*~1:14 a.m.~*

Again, Blair switched off the alarm before it sounded. He levered himself up from the couch, put his book on the coffee table, and headed for his room.

As he approached the doors, which he'd left ajar, he could hear Jim muttering.

"Hang on," he was saying. "Hang on....going down--Trees!"

Blair entered the room, and Jim sat up abruptly in bed. Gasping for breath, he looked around wildly.

Probably expecting to see Peru, Blair thought. "Take it easy, Jim," he said. "You're okay. It was just a dream. You're safe."

Jim rubbed a hand over his face. "What time is it?" he asked in a sleep-thickened voice.

"One-fifteen in the morning. Is your headache better?"

"Headache? Uh, yeah...I think." Jim frowned at Blair. "You're still here?"

Tiredly, Blair said, "I live here--remember?" God, he was beginning to hate that word.

"Yeah, yeah, that's right. Sorry. Forgot."

Another word to hate. "I know."

Jim paused in the act of settling himself more comfortably on the bed and asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" Blair seated himself in the chair by the bed.

"Why do you live here, Shorty? I mean, you said we weren't....er, that we aren't....well, you know." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Blair had to bite back a laugh. "So then, why do you live here? Are we--" He looked taken aback. "Are we related?"

Blair did laugh then. He couldn't help it; the look on Jim's face was just too funny. Heroically resisting the urge to fabricate, Blair merely said, "No, man. We're not related. You let me move in after my place blew up."

"What? Did you say your place blew up?"

"Hey, I didn't know there was a drug lab in my building, did I? Guess that explained the cheap rent though."

Jim chuckled, and Blair's spirits lifted at the sound.

Still smiling, Jim said, "You sure don't look like a cop, Shorty."

"Blair."

"Oh, wait. The captain said you were a civilian obs--"

"Blair," the grad student repeated firmly.

"Hmm? What?"

"You can call me Blair or Sandburg or even Chief. But please stop calling me Shorty. It's worse than Curly." He grimaced.

"Sure, Cur--I mean, sure, Sandburg." Jim's eyelids were heading south. With obvious effort, he opened them again and asked, "Chief? Do I call you that?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Well, a lot of the time actually."

"Mmm. Funny....that was...the name...." The sentence ended with a snore.

Blair shook his head and pulled the blanket up over the sleeping man. "Guess we'll save that revelation for another day," he said softly.

He reset the alarm.

*~2:25 a.m.~*

"Time to wake--"

"I'm awake already, Sandburg," was the grumpy reply. "What're you doing out there, anyway?"

"Doing? Just reading."

"Well, you sure do read loud."

Blair forced himself to remain calm, not to get his hopes up. He sat down in the chair by the bed and took a deep breath before he spoke. "What do you mean? Could you hear me reading?"

"Of course I could hear you. Paper crackling, pages thumping, breathing like a bellows--are you asthmatic or something?"

"No. Uh, Jim, I'd like to try a little experiment, if that's okay."

"Experiment?" Jim said warily. "What kind of experiment?"

Great, Blair thought. He forgets me, but he remembers he hates my experiments.

Exhaustion and worry had frayed the grad student's temper, and he snapped, "Humor me, okay? I'm losing a night's sleep for you, the least you can do is 'play along with my delusion.' Okay?"

Jim recognized his own harsh words from back at the hospital. He had the grace to look sheepish. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry about saying that, Sandburg. If we're partners, I guess this is all pretty tough on you, too. So go ahead with your experiment. I'll try to stay awake."

"Good. Excellent! Just stay right there. Lie still, close your eyes, and relax. Just stay relaxed. But awake. You stay awake, okay?"

As Blair closed the doors behind himself, he heard Jim sigh and say, "You are a strange man, Blair Sandburg--and I mean that in a spooky, where's-the-nearest-escape-hatch kind of way."

Blair was smiling as he crossed the living room. Carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, he opened the front door and went out into the hallway. He pulled the door nearly shut and whispered, "Jim. Jim Ellison, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Blair took several deep breaths, clearing his mind. Pretend it's a zone-out, he told himself, one godawful, nightmarish zone-out, and bring him out of it. That's what you do; you're his partner. So do it.

"Jim, listen to me," he murmured. "You've heard me from a lot farther away than this. Just relax, filter out everything else, and listen to me." With a nervous swallow, Blair added, still whispering, "Jim, we're madly in love and we got married last month. Simon was our best man."

Peering back into the loft, Blair saw the doors to his room open abruptly inward. "What the hell kind of experiment is this?" Jim called angrily. "Sandburg? Where are you?"

Elation sang through Blair's veins. Still whispering, he said, "Jim. I'm out in the hall."

Jim's head came around. The detective was staring straight toward the front door. A broad smile finally eased the lines of worry on Blair's face.

Yes! he exulted silently. Goddamn right!

"Do you hear me?" he asked softly.

"Of course I can hear you! What the hell are you doing out--wait a minute." Jim came over and opened the door. His face showed confusion.

"Were you standing out here yelling?" he asked.

Blair shook his head. "I was whispering actually."

"Whispering? And I heard you?"

"You sure did, partner."

Jim's confusion only deepened. He swayed suddenly and put a hand on the doorframe for support.

Blair was there at once, putting an arm around his friend. "That's enough for now," he said. "Let's get you back to bed."

Jim leaned heavily against him as they made their way back to Blair's room. Once he was lying in bed again, the detective sighed.

"Will this make sense in the morning?" he asked.

"I think so. Or, if not in the morning, then very soon."

Jim gave the younger man a long look, then nodded once and closed his eyes.

"If you say so...Chief."

Blair grinned.

He reset the alarm.

*~3:30 a.m.~*

Dozing in the chair in his room, Blair was awakened by the harsh sound of Jim gasping for air. The detective lay on the bed, arms tight by his sides, his mouth wide, as he fought for breath.

Blair took Jim's shoulders in a tight grip and shook him hard.

"Jim, wake up! It's a dream! It's just a dream, man. Wake up, damnit!"

Jim's eyes snapped open and he took in a long, shuddering breath.

"It's just a dream, Jim," Blair repeated. "Breathe. It's just a dream."

Jim looked up at him in astonishment. "What?" he said. "A dream? God. Hell of a dream." He closed his eyes, but immediately his breathing grew raspy and the eyes flew open again. "What's--can't seem...to get...air."

Blair sat on the bed and put a hand on Jim's chest. "Take it easy, man. Pull back from it. Let it go. You're okay. Concentrate on taking the air in and out normally. In and out. Slow and easy."

The detective's breathing eased into a more normal pattern. His tense muscles relaxed. His eyes lost their wild, glazed look.

"Better?" Blair asked.

Jim nodded. "Yeah." He noticed Blair's hand on his chest.

Blair pulled back immediately, but Jim's face showed no anger, only curiosity. "It's okay, Sandburg," he said, a smile quirking one side of his mouth. "Do you moonlight as a faith healer?"

Blair smiled. "The career history may be colorful--anthro fellow, police observer, partner to a grumpy sentinel, shaman-in-training--but no faith healing. At least, not yet."

Eyebrows rising, Jim said, "Shaman? And...partner to a grumpy what?"

"Were you drowning?"

Jim blinked in confusion. "Whoa. I think we've got a bad connection," he said, shaking his head.

"The dream you were just having," Blair explained patiently. "You said you couldn't breathe. Were you dreaming of drowning?"

It was comical. Jim's mouth opened and closed twice but no sound came out. Finally, he said, "Yes."

"In a fountain. Shallow basin, sort of roundish, with a column thing spraying water on one side."

"How in hell--" Jim stopped in mid-sentence and stared.

"I'll take that as a yes. Don't wig out, man. I'm not psychic. You had that same dream every night for weeks. But you finally got past it; the last time was about two months ago."

"Did--" Jim cleared his throat and started again. "Was it just a dream, or did it actually happen?"

Blair snorted. "Oh yeah. It happened all right. Of course you weren't the one who did a Greg Louganis in the fountain."

Jim's eyes were riveted to Blair's face. "It was you, wasn't it?" he said. "You...drowned."

"Facedown in the water, no pulse, no respiration, the whole nine yards. You and the folks at Major Crimes hauled me out and started CPR. No dice. Paramedics gave up, pulled the sheet over my soggy head--well, figuratively speaking--no sheets were actually present at the time. But you--" Blair's flip tone faltered. "You--" His jaw tightened as he fought back his emotions.

"Sandburg--"

The younger man held up a hand. "I was gone, D.O.A., flat line, but you brought me back. You put your hands on me and...pulled me back." He shook his head. "I still don't really understand what happened, but--"

"Incacha."

"What? What'd you say?"

"I'm so tired I don't know what I'm saying. It just popped into my head." Jim yawned and lay back on the bed, settling himself more comfortably. "But it's a name, right? A person?"

Blair pulled the blanket up over him. "Oh, yeah, definitely a person."

Jim yawned again. "About that fountain--" he said, but his eyelids were drooping.

"Go to sleep, man. We'll talk about it later."

Jim's eyes closed. Blair seated himself in the chair.

"Hey," Jim murmured, eyes briefly opening. "Glad you didn't stay drowned."

Blair smiled.

And reset the alarm.

*~4:25 a.m.~*

Jim woke up.

Something had interrupted his sleep. He lay in the small room wondering what had awakened him.

The room was too dark. There should be...a skylight. Yes, a skylight over his bed. The room was definitely smaller than it should be, too. The walls seemed close enough to touch. And the bed was most definitely wrong; his feet hung off the end.

This must be Sandburg's room. Jim wondered why the kid had put him in here.

Suddenly, he had a memory of steps, of stairs. His room was higher. It was upstairs.

He looked up at the ceiling. Someone was speaking, and the sound seemed to be coming from over his head.

He couldn't make out the words at first, but as he thought about not being able to hear them, they suddenly came in loud and clear.

--it's okay. Just napping is all. It's fine.

It was Sandburg's voice. He must be talking into a phone, because Jim didn't hear anyone answering him. It must've been the ringing of the phone that had awakened Jim.

No, there's no reason for you to come over, Simon. Really, it's okay. He's sleeping....Yeah, I'm a little tired. But I'm okay....No, not yet, but he does seem to be remembering a few things....Me? Sandburg gave a humorless laugh. No, he hasn't remembered me yet, but at least he isn't trying to punch me now....You're right. You're right. I'm sure he'll be fine....Yeah, thanks for checking in. See you in a few hours.

Jim heard the beep as the connection was terminated, then a rustle of fabric, as though Sandburg was lying back down.

Lying down in bed. In Jim's bed. Because Jim's bed was upstairs.

Jim's elation at remembering that fact was interrupted by the sound of Sandburg sighing, and of Sandburg muttering.

He'll be fine. Yeah, right. Just keep telling yourself that, Shorty. Say it often enough and maybe you'll convince yourself.

Jim frowned at the tone, but Blair was still talking, so the detective concentrated on listening.

How the hell could he forget me? Yell at me, sure. Throw me up against a wall even--we've definitely got precedent for that. But forget? How d'you forget your goddamned best friend? Simon he remembers, but not me. Me he looks at like some kind of...of...hell! Some kind of hippie witch doctor punk, right?

Jim sat up in bed. Those last words struck a chord in his mind. Hippie witch doctor punk. Hippie witch doctor punk.

He frowned. He could hear his own voice saying those words. Saying them while looking down at Sandburg. He'd been angry at Sandburg Mad as hell. He'd thrown the kid up against a wall, hadn't he? That must be the "precedent" Blair was talking about.

Jim's hands clenched into fists as he remembered the feel of Blair's shirt in his hands. He noticed a strange feeling in his fingertips, and he looked down. His hands were knotted in the sheets. Even as he stared them, his fingers began to tingle. The smooth surface of the sheets suddenly felt coarse, irregular, and then painfully rough. He let go of them abruptly.

Hippie witch doctor punk. Hippie witch doctor punk.

The words continued to echo in his head, and another memory returned. He remembered the reason behind his anger at Sandburg.

He'd been mad as hell because of Sandburg's interference. Because he'd thought the kid was making fun of him, was yanking his chain.

It was ridiculous to think some longhaired, oddly dressed, anthropology grad student could possibly understand the insanity that had become Jim Ellison's life. How could he possibly understand what it was like to look at a typed report and suddenly find yourself falling into the words printed on the page, to have the overwhelming urge to puke because you could smell the stench of the paper mill way across town, to have to yank off your freshly laundered T-shirt because it suddenly seemed to be full of needles.

How could some longhaired, neo-hippie witch doctor punk help him with that?

Neo-hippie witch doctor punk.

The rest of it hit him like a wave. Five years of memories rushed back into Jim's head like a surging tide. The kaleidoscope of mental images and babble of remembered conversations drove Jim to his hands and knees in the middle of the floor. After an interminable time, the avalanche slowed, eased, and finally evened out.

He stayed where he was for a few minutes, getting control of his breathing, allowing the pounding in his head to subside.

He remembered.

What a wonderful word that was...remember.

With a triumphant grin, Jim finally hauled himself off the floor and went out the French doors. He took the stairs to his room--his room!--two at a time. He hit the top with mouth open, ready to shout the news, but when he arrived, he said not a word.

Blair was sprawled flat on his back in Jim's bed, asleep.

Anticlimax. Jim, poised to shout out the news, now stared silently at his friend. The friend he recognized. The friend he remembered.

The grin came back, and very, very softly, the sentinel said, "Longhaired neo-hippy witch doctor punk. Gotta get it right, Chief. Neo-hippy witch doctor punk."

A noise intruded on the quiet, a noise none but Jim could've heard. He took one long step to the bedside table and grabbed the alarm clock. He switched it off an instant before it would've sounded, then set the clock back on the table.

Sandburg slept on.

For a moment, Jim debated waking him, then vetoed the idea. He'd let the kid sleep. God knew Blair deserved the down-time. The sun would be up in a couple of hours, time enough to give him the good news.

Jim felt wide awake, and his headache was much better. With another Tylenol, maybe he'd actually finish that Michael Crichton book he'd started a month ago. "Timeline"? "Timeframe"? He couldn't remember the title.

He very nearly laughed at that thought. Screw the title! The book had a very memorable plot. A plot any idiot could remember. He glanced again at Blair, allowed himself another foolish, self-satisfied grin, then turned and tiptoed down the stairs.

After swallowing the Tylenol and retrieving his book from the shelf, Jim settled himself in Blair's bed, by the lamp, and lost himself in the world of fourteenth-century France.

*~7:05 a.m.~*

The door opened before Simon could knock. Jim's smiling face greeted the surprised captain.

"Morning, Simon," Jim said softly. "Keep it down. Sandburg's dead to the world upstairs."

Simon nodded and entered quietly, but two steps beyond the threshold, he stopped dead and exclaimed, "Simon! Jim, you called me Simon!"

A hand shot out and covered the captain's mouth. "Quiet," Jim hissed. His head tilted in the familiar listening pose, then he said, "It's okay. He's still out of it."

Simon gave a muffled exclamation at the evident use of sentinel hearing.

Eyes twinkling, Jim asked, "You gonna be quiet?"

Simon nodded and the hand was removed. "You got the sentinel thing back, too!" the captain exclaimed, though softly. "You're okay!"

Moving toward the kitchen, Jim nodded. "Yeah. My head aches a little, and I still have some gaps in my memory about yesterday--the accident was yesterday, right? No, wait. The day before?--well, whatever. All in all--" He turned and gave his captain a pleased smile. "All in all, I'm terrific."

Simon glanced upward. "No wonder the kid's sleeping--must be one hell of a relief."

Jim shook his head. "He doesn't know yet."

"What?"

"It all sort of came back to me early this morning. When I went upstairs to tell him, he was out like a light. I figured I should let him sleep."

The captain was slack-jawed in astonishment. "You haven't told him?!" Once more Jim admonished him to be quiet. More softly, Simon added, "Good lord, Jim, you should've told him right then! He was worried sick about you."

"Take it easy. Soon as he wakes up, I'll tell him. He had a hard night of it and needs the sleep. You want breakfast?"

As the sentinel began meal preparations, Simon kept glancing from him to the upper bedroom and back, clearly undecided as to what to do. His first impulse was to race up the stairs and haul Sandburg out of bed, to share the great news. On the other hand, he had no doubt that what Jim said was true: the kid probably could use the rest.

As he stood there debating with himself, the issue was suddenly taken out of the captain's hands.

Blair's eyes opened, then immediately squinted nearly shut as sunlight assaulted them.

Blue sky was visible through the skylight over the bed. Geez, how did a guy with sentinel eyesight stand that? he wondered. Oh right. The sleep mask.

Blair grinned, remembering Jim's reaction when he'd first proposed the sleep mask--

JIM!

The grad student shot upright, horror etched on his face. Time! What time was it?

He looked at the bedside clock:  7:07 a.m.

Holy shit, he'd forgotten to set the alarm! He hadn't woken Jim since...since...oh shit! Since who the hell knew when!

He leapt from the bed and flung himself at the stairs. "Ow!" he yelped as his left knee hit the bedside table.

"Chief?"

Blair froze, immobile as a sentinel in a zone-out.

"Sandburg, you up?"

It was Jim's voice. Relief coursed through Blair. Jim was awake. Jim was okay.

He limped toward the stairs. "Yeah, man. I'm awake. I can't believe I forgot to set my alarm--"

"You didn't forget. I turned it off. Figured you could use the rest. How d'you feel about some of that not-really-bacon of yours and a coupla eggs this morning? I think we all could use the protein after last night. Simon's here, by the way."

"Morning, Sandburg."

Blair, halfway down the stairs, acknowledged the captain's greeting with a distracted wave. The grad student's eyes were fastened on his partner.

Jim looked up at him, and laughed. "You might want to, uh, do something to that hair first, Chief. I still think you should consider letting Carlos whack off a couple inches. Think of the time you'd save on shampooing alone."

Carlos? Jim remembered their conversation about Carlos?

Staring down at his friend's upturned face, Blair realized Jim remembered a lot more than their joking exchange a week ago about the eighty-year-old barber.

The sentinel grinned at him. "You might also want to think about some clothes, Chief. I don't think I can eat breakfast with a man wearing those shorts."

"They were a gift," Blair said, his voice suddenly a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah, but Connor meant them as a joke, you know. Real men do not wear pink flamingo underwear."

Now he couldn't even manage a whisper. Blair simply stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring.

"It's okay, buddy," Jim told him. "It's back." He tapped his head significantly. "All the marbles are back in place...well, most of them. The important ones."

Blair's head drooped and he swayed against the stair railing. Jim frowned, worry evident, but the grad student pushed himself off the rail and walked into the kitchen.

As he came abreast of Jim, Blair stopped. He murmured, "Glad you're back, man. It was--" He shook his head. "I'm glad."

He started to walk on by, toward the sink, but Jim's hand on his arm pulled him up.

"Thanks for sticking with me," Jim said in a low voice.

Blair nodded once, and Jim could tell he was fighting back tears. Jim turned away, both to give Blair time to compose himself and because the sight of his friend's inner battle was doing embarrassing things to Jim's own self-control.

Jim cleared his throat and called, "Hey, Simon."

During the partners' exchange Simon had moved away, to the balcony doors. Now he turned from his study of the view, saying, "Yeah?"

"How do you like your eggs?"

"With four slices of bacon, about a pound of fried potatoes, and Mama's melt-in-your-mouth butter biscuits." Simon made a wry face and added, "But I'll settle for scrambled in Pam, with whole-wheat toast."

"Ah, now there's a man who remembers the Sandburg dietary rules." Jim glanced again at Blair. The younger man had regained his composure and was regarding Jim with a smile. "What about you, Curly?" the sentinel teased.

Blair shook his head firmly. "Absolutely not. No 'Curly' and no 'Shorty'. That's something I'd rather we all forget."

Jim grinned down at his friend. "I'll try to remember that, Chief."

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