Notes: This is the final part in my nightmare series. I strongly recommend to read the previos two parts, "Fear" and "Shadows", first otherwise this story won't make any sense.

I would like to thank all the wonderful people who wrote to me each time a finish another chapter, and I hope you'll like the conclusion. :-)

If there's one person out there who deserves as much credit for this as I do, then it's Tate, my extraordinary betareader. Without her help and encouragement this trilogy wouldn't exist. Thank you so much.

This one is for my friends.

Pain and darkness. He couldn‘t fight both, and with the pain, the memory returned...

The young anthropologist raced downstairs, leaving the building at 852 Prospect, hurting and disappointed at the coldness he‘d just been confronted with. Car keys ready in his hands, Blair at first didn‘t find the lock in the darkness of the night. Street lights scarcely illuminated the spot, and the moon hid somewhere behind heavy rain clouds. Finally opening the door, Blair threw himself into the vehicle and took a few deep breaths before he started the engine.

One look into the review mirror showed an empty street and he pulled out of the parking lot. He half expected Jim to follow him but, on second thought, Blair grinned sardonically at his own silliness. Jim wouldn‘t follow him. Over the few years they had worked together and become friends, Blair had learned that Jim would probably curse himself for his hurting words but he wouldn‘t come running after him. Not now. Later, possibly but not likely. Maybe never. He always expected Blair to come back and accept the unspoken apology, an absolution Blair wasn‘t ready to grant this time.

His heart rate increased with the anger rushing through his body. Blair wasn‘t used to negative feelings like these. Surely, he was ticked off sometimes, everyone was allowed to feel grumpy from time to time. However, the hurt mixed with a great amount of rage puzzled him. Sandburg felt weak because his mind wasn‘t capable of controlling it. People needed to explode to let off the steam, and Jim was probably a world champion at that, but to Blair and his peaceful nature, anger and rage threw him off balance.

Blair turned at a traffic light and found himself driving through a part of town he hadn‘t been to before. Dilapidated houses lined the street. A few of them were boarded up, their windows broken. Old cars were parked on one side of the street, and Blair stopped his Volvo near a flickering street light.

He needed to think, digesting his feelings. Against his better judgement, the grad student got out of his car, locked it, and slowly strolled down the empty sidewalk.

Breathe deep – hold it – let it out slowly. The Guide knew the drill, but it had never been so difficult to accomplish the technique he had taught Jim a million times before.

"Jim‘s never been an open guy," he spoke out loud. Maybe if he actually heard the words coming from his own mouth, they would make sense, and ease the pain tearing at his heart. His scientific mind cycled in overdrive as he sought a logical explanation.

"Hell, why I‘m defending this guy!?" he exclaimed suddenly.

Much to his surprise and shock, he received an answer. A dark voice reached his ear.

"Save the Sentinel."

Blair spun around, his eyes straining to penetrate the darkness. There was no one, just the empty street with silent buildings casting their spooky shadows over the whole area. The street lights, if working, provided only a poor illumination of his surroundings. Blair shook his head.

"Is anyone there?" he asked and shrugged at his odd behavior. Of course, there was nobody. Just his imagination playing tricks on him, his brain trying to supply the scientific reasons he was looking for. There was nothing, Blair assured himself and turned to go back to his car.

"If you get killed in this area, Jim’ll blame you for being dead", he muttered and increased his speed.

"What does he fear?"

The voice in his head questioned, and Blair stopped in his tracks. His searching gaze revealed nothing again, and he slowly turned around to look behind himself. Like before, he couldn't see much, but he was certain no one was present. A movement caught his attention and the young man held his breath. Seconds passed. Blair nearly jumped out of his skin when a little black cat leapt onto a garbage can near one of the old houses. The black night almost devoured the small animal, and all Blair could make out were a pair of phosphorescent green eyes. He stepped closer.

"Hey, little kitty, am I dreaming or were you talking to me?" he asked with a smile in his voice. If anyone saw him, he would probably end up in a mental institution for talking to a pet. Dr. Blair Doolittle, PhD in animal talking.

His eyes were riveted on the cat's like he was expecting an answer. The reply came with the same cryptic inquiry he’d heard only moments ago.

"What does he fear?"

The anthropologist froze. The words came from the direction where the kitten was sitting but Blair still didn't see anyone—just a cat. Nothing to lose but his sanity, Blair approached it again.

"Who are you?" A logical question in a bizarre situation. Good enough to be worth answering, Blair thought, and glanced over his shoulder to see if anybody had witnessed their play.

"You," was the enigmatic reply.

Blair's eyes went wide at the revelation, and he shook his head in denial, hands spread in front of him as if to protect himself from the truth.

"Me? No way, man, I'm here. I know I am ...myself. Try another one," he refused.

The little cat meowed and curled its little black tail around its feet. A majestic movement, elegant in its perfection, and all the same threatening because Blair had watched it before. No, not watched with his own eyes, but he remembered Jim telling him about it once. In the Sentinel's description though, it had been a panther, black like the night, powerful, proud, and yet gentle, guiding him, warning him and protecting him. The noble Lord of the Jungle.

"You are my spirit guide," Blair whispered when realization hit him. A big cat for the big guy and a little cat for the small one. Did that sound as ridiculous as it was? The thought struck him briefly.

The cat, licking its feet now, seemed to speak again, or, Blair thought it was talking again. What do you expect, Sandburg, mouth movements?

"No, I am in you helping you to save the Sentinel."

"How can I help him? He won't let me! Hell, he practically threw me out of his house," Blair snorted furiously. He paced back and forth when the anger and rage he'd felt before consumed his body again.

"This is not about you," the Spirit Guide, or whatever it was, spoke reassuringly.

"Oh, that's a relief," Blair replied and ceased the nervous walking. His heart was beating heavily.

"Take a deep, cleansing breath."

Blair's head snapped up. "Thanks. I know about these things!" He inhaled deeply, waited longer than absolutely necessary until he thought his lungs would burst, and let it out noisily.

"How can I help him?" Blair requested.

He started when the little cat suddenly stood up from her place and looked around, sniffing the air as it seemed. A short meow and the animal jumped off the trash can, marching down the sidewalk in delicate steps. The green eyes looked at him, inducing him to follow, and Blair slowly, hesitantly, started towards the incarnation of Jim's panther.

"Could you please answer my question?" Blair demanded impatiently while the cat guided him onto the open street.

"If you put your faith in him, he won't let you down. Tell him," was the last thing Blair heard, before the house, where he'd just been standing, exploded in a fireball!

The young man was thrown off his feet, the shock wave hurling him against the wall of a wooden building across the street. Catching his breath and struggling to escape the peril he was obviously in, Blair made it to his feet again. His whole body hurt, and his moans of pain filled the air, but with an extraordinary power of will, he managed a few steps. The second detonation shook the whole block, and searing flashes of lightning brightened the night and burnt sapphire-blue eyes....

....so it had been an explosion, Blair mused weakly. Why didn't Jim come to rescue him? Oh, yes, he'd forgotten: Jim didn't rescue anymore. Disturbing his sleep. Shaky roommates weren't his business.

"I won't cry, Jim, I promise," the young anthropologist whimpered before gracious unconsciousness took him again.

****

His nightmare had become a painful reality.

This time though, the first rays of sunshine didn’t erase the demons of the dark. It had been so easy to think of it as a bad dream, a nightmare, a frightening string of thoughts invading his head. The shadows remained leaving the Sentinel shocked and scared to death.

Yes, he - Jim Ellison - was scared. Not for himself anymore, no, that’d been too simple. Now, in a phone call, his innermost fears had been given shape. He hadn’t been able to protect the people he cared about. He’d failed.

Blair’s words echoed in his head.

"I had an accident. I think I’m blind, Jim."

"....I’m blind, Jim."

"...Jim."

He’d failed to save his best friend. And what was worse, they had parted in a fight, struggled because of a damn conversation gotten out of hand. Out of his hands. Blair had offered his help, selflessly as always, and he had turned him down. The hurt reflecting in the deep blue eyes had cut into his heart like piercing darts. Stubborn as only Jim Ellison could be, he hadn’t done anything to ease his Guide’s distress, but had added to it by saying words he’d thought would have never left his lips.

Jim tightened his grip on the steering wheel and raced through the deserted early morning streets of Cascade. The lights in front of him indicated red, but he didn’t pay attention or even really notice. The address the woman had given him after Blair’s voice had cracked heart-brokenly was somewhere at the south end of the city—a poor part of town. Jim wondered what the hell his young friend had been doing there.

Escaping from him.

Jim's musings were interrupted by the sound of yelling sirens in the distance, coming nearer and nearer the closer he came to his destination. Not far away, over the roofs of those old houses, Jim spotted tongues of flame leaping up and dark clouds of smoke. Momentarily, his eyes zoomed in on the fire ahead and the blood ran cold in his veins when realization set in.

The truck sped up, curving around the corner with squealing tires, and coming to a screeching halt in front of a police road-block. Two uniformed officers, who were trying to control and calm down the gathering crowd, approached the vehicle.

"Excuse me, sir," one of the officer spoke up. "The road is closed and we must ask you to turn your car around and leave." Polite, but determined.

Jim presented his badge and got out of the truck.

"Detective Ellison," he introduced himself sharply and pushed by the officers. "Who's in charge here?"

Not waiting for an answer, Jim instantly made out the tall figure of his captain who was standing a few yards away engrossed in a discussion with one of the firemen. The detective headed in the direction where Simon was leading the operation, at the same time scanning the area for any sign of his young friend, his concern growing. Please, don't let him be here, he prayed silently.

"Jim!" Simon Banks saw him coming, his face showing confusion. "What are you doing here, Jim? I didn't call you." Simon asked and nodded to the fireman who walked away to help his men.

"What happened?" Jim requested, ignoring Simon's question. He viewed the destroyed houses, squinting when the flames pierced his sensitive eyes. Jim blinked hastily, a menacing vision from his latest nightmare starting to threaten him again. The Sentinel closed his eyes for the moment, grateful for being capable of the simple movement of his eyelids.

"A gas leak we guess," Simon explained. "The detonation blew up four houses and damaged a few in the neighboring areas." He went silent for a moment. "We haven't found out how many people where in the houses at the time of the explosion but..." He trailed off leaving the possible number of casualties at Jim's own estimation. "I heard about it on my way into work," Banks added.

"Taggert is currently trying to determine if it was just a leak and not some type of bomb. But why would someone want to...."

"Sandburg's somewhere here," Jim intruded Simon's monologue.

"What?!" Shock and disbelief crossed the captain's face as his gaze slowly roamed over the remains of former run-down houses. Now they were only burnt pieces of wood and stone, black monuments of the fire's unforgiving strength. Simon's eyes went back to look into Jim's anguished blues and the prodigious truth became flesh-creeping fact.

"W-hy?" Simon managed a word and then he gestured towards the devastation. His hands moved, indicating the assumption he couldn't speak out loud.

"No," Jim shook his head, and Simon exhaled his breath when hope set in again. "He called me from somewhere around here. He's....injured, Simon, and I’ve gotta find him."

"What was he doing here in the first place?" his superior officer and friend asked while he watched Jim wandering around the area looking for any sign of Blair. Most street signs were destroyed in the explosion, making it impossible to find the right address. Blair could be anywhere.

The Sentinel didn't have the courage nor the time to answer Simon's question - maybe later - and he turned his head slightly to stare at the intact houses nearby. Why didn't the woman who'd apparently rescued Blair come out and find him? Maybe Blair's wounds were so severe she couldn't risk leaving him alone? Jim dismissed the thought into a remote corner of his brain.

"Simon?" Jim threw him an almost desperate glance, and Banks placed a comforting hand onto his shoulder, realizing what Jim was up to.

"I'll watch over you, man. Go find him," Simon said warmly and stood in front of Jim, shielding him from curious looks. As always, he watched in total astonishment as the Sentinel closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and extended his sense of hearing to find a trace of his partner and Guide.

Breathing in a calm rhythm, Jim became aware of the sounds accompanying the catastrophe in front of him: the crackling of the raging fire, the sighs of defeated wooden planks, and bursting glass. However, as soon as he turned up his hearing, tender eardrums recollected their ordeal in the park the day before, sending stabbing pain through his head. Jim winced, opening his eyes quickly, his left hand covering his ear when the sounds assaulting his hearing became too much.

"Jim? You okay?" Simon's dark eyes rested on the man, growing concern clearly visible. The hand on Jim's shoulder moved, starting a soothing rubbing.

Ellison rubbed his forehead with his other hand and nodded slowly.

"My ears still are a little over-sensitive. I can’t reach out and filter through the sounds." He sighed, tiredness capturing his face.

"Couldn't you try to find this dial thing?" Simon remembered Sandburg had once used the word, although Banks hadn't been able to fathom what it was all about.

Jim shook his head. "I've tried. I usually have Blair around when this kind of stuff happens." His voice, beaten with fatigue and fear, baffled his captain more than the inability to use his sensory powers. Something was definitely wrong with his best detective, and Simon was about to utter a question in that direction, when Joel Taggert shouted from a distance:

"Simon!" Recognizing Jim, the bomb squad captain stopped short for a moment, then added in a somewhat relieved but nevertheless questioning tone: "Jim?!"

They'd found Sandburg.

****

Jim Ellison couldn't recall having ever seen a more pitiful sight: His young friend was lying on a couch across the room, curled up in a ball, a too short blanket covering his trembling body, a torn piece of cloth across his face. For a brief span of time, Jim wasn't able to make his own body move, muscles paralyzed with relief and shock. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't go away.

Finally, his legs cooperated and he walked over to the couch, kneeling beside it. Resisting the urge to place a hand on Blair's shoulder, Jim spoke in a raw voice that sounded strange even in his own ears.

"Blair? Can you hear me?" Not intending to frighten the injured man in front of him, Jim explained: "I'm going to touch you now. Is that okay?" Carefully, as if he was made of precious china, Jim's hand gently touched Blair's.

The coldness of the skin startled Jim. His fingers quickly checked Blair's wrist for a pulse. A steady but fast rhythm rewarded him, and Jim released his breath noisily. Blair’s sweat and trembling indicated a state of shock though.

Blair stirred under the touch and a pain-filled moan escaped his lips. Shivers ran through his body, and Jim hurried to reassure him.

"Everything's okay, Chief. I'm here."

"Jim?" Blair's voice sounded surprised and infinitely weak.

"It's me, buddy," The Sentinel said and stroked the unruly bunch of dark curls. "Just relax and keep breathing. The ambulance is on its way."

"My eyes hurt," Blair sobbed and the shivering increased.

Jim shrugged out of his coat and placed it over the blanket as a second layer to warm his friend. Then he spotted a bowl of water on the floor beside the coach, and, cautiously, Jim removed the washcloth from Blair's face. The young man hissed, as did Jim, when he revealed the extent of Blair's facial injuries. Most of his face was covered with soot but the area around his eyes was badly bruised and swollen, showing signs of burnt, red tissue. The eyelids were closed, squeezed tight against the pain. Jim could only guess how much it hurt.

Jim moistened the cloth in the water, wrung it out over the bowl, and gently replaced it on Blair's eyes and face. The young anthropologist winced at the slight pressure, but welcomed the cooling.

"It know it hurts, Chief, but you gonna be okay soon," Jim soothed.

"I can't see," Blair sighed the words that had stopped Jim's heart earlier. Jim closed his eyes momentarily.

"You gonna be alright, Blair," he repeated the comforting mantra, more to reassure himself it seemed. While his hand gently roamed over Blair's body to determine any further injuries, he listened to the conversation coming from the other end of the room.

Her name was Ethel Vincent. She was old, 78 years, and had lived in that house for almost 43 years now. In a grandmotherly voice she gave her statement to Simon, embellishing her story with every little detail she could thing of.

"It was exactly 5:32 when the huge explosion woke me up. The walls and everything else shook with the giant shock wave. China and glasses in my cupboard clinked and a few of them even broke. I first thought of an earthquake, you know, a big one like it happened in San Francisco a few years ago, but then I saw the fire outside my bedroom window - it's towards the street, not in the back of the house like the living-room here. As fast as I could, I got out of bed, grabbed my robe and ran outside to see what had happened. I was so afraid my house would burn down to the ground, and I would have to live on the streets from now on. So you could tell, I was more than relieved the explosion had spared my home. But, I feel so sorry for my poor neighbors, their lost lives and all the damage done to the houses of those who survived. I know some of them very well." Ethel paused for a minute, probably thinking of the casualties, and she sighed deeply before she continued speaking.

"I was about to go back inside my house to call the fire department when I saw this young man." She gestured towards the sofa. "First, I assumed he was drunk because he was staggering from one side to the other like he'd just returned from a night out with his buddies. He collapsed once, and although I thought he was drunk, I felt for him and wanted to help him. When he came within reaching distance, I could see that he was injured. His arms were wrapped around his body and his face, oh my Lord, I was so alarmed when I saw the wounds on his face. He collapsed again and I tried to hold him upright but he was too heavy for me and we both found ourselves tumbling on the ground again." She smiled shortly. "I think my weight softened his fall." Simon returned the smile taking in her ample form.

"Anyway, he was stammering something about a cat and ghosts, no, spiritual people, he was hallucinating I guess, but when he had a clear moment, he mentioned his friend, Detective Ellison here, and begged me to call him. What surprised me most was that he managed to recall his phone number, so he couldn't be that delirious. I called Mr. Ellison after I had succeeded in getting him inside." The old woman looked over to Blair and Jim and whispered so that only Simon could hear: "He's a hunk if you ask me."

Simon grinned and nodded. "Oh yes, Ellison has this kind of charm that seems to attract women." He sounded almost jealous but Ethel Vincent threw him a glance.

"I meant the curly head, son."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, the police captain laughed out loud.

****

The first diagnosis was troubling, and even with the doctor's reassurance that it was still too early to make a final prognosis, Jim suddenly felt sick.

"Mr. Sandburg was quite lucky, gentlemen," Dr. Stewart admitted while explaining the medical details to Jim and Simon. They were standing in the waiting room area of Cascade Memorial. Antiseptic smells, the slight scent of cigars and tobacco coming from his captain and all the other odors normally associated with hospitals added to the Sentinel's sudden feeling of nausea.

Jim tried to suppress a furious snort. Why did they always say someone was lucky in spite of the injuries listed on that chart labeled "Sandburg, Blair" speaking an entirely different language? Behind closed doors Blair was suffering and in pain because of some cruel vagaries of fate - and because Jim had pushed him in that direction in the first place. Drowning in self pity and taking on guilt wasn't getting him anywhere, Jim knew it, but he wanted to feel bad for what he'd done. So, Sandburg's "luck" had provided him with a couple of cracked ribs ("nothing to worry about, Detective. He'll feel uncomfortable for some days, soreness and stiff muscles, but nothing major"), scratches and scrapes ("just on the surface"), and, luck never ending, severely bruised face with an injury of the eyes. No one could tell if Blair'd suffered a permanent damage ("all we can do is wait"). The swelling caused pressure on his optic nerve, blinding him temporarily ("as far as we can tell"). If fortune smiled on him, the swelling would decrease proportionally with his sight returning. It was a dance on thin ice and any minute the surface could break. How lucky.

Dr. Stewart pointed out some medical information, Simon nodded making a face if he understood every single word, and suddenly Jim had enough of it all.

"Thank you, doctor, for your thorough explanations but let's face it, you don't have the first clue if Sandburg will ever be able to see again, right?"

The harsh words softened the physician's face and calmly he replied, "Detective, I can imagine how you feel...."

"Oh, you can?" Jim snapped and slapped at Simon's hand who was trying to calm him down. "With all due respect, Dr. Stewart, you may have all the medical evidence available, but you don't have the slightest idea how I'm feeling right now, and I hope you never will have to deal with something like this personally." His eyes met Simon's and Jim added: "That applies for you, too, sir." He didn't shout, astonishing Simon who'd expected an outburst of rage, and when neither of the men said a word, Jim spoke up again. "When can I take him home?"

Dr. Stewart simply nodded, hearing what Jim had just tried to say, and answered: "Since all we can do is hope for the best, you can take Mr. Sandburg home now. As I mentioned earlier, he's experiencing some discomfort right now, but with a mild pain killer I see no reason why he shouldn't be released. Let me do the paperwork and in, say, one hour he'll be ready to go."

The doctor disappeared, and Jim felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw that the concerned eyes of Simon Banks rested on his face.

"Jim, I think I know what you're going through..." Upon the ice-cold gaze he received, Simon quickly continued: "...even if you think I'm an emotionless jerk. I watched you this morning and I have never seen you so disconnected. There's more behind it than just Sandburg's injuries, isn't there?"

The detective didn't show any reaction and, after a whole minute of heavy silence, Simon thought Jim hadn't heard him at all. Then Jim slowly shook his head as if his brain had just digested the question and found an answer.

"Simon." Silence again when Jim sought a way to answer his own mental turmoil. "I can’t tell you what's going on here." He sighed deeply and the cold eyes became the gentle blue eyes of a man who cared. "I have to tell Sandburg first."

****

It was already late afternoon, when Jim and Blair entered the loft like so many times before. No, Jim corrected himself, not like before. 'Before' Blair hadn't needed a supporting arm to guide him. 'Before' Blair hadn't been wearing white bandages covering his eyes. 'Before' Blair's endless chatter had grated on Jim's nerves. Now, the silence, occasionally interrupted by low moan, depressed him.

Taking their coats, Jim put them on the hooks near the door and placed the keys into the basket. Blair stood in the middle of the loft, unmoving, like doll that'd run out of energy. He was exhausted from the whole ordeal this morning and later in the hospital. Examinations, needles, injections, tests - he was so sick of it, and all he wanted to do was curl up in his warm bed and sleep until the next morning.

"What would you like for dinner?" Jim asked.

Blair turned his head, white bandages staring at Jim. "If you don't mind, Jim, I'd like to go to bed now. I'm not hungry," he added, guessing his friend's protest.

Jim nodded, then cursed himself for the silent agreement Blair couldn't see and said out loud: "Okay, but you tell me if you want anything, you hear me?" He walked over were Blair stood and took his arm for guidance.

To his surprise, a bright grin crossed the anthropologist's face. "I think I've lived here long enough to find my room, Jim. Just give me a good push in the right direction."

Making fun of the odd situation, Jim took Blair's shoulders, moving his body a little bit to the right and gave him a slight push. "Straight ahead, buddy. You can't miss the door."

Blair chuckled. "Yeah, you'll hear the sound of wood on wood when I knock my head." He slowly started moving towards the French doors of his little bedroom, uncertain in his motions although he'd assured Jim he was coping.

"Hey." Jim suddenly grabbed his arm, and Blair flinched at the unexpected touch.

"What? Did you move the furniture?" he asked jokingly and waited for any directions.

"No, it's not that," Jim hurried to say, still holding Blair's arm. "Chief, I'm...I'm s-...." he began, but Blair wrested his arm from Jim's grip and stepped back.

"Jim, don't. " Blair said in a normal voice, knowing too well what Jim was going to do and what he had to do. "Don't apologize now."

"Blair...," Jim pleaded and reached out to place hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I don't want your apology now for what you said yesterday," Blair stated, allowing the hand to rest on his shoulder. He needed the comfort as much as Jim did but he also needed to make his point. "It had hurt to hear those words coming from you, big guy, and deep in my heart, I'm hoping to know you didn't mean them." Blair held up a hand when he sensed Jim's attempt to stop him. "Please, hear me out. I don't wanna hear you're sorry, Jim. Not now, when pity is motivating you to say something. Later, when my sight comes back to normal, I want to look into your eyes and see the truth. You won't even have to say the words, but I’ll know." He patted Jim's hand, turned on his heel and carefully made his way to his room.

****

Lee Brackett watched the motionless figure in front of him with a diabolic grin on his face, blue eyes hard, shining with sadistic desire and satisfaction. After all, the good and strong James Ellison was at his mercy, submitted to endure anything Brackett's inventiveness would come up with.

It was time for revenge—his long-awaited revenge for the humiliation he'd suffered because the super-detective had once beat him. He could not allow that to happen again, and it was time for collecting outstanding debts. To beat and to break. Knowing about Ellison's Sentinel abilities, Brackett had all aces in the tight grip of his hand. He smiled without joy, a short and grotesque movement of muscles around his mouth, distorting the handsome features.

Something bothered Jim. Still half asleep, his senses sent a silent alarm, ringing every available bell, that something demanded his undivided attention. He had felt it before but couldn't quite remember when and why. It was a strange sensation, indescribable, but strong enough to make his body tense and alert. Reaching to explore whatever it was that disturbed him, Jim suddenly sensed it was more a feeling than a physical sensation—a feeling usually associated with the comforting, gentle presence of Blair Sandburg. Whereas this 'guide feeling' was like a pleasant tickle, the new one brought a rush of hatred, rage and fear, an accumulation of foulness and pain.

The Sentinel turned up his hearing to check on Blair downstairs. A steady heartbeat and rhythmic breathing pattern indicated that the young man was still awake and supposedly, unharmed.

"Nice to have you with us again, Detective," the familiar voice of Lee Brackett reverberated through the night, and Jim opened his eyes, startled, but not entirely surprised. It had all happened before, hadn't it?

"I've just had the strongest feeling of disgust I've ever experienced," Jim said with the stoic face that could make Brackett rage with frustration. "It could have only be you, Brackett."

His enhanced vision scanned the semi-dark room. This time he wasn’t strapped down to an examination table in an obscure laboratory of his mind, but he was spread eagle-style on his own bed! Wrists and ankles were tied to the bedstead, his clothes removed leaving him naked and completely vulnerable to any sensory test Brackett wanted to conduct tonight. Jim shivered slightly when a light breeze brushed over his exposed body.

Brackett smirked, seemingly amused at the natural reaction to cold, and moved to stand closer to the bed. Jim tested his bonds, knowing already his attempts were only a waste of strength, but also trying to inch away from the immoral ghost of his nightmares.

"Oh, Ellison, why don't you play the game by the book?" Brackett's voice sounded utterly disappointed, and a clammy hand patted Jim's thigh while he spoke. "I thought you knew the rules. Prisoners of war have to have this frightened look in their eyes, trembling with the fear of knowing they can’t escape their captors and begging for their sorry asses." Brackett shook his head when Jim remained stoic. "Are you trying to tell me you have never led an interrogation, Captain Ellison?"

"What war do you mean, Brackett?" Jim spat. "What kind of war games are you composing in that sick brain of yours? You wanna kill me?" He chuckled. "Oh, you are such a brave man, aren't you? You have to chain me down, before you gather the courage to fulfill your master plan. I really look up to you." Seeing the anger crossing Brackett's face, Jim hurried to continue his litany of mockery. "Do you wanna know what I think? You're a coward and don't have the balls to perform the final step."

Brackett suddenly laughed. "Kill you? That would be too easy, my friend. I still need some information on your sensory abilities, and then I'll maybe kill you, or spread the word to the press. Don't know yet, but I'm flexible." The man moved away from the bed and Jim saw him fumbling with wires, connecting something, grabbing into a bag, and eventually returning to his position beside Jim's bed.

"Let's play it the other way around this time, " he suggested as though asking for Jim's opinion. "I've already learned how sensitive your senses of sound and sight are. Now I'd like to check on your sense of touch. However, I don't wanna see how much, let's say, pain you can endure." He smiled sarcastically, and Jim smiled back, with just as much sarcasm. "But how far can you turn it down. What do you say?"

Jim suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm freezing, Brackett. Cut the crap and get to it." Jim knew his calm manner slowly drove Brackett crazy, and he enjoyed the thought for a moment.

Like the nights before, the detective's face showed no emotion, no jaw muscle twitching, although deep inside he froze up when Lee Brackett produced a small electric device. It was a simple construction of wires and metal. Simple, but effective, Jim knew. His own military expertise had provided him with all kinds of gear to loosen a man's tongue. Horrible stuff.

"Shall we?" Brackett's eyes roamed over his victim's exposed body, deciding the best spot to apply the electroshocks. His hand stopped briefly above Jim's genitals. The man didn't even stir, and Brackett looked up into his eyes. "Nahhh, I'm not that cruel," he winked at Jim and moved to the end of the bed.

The cold metal touched his bare toes. The first surge of current almost caused him to burst out into giggles.

Seconds later, the intensity level sped up.

****

As exhausted as he was, Blair couldn't sleep. His mind whirled, jumping from one thought to the other, one fear substituted by the next, and an endless chain of 'what ifs' expecting attention. He had sounded confident when he had talked to Jim, also when the doctor told him about the possibility of being blind forever Blair had stayed calm. But now? Lying on his bed, his brain had nothing better to do than to think, and that was what it did with bitter force.

What time was it? Blair fought the urge to open his eyes. The bandages still covered his face and would have prevented any attempt to "see" anyway. Instead Blair concentrated on his hearing, trying to check his environment by compensating with his sense of sound.

At first he only heard the annoying ticking of his watch laying on the nightstand; then a low buzzing reached his ear....his electric alarm clock probably. Blair heard Jim moving around the loft, going to the bathroom, water running. The older man went upstairs, his footsteps making little thumps on the steps.

What would happened when his eyesight didn't return? The thought inexorably invaded his brain, and Blair grimaced when the familiarity of the question hit him. Hadn't Jim asked the same thing after he'd been affected by the Golden drug which had blinded him temporarily? Blair had uttered reassurances of hope and words of comfort contributing a great amount of faith and trust so Jim had managed to deal with his handicap. Surely, his enhanced senses had provided him with an advantage. A gift Blair didn't have. He wasn't even sure if he had a friend and a home anymore. Jim truly felt sorry for what had happened to Blair, he had tried to apologize, but Blair couldn’t bear a friendship that might be based on pity only.

"Come on, Sandburg, stop the pity party," the anthropology student muttered under his breath, cursing himself for his weakness, for dwelling on self-pity. That was definitely not his style but....

Blair had never felt so alone.

The young man sighed, and slowly got out of his bed. His injured ribs didn't like the idea, but he only winced and moved carefully. He didn't bother to search for his shoes and headed for the door. He was thirsty, probably due to all the medication they'd pumped into his body. Tapping through his dark universe, Blair tried to recall the outlines of the loft; he had often moved around the apartment without turning the lights on, so it was’nt a big deal, right?

"Damnit!" Blair exclaimed in a low, strained voice when his thigh hit the corner of the kitchen table. In the same breath he added apologetically: "Sorry, Jim," assuming the Sentinel had heard his gasp of pain and curse. "I'm okay."

Surprisingly, he received no comment from the upstairs bedroom.

Eventually, Blair reached the refrigerator and blindly searched for something to drink. Sensing the shape of a bottle of orange juice, his hand grasped the bottle and took a long, refreshing sip. Leaning against the closed doors of the fridge, Blair forced his racing brain to calm down.

Think simple, think of something ordinary! Think of...a grocery list. A bizarre thing to think about, but maybe exactly the right boring, unimportant task to occupy his mind with.

Returning to the table he'd hit minutes ago, Blair sat down, his hands finding a sheet of paper and a pen - like it had been left there just for him.

His handwriting was probably indecipherable, but with utmost care, the student almost drew the letters on the paper: TOMATOES, ORANGE JUICE, BUTTER, NOODLES. Blair's thoughts sifted through the mental list he was composing. TEA, BROCCOLI.

"I hope you'll be able to piece it together, Jim," Blair murmured and folded the piece of paper twice in the middle before he stored it into the pocket of the sweatpants he was wearing to bed. He didn't feel better, not at all, his head still hurt, but his brain wasn't so focussed on one single thought anymore.

Leaving the table, Blair made it back to his room without hurting himself or rearranging the furniture. Progress came in little steps.

His ears picked up a moan. Blair stopped and stood perfectly still to detect were the sound was coming from. His hearing had already compensated for the lack of sight, and Blair knew when he heard the second moan it originated from upstairs. Jim's bedroom.

Blair didn't hesitate. One chair got into his way, thumping loudly when it hit the floor. Blair didn't care this time. The moaning sounds increased in volume, not screams actually, but the agony from someone - Jim - suffering a terrible pain was clearly audible.

"Jim?" Blair shouted, stumbling through the living-room. Where were the damn stairs?

"Jim, are you okay, man?" Hitting another item, Blair went still for a moment, concentrating and remembering one of his own lectures.

Listen to the way the sound reverberates in the room. Sound waves bounce off solid objects, and you can approximate the size, the shape and distance of an object by an echo. Blair clapped his hands.

Blair's left foot made contact with the first step, and the anthropologist grabbed the railing. He steadily climbed up to his friend's bedroom where the moans were growing louder and more painful. Reaching the upper level, Blair drew a mental picture of what his ears told him.

Jim hadn't answered his calls. That he didn't hear him was not an option, unlikely, like snow in July. If he was suffering a ....real pain like a cramp or worse, he would have tried to call for help. Even a stubborn James Ellison would do that. So, it must be something else. A sensory problem.

The moans alternated between sudden gasps of pain and small whimpers, increasing in volume from time to time, and Blair suddenly comprehended the Sentinel was once again tormented by a dreadful, mind-destroying nightmare.

His knees connected with the bed and Blair bent slightly forward. He flinched in shock when his hands touched the moaning figure. Jim's whole body was painfully tensed up, flesh and muscles stretched to breaking point, and he didn't respond to Blair's touch.

"Jim, come on, man, don't do this to me," Blair said softly. "I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is you have to snap out of it." At no point did Blair let his voice show the fear he felt and, determined but still gentle, he continued. "You're just dreaming, Jim, and if you come back to me, you'll see that you're safe here and nothing's gonna hurt you." He reached out and touched Jim's face, his lips, cheeks, nose and, finally, his eyes which were squeezed tight as if the older man was living a horrible ordeal.

The Sentinel moaned again then whimpered, and Blair whispered: "It's okay, Jim. I'm here. I’ll protect you. When you can hear me, concentrate on my voice." The young man crawled on the bed, wincing at the pain in his side, but never ceasing the soothing murmur.

"Listen to me, buddy. Follow the sound of my voice."

After a few minutes of hypnotic stroking and softly spoken words of comfort, Blair sensed a change in Jim's breathing pattern, the tensed muscles relaxing slowly and the pain-filled moaning subsiding.

"That's it," Blair praised. "You're doing very good, Jim."

Life came back into Jim, and he rolled his head from one side to the other. A sigh escaped his lips. It was nothing more than a tiny bit of exhaled air mixed with a combination of letters, no one but a blind Guide would understand.

"Blair..."

"I'm right here, my friend", Blair sent a quick prayer of heartfelt thanks to the powers that be and tenderly brushed over the detective's face.

"Blair...." Jim whispered again, and a few tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes, tickling down his cheeks until the gentle, warm hands of his Guide stopped their trail.

Blair felt the moisture on his fingers, and he caressed his friend's face like a mother would her child's. "You're safe, Jim. It's okay now." Another tear. "Come on, Jim, open your eyes."

With his own eyes blind, Blair realized for the first time now that he hadn't even tried to 'see' what he was doing. His heart had led the way and suddenly the anthropologist was absolutely sure he would fight his fate. One way or another.

"Nooooo!" Jim bolted upright, his eyes now wide open. His breath came in short gasps, and Blair shrunk back a bit to give him the space he needed.

It took another few moments before the Sentinel became aware of his surroundings again. His bed, his room.... Brackett! Jim's heart started racing again, remembering the helplessness and fear. His eyes searched his bedroom for any sign of the intruder.

"Jim? You okay?" Blair's low voice startled him, although Jim had sensed his presence even before the terrible nightmare had released him. He turned his head, spotting his young friend sitting beside him on the bed. The white bandages shone eerie in the dim light of the night and with his heightened sense of sound, Jim could hear Blair's pulse beating as wildly as his own.

"I'm fine," Jim replied, still puzzled and dazed about what had happened again.

Blair flinched inwardly at the answer, recollecting all to well the standard reply Ellison had supplied him with the last couple of days. He was always fine, certainly, but Blair had learnt his lesson and this time didn't press the subject.

"Okay," he simply said, not wanting to show is concern and own fears, and he carefully climbed out of Jim's bed. He had moved towards the stairs, when Jim's voice penetrated the silence.

"Wait!"

Blair heard the rustling of bed covers, and then Jim's strong hand took his arm in a gentle grip.

"Here, let me help you," the soft voice spoke into his ear, and Blair was grateful for the supporting arm. They walked downstairs in silence, crossing the living-room, and eventually entering Blair's bedroom.

"Thanks, " Blair said, allowing Jim to help him into bed and to even draw up the covers to his chin. Immediately, Blair rolled onto his right side, to ease the pressure on his cracked ribs and hoped sleep would finally catch up with him.

"Night, Chief," Jim wished and, from the reverberating sound, Blair could tell he was already standing in the doorway.

"Night, Jim," Blair mumbled and listened closely to noises Jim made. He hadn't left the room yet and Blair knew he was watching him. For a single moment, Blair wanted to see the look on his friend's face, to read the emotion written there. Pity, concern or just annoyance? Jim still hadn't moved and Blair was about to utter a joking remark when he sensed movement near his bed.

Jim sat down on the edge of Blair's small bed, and the anthropologist shifted a bit to give him more room - literally and figuratively.

"How are you feeling?" Jim asked.

Blair shrugged. "Okay, I guess, except for the fact that my body hurts and wants to sleep but my brain is working in overdrive," he admitted, waiting for the actual words Jim wanted to say. Apparently, the older man didn't know how to start, thus Blair jumped in with a counter-question.

"What about you?"

Silence. Then:

"Okay, I guess, except for the fact that I'm slowly losing my mind," Jim replied with a small smile in his voice.

Blair didn't say anything and waited, giving Jim time to overcome his very personal fear, time to open up.

"I've been having these dreams," Jim began. "Nightmares." A shudder ran through his body like it was the most terrible word in the world to speak out loud. "I had a few nightmares after I returned from Peru. Post traumatic stress disorder, you know, reliving the crash and the death of my men night after night. I expected them, or better, I was told it might happen. I understood that my brain needed to digest the ordeal and searched for a way to let off steam, to ban the bad memories." Jim sighed. Then he shook his head. "This time, it's different. The...nightmares are so real, like nothing I've ever experienced before." The man went silent, and Blair's calm voice spoke up.

"What are those dreams about?"

Jim let out a cheerless laugh.

"They always start the same way," he explained. "I'm chained down to an examination table and our old friend, Lee Brackett conducts funny little experiments to check the range of my sensory abilities. I'm totally helpless and can’t do anything to prevent it from happening."

Blair could hear the fear in Jim's words, and he asked gently: "What does he do?"

Jim hesitated again for a second. Why was it so hard to talk about it?

"The first night he used a dog whistle to test my hearing...," Jim began.

"Dog whistle?" Blair repeated. "That's why you reacted so violently in the park yesterday when the guy blew his whistle!" The pieces of the puzzle seemed to make sense.

"Yeah, I think,...my brain remembered the pain the whistle inflicted when I dreamt about it and I completely zoned-out then," Jim continued and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked at Blair in surprise when the young man struggled to sit up.

"Wait a second, Jim! Are you saying you actually felt the pain when Brackett used the whistle on you?" Puzzlement swung in his voice.

Jim nodded, then, remembering Blair couldn't see it, voiced the confirmation.

"Yes, it hurt like hell, why?" He took Blair's arm, helped him sit up, and, using the pillow to support his back, made him more comfortable.

"Jim, dreams usually are a result of emotions like fear, anger or joy we deal with in our lives. When you have trouble coming to terms with a difficult situation, something that bothers you, your subconscious works on it while you're sleeping. That's why we have dreams or nightmares from time to time," Blair started his lecture with newly-awakened enthusiasm in his voice. "However, these things are just emotional expressions and you aren’t supposed to feel physical pain. You body is in neutral gear, if you like."

Blair thought for a moment. "So, my guess is that it definitely has to do with your senses. The thought of Brackett knowing about your Sentinel powers is scaring you." Jim flinched a little at Blair's choice of words. "It's a feeling you would like to ban from your memory, but your subconscious knows about it and brings it up in your dreams." He chewed on his lower lip, deep in thought. "That doesn't explain why you're feeling the pain though."

Jim chuckled. "Don't tell me you're clueless, Sandburg."

Blair shook his head. "Let me think for a moment."

"Be my guest," Jim shrugged and watched his young friend in amazement. He swore he could see the thoughts racing through Sandburg's mind like a whirlwind through the desert, picking up everything he could get a hold of.

Blair's face lit up, he smiled, and Jim knew he had just found a scientific answer to all his problems. Sandburg always found a scientific way to explain things. "Jim..." the anthropologist began slowly, still trying to formulate the sentence while this thoughts already jumped to the next step. "Jim, your senses are warning you...."

"Oh really? Why don't they just say don't walk when the lights are red?" Jim cut in sarcastically.

Unimpressed, Blair nodded. "If you think about it, they do just that! Although we aren’t talking about traffic lights here." He paused for a moment, hesitating as it seemed to Jim.

"What?" the Sentinel probed.

"Uhm, I'm sorry to bring this up again, Jim, but...." Blair stopped, and Jim patted his leg through the blanket.

"Come on, Chief, you can tell me everything. Spit it out," he smiled, cursing himself for the umpteenth time for this mute gesture.

"The last time you had sensory spikes like this, well, sort of, was when you met...Lyla." Blair didn't see Jim's smile fading at the mention of his former girlfriend. He flinched mentally at the remembrance and swallowed hard. Sensing the effect his words must have on Jim, Blair continued slowly, carefully choosing his words in order not to revive old pains.

"Every time you saw her, your senses went haywire and you said yourself that your senses were warning you. They worked like an alarm system and I think that's the same situation we're dealing with now."

Jim shook his head to dismiss the bad memories.

"Maybe you're right but that's not all...", he replied when he had his emotions and voice under control again. He cleared his throat, and told Blair about the real-life incidents that had occurred after his nightmares.

Silence hung between the two men after Jim finished this story. One still captivated by the terror of the dreams, the other seeking explanations where there were none. Logic failed and the heart took over. Blair reached out and his hands touched Jim's arm, a gentle gesture of comfort.

"Let me sum it up once more, " Blair said. "You dream about Brackett tormenting your hearing and the next morning a dead body with ruptured eardrums is found; after that Brackett over-stimulates your sight and...I got hurt in an explosion, my eyes injured." Jim nodded grimly, not bothering to voice his motion this time. Blair could feel the muscles under his hands tense up like steal.

"It's okay, Jim. It's not your fault," Blair whispered. "So tonight you were exposed to electroshocks but, as far as we know, no one has been harmed yet."

Jim sighed. "We don't know that, Chief. It could be happening right now. Some poor fellow could be dying." The Sentinel escaped Blair's gentle grip and stood, pacing through the small bedroom. "I don't get it," he muttered. "If the senses are warning me, why this way?" 'Why do you have to suffer, Blair?' he added in his mind.

"Jim, by sending out the message that something will happen, your senses are warning you to be careful. It's not about you being responsib-..." Abruptly, Blair stopped when the familiarity of the sentence hit him.

'This is not about you.'

"This is not about you," he repeated out loud, mesmerized by the quizzical words of a little black kitten hiding in a dark alley to talk to stranded anthropologist.

"I hear you, Chief, but..."

"Nonono, I mean, it's not that you are asked to protect someone, or to save a life." Blair carefully crawled out of bed and stood in front of Jim, blind but now seeing with the wisdom of the Spirit Guide inside him.

"They're telling you to take care of yourself. The Sentinel is in danger and your senses are trying to protect you," Blair concluded.

The young man didn't catch Jim's incredulous glance, disbelief reflecting on his face, blue eyes full of uncertainty and, again, fear. The detective studied his Guide's face that was half covered with bruises and bandages. The inevitable truth was screaming at him he had failed, he had feared, and he hadn't believed. Jim closed his eyes. Mental images of the jungle rushed through his mind. The panther that became the Shaman and then himself filled his head. Fear ravaged his being, enveloped by shadows leading the wrong way, making devastating decisions. And eventually, the light broke through the sky, the panther's fur glistened like black gold, providing courage, faith and hope.

Dazed, Jim opened his eyes, his mind whirling back from its excursion. Blair was still standing in front of him, waiting, hoping and caring. Jim placed his hands on the young anthropologist's shoulder, squeezing gently but firmly.

"Tomorrow we'll do some detective's work, " Jim announced, while he tenderly directed Blair back to his bed. "Let's see what my senses have to say about it."

****

Simon Banks was not pleased with the idea of dismissing one detective from a current investigation and replacing him with another; Detective Brown was not pleased because he suddenly found himself pushed aside, as Ellison and Sandburg now worked on his case; and on top of it, Jim Ellison was not pleased because his young and blind partner insisted on coming with him. Danger be prepared, we're coming, Jim thought angrily when they left Major Crimes, the worried glance of his friend and captain piercing his back.

The day had already turned out bad because the captain had requested a good explanation as to why Jim wanted so desperately to check out the place where the victim with the ruptured eardrums, James McMillan, had been found. Of course, neither Jim nor Blair could provide a logical answer, and Simon had very reluctantly given them the case file.

The old warehouse area made for the perfect crime scene, Jim pondered grimly, when he walked through long corridors, crossed former manufacturing halls, distribution departments and another long corridor leading deeper into the complex. Blair was steadily walking beside him, one of his hands lightly resting on Jim's arm for guidance. He had lost his orientation completely, too many twists and turns, but he trusted the man at his side with his life.

"What is this place?" Blair wondered aloud, and he felt Jim's shrug.

"Looks like a former production company," the older man described their location, scanning the place with his senses while approaching another iron-cast door. Jim stopped suddenly when his sense of smell picked up a well-known scent.

"You got something, Jim?" Blair deciphered the sudden stop correctly and withdrew his hand.

"Are you wearing my aftershave, Sandburg?" Jim questioned with raised eyebrows, taking a good whiff of the Sandburg Zone.

Aftershave? Blair shrugged, making a apologetic gesture. "Sorry, man, I must have grabbed the wrong bottle this morning," he tried to explain.

"Well, don't make it a habit, 'cause I don't wanna have to try the mosquito pee you use," Jim growled with a grin in his voice.

"Veeery funny, Jim," Blair replied dryly. "Very funny."

"So why aren't you laughing?" Jim teased, and his hand grasped the door handle.

He had barely touched the iron handle when a powerful electric surge burnt through his body! Jim screamed in pain, shaking violently with each shock. Waves of fire ravaged his cramping muscles, while the current spread the agony through his convulsing body, seeking grounding to release its unsparing strength. The ordeal stopped after just a few seconds. The Sentinel collapsed, every nerve in his limbs hurting, flinching in reflex of the aftershock. He heard Blair yelling something, but he couldn't make his brain work up a reply, or even realize his muscles were paralyzed.

****

The solitude of the loft was disturbed by the persistent ringing of the telephone. With no one there to answer the call, the machine picked it up after a moment.

"Hi, Ellison and Sandburg here. We can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, we'll call you back."

Following the beep, a male voice filled the air: "Blair, this is Jack Kelso. I've received some disturbing news regarding Lee Brackett. Please call me back as soon as you can."

Click.

****

Jim's scream of pain still echoed in Blair's ears. He shouted his name, but an answer never came. The young man dropped to his knees beside his hurting friend, groping for him, over and over calling his name.

"Jim! Come on, man, don't do this to me now," Blair pleaded with a panic-filled voice. All he knew was that Jim lay on the floor, unmoving, and whimpering softly. It had sounded like.... Blair shook his head. What kind of sound had it been?

If he could only see!

"Damn it!" Blair cursed and reached for the bandages covering his eyes, ripping them off in one fierce motion. Sudden light pierced through his closed eyelids and Blair covered his eyes with both hands. Carefully, he peered through his fingers when the pain subsided.

Blair saw nothing but brightness, occasionally veined by dark shapes when an object came into his range of sight. Not much, but it was a start. He could make out Jim's prone form on the ground.

The big puddle of grey and black pixels in front of him didn't move, and Blair tentatively touched his hand and arm, speaking softly to the injured man.

Finally, Jim responded, but it was only a few moaning words. "Blair..., h-hurts..." Involuntarily, he began to tremble. "I...can't move."

The blood ran cold in Blair's veins at Jim's words, and he searched his jacket for the cell phone. "Hang in there, Jim," Blair said when he found the phone in one of Jim's pockets. "I'm calling an ambulance." The numbers were only blurs of shadowy grey colors.

"Don't bother to even try, Mr. Sandburg," a familiar male voice spoke behind his back. "The electric surge Detective Ellison received should have destroyed the cell phone."

Blair spun around, blinking at the sight of Lee Brackett!

Jim eyes fluttered open, his brain sending out the message to move and jump at the enemy's throat, but his body didn't cooperate. Jim moaned when his muscles cramped again. "You son of a bitch," he brought over his lips.

Brackett casually pointed a gun at the two men, knowing too well that neither of them was a match for him. In his left hand he carried a briefcase - at least, Blair thought it looked like a briefcase.

"What took you so long, boys?" the ex-CIA man asked, something like faked worry evident in his voice. "I expected you two days ago, Ellison." He shook his head in disappointment. "Did you catch my little hint?"

Leaving Jim's side, Blair stood. His vision was still more than fuzzy but he knew he spoke into the man's face. "Two days ago?" Blair repeated, hoping Brackett wouldn't realize he could hardly see. "So you killed James McMillan?" he concluded and his opponent just chuckled.

"Ingenious idea, wasn't it? You know, Mr. Sandburg, since I know about Ellison's little secret I thought I should come up with something inventive to get his attention." He looked over at Jim who returned his cold stare likewise. "I watched you guys and must say you reacted quite strangely and I feared for your sanity." Brackett's glance darted back to Blair. "What happened to your eyes, professor?"

"Wh—at do ...you want, Brackett?" Jim's weak voice demanded, inducing Blair to return to his side in an instant, taking his hand and squeezed gently.

Anger replacing fear, Blair shouted at Brackett. "Answer him!"

"Temper, temper, Mr. Sandburg," Brackett warned and put the briefcase down. "Don't you want to know how I escaped from prison, gentlemen?" Receiving no answer, Brackett shrugged and with one foot shoved the briefcase towards Jim and Blair. "Let's just say, I have some friends in high positions who helped me out."

Blair stared at the black briefcase, not bothering to ask the question, his hand still enveloping Jim's.

Brackett followed his glance. "The only reason for my sudden return into your lives..." He grinned evilly. "...is that I need your help again, Detective. I know, I know, our last encounter ended rather unpleasantly, but you gave me a stunning insight of what you can do with those extraordinary senses of yours."

He pointed at the briefcase. "I managed - " he smiled again. "to get my hands on some top-secret government documents. You won't be surprised to hear that I've already found a buyer, but before I can hand over the documents, I need you to open the briefcase for me. The lock is connected to a fine security system which in turn is a attached to a small explosive device that will go off the second someone tries to open the briefcase without using the appropriate code number. Of course, I don't know the number, but I've been told the lock works like a simple safe combination: The moment you hear the little click, you've found the right number, and we all will live happily ever after."

"Oh," Brackett added as if it had just come to mind, "It goes without saying that this device is extremely sensitive and any minute variation will set it off."

"Forget it, Brackett," Jim spat.

Lee Brackett discharged the safety of his gun and aimed it at Blair's head. "I can blow out his brains right here in front of you, if you'd prefer," he threatened.

"He can't move, you moron!" Blair challenged, knowing all too well that Brackett would kill them as soon as the briefcase was open.

Brackett nodded understandingly. "Yes, unfortunately he reacted a bit strongly to the power surge I connected to the door." He waved with the gun. "Okay, Ellison, tell Mr. Sandburg what to do."

"WHAT?" Blair gasped, not believing what he'd just heard. That was impossible.

Brackett produced a watch. "You have exactly five minutes before I lose my patience." He didn't tell them that he had to catch a plane to meet his customer. He dangled the watch. "The famous five minutes."

Blue eyes exchanged glances of fear and comfort, and Jim closed his own minutely. "I'll see and hear for you, and you'll feel for me. Piece of cake!" the Sentinel said and inhaled deeply. Blair hesitated, fear knotting his stomach so that he thought he had to be sick. Jim saw the distress painted on the young man's face and his next words soothed his churned up soul.

"Trust me, Blair. I'll get you out of here."

If you put your faith in him, he won't let you down. Blair nodded and made himself comfortable in front of the briefcase, legs stretched out, hands carefully touching the locks.

"Your time's running," Brackett announced, but the two men didn't pay attention.

Jim turned up his hearing - no fears anymore - and started filtering out the background noises. "Okay, Chief, turn the right handle a to the left, only a few millimetres." Blair's hands trembled but he switched the lock.

"More."

"Just a little bit more... Just a bit...," Jim instructed, listening intensely to the faint sounds the turning of the handle made. His hearing was dialed up to the highest, most sensitive level.

Carefully, like it would break at the slightest touch, Blair moved the handle. He flinched when Jim's voice stopped him.

"Hold it!" There was a sudden sharpness in the Sentinel's voice. Abruptly, but not soon enough, Blair stopped. He threw a startled and yet questioning glance at his friend.

"You turned it too far," Jim said softly, his voice not accusing but reassuring to try again.

"I'm sorry," Blair apologized, drying his sweaty palms on his pants.

The smile Jim gave him didn't cease the trembling, but the young man calmed down visibly. "It's not your fault," Jim soothed. "You'll have to turn it all the way to the left now to reach the starting point again." He winked, the only movement he could perform. "Slowly now. Don't try to turn it backwards," he warned gently.

Blair took a deep breath. The handle reached its original point, and Blair moved it further to the left side.

"Easy..." Jim's voice was barely a whisper as he concentrated on his sense of sound. Blair briefly closed his eyes, as they were hurting from the intense staring at the locks now.

Jim focused. There was the famous click. "That's it."

"You're doing good, Blair," Jim praised. "We are almost done. Onto the left handle now." He threw a look at Brackett who was concentrating on the young man as he moved the left handle.

"Easy, buddy. Not so fast. I can't keep up," Jim warned and gained a surprised glance from his partner. Sending out a disguised message, Jim hoped Blair would understand and slow down the process. Dialing up his hearing, Jim's ears had picked up the very distant sound of approaching sirens. The cavalry would arrive, and the only thing he had to do now was buy enough time to let them invade the place without Brackett noticing. After all, Simon Banks' sense of timing worked like a charm. Jim heard the sirens fading, meaning they were near.

"You okay, Jim?" Blair asked, his hands ceasing the movements.

Very good, Blair, Jim thought. Aloud he replied: "My hearing is playing tricks on me."

Blair's hands left the handles and he turned to his partner. "Remember your breathing, Jim. Relax and...."

"STOP IT!" Brackett's shout interrupted, and Jim winced at the loud sound. Brackett indicated with the gun. "You'd better hurry."

"CASCADE POLICE! PUT THE GUN DOWN!" The familiar voice of Simon Banks rang through the air. Lee Brackett froze in shock, an expression of total disbelief crossing his face, mouth open at the thought that his brilliant plan had failed. Again. He turned his head and realized his defeat. The gun dropped to the floor.

Jim released his breath loudly, and Blair joined him in unison.

****

A satisfied sigh escaped Ellison's lips when he beat on his pillow to make himself more comfortable. The events of the last few days had drained him more than he dared to admit to himself, and Jim was relieved that it had all turned out okay. The good guys won, the bad guy was brought to justice - the world was back in order. He still had to thank Simon for his witted reaction to send back-up to the warehouse, after Jack Kelso had informed him about Brackett's escape. Tomorrow...

Jim glanced at his clock - 3.12 a.m. - and sighed again. Hopefully, Simon would grant him his vacation request. A few days to relax was exactly the thing he was so looking forward to. His muscles had regained full function after a few hours, so that was not the problem. He just wanted to make an escape of his own. Sandburg needed some downtime, too, and maybe they would go up north, fishing, camping, sitting around a crackling fire when the night set in, all the good stuff. Sandburg would probably bring his obscure fishing spear again. With a cheeky grin on his face, Jim closed his eyes. He would never catch one single fish....

"LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU HEADCASE!!!!"

Instantly on alert, Jim grabbed his gun, eyes adjusting to the darkness, ears picking up the scream from downstairs. The Sentinel jumped out of bed. He ran downstairs, scanning the loft while he made his way through the living room. There was nobody else present other than himself and his roommate.

Blair's voice broke off, and outside his bedroom, Jim could clearly make out his Guide's racing heartbeat. His breathing was disturbed, fast, like he had been startled by something. Apparently, Blair tried his utmost to hide his emotional outburst from the rest of the world.

From Jim.

Jim lightly knocked at the closed bedroom door.

"Hey, Chief, is everything okay?" His voice was gentle.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Jim. Sorry," Blair reassured in a heart-breaking voice, tiny and scared.

"May I come in?" Jim asked, before he opened the door and poked his head inside.

"You're already in," Blair murmured, burying his face deep in the pillow, when Jim stepped into the small bedroom. The detective put the gun on the nightstand and gingerly sat down on the edge of Blair's bed like so many times before.

Like so many times before.

"Bad dream?" Jim asked sympathetically. He reached out to touch Blair's shoulder but stopped mid-motion when Blair's heart rate increased. What the heck...? Jim finished the gesture and place his hand on the young man's shoulder. He could feel almost imperceptible tremors wracking the small body of his partner.

Brown curls flew when Blair violently shook his head, his hands tightening around the blanket, pulling it further up. A cocoon of fear.

"I'm sorry, Jim," was the only reply he got. Almost inaudible.

Subtly, Jim rubbed the shoulder, squeezing, and trailing down to the back. "What's wrong, Blair?" he repeated, massaging the muscles. Even through the heavy blanket, he could feel the tension building up there.

"I didn't mean to wake you...." Blair spoke into the pillow, tensing up even more.

Jim was about to utter reassurances when a long forgotten conversation dawned to him. A conversation born of anger, rage and stubbornness. Nightmares...:

"I was just trying to sleep, Sandburg. And that's very hard when you jump out of your skin every hour because your roommate has his shaky days."

Remembering the brutal words he'd thrown at his Guide only two days ago, Jim shuddered with the thought of what one careless sentence had caused to the soul of his young friend. Words spoken in frustration to hide his own feelings, words intended to hurt, were words regretted now.

"Hey...," Jim squeezed the shoulder and started to turn Blair over on his back. The anthropologist fought against it but, provided with greater strength, Jim easily pulled him over. "Blair, come on. Look at me."

Blair looked up to Jim. Wordlessly, Jim opened his arms and after a moment's hesitation, Blair sat up. His arms went around the Sentinel's back, hugging him firmly.

Their nightmare was over.

****

Epilogue - the next morning

Blair Sandburg stormed out of his bedroom, struggling to zip up his jeans and tuck in his red shirt at the same time. His shoe laces were loose and ready to be tripped on, his hair an unruly mess. The frame of his glasses was caught between his teeth because he needed both hands to accomplish the task of getting his clothes together.

"Hurry up, Sandburg," Jim yelled from the kitchen. A cup of steaming hot coffee stood on the counter along with some toast and two apples. "Even with Simon's okay on my vacation request, we still have to do grocery shopping before we leave for our extended weekend trip!" He took a sip from his own cup and watched as Blair stopped in his tracks, suddenly thinking of something.

"I've-ma'dea-lst," he spoke between the glasses, turning on his heel, and headed back to his bedroom.

"You did what?" Jim shouted, more amused than confused at his friend's odd morning behavior. Lack of sleep added to his clumsiness, and Jim grinned broadly.

Blair rushed back into his bedroom, rummaging through his bedcovers, searching for his sweatpants. After turning the fourth layer of blankets, Blair found the clothes and grabbed into the pocket, letting out a triumphant "I got it", when he found the crumpled grocery list he had written days ago.

He winced at the almost undecipherable handwriting, reminding him painfully of the incident that had lead to his blindness. His vision was still not a hundred percent but with his glasses on, it was manageable. Blair nodded, remembering writing down most items.

"You had no sense of direction, Blair," he murmured to himself when he realized that he had apparently also written onto the backside of the paper. Shaking his head, Blair turned the sheet.

His eyes went wide. Jim's neat handwriting covered half of the paper. Apparently, he had started writing something down earlier and Blair had just happened to get it into his hands when he was in the market for a piece of paper to compose his grocery list. Blair shrugged and folded the paper to put it into the pocket of his jeans when his eyes caught his name on top of it.

It was a letter. A letter Jim had written to him. Reading the first line, Blair swallowed hard. The Sentinel must have written it two nights ago after they had their nasty fight and Blair had left the loft.
 

The writing became unreadable, and Blair figured sleep must have finally caught up with his friend before he could finish this silly letter.

"Sandburg! Get your ass in gear and let's go!" Jim's charming words reached his ears and Blair stuffed the letter/grocery list into his pocket, dazed and confused.

"I'm going!" Jim threatened from the kitchen and Blair could hear the lock of the front door clicking when Jim turned the key.

The young man walked out into the living-room. Jim grabbed Blair's leather jacket and turned to throw it over to the anthropologist. He stopped his movement when he saw Blair standing in the middle of the room, staring at him intensely, looking into his eyes with the knowledge of a Sentinel's Guide.

"What is it?" Jim asked, smiling and returning the staring gaze.

Today, the colours of truth, regret and friendship were painted crystal blue.

The End.