"Hey, Chief, come here."

A pause.

"Blair? Come on, Sandburg."

Another few seconds of silence.

"BLAIR!?!?! This isn't funny!"

There was no answer.

Blair Sandburg regretted the day he ever met Jim Ellison.

Well, no. That wasn't fair. He should say, at TIMES he regretted it. Not often. Hardly ever. It took some pretty extreme situations to make him think of regretting it. No, better yet, it took some pretty extreme situations to make him stop and consider maybe thinking of examining the very vague notion that the thought of regretting it might occur to him.

"BLAAAAAIRRR? BLAIR? WHERE ARE YOU?!?"

But geez, this was one of those times.

"BLAIR! Get in here and help me, dammit!"

"Jim, I'm trying to finish grading these papers, do you mind?"

"Who's the invalid here, Sandburg? Who told who they should do exactly what the doc said and stay off his feet for the next week? Who was it bullied me every single time I tried to get up on my own to go to the bathroom, for God's sake? I'll give you a hint- his initials are Blair Sandburg. Now GET IN HERE!!!!"

Letting out a tightly controlled scream, Blair threw his pen down and burst out of his room. "What? What is it, Jim? What is so damn important?"

"I need some more water."

Not trusting himself to reply, Blair simply stared at his roommate.

Jim smiled sweetly from his sprawled position on the sofa. "Pwease? My mouf is dwy."

"Your mouth is dry." Blair was wrestling between throttling the man or laughing.

"Yeah. Hurts to shout like that."

The urge to throttle won, but Blair contained it, crossing resentfully past Jim into the kitchen, mumbling the sincere wish that Jim would die of venereal disease in some part of the world where anesthetic was unheard of. "Heard that!"

"Surprise surprise." Blair replied to the glass as he held it under the faucet.

"Hey, not tap water! Are you nuts? Get some of that bottled stuff from the fridge."

Blair turned the faucet off, poured the water out, and went to the fridge.

When he had a glass of fresh, cold spring water ready for consumption, he returned to the living room. He went right up to Jim. "Water," He held the glass out, unceremoniously upturned it on top of his roommate's head, and strolled back to his room.

In the midst of sputtering and outraged little noises, Jim got himself to his feet. "SANDBURG!!"

Blair shut his door, smiling quietly to himself. Most refreshing glass of water he'd had in weeks.

Jim grumbled to himself as he limped to the bathroom to get a towel. He couldn't get too angry- he'd been a colossal prick the last few days. But Sandburg had asked for it, lording it over Jim for the week, never letting him go anywhere. It was ridiculous. How many times had Jim been shot now? He knew what he was supposed to do. And he never did it. And he was fine.

Damn, that walk to the bathroom seemed to have taken in out of him. He was already short of breath.

He got a towel and patted himself down, still grumbling. He'd have to go up to his room and get a change of clothes.

Great way to keep me off my feet, Sandburg.

Jim started for the stairs. He wouldn't ask Blair for help, no way. And in a way he was almost glad for the pain of the effort as he started slowly up the steps. It was about time he got off his lazy ass.

Jim paused halfway up, breathing heavily. His chest felt tight all of the sudden.

He couldn't be this out of shape from one week off his feet, could he? It was ridiculous.

He started up again after a minute. His breathing hadn't slowed, but he wasn't just gonna stand there wheezing like an old man.

At the top of the steps he stopped again, leaning on the back wall for support. His legs felt weak, his right thigh was throbbing. And he couldn't get his breath.

Maybe it was best to just go back to the couch. No, it was wet. Damn Sandburg. Maybe he'd just go sleep in his own bed. Would be a change, anyway.

He got to his doorway before he stopped. He couldn't catch his damn breath, what the hell was wrong with him?

He resentfully tried physically to slow his breathing down, holding it in then releasing it more slowly.

Suddenly, a knife stabbed him in his lungs.

"Uh," Jim put a hand to his chest, wincing at the sharp pain.

His heart was racing erratically.

Suddenly realizing this wasn't just shortness of breath, Jim turned, stumbling back towards the steps. "Blair?" His voice was hushed, almost frightened. He cleared his throat, sucking in a breath and almost moaning out loud at the knife-sharp stab that accompanied it. "Blair?"

"Forget it, Jim. You asked for it, man."

"Blair?" Jim started down the steps, and lost his balance, almost tripping. He stopped where he was, breathing in reluctantly.

He cried out softly. The sharp pains were getting worse, not better.

God, what was going on?

Frightened, Jim, took one step down, his hand still over his heart, feeling the racing, jumpy rythm beneath his palm. "Blair, please..."

"Jim, if I don't grade these papers, I'm gonna get fired and lose all my money and end up on the street and probably turn up five years from now another wino on a corner begging for change. So can it for an hour, got it?"

Heart attack. God, this couldn't be-

Jim gasped in a breath, and exploded in weak coughs, tears springing to his eyes at the agony lancing through his chest. He was dying, oh Christ, what was going on? "Blair?" One last word, weak, before he froze where he was, tasting something coppery in his mouth.

Blood. He was coughing up-

"Blair? Blair? Blair? Blair?" It became a chant, a frightened, confused mantra as he felt his heartbeat slowing under his hand.

The french doors beneath him were flung open. "Jim, please. I've been waiting on you hand and foot for a weak. Can't you give me one hour to-"

"Blair. Help. Blair. Help." He stumbled down the steps, coughs wracking his body again.

Blair glared up at him. "Hey, I'm sorry for the joke, man, but you don't have to get back at-" He stopped with a gasp when he saw the blood running down Jim's chin.

He hit the stairs at a run, going up to his friend. "Jim, what's wrong? Ohmigod, what is it?"

"I think..." Another breath. A sharp cry.

"What? What? Tell me what to do?" Blair's voice was rising in helplessness.

"Heart attack." Jim breathed out, almost a sob.

"No way. No way, man. Come on, I've got to call...come on." He supported Jim's steadily weakening form as he helped him down the stairs.

"No way no way no way," Blair started his own chant, helping Jim to the couch and racing over to the phone to call the ambulance.

"Banks."

"Simon it's Jim he's dying or something I called the ambulance but they're not here yet what do I do he said heart attack but he can't I don't know what to do he's bleeding-"

"Whoa whoa whoa. Blair, calm down." Simon repressed his growing alarm at the words he'd been able to make out, standing behind his desk. "What's going on?"

"It's Jim. He says his chest...he says it feels like a heart attack. Says he can't breath. He's bleeding. I don't know what to do."

"Sandburg, stay with him." Simon was speaking remarkably rationally. "Keep him talking until the ambulance gets there. I'll meet you at the hospital.

"Okay but what do I do what if he's dying I don't know how to-"

"This isn't helping, Blair. Just talk to him, keep him awake. Don't be scared, this'll be fine. Jim's not old, he's in good health, he'll be fine." Whatever Gods are up there, you'd better be listening to this. "He'll be fine, Blair."

"Okay I hear sirens I'm going down to meet them. See you Simon."

And the kid was gone.

Simon hung up the phone slowly. "Dammit." He grabbed his jacket shakily and left his office.

"What's up, Cap?"

"Blair just called. He says Jim's having a heart attack."

Rafe stood in shock. "What?"

"I'm going to the hospital. I'll call when I know something." Simon left Rafe, Brown, and Joel behind to exchange worried faces as he went to the stairs, not willing to wait on the elevator.

Blair was frantic, pacing around, shaking with barely repressed energy. "I didn't know, Simon. He was trying to go up the stairs, it was my fault. I had to pour the damn water on him. Simon, if he dies it's my fault. He's not going to die, is he?"

Simon stood finally, interrupting the younger man in mid-stride. "Blair. Stop it. This isn't helping Jim. Just wait until we talk to a doctor. It might not have been a heart attack. We don't know what's happened."

"He's dying. You should have seen him. He said it felt like a knife stabbing...." Blair broke off, turning his worried face to the corridor as a doctor came in purposefully.

"You men are here with Jim Ellison?"

Blair left Simon's side at a run. "Yeah. What....What?"

"It wasn't a heart attack." The man was quick to say, having overheard the last part of their conversation.

Blair and Simon seemed to deflate in relief, letting out matching breaths.

"What was it, then?" Blair asked after a moment.

"Your friend Mr. Ellison had a pulmonary embolism. It isn't fatal, but I'm keeping him here overnight, just to make sure."

"What...what happened? How did it happen?"

"Mr. Ellison was suffering from a leg injury?"

"Yeah, he was shot."

"He's been off his feet for a while, then?"

"About a week. Why? Does that have-"

Simon put his arm on Blair's shoulder, telling him silently to let the doctor finish.

"It's relatively simple. Mr. Ellison's leg developed blood clots from inactivity. One of those clots broke loose and travelled up, where it blocked the passage of blood flowing to his lungs. It felt like a heart attack, no doubt. You did well getting help as fast as you did."

"So what happens now?" Simon asked quietly, feling the tension in the shoulder under his hand releasing somewhat.

"We'll give Mr. Ellison anticoagulants, thin out his blood to get rid of the clots. After that, I'll want him to come in in a month or so and get himself checked out for new clotting."

"So he's going to be alright?"

The doctor smiled reassuringly. "He'll be fine. Tomorrow he can go home, the next day he'll be fine to return to work. In fact, the faster he gets on his feet and moving around, the better he'll be."

Blair grimaced slightly. "So keeping him off his feet is what did this to him?"

"I wouldn't say that. It's simply a matter of one medical diagnosis leading to an unforeseen complication. You did right keeping him off his feet- his leg has heeled nicely. But next time he's going to be inactive for so long, you may want to talk to a physical therapist about some excercises he could do to keep the blood circulating in his legs."

"Of course," Blair nodded readily. "Can I see him?"

"Sure. He's in 201." The doctor pointed down the hall.

Blair, intimately familiar with hospital corridors, was already going that way. "Thanks, doc," he called back as he ran.

He skidded to a stop outside 201, and paused, taking a breath. He cracked the door open slowly.

"About time you showed up," a strong voice greeted him.

"Jim!" Blair came in all the way, beaming in relief at his friend.

Jim was sitting up, already looking bored. "I have to stay tonight," he commented unhappily.

"I know, I talked to the doc."

"Good. So you know what happened. So I'm not going to have to listen to any of your patented Sandburg guilt trips, right?"

"Jim, this isn't funny. If I hadn't forced you to get up-"

"Then the clot would have gotten bigger, and I would have needed open chest surgery to clear it out. Feel better?"

Blair blinked. "Are you serious?"

Jim nodded. "I got lucky."

"Lucky?" Blair couldn't shake the image of Jim stumbling down the steps, clutching his chest, bleeding from his mouth and crying out with every breath.

"Yeah, lucky. Now go tell Simon to get his butt in here, and we can talk about what's gonna happen next time you want to keep me off my feet."

Blair looked sharply at Jim, but the Sentinel's face was creased in a smile. "Fine with me." he went to the door, but turned back and faced his best friend again hesitantly.

Jim's smile went crooked. "Stop worrying, stop blaming yourself. Stop thinking about what you could have done better. Stop picturing me dragging myself around like a drunk, and go get Simon."

Blair relaxed finally. Jim was fine. It was hard to believe, but he was fine. He turned to go.

"Chief?"

He turned back right away. Jim's smile had vanished. "What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking..."

"What?"

"Well...you know, when I was on the stairs, before you came out, when I thought I was dying...."

Blair swallowed. "Yeah?"

"It ocurred to me...."

"Say it, Jim."

"This is kinda hard. Could you come over here? I don't like shouting my feelings across a room."

Blair obediently came to his side. "What is it, Jim? You can tell me anything."

"Well. It ocurred to me. I was going to die without ever....ever getting you back for that damn water."

Blair saw his hand sweep out and grab the small cup of water by his bedside.

And he felt the cold liquid hit him in the face.

Jim beamed happily at his sputtering Guide, returning the empty glass to the small tray. "Alright, you can go now."

Webmaster: PJ Browning