

Jim and I both sit there for a few moments, then I move closer to him on the couch. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

He sighs and rubs his face. "I've been better. I'm starting to feel...I don't know, sort of disembodied. Drunk, almost."

"Yeah...you're slurring your words a little, and I bet your reaction time is lousy."

Jim shakes his head. "I don't get it, Chief. I've been awake for long periods before, down in Peru, and I don't remember feeling this punchy."

"Yeah, but you were in danger much of that time. I would bet that the adrenaline made the difference," I suggest. "Of course, we could always find someone to come in here and shoot at you, if you think it'd help."

He snorts, and bonks me lightly on the head. "No, I think I'll pass on that." He looks at me intently for a moment, then speaks again more softly. "Hey, Chief. I've got one more story for you."

I yawn, in spite of my best efforts to not show any signs of weariness. "Save it for tomorrow, when Simon can hear it too."

"No...this one's just for you." He looks away for a moment, and I can read a tiny bit of self-consciousness through the fog of his sleep deprivation. "It's, umm, sort of allegorical. A fairy tale, I guess."

Yes, going without sleep for this long has definitely played games with Jim's inhibitions. Ellison the tough detective does not go around making up fairy tales. Maybe I should enjoy this while it lasts.

When he starts to speak again, his voice is so low that I have to lean close to hear him clearly.

"Once there was a mighty warrior, who was admired by many. He was strong, and he was fast, and the people of his village both loved him for the way he chased their enemies away...and feared him for the core of ice that they could feel at his soul, for he was without warmth or love.

"One day, without his consent or even his knowledge, a gift was given to him....a gift, or a curse. He was granted the ability to perform feats of hearing, of sight, such as no one else had ever been able to perform before. When he discovered this, he raged at the heavens and tried to reject the gift.

"As if in answer to the warrior's plea, a young teacher arrived to help the warrior with his abilities. At first, the warrior tried to reject the offered help; then, he tried to accept the instruction without letting the teacher into his life.

"But bit by bit, the young teacher became more and more indispensable to the warrior. He helped him to channel his abilities and his strength, and found ways to make the warrior a more effective fighter. Over and over, the teacher proved his worth, sometimes in situations of great danger...although he himself was a peaceful man.

"Gradually, the warrior became aware..." Jim trails off, and I can hear his voice thickening with emotion. "He became aware that the teacher had become his dearest friend and his blood brother. And when he realized that, the core of ice inside of him melted away forever."

I sit on the couch, facing Jim, my head bowed to hide the tears on my face. After a few minutes of silence, I feel his hand on my shoulder. "You okay, Chief?" he asks gently. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually so..." he trails off.

"Sappy?" I whisper, drawing my hand across my eyes, then raising my face to look at him. I smile through the residual glitter of tears in my eyes. "Jim, that was beautiful. Thank you. You're a poet, man, and I never knew." My smile becomes a mischievous grin. "If you're going to be this nice to me, we might have to extend the experiment just a little longer than I had planned."

He smiles back, and even through his weariness I can sense that he's pleased. "Sorry, Chief, but come Monday morning at six a.m. I'm hitting that bed, and not even you will be able to stop me."

Part Forty-One

After Jim's heartbreakingly touching admissions, I need to withdraw just a little to regain my composure. "Hey, Jim, we could use some caffeine," I say lightly, rising and walking to the kitchen. "It'll be a long night. Do you want tea or coffee?"

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds husky and soft. "Either one is fine, Chief. Tea sounds more soothing for a change, actually. My throat's a little raw from all of this talking." He smiles ruefully. "By the end of this weekend, I think I'll probably either lose my mind or my voice. Or both."

"Well, you lost your mind when you let me move in, so that only leaves your voice," I tease. I fill the kettle and flick on the burner, then fish a seldom-used teapot out of the cupboard and fill it with hot water to pre-warm. I poke around on the shelf that holds the tea, and come up with a box of Twining's Blackcurrant flavored tea. Maybe Jim will enjoy the round and fruity taste, even without his enhanced sense of taste.

While waiting for the water to boil, I trot to the bathroom and collect a couple of ibuprofen from the bottle. I know Jim well enough to guess that he probably has a headache, considering the way he's sitting there on the couch rubbing his temples. I take him the pills and a glass of water.

"Here." I hand him the pills, then the water. "You know you need them, Jim. Tea'll be ready in a few minutes."

He smiles at me weakly. "No herbal concoctions, Sandburg? You're slipping." But he takes the medicine without further protest, and just then the teakettle whistles for attention. I pour the boiling water over the teabags in the warm pot, then return to the couch while it brews.

Jim's eyes are closed, and I poke him. "Hey. None of that. No sleeping, or I'll have to tickle you."

His eyes fly open. "Sorry. This is getting to be harder than I thought." He rubs his face. "Just for a second, I was starting to dream...something about flying. I guess it'll have to wait."

"The tea will help." My words sound lame to me, limp and ineffective.

He nods without much enthusiasm. I fetch the teapot and mugs along with milk and sugar and bring the whole works out to the coffee table so that we can reach it easily. As we sit there sipping the warming beverage, I reach into my reserve of experiences and begin, slowly, to talk to Jim.

It's funny: I always complain, at least to myself, that I rarely get Jim to hold still long enough to listen to my anthropology stories. I know it's become a running joke between us: that no matter how tense or unpredictable the situation, I can usually come up with some wild tale about the sexual proclivities of the natives of Madagascar or something.

Sometimes, those anecdotes are even true. Well, mostly.

Now, with a truly captive audience who seems pathetically eager for any distraction, I find how difficult it truly can be to keep up an entertaining onologue. I draw upon interesting items that I've read, experiences that I've had, and events related to me by friends and teachers. I pour every ounce of enthusiasm that I can find into storytelling, watching Jim's face for those tiny flickers of interest that show that I've hit a good topic. I pace around the room, trying to hold his attention.

When my voice grows hoarse and faltering, we play games.

Jim's concentration is by now too poor for anything as complex as poker, so we resort to simple children's card games like War and Go Fish. Even these prove difficult for him as the night wears toward morning. For variety, we switch to word games like Hangman.

"Jim, man, they'll never let you on 'Wheel Of Fortune'," I tease gently, after I "hang" him for the fifth consecutive time. "I'm even giving your stick figure all the fingers and toes."

Jim leers at my grotesque stick figure and snickers. "You could always give him a --"

"Don't go there," I say firmly. "I'm not drawing any obscene pictures that could be used against me later."

He stares again at the admittedly rather long phrase I've chosen, with its empty dashes indicating unguessed letters. "I give up, Chief. My brain is pure tapioca about now."

With a flourish, I reach over with the pen and add in the missing letters.

"It's about friendship," reads the completed phrase.

* * * * * *

At about 4:00 a.m., I drag Jim out for a walk in the cool night air hoping that will wake him up a bit. I leave a note for Simon, so he won't worry. Together, we stroll through the darkened streets at a slow pace, studying our sleeping city.

Under other circumstances, Jim's behavior would be hilariously funny. He has to stop and look at everything; I have to keep poking him to get him moving. The flowers in the planters, the street trees, discarded bits of paper, our blurry reflections in the shop window...everything fascinates him. It's like taking a walk with a little kid, or someone who's extremely intoxicated.

Studying his slightly weaving gait from a few feet away, I get a brief case of the giggles.

"Hey, Jim, I hope we don't run into any cops who wonder what we're doing out here at this time of night. I mean, I can just see them giving you a field sobriety test." And potentially embarrassing for Jim later, even after explanations were given.

He laughs as well. "It would be enter...ender...entertainin'...watching them try to figure out what I'm on."

I reach for his elbow. "We'd better get back. C'mon, Jim, we've got time for a good rousing round of Mad Libs before Simon wakes up." I look at him critically. "And a cold shower for you. That'll fix you."

Part Forty-One

We return to the loft and a spend a couple more hours on silly games. Jim seem partially revived by his walk; rather than being depressed and groggy he now seems more like a cheerful drunk. He finds the childish Mad Libs humor outrageously funny, and I have to keep shushing him up 'cause he's starting to get loud.

I'm not surprised to see a frowning Simon descend the stairs by about 6:30.

"Sandburg, do you two have to be so noisy?"

I flash an apologetic look at him. "Sorry. I've, um, tried to keep it quiet, but Jim's having a hard time remembering to keep his voice down."

Simon now looks at his best detective, who's sitting on the floor with a pencil stuck up each nostril and, well, giggling. Hey, they're Jim's pencils, right? Who am I to stop him?

"I'm going to catch a shower, Blair, and then I'll take over for you." He casts another unbelieving glance at Jim, and shakes his head. "I think we'd better just have breakfast here this morning."

"I think you're right," I agree, fervently.

We finish up the game with a flourish of inappropriate adjectives, then Simon emerges from the shower. He makes shooing motions at me.

"Go catch some sleep, Sandburg. You look almost as bad as he does," he comments, motioning to Jim.

I retreat to the cocooning quiet of my little room and fall into a profound sleep.

* * * * * *

Simon wakes me after about six hours, and together we struggle to get Jim through the last day of his sleep deprivation. It has become a grim task, and none of us is having any fun anymore.

Jim alternates between being coherent and being incoherent, between laughter and tears. His higher judgement seems to have fled except for brief periods of exhausted lucidity, during which he spends most of his time apologizing.

"'M so sorry, guys," he mumbles. "Sorry 'm not makin' much sense. Wha'd ya say, again?"

It's extremely painful to watch, and to hear. I have to keep consciously reminding myself that everything we're observing can be considered predictable effects of the sleep deprivation. This is not Jim, not the Jim that I know. He'll be himself again, after we finally let him sleep.

I can't help but wonder if we're doing the right thing here.

It's a strange feeling, to be essentially in charge of the situation. Simon continues to defer to me about Jim's care, and Jim is out of the picture at this point as far as decisions are concerned. I know, without asking Simon, that the sleep deprivation experiment will cease when I give the signal. With every hour that passes, it becomes harder for me to keep from calling it quits on Jim's behalf.

As the day wears on, Jim begins to develop a certain amount of paranoia and a growing anxiety about my whereabouts. At one point I walk down to the corner store, leaving Simon alone with him for about fifteen minutes. By the time I return, Jim is shouting hysterically at Simon, demanding to know what he's done with me. It takes me a good half hour for me to reassure him, and the experience leaves both Simon and myself considerably shaken.

Simon goes upstairs in the early evening to sleep for a couple of hours, but there'll be no further rest for me. Not only will Jim not allow me out of his sight for longer than it takes me to visit the bathroom; but my conscience will no longer let me seek the solace of sleep when I must deny its relief to Jim.

We're finally reducing to physically prodding Jim every time he starts to nod. Every couple of hours, we toss him into a cold shower, and we continue to fill him with coffee. He no longer remembers the reason behind the continued torture, and pleads with us pathetically to let him sleep.

At about 2:00 a.m., we hit one of his quiet and cooperative stretches. Simon manages to find some late-night cable cartoons on television, the only kind of program that still holds Jim's attention. I slump next to Jim on the couch, trying to reassure him by my presence...when he leans over to me and begins to gently shift my head onto his lap.

I look up at him, startled, but I'm so worn out that I don't protest. His eyes meet mine, and once again I see rational thought behind those blue orbs.

"Chief, you should be resting," he murmurs, slurring his words only slightly. "Res' for a while. Simon'll keep me awake, Jus' stay here."

I close my eyes and enter a half-doze, dimly aware of the sound of the cartoons and of Jim's hand on my head.

* * * * * *

I sit up with a start. To my relief, Jim's still awake, staring vacantly at the television. Unless he's sleeping with his eyes open, which I wouldn't eliminate from the realm of possiblities at this point.

"Sandburg," says Simon softly. "It's about four. You think we're close enough, here? He seems like he's almost in a trance."

I rub my face, trying to get the grit out of my eyes. "Simon, you should have woken me up."

"We've been doing okay. But he's hardly moved."

Even though Simon's just told me what time it is, I look at the clock anyway. "Just a little longer, Simon. Why don't you stretch out for a while."

He nods, and leans back where he sits, closing his eyes.

I shift back to the middle of the couch. "Hey, Jim. How are you doing?"

He turns his head toward me slowly. "Chief. Glad to see you." He frowns. "Can you help me?"

"Help you with what, Jim? What do you need?" I ask softly.

"I just can't remember," he complains, rubbing his face. "I can't remember how to wake up." Then his eyes narrow as he looks at me suspiciously.

"But if you're here, in my dream...that means you don't know either, Blair. We'll just have to do it the hard way."

Part Forty-Three

Jim's words, combined with the stupefied and lost expression on his face, cause a little chill of horror to snake down my spine.

"What do you mean, Jim? We're not dreaming. We're awake. You're just a little confused because you're so tired. It's okay."

He pulls himself to his feet, shaking his head frantically. "No. We have to wake ourselves up, Chief, or we'll never get out." He heads for the doors to the balcony.

"You want some fresh air? That might help, Jim. Come on." I open the doors, and propel him out onto the balcony.

"There," I say to him, patting him on the back. "Take some deep breaths of that nice cool air. That'll make you feel better."

He looks at me incredulously. "No, Chief. Don't you understand? There's only one way that always works."

"Works for what, Jim?" I ask him, slowly.

"To wake up from a bad dream." He moves away from me, staring out at the pre-dawn city...then faster than I would have thought possible, he's scrambling to the top of the brick-wall railing.

"You have to fall," he says calmly.

"Jim!" I scream, not caring who I might wake up at this hour. "Jim!" I repeat, willing myself to stay calm. "You have to get down from there." Oh my God...he's so groggy and uncoordinated, one wrong move and he'll just be a blot on the sidewalk. I mentally curse my sodden reflexes, my carelessness, that somehow let this happen.

To my relief, he at least sits down on the wall. I move up behind him, then stop. My first impulse is to wrap my arms around him from behind and pull him back into the balcony. But even sleep-deprived, he's still damned strong. We might both go over the edge if I try that.

Just then, the doors to the loft fly open and Simon tears through, looking wild-eyed. "Sandburg, what's going...Oh, my God. Jim, get down from there. Now. Before you fall."

Jim giggles. "But I want to fall, Simon. Then I'll get to wake up." He wobbles a bit. "Whoa!" he laughs.

Okay, okay...think, think, dammit, think!! I cudgel my brain, trying to get it to respond faster. "Jim, you have to come down. Uh...you can't fall from there. It won't work." Quick, quick, quick...what cockeyed explanation can I possibly come up with that will convince him while he's in this state? "You, uh, need to come back inside, and try it from the stairs. You can get higher that way, and you'll have more time to wake up on the way down."

"Huh." Jim appears to consider this. "Tha' sounds like a good idea, Chief. You comin' with me?"

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. "Yeah, sure, Jim. I'm coming with you."

"Okay." He turns and swings his legs back around so that he's facing us, lurching dangerously as he does so. I put out an arm to steady him, and he climbs down.

"Simon comin' too?"

Simon clears his throat. "I'm right here, Jim. Come on." I see a faint glint of metal in his hands, and suddenly I know what he holds in them.

Handcuffs.

"Great. This'll be fun." Jim staggers back inside, and almost gets away from us again. But as he rounds the couch, Simon catches up to him and slips the cuffs on him. I move in as well, standing in front of him...waiting for the eruption of fury.

But it never comes. Instead, Jim looks at me sorrowfully, with tears springing to his eyes.

"You tricked me, Chief. Now we'll never get to wake up." He starts to cry, the sobs sounding brittle and harsh in his throat.

"Yes, we will," I half-whisper, hesitantly putting an around his back. "But first, we have to go to sleep, Jim." His eyes meet mine for an instant, then he closes them again and nods. "Sleep," he whispers, choking off the tears.

Together, Simon and I assist him up the stairs to his bedroom, while he mutters and protests in phrases that I can't quite understand. We lower him to the bed, as gently as we can.

Simon eyes the cuffs. "What do you think?" he says softly.

"Get them off of him," I reply. "I think he's already asleep anyway. I'll stay with him."

It only takes Simon about five seconds to remove the cuffs, then we roll Jim onto his back and cover him loosely. He's already a dead weight.

"I'll crash out on the couch downstairs for a while, Blair. Just to be on the safe side." He gives Jim one final, awkward pat then heads silently downstairs.

Moving like an old man, I climb slowly onto the bed next to my sleeping Sentinel. Jim's going to be a little weirded out to wake up and find me here, but I'm not taking any more chances with his safety. I crawl into the bed next to him and move close to his warmth.

My eyes blurry with fatigue, I gaze at his face for a while. I guess I'm waiting to be sure he's in a deep sleep before I let myself drift off. Maybe, though, I just need a good look at this man...his life now doubly precious to me, since I came so close to failing him up there on the balcony. My fault, that little scene: for pushing this whole thing past the point when we should have quit, and for becoming careless.

Stubble-faced, tear-stained, and snoring, with blue-gray marks under his eyes, he looks like...well, like a man who's been forced to stay awake for three days, and who's lived through his worst waking nightmares. Yet I swear I can already see some peace beginning to steal back into his features as he relaxes into slumber.

I have no concrete proof that we've succeeded in our objectives, that we've cured Jim of his seizures. No proof, but the strongest feeling of well-being diffuses through my body. It's a feeling I recognize: the satisfaction that comes with the completion of a difficult task. By some inner instinct, I have surety that it's over.

Today, we'll sleep. Maybe Wednesday we'll go to see Dr. Philpott, and start convincing the DMV and the powers-that-be that Jim is cured.

But tomorrow, dammit, I'm taking him fishing.

Finis.

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