After that frightening beginning, the day never improved.  A steady stream of students in his office and a building-emptying fire alarm (false) ate up Blair's time.  The most annoying interruption to his day was the unexpected visit of Professor Peter J. Everden, acting head of the department of anthropology.

Blair's doctoral research topic was the Sentinel phenomenon--men and women with enhanced senses who, throughout history, had been the protectors of their tribes.  What no one but Simon Banks knew was that at long last Blair had discovered a complete Sentinel, a person with all five senses extended well beyond the norm, and that James Ellison was that Sentinel.

To obtain permission to ride along with Jim, Blair had told the police department he was doing research on closed societies.  For the university he wove an explanation involving a possible correlation between a Sentinel's historical role of protector and the corresponding role occupied by the police in the modern world.  Their acceptance of this was proof that the more complex and verbose a theory, the less likely it was to be questioned closely.

Unfortunately, "certain senior members" of the faculty (as Dr. Everden characterized them) required additional reassurance every couple of months.  When Everden appeared in Blair's office, the young man sourly reflected that he was at least a month early for his regular dose of hand-holding.

The really aggravating thing was that Everden himself actually had no worries about how Blair spent his time.  The acting department head merely parroted the complaints of various old fogeys who hadn't done a day's original research in decades and therefore had nothing better to do with their time than nitpick the lives and work of others. A bunch of fossilized, worthless--

Blair sat up straighter in his chair, dragging his attention back to Dr. Everden.  The man was finally leaving.

"You understand, Mr. Sandburg," Everden said, "Since your advisor is out of the country this semester, it falls to me to keep abreast of the progress you are making.  To make certain you're pursuing a productive line of research.  We wouldn't want to give the impression that you're only, um, joy-riding and thrill-seeking with your police officer friends."  He smiled chummily and Blair pasted an answering smile on his face.

"Well, thanks for stopping by, Dr. Everden," Blair said brightly. "I'd better get back to work.  Blue books wait for no man."  Good grief, had he actually said that?

Everden departed with an appreciative chuckle.

Blair leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and arms hanging limply toward the floor.  He closed his eyes and sighed loudly.

"Joy-riding and thrill-seeking?" said an amused voice.  "So that's what we do all day."

Blair groaned.  "Jim, the man is unbelievable.  'To make certain you're pursuing a productive line of research,'" he mimicked.  He opened his eyes and saw his friend leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.  Against all reason, Blair's spirits lifted at the sight of Jim's sympathetic smile.

"Let me take you to lunch, Chief," Jim suggested.  "Do you good to get away."

"I'm still pulling grass outta my hair from the last time you took me to lunch," Blair grumbled good-naturedly.  Then he sighed and added, "I can't leave.  My office hours start soon, and I still have to get these essays graded."  He indicated the stacks of blue books confined by rubber bands which covered his desk and the floor.

"Okay, Chief.  I'll see you later then."  Jim hesitated in the doorway, frowning.

"Something else?" Blair asked, looking at his friend over the tops of his reading glasses.

"Uh, no.  I was going to see if you could help me with something that's come up on the case I'm working, but it'll keep.  You get back to your blue books.  See you at home."

"Later, man."

Blair opened a blue book.  After a few seconds, he realized he'd read the same paragraph three times without ever understanding it. It wasn't a particularly incomprehensible paragraph--at least for a freshman anthro essay--but his mind just wouldn't take in the words.

Why did he have the nagging feeling that he was letting Jim down? The older man had given no sign that he felt that way; Jim was pretty understanding of Blair's various commitments.  But the guilt persisted, and Blair found himself in a very unpleasant place, psychologically speaking.

He managed to get through two blue books before the fire alarm sounded, emptying the building for a full twenty minutes.

Opening the door to the loft that night was a completely different Blair Sandburg from the man who'd left it with Jim that morning.  What a truly rotten day.

He couldn't even breathe a sigh of relief that it was Friday, though it was.  His backpack was bulging with the ungraded blue books. Of course, during the bus ride home, he'd remembered that Naomi was coming tomorrow *and* that he'd planned to ride with Jim all day.  So much for grading the essays.

Oh, be honest with yourself, he thought.  It's not being busy that bothers you, it's the happy notion that you might be going nuts.

The stress of the constant state of worry and fear was exhausting. Something would take his mind off his trouble for a minute or two, then he'd remember and the dread would return.

He came in to the dark loft and flicked on the light.  Though it was nearly nine-thirty, Jim wasn't home.

Blair dropped his heavy backpack on the couch, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.  The message light on the answering machine was blinking so he pressed the 'play' button.

"Hey, Sandburg, it's me," said Jim's voice.  "It's seven o'clock and I'm still up to my ass in paperwork.  I *will* be late."  A martyred sigh ended the message.

Blair stood staring down at the machine for a long moment then pressed 'play' again.  The message repeated, filling the empty loft with Jim's voice.  It was ridiculous of course, this feeling of disappointment. He pressed 'play' again.  When Jim's message finished with a sigh, Blair sighed as well.  Completely ridiculous.  He wasn't a kid afraid of being alone in the house.  He reached for the 'erase' button, but stopped himself.  He could erase it later.  When he found his finger swerving toward 'play again, he cursed softly and punched 'erase.'

The final cap to Blair's day had been when the bus had broken down. With no taxis out that way at that time of night and not even a phone nearby to call one, he and the other stranded passengers been forced to endure an hour-and-a-half wait while the bus company's mechanic arrived, *finally* gave up on fixing the damn thing, and ordered a replacement bus be sent.

He went to the kitchen and pondered food.  He knew he must be hungry; he hadn't eaten since--when had he last eaten?  Must've been breakfast. But nothing appealed to him in the least, nothing seemed worth the trouble of fixing.  Forget it.  He'd eat tomorrow. He needed sleep. That's all he really wanted right now.  To sleep.

He crossed the living space and pushed open the doors that led to his bedroom--

And stepped into an inferno.  Fire filled the small space with writhing golden light.  Blair gave a cry of horror and jumped backward, tripping on his own feet in his haste to get out.  He landed hard on his back.

The fire vanished, leaving the young man gasping and terror-stricken, staring wildly around his suddenly dark and silent room.

"God," he whispered.  "My god."  Adrenaline coursed through his body and it was all he could do not to tear out of the loft in a raging panic. He fought the urge to flee, breathing deeply and concentrating on slowing his racing heart.  He would not run away.  He could deal with this.

Yeah, right.  Keep telling yourself that, man.

He made his way back to the living room on shaking legs.  Well, he was sure as hell awake now; might as well make use of all this adrenaline-charged energy.  Soon, he was sitting on the living room couch surrounded by blue books.

Jim put his key in the lock of the loft's door.  A sound from the other side caused him to pause and dial up his hearing.  Snoring. Sandburg's snoring.  He entered quietly and saw that his partner had fallen asleep on the couch.

Jim tossed his keys in the basket by the door.  He was astonished by the number of blue books covering both Blair and the sofa.  He shuddered; give him armed criminals any day.

Blair was asleep on his back, his mouth open, his glasses resting low on his nose.  Gently, Jim lifted the glasses from Blair's face and laid them on the end table.

The young man flinched and his eyelids flew open.  "Wha--" he said.

"Sorry, Chief.  Didn't mean to wake you."

"Jim?  You home?" Blair mumbled.  Rubbing his face, he sat up.  Blue books cascaded to the floor.  "What time is it, man?"

"After two.  How long you been grading?"

Blair groaned as he stretched his arms.  "Not long enough.  Did you finish your paperwork?"

"Yesss."  The single word oozed triumph.  Jim yawned and Blair followed suit.  "Call it a night, Chief," Jim suggested.  "We both need sleep. Besides, Naomi's coming tomorrow--today, actually."

Blair looked around for a moment at the sea of blue books, then yawned again and said, "You're right."  Shoving the rest of the essays onto the floor, he settled himself deeper into the sofa.

"Chief, go to bed.  You can't sleep out here."

"Too tired," was the muffled reply.  "G'night."

Jim shook his head; Sandburg could sleep anywhere.  He pulled the light blanket from the back of the couch and covered his friend.

"Good night, Chief."

As he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, Jim heard an exhalation softer than a whisper.  Only Sentinel ears could have discerned the words, but he attributed them to his friend's sleep-fogged state, not recognizing the relief embodied in the two-word phrase.

"Jim's home."

Blair was pulled from a dreamless sleep by the feel of a hand on his cheek.  Then a pair of lips brushed his forehead.

"Jim, wha're ya' doin'?" he complained, lifting his heavy eyelids and swatting at the offending lips.

It was not the Sentinel's face that greeted his bleary gaze, but one with high cheekbones and topped by short auburn hair.  It was the
bemused, beautiful face of Naomi Sandburg.

"Mom!" he exclaimed, pushing himself upright.

Naomi sat on the edge of the couch beside her befuddled son.  "Well, at least he recognizes me," she said with mock bitterness.

She looked over at Jim, who was in the kitchen finishing his breakfast. "I kiss him and he calls me 'Jim.'  How many times do *you* wake him that way?"

Jim shrugged.  "I *never* kiss him before he shaves."

Naomi's wide mouth broke into a smile, and she looked fondly at Blair. He'd gotten himself upright and was blinking at the morning light.

"Mom," he said.  "Sorry.  I mean, it's great to see you!"  He hugged her.

Naomi surveyed him critically.  "It's lovely to see you too, my darling, but you look like hell."

Jim laughed into his orange juice.  Blair smiled sheepishly at his mother, and tried to finger-comb his hair into some sort of order. "Gee, thanks, Mom.  I'm just working too hard."

"Police work?" she asked, with an accusing look at Jim.

Blair spoke quickly, "No, Mom.  School work.  Just too many damn blue books."

"Apparently."  He followed her eyes as she took in the disorder of the living room.  Blair glanced guiltily at Jim.

The chronically neat detective merely said, "We've both been a little overworked lately."

Blair gave him a grateful smile then said, "Mom, why don't you have some breakfast.  I'll get cleaned up and we can do something this morning--"

"Not this morning, darling; I have plans.  Could we meet at your office later?  I'd love to see the campus.  Perhaps we could have lunch together."

Blair looked a question at Jim, since they'd planned to spend the day together.  Jim held up both hands palms out and shook his head, indicating that the decision was Blair's.  Though he sometimes found Naomi's free-spirited ways a little weird, he knew she loved her son. And Blair looked forward to her visits.

"Lunch would be great, Mom.  How about twelve-thirty at the fountain in front of Hargrove?"

"It's a date."  Her bright expression drew into a frown.  "You know, sweetheart, you really do look terrible.  Have you been sleeping?"

Blair saw that Naomi's concern had caught Jim's attention.  The detective was also frowning at him.  "Uh, Mom, if you must know, the twins downstairs are keeping me up late," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Naomi's eyes widened and she held up a hand.  "Blair, dear, I think that's more than I wanted to know....did you say twins?  My baby's dating twins?"

The bizarre--as he classified it--note of pride in her voice caused Jim to snort.  "Before you give him a gold star for stamina, Naomi, you should know that the twins downstairs are four years old.  They call him Uncle Blair Bear."

She laughed.  Blair said, "Yeah, well, they call Jim--"

"I thought we were discussing your lack of sleep, buddy," Jim
interrupted smoothly.

"That's right, we were," Naomi agreed.  "You should take better care of yourself, Blair.  The negative energy--"

"Please, Mom.  You're here five minutes and suddenly you're my doctor. I'm fine, I tell you."

She nodded.  "You're definitely not sleeping enough, Blair.  You always did get cranky when you were over-tired."

"He still does," Jim quipped, and Naomi chuckled.

Blair gave Jim a grumpy look.  Naomi took her son's chin in her hands and pulled his face toward her for a kiss.  Then, she told him, "You need to take better care of yourself.  I wouldn't want my little Willow
to work himself to death."

Blair stiffened and Jim said, "Willow?"

"My little Willow," Naomi affirmed, her eyes dancing.

"Willow," Jim repeated happily.

Still holding Blair's face, Naomi said to the detective, "I'll bet he hasn't told you about that.  And it's such a sweet story."

Jim said quite seriously, "No.  He hasn't, Naomi.  Do tell."

Blair pulled free of her and begged, "Please, Mom, don't.  Are you hungry?  Have some orange juice."

"What story, Naomi?"

"Tea, Mom?" Blair offered rather desperately.  "We've got chamomile."

Naomi's sparkling eyes remained on Jim.  She waved away Blair's offer of
tea and began, "When Blair was just a tiny fellow--"

"He's still a tiny fellow," Jim put in.

She smothered a smile and continued, "--he used to think willow trees looked terribly sad.  I told him they were called weeping willows and whenever he saw one he would hide his face in my lap and say the 'weakling' willows made him cry.  It was so adorable."

A slow smile formed on Jim's face, a smile of pure delight.  When he saw that smile, Blair knew he was sunk.

"Mom," he groaned.  "It'd be way simpler if you just tattooed 'wimp' on my forehead."

"Oh, sweetie, you aren't a wimp," Naomi insisted.

"Sure he is."

"Great," Blair groused.  "Tag-team insults."

Naomi grinned.  She looked, Jim thought, about sixteen and full of mischief.  Whew, if she weren't Sandburg's mother....

The detective caught a look from Blair that said plainly the younger man knew what he was thinking.  Jim turned away to hide a grin.  Nope, Sandburg had *no* sense of humor when it came to his mother.

With a last kiss for each man, Naomi departed.

Jim went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Blair began to gather up the fallen blue books and stuff them into his backpack.

When Jim came out again, Blair was scavenging for blue books under the coffee table.  "Give me fifteen minutes," he said, "and I'll be ready to go."

"I don't think so, Chief.  I think I'll fly solo today."

"What?  Ow!"  Blair had raised up in surprise and knocked his head against the underside of the coffee table.  He withdrew carefully and rose, clutching the last errant essay and rubbing his head.  "What do you mean solo?"

"Your mom's right, Sandburg.  You look beat.  Hang out here this morning--finish your grading, sleep, whatever."

"Hey, no!  I'm fine.  Just give me a minute to jump in the shower and--"

"No, Chief," Jim said firmly.  "Stay here.  There's nothing exciting on for this morning, just chasing down a couple of snitches.  I'll fill you in tonight."

As he spoke, Jim retrieved his keys, opened the door, then turned. Pointing a mock-stern finger at his friend, he ordered, "Rest, Sandburg.  I'll see you later."

The door closed behind him before Blair could protest further.  He stared at the door for a surprised moment, then dropped heavily onto the couch.  His backpack slid to the floor and broke open, disgorging blue books once again.

Blair looked at them blankly.  "He left me."

It was a productive morning for Blair, at least insofar as his chores were concerned.  He finished grading the wretched blue books and washed two loads of laundry.  He'd hoped keeping busy would take his mind off his worries.  It hadn't.

It had caused him to forget the lunch date with his mother.

At one-fifteen he stood in the living room folding the last of the clean clothes and thinking very unpleasant thoughts.

So my brain might be permanently fried by Golden, or at the very least I could be facing a future of sporadic freak-outs and endless bus rides, he mused darkly.  I'm supposed to be Jim's partner, supposed to be helping him deal with his Sentinel abilities, but instead I'm home folding underwear while Jim is God-knows-where doing God-knows-what. Without me.

"I'm one hell of a partner, aren't I?" he muttered.

All at once, the sight of the perfectly folded stack of underwear made him furious.  He snatched it up and dropped it in a heap into the laundry basket.  He carried the basket to his room, opened his dresser drawer, and tipped the clothes in.  Punching down the pile, he slammed the drawer closed.

"Done," he announced.

The sense of triumph was short-lived.  As the drawer thudded home, golden sparkles danced around the edges of his vision.

"No, no, no!" he shouted and ran from his room as though he could escape what was coming.  The sparkles expanded, hazing the loft with golden light.  He looked around wildly, but the familiar surroundings had taken on a hateful metallic glint.

He lifted a hand to his face and froze in horror.  There was no skin on his arm.  Bare muscles gleamed and glistened, blood vessels pulsing red.  As he rotated his arm, staring in dreadful fascination, flesh and sinews vanished.  He closed his fingers into a fist and skeleton bones clattered against each other.

"Blair!  Blair, can you hear me?"

The sound of a voice penetrated the terror.  A face swam into focus.  It was Naomi's face, but wrong, the skin shiny and yellow, the eyes cold and hard as pennies.

"Mom?" he whispered, still lost in the hellish vision.

Naomi knelt beside her son and gathered him into her arms.  He was rigid and didn't return the embrace.  She held him tightly and stroked his
hair.  "Baby," she murmured, "what's wrong?  What are you seeing?"

She had come in the unlocked front door to find Blair sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, his eyes locked on his right arm.  He stared at the arm and hand as though he was looking into hell.

The faint smell of her jasmine perfume and the feel of her face against his finally dragged Blair out of his nightmare.  He leaned into her, putting his arms around her and resting his forehead against her shoulder.

"Oh, Blair, you looked...you looked...."  Naomi's voice broke and she tightened her grip on him.  "It was a hallucination, wasn't it?  You were having some sort of hallucination."

"Yes."  His voice was a pained whisper.  "A flashback."  He told her about the Golden and the visions that were tormenting him.

"This one was the worst yet," he finished and shuddered against her.

She soothed him with soft words, but Blair pulled away from her after only a minute or two.  He stood up.  Naomi rose as well and led him to the couch.  She sat close, holding his hand.

Blair raked the fingers of his free hand through his hair, breathing deeply to erase the last vestiges of his terror.  "I thought," he began and had to clear his throat.  "I thought you were busy this morning.
Did your plans change?"

"Morning?  Blair, it's one-thirty.  We were supposed to meet for lunch, remember?"

He looked stunned.  " One-thirty?  It can't be!"  A glance at the wall clock told him she was right.  "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry!  I had no idea it was that late."

She waved his apology away.  "It doesn't matter, sweetheart.  When you didn't show up at the university, I knew you'd probably be here.  Or with Jim."

"Not with Jim," he said bitterly.  "I'm pretty useless to him right now."

"Useless?"  Fear for him caused her anger to flare rapidly.  "You're going through *this* and he told you you were useless?"

"No, of course not.  He doesn't know anything about the flashbacks."

"That's ridiculous, Blair!  You live together, for heaven's sake!  How can he not know?"

Blair disengaged his hand from hers and stood quickly.  He paced around the room, needing to work off the tension that knotted his body.  "He doesn't know because I haven't told him."

"It's all this police work you're doing," Naomi stated positively. "Poisoned by drug dealers, chased by killers--your soul wasn't meant to be a cop, Blair.  It's Jim's fault for--"

"It's not Jim's fault!" he exclaimed, his own temper flaring.  "I haven't had any flashbacks when he was around, so how could he know!"

Naomi breathed deeply several times.  "I'm sorry, Blair.  I'm letting that anger go.  I know I can't blame Jim for your life choice.  Well, I know I *shouldn't* blame him," she muttered.

Blair stopped pacing and looked at her in surprise.  "You know, Mom," he said softly.  "I never really thought about it before, but it's true--I've never had a flashback around Jim.  Couple at the university, couple in the loft, but never when I'm with him."

"You haven't been sleeping much either, have you?"

He shook his head.  "Jim's been working late."  She blinked at this seeming non sequitur.  Blair gave an embarrassed chuckle and explained, "What I meant was, I don't seem to be able to sleep much until he gets home.  Stupid, huh?"

"No, Blair, it's not stupid.  It makes sense.  You obviously feel safe with Jim."  With a touch of wicked humor toward the man who was only five years her junior, she added, "Perhaps it's a father-figure sort of thing."

"Oh, boy, don't say that around Jim unless you're ready to run."  He smiled and she was pleased to see the worried expression fade just a bit from his eyes.

"Well, maybe it's more like an uncle-figure sort of thing," she conceded.  Becoming serious again, she added, "Whatever it is, Blair, you need to tell him about the flashbacks.  He's your friend; he should know what you're going through."

The worry was back in his eyes.  "I just can't.  Not right now.  He's in the middle of a case--"

"No case is more important that you are, Blair."

"I know.  I know.  The thing is, Mom, when I got dosed by the Golden, Jim felt responsible.  It took him weeks to get over blaming himself for the whole thing. "  He gave a brief smile.  "Actually, it took *me* weeks to get him over blaming himself.  If he finds out about the flashbacks...."

When his voice trailed off, Naomi finished, "You're afraid you'll have to get him over it all over again."

With a little smile for her phrasing, he nodded.  "I *know* I will.
Once he gets an idea in his head, it takes dynamite to shift it.  He's unbelievably stubborn."

"He's not the only one."

"Sarcasm is a very negative energy, Mom."  The lightness faded from his expression and he said,  "I can't put him through that again.  Besides, I don't want him to think he always has to watch out for me, you know? I want to handle this myself.  I *need* to.  Okay?"

She wanted to argue with him, to tell him that self-reliance carried too far was just plain pigheadedness, but he looked so damned determined that she made herself say, "If that's what you want, Blair.  I think you're wrong, but I suppose I have to respect your right to *be* wrong."

He came and kissed her cheek.  "Thanks, Mom."

Naomi suggested they cancel their tour of the university so Blair could try to get some rest.  Before their frank exchange of ideas on this subject could escalate into an argument, the telephone rang.  Blair answered it.

"Great, Chief, you're there," Jim's voice said.  "I was afraid you'd be out with Naomi."

"We're both here.  What's up?"

"I hate to cut into your family time, but it looks like the case is gonna break open this afternoon.  I didn't think you'd want to miss it."

"You thought right!"

"We're going over the details of the raid right now.  You'll need to shag your butt down to the station ASAP."

"No problem, man!  I'm there."  Blair broke the connection and put the phone down.  His excited expression turned apologetic as he looked at his mother.  "I'm really sorry, Mom, but I have to go."

She held up a hand.  "It's okay, Blair.  Well, not really, but go.  But I thought you weren't supposed to be driving right now."

He looked stricken.  "Oh, wow!  I completely forgot.  I'll call a cab."

"Don't bother.  Let me drive you.  I wouldn't mind borrowing your car anyway."

"Fantastic!  I'll be ready in a second."

As he sped around the place digging up his shoes and gathering wallet and keys, Naomi reflected that she frequently found it hard to understand the man her son had become.  How could one phone call make him "completely forget" the terrifying flashbacks he was battling?

But then it hadn't been just any one phone call.  It was a phone call from Jim Ellison.  Blair's life was bound up with that of the police detective in ways she could not fathom.  When Jim is around, Blair has no flashbacks.  When Jim comes home at night, Blair finally falls asleep.

Father figure, uncle figure, or simply best friend--if she weren't so centered and together a person, Naomi mused, she just might be jealous.

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