My most sincere thanks to Iris and Shellie for boosting my frail ego and just generally making me feel much better about this story all around. I would not have finished this if it hadn't been for you two ladies.

As always, a big thanks to my beta, Bonnie, the first to give me those necessary pushes (some a little harder than others *G*).

References to Sentinel, Too, part one.

I. Blair

No one had ever told him that death should be an everyday thing to contend with. No one had ever told him this because it was simply not true. True? To whom? Death happens every day. People are murdered, they succumb to disease, they meet with unfortunate accidents.

Blair knew this as the average human does. Because the average human is aware of such a fate, does not mean he is able to contend easily, or wish to contend at all. Blair was no stranger to death. Men had died in his very arms. No. . .he was no stranger. Though before James Ellison, a man had never died in his arms. This was a hard thing to reconcile in his mind. His present emotions boiled down to his existence, to Ellison, and his very involvement with the Major Crimes division. So he was a consultant. He was not paid for his job. He was there to help Jim. And that was all. So why should he keep himself in this position?

Nightmares plagued him frequently. Sometimes for nearly two weeks straight. He did not sleep, though he lay in the bed for close to six hours. He would toss back and forth, whip his head from side to side, moan, and clutch at the covers. Sweat would trickle down his face and dampen the sheets and pillow case. His entire body perspired as if he were in a sauna and not his own bed. He would struggle and fight to hold back the images. . .sightless eyes; clammy, cooling bodies; stiffening limbs; blood. Always so much blood. Damp, sticky, and nauseating in its tangy-sweet scent.

Some nights it was not the images of other corpses, but that of his own death. He saw himself floating in a fountain, face down. He saw Jim running towards him, his face stricken with grief and dismay. He heard Jim call his name, cry out in denial that this couldn't be happening. He didn't know how he had seen this, but he thought it was simply another part of the Sentinel-Guide bond, as was the melding of their souls--what had truly saved his life. Still, it did not alleviate his fears because he and Jim had experienced such a jagged ripping in the delicate cloth of their relationship. He did not think it could ever be repaired. He had nightmares about this. . .about Jim telling him he no longer needed him. . .of his death, but no remorse on Jim's face.

Then the images that scared him the most, the ones that sent his heart thumping wildly in his chest, sometimes bringing Jim downstairs, would assail him. They were the worst--the ones that he prayed everyday he would not have to encounter. But he had encountered such sights. He had been in depth with their sickening reality. Dead children. Children, no older than five or six, beaten to death with their parents' bare fists. Sometimes it was worse. Sometimes he saw children that had been beaten with blunt objects, or had been strangled, or their heads had been bashed into a solid wall.

These nights Blair would fight the bile from rising past his throat. Some nights he failed and he would run to the bathroom to vomit. Jim always heard him. Jim did not always come down though. Blair had rebuffed him often, embarrassed that his emotions had controlled him so greatly. He did not want to be thought weak. Jim did not let these things openly affect him. Whatever emotions Ellison felt were contained within the blank wall he wore as his face. Stone was more malleable. Thus Blair thought he should not display his emotions. Jim would only look upon him with pity. Pity he did not want. Pity he did not need. Pity he could not stand.

The emotions had not crept upon him overnight. They were from years of being assaulted by the worst side of humanity. He spent days working on a case in which people were ruthlessly slaughtered, then he returned to the comforting walls of academia. And as he walked through those halls, among his colleagues, students, and mentors, he thought about the dead or the dying. Few he found were comfortable listening to him when he talked of these horrors. What could they do to solve problems such as this? Absolutely nothing. Because they could do nothing they didn't want to think about it. Sure, they could write fascinating papers on the downfall of humanity, but sometimes Blair looked at these, his colleagues and mentors, and thought that they truly were the ones that were the downfall of humanity.

They did not even care. This astonished him. Some days he found a caring soul that sympathized and mourned the destruction Blair had witnessed. These were the ones in which Blair instilled his faith in humanity. The two sides were nearly melded into one. The dividing line was not clear.

But some nights Blair lay awake and when the images of death, destruction, and horror did not invade his defenses, the questions did. And there were never easy answers to his questions. Normally there were no answers at all. So he lay awake at night and he knew Jim was awake as well, listening to him. He knew that Jim was aware of his thoughts and discomforts. Blair knew that Jim was a changing man, just as he was.

And it was these thoughts and images that terrified Blair the most--the idea that one day he would be as numb to the ravages of humanity as were many of his peers. Was he afraid of becoming like his peers? Or like the cold, stone-faced man he roomed with?

II. Jim

Since the time he and Blair had first worked together on the Switchman case, Jim had been aware of Blair's innocence. Sandburg was a well-traveled person. Covert Ops had led Jim to a few places he would've never otherwise seen, but Blair had been all over. Sandburg was also an academic. Although Jim had been through college and had done reasonably well, he knew Blair far surpassed what he had learned. But for all of Blair's well-rounded education, he had never been thrown in full with the ravages of humanity. Never had the kid seen death in such an in-your-face way. From the beginning, since the Switchman case, leading to the run in with Kincaid, and one of the worst nightmares of all, David Lash, Jim had known it would only be time. With each encounter of evil, Jim had feared the ticking of the clock. Something would take that innocence from his partner. Someone would take away that little spark that made him so unique. One day the childlike curiosity and enthusiasm would be sucked right out of him. Jim had silently prayed and begged for it to not happen.

In some ways he blamed Alex Barnes. After all, she was the one who killed Sandburg. She was the reason the kid had nightmares about drowning and fighting for breath. Deeper inside himself, Jim knew Alex was not entirely to blame. No. There was a greater monster than her haunting Blair. That evil was in the form of a Sentinel, a protector of a great city, and the blessed protector of a still-learning Shaman.

Blair was an adult. He was almost thirty. Jim, however, was nearing forty. No matter how old Sandburg was, Jim was older, and no matter how much police experience Blair gained, Jim had more. Since the Switchman case, since the very conception of their partnership, Jim's protective instincts towards Blair rapidly became an encompassing need. Why, he wasn't sure. Perhaps the age, or the inexperience, or maybe that vulnerability and zest for life that many in his field now lacked--perhaps for all of those reasons. But they were all things Jim had wanted to protect because they were the reasons he loved Blair Sandburg. He didn't want Blair to lose his caring nature, to ever start doubting humanity. And though nothing else had dragged Blair down, nothing else had ever defeated him, his temporary death had. And it wasn't just that. He had never apologized for what he did to Blair, for the things he had said and the cruelty of kicking him out of the loft without so much as an explanation. The horrors of violence and death, his own and others, exhaustion, and living two totally different lives--this collected, building up into a pile of infection that settled into a scalding gash of betrayal that would not heal.

Jim had tried protecting him. He tried to keep harm from falling upon his partner. Miserably, he had failed. Horribly, he had inflicted the very harm from which he had been trying to shield his friend. When it had finally caught up, he didn't know. He just knew that at some point Blair had stopped sleeping. Somewhere along the road, Blair had started racing to the bathroom to puke up his guts. Though Jim may have guessed at the catalyst, he did not have a clue as to how to stop it. Some nights he had pulled on his robe, slipping down the stairs with a practiced quiet, and had tried to offer comfort to Sandburg. His friend would not have it and usually waved him off. This had gone on for weeks.

Weeks. Too long to go on so little sleep, to be plagued by such ruthless images, to fight off the help that was so obviously needed. Desperately needed. But Blair said he did not want it. Jim wouldn't need comfort or support. Why should he? Jim had tried explaining that he had been through much more, that they were not the same people, that not everyone would react the same way to death. He had tried to tell Blair that being horrified by the sight of dead children did not make him weak. That being scared because he had died once and had been brought back to life by nothing short of a miracle, was only natural.

Blair had tried turning himself away from the despair. Everything had accumulated and instead of acknowledging it, Blair had tried to simply accept it as life. It was enough to make Jim's blood turn to ice. Whatever happened, whatever Blair faced, he did not want his partner, his Guide, his brother, to accept the violence as normal. He could not allow it. But how to talk to one who refused to listen? There was no way to do so. He thought he may never get his chance.

One night Blair Sandburg broke down. It was not the simple tossing and turning to which Jim had become so accustomed. It wasn't the mad dash to the bathroom to expel the food from his stomach in painful heaves. It was something that tore at Jim's soul unlike any other thing he had ever experienced. It was a simple sound, one so quiet that only a Sentinel could hear it. . .crying.

He could tell that Blair was trying to muffle the sound with his pillow. On so many other nights, Jim had gotten into the habit of simply allowing Blair to deal with his problems alone. After all, if his help was not welcome, there was no reason to give it. Right? The soft, hitching gasps and the snuffling of a runny nose tore at him. He knew that no matter what Blair said to him, he could not leave this alone.

III. Jim and Blair

Moving shadows painted the small room in brown-black hues. Soft gasps of breath were the only accompaniment to the ballet of light and darkness. One of the French doors was gently pushed open and a tall, broad figure slipped in. He padded cat-like towards the bed.

"Chief?" He sank onto the edge of the bed, angling his body so he could easily watch his friend.

"Why're you down here?" The voice was rough with grief and sharp with anger. "Go back to bed, Jim."

"Sorry, Sandburg. I'm afraid I can't do that."

Blair sighed in exasperation and flipped himself to his other side so he could look up at Jim. His eyes shown brightly with residual moisture and heated emotions. His lips were pressed tightly in a straight line. "You don't have to babysit me. I'm a big boy now."

Ellison's hypersensitive eyesight clearly detected Blair's flushing cheeks. "I've let this go far too long. I was willing to let you work your demons out by yourself, but this is getting ridiculous."

Blair squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he opened them again. The eyes had the reddened quality of a drunk's. He rolled his face into the pillow, effectively hiding his haggard face and deadening the sound of his voice. "How do you do it?"

Jim furrowed his brow. His lips curled down. "What do you mean?" He asked the question, but was pretty sure he knew what Blair meant.

"None of it bothers you. People die everday. . .are murdered. I died, if somewhat temporarily. You've seen it, man. How can it not affect you?"

Jim swallowed. How little Blair knew him. They had been friends close to four years, yet neither really knew the other. "It affects me, Chief." Blair jerked his head up, staring at Ellison, though the dark would not let him really see him. "We all deal with these things differently."

Blair sighed and his head flopped back to the pillow. "So what does that say about me?" The anger and grief were gone now, in their place resignation.

"What do you think it says about you?" Jim shook his head wonderingly. "It means nothing. It means everything. It--" He fumbled for words in an attempt to convey the importance of his beliefs. "It means you and I are not the same. It means you shouldn't have to go through this shit, but you're braver than most men I know, so you do. It means. . ." He softened and clasped the shoulder closest to him affectionately. "It means you're human and you care. You have a good heart, Blair." He smiled a little, a bit uncomfortable with the words that were foreign to his tongue. "It means, you shouldn't go through this alone."

Their eyes met and despite the twisting shadows, Blair saw Jim's reassuring gaze. He reached up and clutched the hand still grasping his shoulder. The hand was warm, slightly larger than his own, and despite its present gentleness, very strong. "I'm not alone, man. I haven't been for the past four years."

If you liked it I'd love to hear from you!  Shycat My next story may even be long!