Little Company
by Lanning Cook

To say the truth, reason and love
keep little company together now-a-days.

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

"He's hurting her, he's hurting her, he's--"

Blair started awake with the conviction that something was terribly wrong. It took him only a fraction of a second to realize what it was.

Jim thrashed violently in the bed beside him, his voice rising with every word. "Dad, he's hurting her! Help her! He's hurting her--"

"Jim," said Blair quietly, putting both arms around his friend with difficulty. He cleared his throat and tried to put himself into Guide mode. As naturally as that came these days, being scared out of a sound sleep at 4 a.m. didn't put him in his best form. "Jim, buddy, wake up." He caught Jim's arm as it swung dangerously near his nose.

With a gasp that sounded almost as if he were choking, Jim shuddered awake. In the ghostly pre--dawn light, Blair could see Jim's terrified wild--eyed expression well enough to be scared by it. He'd never seen Jim look quite like that before. Like a little kid.

"Easy, Jim. It's okay," murmured Blair soothingly, running his hands over Jim's arms and chest soothingly and sighing inwardly. He really was not at his best at this hour. Could he have said anything more inane and meaningless? It seemed to work, though; Jim relaxed and lowered his arms limply to the bed. His breathing slowed.

"Blair."

"The one and only." Blair touched Jim cheek gently. Jim was sweating as if he'd run a marathon.

Jim uttered a small, forced laugh. "Sorry, Chief. Nightmare."

"Yeah, I kind of figured." Blair paused, watching him. "You okay?"

Jim turned to look at Blair for a moment, then smiled faintly and pulled Blair into his arms. "Yeah." Jim curled himself around his lover, resting his head on Blair's shoulder and nuzzling his neck. "I am now."

Blair sighed contentedly, nestling as close to Jim as was humanly possible. "Want to talk about it?"

Jim hesitated for a moment, and Blair could almost feel the conflict raging between Jim's old habits and his new trust. "Don't know what to say," Jim finally said, a little awkwardly. "I don't remember much. And what I remember I don't understand."

"You can tell me what you remember, if it'll help." Blair stroked Jim's chest gently.

"Usually does," confessed Jim in a whisper. He cleared his throat. "It was this kid. This little girl. She was staring at me. Just staring. No matter where I turned she'd be there. I couldn't get away from her."

"Did you recognize her?" asked Blair, intrigued.

"No."

"Did she say anything?"

"Not a word. She just kept playing this damn drum."

Blair's eyes, which had been drifting shut again, snapped open. "Drum? What kind of drum?"

"You know, one of those little toy drums, with the strap? She was wearing it, and pounding on it, and staring at me like…. Hell, I don't know. Like I'd murdered somebody or something."

Blair lifted his head to look into Jim's face. There was something about this that he didn't like the sound of. "So you got the feeling she was accusing you of something?"

Jim shifted as if uncomfortable. "I guess so. I don't know. She didn't say anything."

"But that's how you felt."

Jim slid a long finger along Blair's jaw and let it come to rest on his lips. "Let's get some sleep, Chief. We've got that IA interview this morning."

"Jim, you were saying something in your sleep about--"

Jim kissed him deeply, effectively silencing him. Blair groaned both in intellectual frustration and physical pleasure. Some nagging little voice in the back of his mind was telling him that this was important, but…. Jim broke the kiss and settled back into their embrace, eyes closed. But, after all, it was four in the morning. And it was only a dream. Blair closed his eyes and drifted off again.

*

"So you clearly heard Captain Banks ID himself."

"That's what I said," returned Jim blandly, looking the man across the table from him in the eye. Why was it that all these Internal Affairs types looked like two--legged weasels? Some unwritten but strictly--enforced qualification for the job? Or did the weasel--faced just have a genetic predisposition for being the kind of rat bastards that made them the perfect IA assholes? "That's what I said two weeks ago. That's what I said one week ago. That's what I said yesterday. That's what I'm saying now."

Chambers shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Look, Detective, I don't like this any more than you do. It looks like a clean shoot from every angle I can find."

"But you keep looking for more angles," retorted Jim, keeping his temper in check with difficulty. "Why is that, Chambers? Who in IA is gunning for my captain?"

Chambers stiffened slightly. "Ellison, that's crap and you know it. This is a standard inquiry--"

"That's dragged on for over two weeks. How many more times are you going to ask the same questions? Curt Krakowa was about to kill both my partner and--"

"Ellison, you don't have a partner. Mr. Sandburg is not a police officer. He's only a consultant. Which begs the question--"

"Only a-- Sandburg is--" Jim cut off what he knew would be his passionate response, imagining -- for the hundredth time since he and Blair became lovers -- what the consequences might be if the true nature of their relationship ever became known. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. "Sandburg has put his life on the line for this department more times than some cops I know. The only reason he was there in that warehouse is because he was trying to stop Krakowa and his goons from abducting me."

"No one is questioning Sandburg's contributions to the department," said Chambers sharply. "Although how he keeps winding up in the line of fire is becoming a matter of some concern. There are liability issues--"

"Is that what this is about? Liability?"

"No, Detective. It's about Captain Banks discharging his weapon and killing a suspect, possibly before identifying himself as a police officer."

"The captain identified himself," said Jim through gritted teeth. "And the 'suspect' he killed after identifying himself was in the act of shooting myself and my partner."

"After the suspect attempted to sexually assault Mr. Sandburg," said Chambers coolly, looking through the file in front of him.

The walls of the interrogation room suddenly closed in. Jim froze for a moment, his fists clenching involuntarily. He counted to five. He took a breath. "Yes." The vision of Blair on his hands and knees, submitting to that pig to save Jim's life, would be with Jim to the end of his days. And this weasel tossed out 'sexually assault' like it was jaywalking. Jim blotted out the image of Blair with the image of Chambers being hit by a bus, and smiled placidly.

"Sandburg was disrobed when Captain Banks made his appearance?"

Jim nodded curtly.

"It must have been obvious to him what had happened. He must have been very angry."

"We've been down this road before, Chambers."

"Did he lose control?"

"No."

"Did he fire in anger?"

"No."

"Did he--"

"He fired to prevent the suspect from killing his officers. After he identified himself. If you don't have any new questions, Chambers, then I don't have any new answers." Jim rose from his chair and stalked out.

*

Blair brought his coffee cup to his lips, and noticed to his annoyance that it was shaking. Damn. That wasn't good. Jim would spot that the minute he walked in here. He glanced out the door of the break room in the direction of the interrogation room. No sign of Jim yet. Just as well; he really had to get a hold of himself. That Chambers really knew how to rattle a guy, especially a guy who hated lying.

Blair took a gulp of coffee. Obfuscation was fine, and BS was just a form of male bonding, but this was a little different, even though Blair believed it was the right thing to do. He didn't like killing, but there was no doubt that Simon had saved both Blair's life and Jim's by shooting Krakowa when he had. The fact that he hadn't done the 'Cascade PD' spiel was beside the point in this case, as far as Blair was concerned.

Simon didn't feel that way, of course. It had only been with great difficulty that he had been persuaded to go along with his 'witnesses' ' account of events. But like Jim said, where did the good for the most people lie: with Simon losing his job, or with Simon doing his job? No question there. Simon was a great police captain. Blair wondered why the investigation into this shooting continued to drag on like this. Every witness backed Simon up on what had happened. Blair was beginning to think that someone was looking for something to pin on Simon. Jim thought so, too.

Blair took another sip of coffee. He could have sworn that Chambers had gotten some sort of sick kick out of going over everything that had happened in that warehouse. Blair made a conscious effort to steady his hands. Jim could not find out about that. Jim's antagonism toward Chambers was making the situation difficult enough without an attack of Blessed Protector Syndrome to take it over the edge into dangerous. If Jim had the slightest idea of the detail Chambers had gone into about all that …but he didn't. And he never would.

Blair watched the officers and staff out in the bullpen through the windows, still in the hushed huddle they'd been in for the past ten minutes. Blair had seen these little conferences taking place all over Major Crimes; just about everybody who worked here was anxious and on edge. Chambers had been nosing around for two weeks, asking leading questions and making vague insinuations. The entire staff was now on edge, territorial and completely hostile toward Internal Affairs. If things kept up like this, there was bound to be an explosion sooner or later.

"Ellison!"

Blair looked up, startled out of his reverie, to see Jim striding toward the break room with the wrath of God in his face. Blair sighed. Oh. Sooner. What a surprise.

Without pausing, Jim glanced at Chambers, who was following him with a frustrated expression. Everyone in the bullpen turned to watch the confrontation with rapt interest. "We are finished here, Chambers. Run along." Jim shot the words over his shoulder, still making a beeline for the break room.

Blair winced and rose hastily. He knew that tone in Jim's voice, and that this situation could get very ugly very fast if Chambers didn't back down immediately.

"I'm not running anywhere, and we are not finished," snapped Chambers, doggedly pursuing his quarry.

Jim strode into the break room and closed the door in Chambers' face. The man stared through the window at Blair for a moment, red--faced with impotent rage, then stalked off toward the elevators.

Blair watched him go, then raised his gaze to Jim's blazing blue eyes. "So … how did it go?" he asked blandly.

Jim stared at him for a minute as the battle--fury faded from his face. And then he grinned, slowly and hesitantly, as if his face was fighting him every step of the way. "About as well as you predicted."

"That well, huh? Congratulations." Blair moved closer, every cell in his body longing to hold the man. But he couldn't. He and Jim had already discussed this. No public displays of affection. Their relationship was private. It would be dangerous for both of them if it became public. Maybe Jim was right. And maybe he wasn't. Blair was of the opinion that they should be themselves and let the chips fall where they may. He and Jim could handle anything as long as they were together, as long as they were there to watch each other's backs. But Jim couldn't, wouldn't, take the risk. The risk to Blair, of course. Typical. Blessed Protector Syndrome at its most virulent. Blair stopped at a discreet twelve inches, aching. "Well, at least there was no bloodshed."

"This time," growled Jim, making for the coffee machine. He let one hand caress Blair's shoulder in a seemingly casual but genuinely tender touch as he passed. "I don't guarantee the asshole's safety if he takes another crack at it."

"Maybe he'll give up," murmured Blair, leaning into the caress even after Jim had passed. Even through clothing, Jim's touch moved him. He cleared his throat. "I mean, it's been over two weeks and he hasn't found a thing. IA's got no excuse to keep this thing going."

"If someone's gunning for Simon, then they'll find an excuse," said Jim grimly, lifting a mug to his lips.

"Why would anybody in the department be gunning for Simon? He's got a great record. I mean, am I the only one that's noticed that Morgan Wyatt's entire operation has been shut down, nearly half his soldiers are in jail, and the rest are running for their lives?"

"No, you're not the only one," said Jim slowly, his eyes focusing on something out in the bullpen. "And I'm beginning to wonder exactly who else has noticed. And who's running."

Blair stared blankly. "Translation?"

Jim nodded at something over Blair's shoulder, and Blair turned around to see a tall, sharply--dressed man striding into the bullpen with Joel Taggert beside him. He looked furious.

"Who's that?" Blair watched as the man disappeared into an interrogation room with Taggert.

"Montgomery Sherman." Jim's voice was acid with hostility.

"I know that name." Blair turned back to Jim in sudden realization. "He was one of Wyatt's partners."

"Alleged partner, Chief. We don't have anything on him yet but the testimony of some of Wyatt's ex--goons. And the fact that everybody on the street knows damn well he and Wyatt did business. Henri and Rafe have been staking out one of his warehouses down by the harbor for a week now."

"Why stake it out? Why not search it?"

Jim smiled faintly. "They did, almost two weeks ago. Couldn't find a damn thing. But one of Wyatt's boys told Rafe that a major delivery was made there just the night before, and it sure as hell didn't go out again. Sherman's got it stashed somewhere on the premises."

"So Rafe and Henri wait until he goes for it?" Jim nodded. "Then why did Joel bring him in?"

Jim scowled and slumped into a chair. "His wife was found dead of a heroin overdose a few nights back."

Blair sat down across the table from him. "And…?"

"And the coroner's report is inconclusive."

"Meaning--"

"Meaning there's the possibility that the dose wasn't self--administered."

"Geez," said Blair soberly. "He killed her?"

Jim shrugged. "Probably. He's one sick SOB, Chief. He was Wyatt's chief distributor in the Northwest. A lot of dead junkies."

"A lot of dead kids," said Blair quietly.

"Yeah," said Jim more gently. He reached out to touch Blair's hand lightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," whispered Blair, curling his fingers around Jim's hand.

Jim glanced hastily around, then very, very gently disentangled his hand. "Chief--"

"Yeah, yeah," breathed Blair, leaning back. "No PDAs. Got it. Just try not to be so damn irresistible, huh?"

"Look who's talking," growled Jim, his face scarlet. "When we get home--"

"Yeah?" Blair leaned forward provocatively, trying hard to control his breathing. "What'll you do then, tough guy?"

 "I'll--"

Jim was cut off by a low--pitched bellow and the sound of Joel Taggert's raised voice. Blair leapt to his feet and turned to see Sherman wrestling with Taggert in the door of the interrogation room. Jim was out the door and halfway across the bullpen before Blair pulled himself together enough to bolt out the door after him.

"You've got no right to hold me here! You damn cops are trying to make me crazy!" Sherman clawed wildly at Taggert, trying to break free, and shoved the man up against the doorjamb violently.

Taggert held on determinedly. "Just calm down, Sherman. Calm down."

Jim arrived at the interrogation room door at the same moment and hauled the man away from Taggert. It looked to Blair as if it took all of his strength to do it; Sherman seemed to be in a frenzy of panic.

Blair skirted the wrestling match and reached Taggert, who was breathing hard. "Joel, man, you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Sandburg, no problem." Taggert straightened and glared at Sherman. "Crazy SOB."

"What happened?"

"Damned if I know."

"Stop it!" Sherman clamped both hands over his ears. "Fucking cops! Turn it off!"

"Looks like our friend's been sampling his own stuff," said Jim harshly.

"Disposing of the evidence the hard way," Taggert observed in a grim tone.

"I know what you're doing. It's not going to work!" Sherman wrenched himself around, trying to break Jim's hold on him with no success.

"Taggert, what the hell is he on about?" Jim held onto the man with obvious difficulty.

"I don't know. He was acting funny all the way down here in the car. Twitchy. But once we got in the box, he started holding his ears and acting crazy."

"Just stop the damn drumming!"

"Drumming?" Blair stared at the man, startled. Weird. He looked at Jim, who stared at Sherman blankly. "What kind of drumming?"

"That's the crap he started in the car," said Taggert impatiently. "There's no drumming, Sherman."

"Five days of this. Five days!" snarled Sherman, still struggling. "This is harassment, torture. I'll have you all up on charges."

Blair saw Jim's expression change. "Five days of what?" Jim demanded, shaking the man roughly.

Blair felt his internal Jim's--about--to--lose--it alarm go off at the look in Jim's face. "Jim--"

"Excuse me."

Blair glanced over his shoulder at the voice, startled, and grimaced in recognition. A short man with slicked--back hair and a tasteless but expensive suit was standing a few feet away, watching the action with an amused expression. Great. Like things weren't bad enough. Now they had to deal with Jackson Kirk, attorney--at--law.

"Well, look what slithered in," muttered someone behind Blair in open disgust.

"We're busy, Kirk," snapped Jim, shoving Sherman back toward the interrogation room.

"Is my client under arrest?"

Jim paused. "Would you like him to be?"

"Assaulting a police officer works for me," suggested Taggert in obvious annoyance, rubbing his shoulder. "Your client's here to answer some questions about his wife's death, counselor."

"Charge him or release him," said Kirk evenly, eyes narrowing.

Jim swore softly under his breath and let go of Sherman, who instantly strode to Kirk' side.

"I want them charged with harassment," he hissed. "They've got hidden speakers everywhere! It's everywhere I go!"

"I'll take care of things, Monty," said Kirk firmly. "Go down and wait for me in the car."

Sherman shot a triumphant glare in the direction of the detectives and strode off in the direction of the elevators.

"Scraping the bottom of the trough for clients these days, aren't we, Jack?" Jim folded his arms across his chest and regarded Kirk contemptuously.

"Every citizen has a right to legal representation, Detective," returned Kirk in an oily tone, adjusting his tie. "Mr. Sherman is no exception. This harassment--"

"This is not harassment," cut in Taggert in a tone of barely--leashed frustration. "It's a homicide investigation. The man's wife is dead, Kirk."

"The victim of her own addiction. A tragedy. Mr. Sherman is grief--stricken and not emotionally stable at the moment."

"Yeah, I'm sure his heart is bleeding." Jim's tone was scathing.

"Mr. Sherman has been under considerable emotional stress since the disappearance of his daughter several days ago, stress which has only been exacerbated by his wife's death. I suggest that the continual persecution of the Cascade Police Department is driving him to the point of--"

"Litigation?" suggested Blair drily when Kirk hesitated.

Kirk eyed him sourly for a moment, then barked a laugh. "Have you ever considered a career in the law, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Not since I met you," retorted Blair.

Kirk chuckled and turned away. "Ah, well. Your loss, kid."

"Our gain," growled Jim, bristling. Blair shot him a warning glance as Kirk glanced over his shoulder with a shrewd look.

"My client will not be granting any further interviews without counsel present," continued Kirk smoothly. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card, which he lay on Henri's desk. "Please call me should you wish to speak to him again."

"Blow!" shouted Jim, taking a threatening step in Kirk' direction. Blair stepped between them instinctively, and Jim stopped where he was, glaring.

Kirk chuckled and turned away. "You ought to do something about that temper, Ellison. I'm sure Mr. Sandburg agrees with me. And he knows you better than anyone." The man's voice was oily with insinuation.

Blair shot Kirk a sharp look. The smirk on the lawyer's face was proof enough that he meant more than he'd said. Confused, Blair almost protested, then laughed uneasily as he thought better of it. He sensed rather than saw Jim stiffen and move toward him as if to shield him, although Blair couldn't imagine what danger Jim had perceived.

"Later," called Kirk, waving jauntily as he disappeared into the elevator. The detectives stared at each other for a moment in silence.

"Lord have mercy," growled Taggert finally. "Somebody break out the Lysol."

*

"Ready to talk about it?"

Jim glanced up from the remains of his dinner, startled. He became abruptly aware of the scents of the food, of the loft and of Blair; the soft evening light brightened slightly by the single candle on the table; the slow, sensuous sounds of R&B coming from his stereo. "What?"

Blair was regarding him with a sober expression. "You've been staring at your plate for the past ten minutes." He pushed his glasses up his nose absently. "Come on, tough guy. Let me hear it."

Jim grunted, discomfited. Blair always seemed to know when something was up these days; sometimes he could pluck Jim's thoughts from his mind as if Jim's skull were made of glass. Geez. Come see the urban shaman in his native habitat. But Jim found himself even more reluctant than usual to discuss his thoughts. "Anything in particular you want to hear?" He took a long pull on his beer to fortify himself. Damn the kid. Damn the beautiful, sexy, brilliant, brave, loyal, loving, sexy kid….

Had he said sexy twice?

"Jim," murmured Blair quietly, raising brilliant sapphire--blue eyes to meet Jim's gaze.

Oh, shit. It was The Look. Jim sighed as his resolve crumbled to so much dust. The Look could melt mountains, still hurricanes, and silence volcanoes; it was a force of nature more powerful than any other known to man. No ordinary mortal could withstand The Look. Even Simon Banks had been known to succumb to The Look … occasionally.

"Okay, okay, turn off the juice," growled Jim irritably, smacking his beer down on the table. "What's got your motor revving, Sigmund?"

Blair drummed on the table with impatient fingers, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, yeah, the drumming thing." Jim leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring.

"We can start there." Blair leaned back and mimicked Jim's gesture.

"What about it? Sherman and Kirk are probably laying the groundwork for an insanity defense."

"Bullshit," returned Blair mildly. "Try again."

"Come on, Chief. You didn't buy that act, did you?"

"You did."

Blair spoke with the quiet conviction of someone who knew Jim Ellison all too well. Being known that well was a new experience for Jim, one that alternately pleased, terrified, or annoyed him. This time he was annoyed. He snatched up his beer again. "Yeah," he snapped. "I did. He was sweating like a horse. His heart was going a mile a minute. I could smell the fear on him."

"I thought so. And?"

"And what?" Blair looked at him over the tops of his glasses, which Jim knew that Blair knew annoyed the shit out of Jim. "Dammit, Sandburg, lay off!"

"Come on, Jim. Tell me what's going on."

"You know what's going on. You were there."

"No, man. With you. What's been going on for five days?"

Jim stared at Blair in an astonishment not entirely devoid of awe, then rose from his chair to pace the room, trying to work off his nerves. Damned if the kid hadn't done it again. Read him like a book. His gut wanted to lie, to tell Blair that five days meant nothing, to deny that there was any situation that Jim Ellison couldn't handle all by himself. And his gut was still used to having its way, despite three years of Blair Jacob Sandburg and his steady, loving infiltration of every aspect of his life, despite the fact that Jim Ellison had come to the conclusion that "all by himself" well and truly sucked. Nevertheless, it took a moment for him to tell his gut to shut up.

"The dream," Jim confessed finally, quietly. He paused in his pacing. "I've been having the damn dream for five days."

Blair nodded soberly, as if it were the answer he'd expected. "What do you think that means?"

"How the hell should I know? Maybe it doesn't mean anything. A coincidence."

Blair glanced heavenward briefly. "Yeah, right."

"Okay, you've had your say," growled Jim, deciding it was time to go on the offensive. "Now I've got something to tell you."

Blair looked surprised. "Yeah?"

"Steer clear of Kirk."

Jim was surprised to see Blair's expression become thoughtful. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as Blair gave him his best shaman once--over. "I noticed the twitch, tough guy."

"Twitch?"

"Yeah, yeah, the BPS twitch," said Blair a little impatiently. "What's with that? He's not much of a danger, is he? Unless you count the danger of leisure suit-induced blindness--"

"He knows," said Jim harshly. Damn. He hadn't wanted to talk about his. He hadn't wanted to even think about this.

"Knows?" Blair looked at him blankly.

"Yeah, knows! About us."

Blair's eyes widened. "Oh, come on, man. You're getting paranoid. How could he know? He's a total stranger--"

"He's not a stranger. He's in that station almost as often as we are. He's been around us for years. And getting dirt on cops and prosecutors is his MO."

Blair flinched as if he'd been struck, and Jim realized, too late, what he had just said. "No, that didn't come out the way--"

"Dirt," said Blair bleakly. "You think what we have is--"

"That's not what I meant!" Jim crossed the room toward Blair hastily, but Blair held up his hand to stop him. Jim stopped in his tracks. "Chief, you know I--"

"I know you don't want anyone to know about us," said Blair unevenly. "But I had hoped it wasn't because you were ashamed."

"Ashamed?" Jim was dumbfounded for a moment ... and then he was angry. "What the hell are you talking about? If I was ashamed of … of--"

"Being my lover," finished Blair sharply. "Say it, damn it!"

"--being your lover, I'd stop! I don't keep doing things I'm ashamed of!" Jim, furious, ignored Blair's shaky intake of breath. "What the hell do you think's going on here, Sandburg? You think it's just about the sex for me? Huh? That I'm fucking my best friend for kicks? That I'm using you?"

Blair's face slowly drained of color as Jim spoke. He shook his head, breathing hard, and tried to answer. "No. Jim, I didn't mean--"

"I think that's exactly what you meant," snarled Jim, snatching up his jacket. "And maybe that's what it's about for you. But if you think that's what I'm about, then this conversation is over." Turning smartly on his heel, he strode toward the door, only have his path blocked by the proverbial immovable object in the form of a furious Blair Sandburg.

"You are not walking out on me this time!" Blair shoved Jim back, eyes flashing in a rare display of genuine rage. "I have had it with this hit-and-run bullshit of yours, man! In case you haven't noticed, we are in this together. The house rules have changed, got it? We talk, we don't run. We listen, we don't lash out. So listen! I don't think that's what you're about, not in any universe, okay? I was just…." Blair took a deep breath and laid his hands on Jim's chest, pressing close, looking Jim square in the eye. "I'm just afraid. That's what I'm afraid of, okay?"

Jim drew a ragged breath and let his jacket drop to the floor as he took Blair in his arms. "Shit. Blair--"

"And that's not what it's about for me, not for a damn minute. You're what it's about for me. I'd do anything for you. Look, I know being a cop makes it tough for you to tell anybody. I understand that--"

"Chief--"

"I can deal with it, man. Just don't shut me out. That's what I can't take. I can't take losing you again. I'm so damn in love with you--" Blair's face twisted and his voice finally broke.

Jim groaned in soft remorse and sealed his mouth over Blair's. Blair leaned into the kiss, his tongue exploring Jim's mouth with such tender exuberance that it literally took Jim's breath away. Wrapping his arms around Blair's waist, he kept right on kissing Blair until he started to get dizzy for want of air. He finally released Blair's mouth with a gasp, and Blair started in again without missing a beat.

"You understand what I'm saying, don't you? I don't think you're using me. I'd never think that. I know you love me. It's just that sometimes I can't get over how damn lucky I am. And I keep thinking that it won't last, that you'll come to your senses -- no pun intended -- and decide you made a big mistake--"

"I did," whispered Jim, kissing Blair's cheek.

Blair froze in his arms, his wide blue eyes searching Jim's face.

"I didn't think before I shot off my mouth." Jim leaned down to nuzzle Blair's neck tenderly. He felt Blair relax into his embrace.

"Oh," said Blair faintly. He pressed against Jim, his hands caressing Jim's back gently.

"This could never be dirty to me," whispered Jim shakily into Blair's ear. "Don't ever think it, babe. It's…." Jim groped for the right word and kicked himself when he couldn't find it. "Oh, hell."

"Jim--"

"It's right," continued Jim suddenly as the thought came to him.

"What--"

"Shut up. It's my turn. This is just so damn right. Nothing's ever felt so right for me. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Jim kissed the ear he was talking into.

"You--"

"Quiet. And I'm not going to change my mind, either. You're what it's about for me, too. You always will be."

"But--"

"Will you shut up? I'm not ashamed of that. I'm--" Jim hesitated, and Blair lifted his head from Jim's shoulder, listening intently. "Afraid," said Jim unevenly. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid too," he repeated more firmly.

"Of what?" whispered Blair.

Jim thought about it for a moment. "Losing you," he answered finally. It was true. Of all the ugly repercussions of revealing their relationship in a cop's world, this was the one that haunted Jim the most.

Blair looked up at him with a grave expression and nodded silently, still rubbing Jim’s back comfortingly.

"Babe, our work is dangerous enough as it is. If we couldn't count on other cops to back us up…."

"You really think our friends would walk out on us?" asked Blair softly.

"No," said Jim instantly, knowing it to be true. Simon, Rafe, Henri, Joel … they would stand by them. "But I know cops who would."

Blair nodded soberly. "Then we'd do without those cops. I know it wouldn't be easy."

Jim tightened his grip on Blair in frustration. "Chief--"

"Jim, don't get me wrong. If you don't want anybody to know--"

"I want everybody to know! I want to stand on my desk in the bullpen and shout 'I'm in love with Blair Sandburg' for the whole damn precinct to hear," said Jim in exasperation. "In a perfect world, that's just what I'd do."

Blair's smile deepened, and Jim saw his eyes grow bright with tears. "Thanks, man," he said a little shakily. "But this is the only world we've got."

"And you're the only Blair Sandburg I've got," said Jim fiercely, holding Blair tightly.

Blair hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly. "Yeah. And you're my only Jim. And I don't want to get morbid here, but … you're right, man. Our work is dangerous. And we never really know how long we have. So I don't want to waste whatever time we've got, whether it's forty days or forty years. I don't want to spend even one day being careful not to touch you, or hug you, or kiss you, or say I love you. Because our time might end before we're ready, Jim."

Jim stared at him, overwhelmed and speechless.

Blair shrugged, laughing very weakly. "Just food for thought, man. It's your call. I'll go with whatever you decide."

"Jesus. Chief." Jim spoke in a stunned voice, unable to voice any other coherent response.

"Relax," murmured Blair tenderly, draping his arms around Jim's neck, still smiling. "It'll be okay." Blair kissed him again, hard.

Jim struggled to think rationally, but logical thought eluded him. Could Blair be right? Was he squandering precious time, throwing away something that could never be replaced? Maybe. But putting Blair in danger went against everything Jim was. He needed to think about this. He needed to think about this away from the overwhelmingly seductive and persuasive wiles of Blair Sandburg. He came up for air, breathing hard. "What -- whatever I decide--"

"Shut up," breathed Blair in his ear. "What does a guy have to do to get seduced around here?" He pushed up against Jim playfully, shoving him further into the living room, his hands roving eagerly over Jim's body.

Jim smiled wryly. He’d noticed lately that Blair had learned exactly how much he could push Jim and for how long ... and how to relieve the pressure on him when it got too much. Jim swallowed against his tightening throat at the thought of being known that well and loved that much. "Sorry about … blowing my stack," he said haltingly, determined to get in one last apology. He pulled the hair tie from Blair's hair and buried his hands in his friend's curls. God, he loved to do that. He could never get enough of it. He could never get enough of touching Blair.

"Prove it," said Blair gently. He reached out and turned off the only lamp Jim had turned on. The loft went dark except for the small candle on the dining room table. "Make it up to me." He pressed up against Jim sensuously, his arms settling around Jim's neck again.

"How?" asked Jim softly, charmed, inhaling Blair's scent.

Blair, chuckling, began swaying slightly in time with the slow, rich tones of the music coming from the stereo. "Guess."

Jim slowly ran his hands down Blair's body to rest in the small of his back, moving with Blair and feeling strangely unsure of himself. Dancing. Blair never failed to surprise him. He cleared his throat. "Um … I'm not a very good dancer, Chief."

"Maybe you didn't have the right partner," said Blair teasingly, tilting his mouth toward Jim's.

"Damn straight I didn't," murmured Jim, unable to resist the man. He touched his mouth to Blair's; their tongues caressed each other slowly, gently, thoroughly. Jim broke the kiss to taste the soft, fragrant skin of Blair's neck and ear, moving to the steady, slow beat of the music with increasing confidence. He was surprised to find that he liked this. He liked it a lot. He liked holding Blair in the dark, liked the feel of Blair's body moving rhythmically in his arms. "But I've got you now."

"Yeah." Blair sounded a little breathless. Even in the darkness, Jim could see Blair's dilated eyes. The scent of his arousal was growing stronger. "You've got me. So what are you going to do with me, caveman?"

"I'm thinking about it." Jim slid one hand down to caress Blair's buttocks gently. "Any suggestions?"

Blair bucked his hips against Jim suggestively, a sensuous smile on his full mouth. "Use your imagination."

Jim felt himself harden suddenly at the touch and drew a sharp breath. "Chief…."

"Yeah?" Blair's smile turned to a grin.

Jim yanked Blair to him, folded himself around him, fondled him everywhere feverishly, kissed him passionately. God, it felt good. Touching Blair -- making love to Blair -- soothed decades--old wounds away, brought light to all his dark places and healed him as nothing in his life ever had. Physical union with Blair was like being reborn.

Blair came out of the kiss gasping. "Oh, man. Man. You're amazing."

"Uh-huh," Jim mumbled against Blair's neck, nibbling.

"And … imaginative." Jim felt Blair's muscles ripple in pleasure under his lips and hands.

"Not imagination. Want you," rasped Jim, yanking up Blair's shirt to touch warm flesh.

Blair chuckled a little breathlessly. "And insatiable."

"Only for you," said Jim huskily, undoing Blair's belt as he nipped Blair's ear gently.

Blair's head came up; he stared into Jim's face with wide, dark eyes. "Yeah," he whispered fiercely. "Only for you--" Whatever else Blair had intended to say was cut off by a soft, short whimper as Jim slid his hand inside his pants to caress Blair's growing hardness through the fabric of his boxers. "God. Jim--"

"Time to move this dance upstairs, partner." Jim backed up slowly, drawing Blair along with him as he moved toward the stairs.

Blair followed willingly, his hands working feverishly as they unbuttoned Jim's shirt. "And you said you couldn't dance," he breathed.

Jim backed up the steps slowly, relishing the sensation of Blair's warm, eager hands on his chest. He grabbed the bottom of Blair's t-shirt and pulled it over his head. "I have a good teacher." He tossed the shirt away as Blair kicked off his shoes and slithered out of his socks and jeans, still moving steadily up the stairs. Jim nibbled Blair's ear, seriously impressed by the display. Blair was getting very, very good at disrobing on the go. Probably not surprising, considering how much practice they’d both had. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other for the past two weeks. Jim shrugged out of his shirt and let it fall, smiling as he remembered a time – not all that long ago – when he’d actually have cared whether that damn shirt got wrinkled. Sandburg was turning him into a slob.

And he was loving every minute of it.

Jim’s musings on the subject came to an abrupt end as Blair’s eager, warm fingers dipped inside his pants to touch him, setting every nerve ending he had to burning. Groaning, he yanked Blair to him, kissing him hard while trying to simultaneously kick off his shoes and take the next step upward to the landing. Jim’s first clue that this wasn’t going to work was his left foot flying out from under him. He fell backward onto the landing with a loud thud, a grunt, and a startled squawk from Blair, who broke the kiss and started laughing helplessly. Jim glared up at him, but Blair kept right on laughing, making no attempt to move. Jim squirmed to get into a more comfortable position. Blair might look like an ethereal being from a distance, but up close and personal he was a solid, muscular man. Getting tackled by Blair Sandburg was like having a fire hydrant thrown in your lap.

"You … you okay?" laughed Blair.

"No. You’ve been putting on weight, Sandburg," growled Jim, trying hard not to laugh.

"Smooth, lover. Smooth. I’m taking notes." Blair bent over him, grinning broadly.

"Get off me!"

"Nah. I like it up here." Blair kissed him deeply.

Jim kissed him back enthusiastically, offering no resistance. Blair moving was the last thing he really wanted. Yeah, it would be better if his shoe weren’t sticking into his back, but Blair on top of him was a good feeling. For the hundredth time in the past two weeks, Jim imagined Blair taking him. The thought made him even harder than he already was, and he wrapped his arms around Blair’s waist to pull him close, chest to chest. He wanted Blair to take him. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. But he hadn’t experienced it. What the hell was he waiting for? He had nearly suggested it half a dozen times. And every time he had lost his nerve. Blair had never brought it up either. Maybe Blair didn't want him that way.

Blair slid his tongue and lips from Jim’s with obvious reluctance and started applying his hot lips and tongue to Jim’s neck and chest, releasing Jim's wrists. Jim buried his hands in Blair’s hair, letting the soft curls slip over his fingers. "Chief. The bed."

"Freeze," growled Blair fiercely. "Don't even think about moving." His mouth closed over Jim’s right nipple, and Jim gasped in pure pleasure. That mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon.

"Blair, please…."

Blair raised his head, glaring. "Do you mind? I am trying to have my wicked way with you, here."

Jim tried to shift off the shoe without success. "Yeah?" he asked breathlessly. "So … how much wicked are we talking here, hot stuff?"

"How much wicked can you handle, tough guy?" Blair tugged Jim's pants and boxers down and off with such determined lechery in his face that Jim started laughing.

"You're terrifying me, Sandburg. Really."

"Good. Be afraid. Be very afraid." Blair's voice was an almost feline purr as he yanked Jim's socks off and surveyed Jim's naked body hungrily.

Jim grinned up at him, almost forgetting the damn shoe at the sight of his half-naked partner, eyes dark with desire and hair wild with caresses, looking at Jim as if he were something to be devoured. That look made Jim's heart pound wildly, made him want to give Blair anything he wanted, made him totally crazy. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he breathed, doing his best to sound nonchalant. "You're a total animal--"

Without warning, Blair slid down and took most of Jim's cock into his mouth in one fell swoop.

"Christ! Blair!" howled Jim helplessly, pounding the floor. So much for nonchalance. "Oh, God, baby, please…."

Blair hummed happily as his tongue curled around Jim's organ, pressing against it, warm, willing and wet. Jim moaned low in his throat, trying to resist the urge to thrust deeper into Blair's mouth, to feel the hot, smooth flesh of Blair's throat. "Yes … baby … so hot…." He groaned loudly as Blair's mouth slipped down and off his cock and the shoe shifted, digging into his backbone. Jim scrabbled back slightly, sighing in relief as the offending footwear was left behind. Blair pounced on him again, but Jim grabbed him by the arms, hauled them both to their feet and onto the bed. Blair instantly wrestled Jim onto his back, then straddled him and leaned over him, grinning broadly.

"Gotcha," Blair murmured in tender satisfaction.

"Yeah," breathed Jim happily. "You do." He reached up, sliding his hands over Blair's waist to his hips to push Blair's boxers down as far as he could.

Blair chuckled and tried to wriggle out of them the rest of the way, with limited success. Jim gazed up at him contentedly, thoroughly enjoying the sight of that delightful body twisting and writhing its way out of the clutches of half-a-yard of blue silk. "Need some help there, hot stuff? Or is this some kind of aboriginal mating dance?" He ignored Blair's affectionate glare and mutter of "smartass," and indulged himself by caressing Blair's chest, enjoying the sensation of the soft chest hair, the smooth, warm skin and the ripple of muscles beneath it. Kissing Blair's neck, Jim slid a hand teasingly down his lover's firm belly, over his hip, and around his erect cock to stroke it tantalizingly.

Blair gasped in surprise and leaned back hastily long enough to whip his boxers down the rest of the way and toss them over the railing to float into the living room below. Jim yanked him down against him again, his hands on Blair's ass, groaning at the jarring pleasure as Blair's erection pressed against his own.

Blair kissed him hard, then wriggled down to begin another sensory assault of lips and tongue, exploring Jim's neck, his chest, his belly, to finally claim his cock again. Jim let go with an inarticulate shout as the warm, slightly textured touch of Blair's tongue gently explored his swollen organ, a shout that soon degenerated into small, disjointed cries of pleasure. It was too much. It felt so good. Too good. He was losing control, something he never permitted himself to do. He had come closer to losing it in the past two weeks with Blair than he had since he was a child, and it scared the hell out of him. People got hurt when he lost control.

"My turn," Jim gasped, reaching down to clutch Blair's shoulder.

"No way. Take it like a man, detective," breathed Blair, momentarily coming up for air, then promptly sealing his talented mouth around Jim's cock again.

Jim groaned desperately and tried to sit up, only to fall back moaning as Blair intensified his loving ministrations. "Blair, I can't--"

"You can." The hot, pulsing pleasure halted suddenly, and Blair slid up to cradle Jim's face in both hands. "It's okay. Let it happen."

Jim tried to laugh at Blair's sudden intensity and tried to grab him, to wrestle his lover beneath him, but before he could get a good grip, Blair pinned him with surprising skill and strength. Jim stared up at him. "What's … what's up, Chief?"

Blair looked down at him with such naked tenderness in his expression that Jim felt his face grow hot, felt his chest grow tight. "We're safe here, Jim," Blair whispered. "Nothing bad is going to happen if you don't call the shots all the time." Blair bent down to nuzzle Jim's ear as he whispered comfortingly, his warm breath playing across Jim's cheek. "Love you."

Jim clutched Blair to him tightly as his friend's words hit home. Nothing bad? Nothing? Something bad was always there, always waiting in the wings to jump him the second he screwed up. That feeling of vague dread had been with him for as long as he could remember, drawing strength from Jim's helplessness and weakening only when he gained control. Control was the only thing that kept something bad at bay.

Control. Jim started violently, and Blair lifted his head with a concerned expression. Control. Yes. He needed control … even here, in bed with Blair, the one person on this earth he trusted completely. That was why he hadn't been able to let Blair--

Jim took Blair's face between his hands so suddenly that Blair gasped in surprise. "Make love to me," rasped Jim unevenly. "Right now. I need you right now!"

Blair's eyes widened. "You--"

Jim reached out to yank open the drawer in the night stand and pull out the lubricant with shaking hands, his heart pounding wildly. "I want you to take me! I want it now. I've wanted it for so damn long and I can't wait anymore--"

"Shhh," breathed Blair gently, folding his hands around Jim's. "Jim. Easy. I want it, too, man, but there's no expiration date on the offer, all right?"

"I need you now!" The raw panic in his own voice startled Jim.

"I need you, too," murmured Blair in his most soothing Guide's voice. Jim felt his tense body instantly relax at the familiar sound. Blair dropped a light, tender kiss on Jim's mouth, caressing Jim's hands.

Jim returned the kiss with a fiercely thrusting tongue, but Blair deflected the force of the kiss, steadied it, deepened it, transformed it into something else, something that shattered every defense Jim had known he had and some he hadn't. He came out of that kiss panting for breath and blinking to clear the tears from his eyes. "Chief…."

"I want to make love to you," whispered Blair in his ear. "If you're sure you want it, too--"

"I want it. I want you." Jim fumbled to open the lube, and Blair steadied his hands.

"Easy." Blair spread some lube on his hands and fingers as Jim watched, breathing hard.

"Hurry," Jim whispered urgently.

"No," said Blair unsteadily. "I won't. I want to make this as good for you as you did for me."

"It's you. It'll be good," rasped Jim, feeling himself shaking, like a little kid who's run too far from home, who's lost.

Blair kissed him quickly and slid down between Jim's legs, but Jim rolled over onto all fours and spread his legs. "This way," he whispered. He heard Blair's sudden intake of breath. They'd never tried this position, and Jim knew damn well why, although they'd never discussed it. The sight of Blair on his hands and knees in front of Krakowa flashed past Jim's mind's eye again, but he pushed it away. This was what he wanted, from the man he loved.

"Jim?" Blair sounded uncertain for the first time.

"Want you. Want you now." Jim tried to keep the desperation out of his voice and failed.

Blair knelt on the bed beside him, then caressed Jim's trembling legs gently. "It's okay, lover," he murmured. "Breathe."

Jim felt his twitching muscles ease under Blair's hands. He forced himself to take a deep breath and release it.

"That's it," crooned Blair, his voice shaking a little bit, in either nervousness or desire. "Just relax…." One of Blair's hands slid up Jim's inner thigh.

Jim felt something warm and slick and firm press up inside him and gasped involuntarily at the velvet intrusion. His eyes closed for a moment, and he forced himself to relax again as Blair's finger moved in and out of him slowly, gently, with infinite care. He'd never felt anything like it before. He'd never felt anything this good. Blair was inside him.

Jim whimpered, then cut off the whimper, shocked. That couldn't have been him. He would never make a noise like that….

His thought was interrupted as a second finger slipped inside him to join the first. They moved together, pressing against his passage walls with soft, firm pressure. "Oh, God," he gasped, shocked at the amount of pleasure that succeeded his momentary discomfort. His eyes flew open and his gaze settled on Blair, bending beside him, his body glistening in the dim light, his face filled with desire … and concern.

"Okay?" he asked breathlessly, searching Jim's face anxiously. "Jim? Am I hurting you?"

Jim let a little moan escape him in answer and thrust himself toward Blair's hand. "No! More…."

"Shhh. What's your hurry?" murmured Blair tenderly, very, very gently sliding his fingers in and out of Jim. "You got another date waiting, huh?"

"N-N-No," stammered Jim, barely able to speak. "God, Chief--"

"Glad to hear it." Blair eased in a third finger, increasing the tempo slightly. "Because tonight you're all mine."

Jim resisted the concept for all of a heartbeat, then let it claim him. "All yours," he whispered. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to give Blair everything he had and everything he was. He moaned and moved his hips wantonly in Blair's direction in a mute plea not to stop.

"Easy, easy," breathed Blair in a gentle tone, his all-too-talented fingers teasing the walls of Jim's passage until Jim thought he'd scream in lust and frustration.

"Blair, now," he groaned through gritted teeth.

"Shhhh," murmured Blair, accelerating his strokes feverishly. "We're almost there, lover, almost there. God, you're so beautiful. Tell me you want me."

That seductive murmur, those hot, caressing touches made Jim groan again; they almost made him come. "I want you," he gasped wildly. "You're the only one I want. You're the only one I'll ever want. I want you now. And if I don't get you now --" Jim hesitated, groping for a suitable threat.

"Yeah?" Blair's voice sounded suspiciously amused as he slid behind Jim, his free hand tenderly caressing Jim's back, then his ass. "What then, tough guy?"

"I'll think of something!" Jim fairly howled, giving up any idea of attempting rational thought and bucking against Blair's hands in a primal urge. "Now, baby, now, now…."

"Yeah, lover, now," said Blair gently, and Jim went still as he felt Blair's organ press against him, into him, as gently and tenderly as that voice, as the expressive hands that stroked his hips, his back.

"Blair," gasped Jim involuntarily, shocked at the sensations. Whatever he had expected being penetrated to feel like, it hadn't been this. Yeah, it hurt, but oh God, Blair was inside him and Jim could feel him like he never had before. Blair's pounding pulse, his desire, his need gripped the base of Jim's spine and surged upward through his body, setting his heart racing, his lungs panting, his limbs quivering. He gasped, unprepared for such intensity; his every nerve ending seemed to sting fiercely with both Blair's sexual responses and his own. Jim drew a shaky breath and made a feeble attempt to dial down his tactile responses ... and couldn't. Wouldn't. All this was Blair. Everything he was feeling was Blair, and that was exactly the way he wanted it, the way he'd wanted it for so damn long....

"Jim!"

Jim felt warm hands stroking his back and shoulders, heard the alarmed tone of the voice.

"Come on back, lover."

Jim blinked, slowly able to focus on the familiar voice. "Blair."

"That's right," said Blair breathlessly. "Just dial it back, man."

"Sorry. Feels so good," said Jim huskily.

"Feels good here, too," panted Blair. Jim felt him struggling to breathe evenly and failing. "Feels great. You okay?"

Jim pushed his hips back toward Blair urgently in answer, and heard Blair draw a shaky sigh of relief, then felt Blair bend to press tender lips to Jim's back. Jim groaned, that little gesture almost enough to send him over the edge.

"Blair. Please…."

Blair began rocking gently in and out of Jim, one hand caressing his back soothingly as the other reached around to deliver long, languorous strokes to Jim's engorged organ. Jim cried out in pleasure, unable to restrain himself. "Yes … baby … so good…."

"Love you," panted Blair. There was an edge to his voice that somehow communicated to Jim that the man was determined to prove it by any means necessary, as if he hadn't already proved it a hundred times over already. "Love … my … Jimmy…."

Jimmy. Blair had never called him that before, not even in love. It ripped open a place deep inside Jim, a place that hadn't seen the light of day in so many years that Jim couldn't count them. He could hear his breaths coming in soft sobs, knew he was losing it, and didn't care. He was safe here. He was with Blair. His Blair. Jim became dimly aware that he was babbling something incomprehensible about 'love' and 'Blair' and 'all his' and 'forever,' and then he was coming, coming so hard that every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire and every muscle screamed in protest, so hard that he couldn't see. He heard Blair crying his name hoarsely and felt his lover's hot seed inside him, felt Blair give one more gentle thrust and come to rest with his chest on Jim's back, his hot arms and hands wrapped around his torso. Jim's arms finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the bed on his side with Blair still inside him, Blair holding on as if for dear life. The two men lay together, panting in stunned, exhausted silence.

"Jim," Blair finally whispered. His hands reached up to stroke Jim's semen-coated stomach and chest. "You okay? Tell me you're okay."

Okay? Jim considered the possibility with what little wits were left him. No, he wasn't okay. He was in a completely different universe from 'okay.' Blair had taken him to a place he'd always hoped existed but had long ago given up hope of ever experiencing. He struggled to catch his breath and think rationally, intimately aware that Blair was still inside him and finding it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Jim!" Blair's voice rose in fear, and Jim yanked himself out of his daze enough to reach up and stroke his friend's arms soothingly.

"Yeah. Right here."

"Are you--?"

"I love you," stammered Jim a little incoherently.

He heard Blair swear softly. "Jim. Answer me. Are you all right?" Blair pulled himself gently, very gently, out of Jim, and Jim sighed more from the severing of the connection between them than from the pain.

"I'm all right," murmured Jim, rolling over on his back so that he could see his friend's face. Blair bent over him, his face drawn with anxiety. Jim managed a soft, reassuring laugh as he reached up to touch Blair's face. "I'm … I'm better than I've been in a long time." Jim groaned inwardly for everything he felt and had no words to convey. "I feel great."

"You sure?" Blair wiped Jim's face clear of tears, and Jim could feel the tremors in the kind hand. "I didn't-- You liked-- I mean--"

"Best dance I've ever had." Jim instantly regretted the flippancy, afraid that Blair wouldn't understand the feeling behind it, but was reassured and rewarded by the loving smile on Blair's face.

"Yeah. Me, too," breathed the younger man happily, turning his head to kiss Jim's hand. "Next time, you lead."

"It's a date," whispered Jim, happy and exhausted, and took Blair into his arms. Blair settled close, with his head on Jim's chest.

"We may need to call the paramedics to pry us apart tomorrow," said Blair drowsily. "But I can't move."

"Me neither," mumbled Jim. "911 it is." He heard Blair chuckling as he drifted off to sleep.

*

Blair felt his world vibrate gently as the large, firm warmth spooned around him moved away. He growled softly to express his disapproval, opening his eyes slowly. The clock read 3:07 a.m.

"Where y'goin'?" he mumbled, but, receiving no answer, shut his eyes again. Probably going to the can. These middle-aged guys can never get through the night without going to the can. Blair grinned sleepily and conspiratorially to himself and saved the observation to his memory for future needling. He willed himself to sleep again, but was startled from his doze at the sound of someone colliding with Jim's dresser.

Blair rolled over to peer through the darkness in the direction of the noise. "Jim?"

There was no response, and Blair sat up with a growing sense of alarm. "Jim, are you okay?" His eyes finally focused on the dim figure a few feet away, and as he did every warning bell he had went off. Jim seemed to be wandering aimlessly around the loft, arms extended tentatively as if groping blindly for something in an unfamiliar room.

Jim knew this room like the back of his hand, and could see in the dark like a cat. Blair kicked off the covers. "Jim, talk to me," he said in a louder tone, anxiety sharpening his voice.

"Do you hear it?" asked Jim uncertainly.

Blair rose to his feet, listening hard to no avail. "I don't hear anything. What is it?"

"Come on, Stevie, this is serious. You have to hear it. Stop fooling around."

Blair froze. Stevie? What the hell…?

Blair lunged for the light and snapped it on, heart pounding, then turned to Jim. His friend stood in the middle of the room stark naked, not reacting at all to the sudden light, his body poised and his head tilted in the posture Blair had come to recognize as his Sentinel's 'listening' pose. But there was a not-quite-there look in his eyes that told Blair instantly what was going on. One of his cousins had been a sleepwalker, too.

"Jim," said Blair steadily, rising slowly from the bed. "Everything's okay. It's all quiet here, buddy. Just come on back to bed."

Jim stared at Blair, fear and frustration churning in his expression. "I'm going to tell Dad. He's gotta to hear her now." He bolted down the stairs as if his life depended on it, tripping over the discarded clothes and shoes as he made his headlong way toward the living room.

Blair swore softly and snatched up a pair of clean boxers from the top of the dresser. He stumbled toward the stairs as he climbed into them, nearly falling over in the process. What the hell was this? Jim hadn't sleepwalked in all the time Blair had lived with him, and hadn't mentioned that he ever had. Was Jim really hearing something, or was this just a dream? Who was 'Dad' supposed to hear? And why the hell couldn't the guy have just gone to the can?

"He's hurting her, he's hurting her!"

Blair groaned at the familiar refrain and the sound of the anguish in Jim's voice as he hastened down the steps. He hit the lights to see Jim yanking wildly at the doorknob with all his might, as if he'd completely forgotten how to unlock the door.

"Oh shit," whispered Blair, quailing at the unexpected sight. Whatever this was, it certainly wasn't simple sleepwalking. Jim was trapped in some god-awful nightmare. Blair swallowed hard and approached Jim slowly. "Jim. You're dreaming. It's all a dream. Wake up, buddy." He reached out a tentative hand.

Jim swung around furiously, knocking the hand away. "I'm not lying, I'm not! He's hurting her, she's screaming! Can't you hear her?"

"No," said Blair shakily. "No, man, I can't hear--"

"Dad, help her! Go over there, go over there now!"

"Jim. I'm Blair. You're dreaming. It's time to wake up now--" Blair tried again to make physical contact, trying not to panic. What would he do if Jim didn't snap out of this? He was no psychiatrist, and he didn't know one that could be trusted with Jim's secret. If Blair couldn't reach him….

Jim's eyes grew wide and furious. "Then I'll go!" Without warning, Jim shoved Blair aside and shouldered his way through balcony doors. Blair bolted after him, letting out a wild, inarticulate scream as Jim threw one naked leg over the railing and stared for one heartrending moment into the street below.

"No!" Blair flung both arms around his friend's waist and yanked him back, sending them both sprawling on their backs onto the balcony floor.

"Let me go, let me go!" Jim thrashed wildly in Blair's arms as Blair dragged him bodily back into the living room.

"No," gasped Blair wildly, then swallowed and forced himself to speak calmly. He held on to Jim tightly as the larger man squirmed and twisted, trying to escape. "I won't let you go. You said you were mine, remember? All mine." Blair's voice broke and he had to struggle to keep talking. "Jim. Lover. It's me, it's Blair. Come back now. Wake up, baby, please."

Jim gave one last violent twist and then slowly relaxed into Blair's embrace. Blair rocked him gently in his arms, babbling what seemed to him to be a series of meaningless, soothing syllables, realizing only gradually that his friend had stopped struggling. Confused, he paused in his rocking. "Jim?"

There was no response, and Blair bent down anxiously, craning his neck to see into Jim's face. "Jim?"

Jim turned his head enough to stare into Blair's face, and Blair almost flinched at his dead, flinty expression. "Yeah."

"Are you--" Blair cut himself off before he could finish the absurd question. Of course Jim wasn't okay. Jim was probably as far from okay as he'd ever been.

"Yeah." Jim sat up stiffly, surveying his surroundings as grimly as if he expected the familiar objects of his living room to spring to life and attack him. He glanced down at himself for a moment, his face chalky white. "Yeah." He pulled away from Blair and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, then stalked silently to the stairs.

Blair sat where he was on the floor and watched numbly as the icy stranger mounted the stairs, then buried his face in shaking hands. Listening carefully, he heard Jim opening dresser drawers and closing them, heard him dressing, heard him sit down on the bed. And then silence.

Blair forced himself into a rhythm of slow, deep, calming breaths. Give him a minute. He needs a minute. Hell, I need a minute. Blair rose to close the balcony doors and turn off the lights, then paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening hard. There was still no sound from the bedroom. Blair gritted his teeth and started climbing the stairs determinedly. Okay. His minute was up. No way in hell was Jim Ellison checking back into Club Repression. He was going to tell Blair what was going on if he had to be dragged out from behind the Great Wall of Ellison kicking and screaming. Blair felt positively belligerent by the time he hit the landing.

"Blair," said Jim quietly the instant he arrived, "We need to talk."

Blair froze where he was, dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open; then he saw the rueful humor in Jim's eyes.

"Gotcha," said the older man with a catch in his voice that twisted Blair's heart.

"Aw, geez," muttered Blair helplessly. Unable to resist, he moved across the room and drew his arms around Jim, pulled him close, then cradled Jim's head against his chest gently. "Geez, Jim, you scared the hell out of me." Jim's arms went around Blair, his hands settling in their favorite spot in the small of Blair's back. Blair felt fine tremors coursing along Jim's muscles and something warm and wet touched Blair's chest. Blair swallowed hard and instinctively bent over his friend protectively. "Tell me. We'll figure it out."

"I'm going crazy," quavered Jim bluntly, not moving a muscle to stir from Blair's sheltering embrace.

"Bullshit," retorted Blair fiercely.

"How did I get downstairs?"

"You had a nightmare."

Blair felt Jim stiffen slightly. "No kidding."

"You were sleepwalking."

"I've never sleepwalked in my life."

"Well, you have now. Tell me about the dream."

Jim fell silent for a moment.

"And you were doing so well." Blair stroked the short hair gently.

Jim barked a shaky little laugh and raised his head to look Blair in the eye. His face was wet. "You're a major pain in the ass, Sandburg, you know that?"

"Yeah," said Blair with a grin. "But you love me anyway."

Jim's face went soft and his eyes became very bright. "Yeah," he breathed, reaching up to caress Blair's cheek. "Go figure."

Blair turned his head enough to kiss Jim's palm, then slid down to kneel between Jim's legs, wrapping his arms around Jim's waist. Jim gathered Blair to him, one arm around Blair's shoulders as he stroked Blair's hair. Blair rested his head against Jim's chest and waited.

"Wasn't really a dream." Jim's voice was strained.

"One of your visions?"

Jim uttered something between a snort and a growl. "No."

"Then what?"

"It just didn't feel like a dream, that's all."

"Okay," murmured Blair patiently. "And this dream that wasn't a dream was about…?"

Jim hesitated. "Something that happened when I was a kid," he said finally. "I'd forgotten all about it until tonight."

Now there's a shocker. "What happened?" Blair felt Jim tense, felt him tighten his grip around Blair's shoulders. Shit. This is not good.

"There was this kid that lived across the street. A girl named Margie. She was a couple years younger than me. Used to follow me around a lot. I guess she had a crush on me or something, I don't know. Anyway, I liked her. Sort of looked out for her, you know?"

"Yeah," said Blair gently. "I know."

"Well, her folks were always fighting. Just yelling at first, but it got worse and worse. Her dad started hitting her mom. Sometimes you could hear it on the street even if you didn't have heightened senses."

"But you did." Blair wondered, not for the first time, how Jim had managed to remain sane.

"Yeah. It was pretty bad. It got worse, though."

Blair closed his eyes in sudden, sickened comprehension. "Margie."

Jim's hand shook slightly as it caressed Blair's hair. "Yeah. She started coming to school with bruises. Black eyes. Her arm in a sling. She said she fell, but I knew different. I had heard it all."

"God, Jim." Blair tried to block the image of Jim, his Jim, being forced to listen to a little girl being brutalized and being helpless to stop it.

"I told my father what was going on. He said I was lying. He knew Jack Woodson from the country club. He was a pillar of the community and no man of his standing would lift his hand to a woman or a child."

Blair fought hard to suppress the angry speech that leapt to his lips. Since when did a healthy bank account preclude violent behavior? Bill Ellison had been the worst kind of snob, the dangerous kind. "What … what happened?" he asked, keeping his voice level with difficulty.

"What usually happens." Jim was holding Blair so tightly that it hurt, but Blair was so distracted by the anguish in Jim's voice that he scarcely noticed. "What usually happens when a kid's got nobody to turn to. One night the pillar of the community started hitting her and didn't stop until she was dead."

Blair froze in Jim's arms, shocked into silence for a moment.

"I tried to tell my father what was happening that night … again. I told him to go over there, to make him stop. He wouldn't. I tried to go. He stopped me. By the time he was through stopping me I couldn't hear her screaming anymore."

"How … how could he not believe you?" whispered Blair, appalled.

"Oh, that's the kicker, Chief." Jim starting laughing harshly, a grating, hurting laugh that made Blair sit up in alarm and look into his friend's face. "He did believe me. He knew about my senses."

"He what?"

"He knew. He told me last year. He knew all along."

"But … but…," stammered Blair helplessly.

"He knew I was telling the truth about Margie. I didn't know that then, but I know it now." Jim seemed preternaturally calm, like a thundercloud before the lightning strike.

Blair exploded, no longer able to contain his anger. "My God, Jim, why would he do that? How could he do that? To you, to her?"

Jim shrugged, but his jaw was set. He was still shaking, whether from residual shock or pure anger Blair couldn't tell. "Partly because he didn't want to believe that a well-groomed, educated, wealthy white man could ever really do what I was accusing him of. And partly because he thought that what went on in another man's house was none of his business." He paused, and continued in a tone that grated and shook and finally broke. "And partly because he didn't want anyone at the country club to know that Bill Ellison's son was a freak." He broke eye contact with Blair to stare over his head, his mouth set in a thin, straight line.

A freak.

The word hit Blair like sledgehammer in the chest and in a rare surge of genuine rage he envisioned wringing Bill Ellison's neck. Thrusting the image away from him, he took Jim's face in his hands and pulled him down into a soft, lingering kiss. Jim gave a funny little gasp of surprise, then melted into the kiss, cocooning himself around Blair with one eagerly caressing hand buried in Blair's hair.

A freak. Bill Ellison had treated this big-hearted, noble-minded man like a freak. He'd done that so long and so effectively that he'd actually managed to convince Jim that that's who he was. Well, maybe Jim could forgive his father for that, but Blair knew that he never could. There was little point in telling Jim how wrong his father had been. Words rarely made an impression on the man; deeds were Jim's means of communication. And Blair knew at that moment that a lifetime of deeds wasn't too much to give if it convinced Jim of how beautiful he was, of how much he was loved. Nevertheless, he couldn't let Jim's assessment of himself pass unchallenged.

"That's not who you are," he whispered a little breathlessly, coming out of the kiss.

Jim focused ice-blue eyes on him, his mouth softened by the kiss but his expression bleak. "Sometimes I don't know who I am," he confessed haltingly. "Like now. I let her down, Chief. I let her die. And then I forgot her."

Blair resisted the impulse to take Jim by the shoulders and shake the sackcloth and ashes out of him. This man did guilt entirely too well, and entirely too often. He drew a deep breath and spoke quietly. "No, Jim. You were a kid. You did everything a kid could do. You didn't let her down. It was the adults around her who let her down. Her father, her mother, her teachers, her doctor, your father. You forgot what happened in order to survive. It doesn't mean you didn't care. It means you cared too much for your own good."

"If I had just--"

"You couldn't save her, buddy. You were born too late to save her."

Jim's expression went even bleaker, and he pulled Blair close again, nestling into him like a freezing man into a warm blanket. "Born too late," he rasped.

"Yeah," said Blair unevenly, running his hands over his friend's back soothingly. It killed him to think of Jim going through that hell alone. "God, I wish I'd been there for you."

Jim was silent a moment. "Me, too," he muttered finally.

"That would have been something, huh?" Blair pulled back gently to look into Jim's face, suddenly charmed at the idea. "If I'd like, lived next door? If we'd been kids together?"

Jim sat in silence for a moment, examining Blair intently, then leaned forward until his forehead almost touched Blair's. It was all Blair could do not to physically flinch at the pain in Jim's eyes, even though a ghost of a smile now graced his face. "Yeah. I wish you'd been next door. I wish we'd grown up together." He stroked Blair's hair absently. "I'd have been a better man for it."

"You couldn't be a better man," Blair managed to croak hoarsely, his vision blurring.

Jim's little smile went suddenly and blindingly broad and beautiful; amazement flooded his expression. "You're nuts, you know that, Sandburg?"

"Yeah, well, I've been living with you for three years," retorted Blair tartly, blinking hard.

"Nah. You were always nuts." Jim flopped onto his back with Blair locked firmly in his strong arms, chuckling teasingly despite the hint of tears in his eyes. "Hell, the day we met you dove under a garbage truck."

"I live for danger," said Blair wryly. He wriggled out of Jim's playful embrace and turned off the light. "Come on, tough guy, let's get some sleep. It's almost four in the morning." He got back under the covers, only to be instantly joined by Jim, who took him into his arms again, twining his long legs and arms around Blair like a warm and very friendly octopus. Blair nestled close contentedly.

"Thanks, Chief," murmured Jim into Blair's ear.

"No problem. Just do me a favor."

"Anything," said Jim quietly, caressing Blair with light fingertips.

"Try to let this one go, okay? You did everything you could. What happened wasn't your fault."

"Feels like it was," muttered Jim.

"Yeah, I know. But it wasn't. And Margie would say so, too, if she were here."

Jim buried his face between Blair's hair and his neck and was silent. Blair let his eyes shut for all of thirty seconds. "Chief," came from the vicinity of Blair's neck in a muffled voice.

"Yeah?" Blair tried to open his eyes without success. God, he was tired.

"The dream I've been having…."

"The little drummer girl," murmured Blair.

"Yeah. The one who looked at me like I'd murdered somebody."

Blair froze, his eyes snapping open of their own accord.

"I recognize her now."

"Margie," said Blair in the flat tone of sudden insight. Oh, God, Jim.

"Yeah. Margie."

*

"You have my statement."

"Captain Banks--"

"You have my statement and I have no amendments to my statement at this time." Simon reached across his desk to pick up a cigar, his gaze never moving from his interrogator's face. Simon watched with grim satisfaction as Chambers squirmed in his chair, a study in frustration.

"Captain, your lack of cooperation--"

"I have cooperated with Internal Affairs to the best of my ability," returned Simon, with outward equanimity and inward amusement. "As have my officers."

"Your officers have thumbed their damn noses at me at every opportunity! They've given me nothing but bullshit and gross insubordination," returned Chambers hotly. "Their lack of respect--"

"Respect is earned," cut in Simon flatly, watching Chambers through narrowed eyes.

Chambers paused long enough to lower his voice. "You and your officers are taking this investigation entirely too lightly, Captain."

"On the contrary," replied Simon pleasantly, rolling his cigar as he unsheathed his metaphorical claws. He'd had enough of this. In fact, he'd had too much. Two weeks of too much. "We take it very seriously. It's you we take lightly."

Score, thought Simon in satisfaction as Chambers flushed a brilliant scarlet and leaned angrily forward in his chair. Now he'll say something worth hearing.

"It's about time you understood that Major Crimes is not your personal kingdom, Banks," snarled Chambers, with more venom than Simon could reasonably attribute to aggravation. "You need to be called to heel. You and your supercops need to learn that you have to follow the same rules as the rest of the department."

"And that's what you're here to teach us," said Simon evenly.

"Damn straight!"

"And all this time I thought you were here to investigate the death of a suspect."

Chambers stared at him blankly, clutching the arms of his chair like a vise.

"Are your superiors in IA aware of this charitable foray into the field of continuing education? Or was this your own idea?"

Chambers' mouth opened and closed several times, reminding Simon somewhat of the wide-mouthed bass he had caught -- and cooked -- not that long ago. Simon smiled at the prospect of another fish-fry.

"Or was this idea someone else's?"

Chambers leapt to his feet, fury obliterating the confusion in his expression.

Bingo. Give the police captain another cigar.

"You are going to regret this, Banks. Your fag friends won't be covering for you much longer."

"My what?" Simon momentarily lost his composure at the unexpected remark.

Chambers wrenched open the door and stormed out, leaving Simon staring wordlessly after him.

Shit.

Well, it was bound to have happened sooner or later. Jim and Blair could never have kept their secret indefinitely. But two weeks was too short a honeymoon. How the hell had Chambers, of all people, found out about it? Simon tossed his cigar onto his desk impatiently. This "investigation" stank to high heaven. The physical evidence at the scene and the corroborating testimony of Jim, Blair and Rafe should have settled the matter days ago; yet here was Burt Chambers, would-be Major Crimes detective and low man on the IA totem pole, riding roughshod over procedure and protocol with apparent impunity. The man obviously had an agenda of his own. But what could Simon do? To inform Chambers' superior would be a violation of protocol too, to say nothing of making Simon look guilty as hell.

Which he was.

Simon shifted uneasily in his chair. He hated this. He hated the lies he had told. He hated the lies that his men had told for him. But try as he might, he could not bring himself to regret firing his weapon when he had. If he had hesitated long enough to identify himself, Blair would probably be dead now. And Jim…. Simon grimaced. He didn't want to think about what would have been left of Jim if Blair had died that way, shielding his friend with his naked body. No. His action had been morally justified, if not procedurally correct. But the lies he had been forced to tell rankled his conscience.

And now this. If Chambers had found out about Jim and Blair -- God only knew how -- then he'd use it. He'd try to pressure Jim into changing his statement. Simon smiled grimly. If Burt Chambers knew Jim Ellison one-tenth as well as Simon did, he'd be packing his bags now. Jim would tell Chambers what to go do with himself, of course; hopefully with as little bloodshed as possible. And Blair … well, the kid might be short on inches, but he was as tall as they come on loyalty and integrity … and guts. Which meant, of course, that he'd stand by his story and be thrown, with Jim, to the proverbial wolves. The act that had been intended to save them would wind up destroying them -- or at any rate, making their lives even more dangerous than they already were.

Simon cursed inwardly and turned in his chair to pour himself a cup of coffee. He needed coffee. Caffeine was absolutely necessary if he were to reason a way out of this mess. What the hell were the odds that two of his officers would fall in love with each other? That two of his male, previously straight officers -- okay, so Sandburg wasn't a cop, but he might as well be at this point -- would fall in love? That two of his male, previously straight officers who were about as night and day as two guys could get, would fall in love? Simon took a swig of his coffee, scowling. If he didn't know better, he'd swear they'd done it just to make his life living hell. He could just hear them. "I've run out of ways to drive Simon crazy, Jim." "Me too, Chief." "I know! Let's start sleeping together." "Attaboy, Chief. That'll do it." Simon snorted. What was needed around here was a little more reason and a little less true love.

Simon set his coffee cup down with a sigh. No. No, you don't get off that easy, Banks. It was his lie that had embroiled Jim and Blair in this mess and had made them a target for that bottom-feeder Chambers. He had gotten them into this. Now he had to get them out.

*

"Okay?"

Blair's voice was quiet, but Jim could have heard the anxiety in it half a mile away. He glanced at his partner as they passed from the garage to the elevator and smiled reassuringly. "Yeah. Okay." Blair hadn't said much about what happened last night, but Jim knew it was on his mind, knew his Guide was worried about him. There had been a time not too long ago when that would have annoyed the hell out of him. Now it just made him feel like he was luckier than he deserved to be. Misery loves company, and he was pretty damn worried about himself.

Sleepwalking? He'd told the truth when he told Blair that he'd never done that in his life; so why would he start now? Nightmares, now, those he did. He specialized in nightmares. Blair hadn't been sleeping with him long enough to know how frequently he woke up in a cold sweat. But this 'nightmare' hadn't been a dream any more than his visit with the little drummer girl had been. They were both too real, too vivid. He'd been there in his father's house last night. Or some part of him had. From the little Blair had told him, his sleeping body had acted out that last, desperate night in Margie's life with uncanny perfection.

Dangerous perfection. He'd found a deep bruise on the inside of his thigh during his shower that morning, and wondered if he'd reenacted his younger self's desperate attempt to climb out a window of his father's house on that night so long ago. He'd hurt his leg back then, too. God, had he really tried to jump out a window? He was afraid to ask Blair if he had, afraid that Blair would confirm his suspicion. What kind of lunatic was he? And how could he expect Blair to put up with this?

Dealing with Sentinel weirdness was one thing; Blair was his Guide. It was a tough job, but it was one for which Blair seemed ideally suited, and one that seemed to make him truly happy. But dealing with whatever mental breakdown was plaguing him now seemed far outside the scope of a Guide's job description. Above and beyond the call by a mile. Jim tried to picture last night's scare and shuddered for Blair. There Blair had been, all alone with this raving, naked guy having some kind of psychotic hallucination, and there hadn't been a damn thing Blair could do about it. He couldn't even have called for help. What if Jim had become violent? Hurt Blair? Jim blinked away the image, sickened by the thought. He'd cut off his hand before he'd raise it to Blair. At least while he was in his right mind.

Jim knew that Blair would stick with him no matter what. He'd sure as hell proved that over the past three years. But should he let him? The last time Jim had started to lose it, Blair had wound up face down in a fountain.

"Jim!"

Jim started out of his dark reverie to find Blair shaking his arm with an alarmed expression. "Hey, man, can't you read the sign? No zoning in the elevators."

Jim forced a little laugh. "Relax, Chief. I'm fine."

The elevator doors closed and Blair hit the key with a skeptical expression. "Yeah, yeah. Everything's peachy keen. Spare me, Wally."

"I'm fine, Beav," said Jim with a grin, letting Blair charm him away from the darkness. "Unless you count a sore--"

"You said you were okay." Blair looked into Jim's face with an anxious, troubled expression, and Jim studied his friend in genuine astonishment. As if Jim wouldn't love to be able to give up his virginity to Blair every damn night if he could. As if last night hadn't been good beyond his wildest dreams; as if it didn't mean more to Jim than he'd ever be able to tell the man.

"Okay? I'm the luckiest man in Cascade. It's a good kind of sore, baby," murmured Jim huskily, leaning down to speak Sentinel-soft into Blair's ear.

Blair gazed up at him with so much relief and gratitude and love in his face that Jim had to restrain the impulse to kiss him. He hesitated for a heartbeat only an inch from Blair's willing mouth, knowing it was stupid to tempt fate that way. And then the elevator doors slid open.

Jim straightened hastily, then stiffened as he realized who had barreled into the car. Chambers glared at them, a sneer crossing his face. "Well, if it isn't Batman and Robin."

"Give it a rest, Chambers," replied Jim contemptuously, wondering what the hell had happened to get the asshole so stirred up. He was red in the face and sweating; his heart was pounding a mile a minute. The hostility that he had previously taken such pains to conceal radiated off him like a dog shaking off gutter water.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," continued the man savagely, stabbing the button for his floor.

Blair caught Jim's eye and smiled tranquilly. "Nope," he said cheerfully. "How's it going, man?"

"We have an interview to finish, Ellison," continued Chambers, blatantly ignoring Blair.

Jim barked his most dismissive laugh and riveted his gaze to the display above the doors. Without warning, Chambers slammed his palm against the stop key, bringing the car to a sudden, jerky halt between floors.

Blair almost lost his balance. "What the hell--"

"I told you we weren't finished," snarled Chambers to Jim.

"Oh now, see, that's where you're wrong, pal," growled Jim, holding on to his control by a hair's breadth. "We have no further business, you and me. You want to frame my captain for some bullshit procedural error? Fine. Go for it. But you're going to have to do it without my help, or anybody else's around here. Got it?" Jim moved to stand toe-to-toe with Chambers, glaring ferociously down at the shorter man.

Chambers stood his ground truculently. "Your attitude sucks, Ellison. If I didn't know better, I'd think you had something to hide."

Blair stepped to Jim's side, obviously provoked. "Nobody's hiding anything. What's your problem, man? We've answered every question you've asked half-a-dozen times. What more do you want?"

"I want your cooperation," said Chambers evenly, looking at Blair with narrowing eyes. "Hiding the truth won't--"

"Sandburg and I have nothing to hide," said Jim flatly.

Chambers actually smirked, and Jim suddenly realized that the topic of conversation had veered far from Simon Banks' conduct as a police officer. "Really? Nothing? You'd better be certain of that. Because if you continue to be uncooperative, certain things might come to light."

"What things?" demanded Blair, eyes widening.

Chambers glanced from Jim to Blair and back again. "There have been rumors about you two. If they were ever substantiated, life could get very difficult for you, Ellison. Maybe even dangerous."

Jim saw Blair's expression go from shocked to angry to grimly determined in the space of a second, saw Blair come to a sudden and painful understanding of Jim's fears in a heartbeat. Jim felt his hackles rise and both his stomach and fists clench. What the hell was this? Chambers knew, too? Two people in two days? Coincidence?

"Chambers," said Jim in his most chilling tone, "don't even think about threatening me."

Blair slid to one side enough that one of his shoulders blocked Jim's path to Chambers. Just enough to deter, but not enough to distract. Damn, he was a good partner. With a partner like Blair Sandburg you could take on the whole damn world if you had to.

Chambers cleared his throat and stepped back nervously, dropping his eyes. "No threat intended. Just a statement of fact."

"The fact is that extortion is a felony." Jim slammed the heel of his palm against the button to send the elevator on its way again. "I won't go into your misdemeanors."

"And what are you going to do about it? Report me?" Chambers managed a smirk, but his eyes and stance betrayed his uneasiness. "Don't be stupid, Ellison. Why throw away your career? Play ball. Cooperate with the investigation."

"This isn't an investigation," said Blair, in a voice that made Jim wonder which of them was closer to losing it. "It's a damn witch hunt. We won't help you."

"Then you go down with Banks."

"I'd rather go down with Banks than stay afloat with you. Go to hell, you son of a bitch," snarled Jim. The door slid open, and Jim shoved Chambers roughly aside to allow Blair and himself to pass. "Come on, Chief. We've got work to do."

Blair nodded wordlessly and walked into the bullpen at Jim's side.

*

"May we speak to you privately, sir?"

Simon looked up sharply, instantly cued by the constrained quality of Jim's voice. One look told him what had happened. Jim stood in the door to Simon's office in his classic things-are-as-bad-as-they-can-get-sir military posture, complete with I've-been-in-the-jungle-for-a-year-don't-fuck-with-me expression; Blair stood beside him, white-faced, and as somber as the kid was capable of getting.

Damn. Chambers had gotten to them first. "Get in here and shut that door."

Jim shepherded Blair inside with a gentleness at dramatic odds with his grim demeanor, and the younger man flopped into a chair as if his legs wouldn't hold him. Jim closed the door and remained standing, his hands behind his back. "Sir, we've just had a conversation with--"

"Chambers," growled Simon, waving Jim toward a chair. "So have I."

"Great," said Blair glumly as Jim sat down beside him. "He wants us to--"

"Tell the truth?"

Both men straightened in their chairs. "The truth is that you saved our lives," said Jim sharply.

Blair spoke up quietly. "We're not going to repay you by--"

"Telling the truth," repeated Simon quietly. "Yeah, Sandburg, I appreciate that. But we didn't anticipate--"

"Blackmail," finished Jim in a hard voice.

Simon stared at him, startled. "He was that direct?"

"He said things would come out about us if we didn't cooperate. He said it would be dangerous for Jim." Blair's voice became very strained, and Jim briefly laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. He removed it hastily as he met Simon's gaze.

Simon shook his head slowly at Chambers' brazenness. "Where did this conversation take place?"

"In the elevator, sir, between floors."

"Where did you hide the body?"

That drew weak smiles from both of them. "He lived to tell the tale," said Jim wryly.

"Let's hope he doesn't," said Simon grimly. "This has to end, gentlemen. I appreciate what you tried to do, but it's gotten way out of hand."

"What do you mean?" Blair's big blues were as wide as they could go. "You can't just--"

"Somebody's gunning for you, Simon," cut in Jim sharply.

"Really? What was your first clue, Detective?" snapped Simon irritably.

"Do you know who's holding Chambers' leash?"

"Do I look psychic to you?"

"Then we'll find out." Jim leaned back in his chair with his most obstinate expression. Blair's face lit up hopefully.

"No, you will not!" Simon drew a deep breath. "Dammit, Jim, listen to reason. If you start poking around Chambers it'll blow up in your face. Your face and Sandburg's. It isn't necessary. I've made my decision."

"Do not tell us you're going to recant your statement," exploded Blair angrily. "Simon, we won't let you do that!"

"Excuse me?" Simon examined Blair fiercely over the tops of his glasses. "You won't what?"

"We can't let you do that, sir," said Jim quietly.

"I don't intend to recant," said Simon, more sharply than he'd wanted. "I intend to resign."

The silence that followed his statement was so profound that Simon swore he could hear Blair's jaw drop. God, he wanted a drink.

"Resign?" echoed Blair faintly. "What? Why?"

"If I recant my statement, you and Rafe will be charged with impeding an investigation." Simon watched as the extent of the dilemma reached the two men. They exchanged glances, then turned back to Simon, looking more stubborn than they had before.

"Either way, you give the bastards what they want," said Jim evenly. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't."

"Give us a little time, Simon. Let us see what we can turn up."

Simon swore softly. "Chambers isn't going to wait much longer. If you don't change your stories, he'll, well…."

"Out us?" suggested Blair wryly.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate that expression?" Jim asked tiredly of no one in particular.

Simon sighed. "I hope you realize just how fine you're cutting this. For all we know, Chambers may be making good on his threat right now."

"Maybe," said Jim quietly. "But I don't think so."

"Why not?" asked Blair softly.

Jim shrugged. "Hunch. If he's a good boy he'll check with whoever sicced him on Simon before he makes that move."

"I hope you're right." Simon paused. "Forty-eight hours," he said finally. "That's it. I won't wait any longer, Jim. Because I don't think Chambers will either."

 *

"Chief."

Blair blinked into awareness and glanced at his friend. "Huh?"

"You with me?" Jim was regarding him with his best worried-but-still-macho-as-hell expression.

Blair forced a laugh and buried himself deeper in his coat, shivering. God, he hated stakeouts. Why did they always wind up doing surveillance in the cold, the dark and the wet? Some sort of unwritten Code of Cop, probably. Penance for sins as yet uncommitted. "Yeah, man, with you. Just thinking."

Jim smiled faintly. "Want to talk about it?"

Blair snorted, giving Jim a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I was thinking it's too damn cold in here. Can't you run the engine for a few minutes?"

"Sure, Chief. Shall I lean on the horn, too? Or maybe I should just knock on Chambers' front door, there, and ask him if he'd mind us conducting an unauthorized surveillance on his residence."

"Note to self: investigate possible link between MSG and excessive and unnecessary sarcastic verbalizations." Blair kicked the discarded Chinese food cartons on the floor of the truck for emphasis.

"Serves you right for bullshitting me," returned Jim mildly.

Blair shot him an amazed look. Jim Ellison wanted to discuss something? His timing sucked; for once Blair had no desire whatsoever to give voice to his thoughts. They were too frightening.

Jim had been right. He had been right all along. Blair stared through the windshield of the truck across the dark street at the house they'd been watching for the past four hours. Chambers' house. If they were caught at this, God only knew what would happen. But they didn't have much choice.

Jim had been right. Blair simply hadn't understood the depth and complexity of the danger Jim had been facing in order to be with him. That this could be used to blackmail him, to threaten him, to jeopardize his career, his safety, his life in this way, had simply not occurred to Blair. The danger had been posed, not by a handful of homophobic redneck cops, but by someone in authority within the department, someone who merely found it convenient to further his own ends by exploiting Jim's vulnerability. This had come as a complete shock. Blair had envisioned the two of them standing up to bullies in the broad light of day, not dealing with sneak attacks by nightcrawlers like Chambers.

Had Jim expected something like this? Who knew? Probably. He was a man of few words, but a great deal of thought. And what would happen now? Blair saw nothing but bleak possibilities wherever he turned. Simon being forced to resign. His and Jim's relationship being made public in a campaign of snide innuendo and snickers. God, that would kill Jim. Perhaps literally. Blair didn't doubt for a moment that Chambers knew cops that would be willing to arrange an 'accident' on the job to dispose of a 'fag' cop.

How could he have been so naïve, so stupid? If something happened to Jim, he'd be to blame, and that would kill Blair. Blair couldn't let anyone hurt Jim. If their relationship was endangering him, should he leave? Blair's stomach turned at the thought. He couldn't lose Jim now.

"Blair."

Blair looked up, startled, as Jim laid a hand on his arm, eyes wide with concern. "What?"

"What do you mean, what? Your heart's going so fast it's going to fly out of you. You're sweating, babe. You're shaking. Tell me."

"You know, I don't think I can handle the new you. Can we go back to the good old days of 'say it loud, I'm repressed and I'm proud'?"

Jim swore under his breath. "Sandburg…."

"I'm scared," said Blair in a very small voice, feeling like an idiot.

Jim went very still.

"You were right. I was wrong. I just didn't understand what could happen if anybody at the station found out."

"Blair, don't--"

"I thought we could take on the world," continued Blair bitterly. "I thought we could protect each other."

"We--"

"But how do I protect you from this? God, Jim, I was so stupid--" Before Blair could finish his sentence he found himself on his back with Jim on top of him. "Whoa, yeah," gasped Blair in astonished delight. "Hey, man, if I'd known that stupid turned you on--"

Jim covered Blair's mouth firmly with a furious nod of the head toward Chambers' house.

Oh.

Blair listened intently, but whatever Jim had heard or seen or smelled or God-knows-what eluded him. Then he heard a door close, car door slam, an engine start, a car pull away. The car passed them, and Jim instantly sat up and started the truck.

"He's nervous. He was checking out the street through the window before he came out. I think we might get lucky." Jim pulled away from the curb, following Chambers' car at a discreet distance.

"Yeah, well, I thought so, too," grumbled Blair, sitting up. "Geez, man. Next time warn a guy. I thought you were trying to compromise my virtue."

"Didn't think you had any of that left," returned Jim mildly. "Guess I'll have to do something about that. Maybe a little--"

"Dancing?" Blair suggested, entirely too innocently.

Jim actually grinned. "Dancing."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Hot damn."

"And Blair--"

"Yeah?"

"For the record, babe. You're not stupid. There are times when I feel like we could take on the world, too."

*

Jim's heart sank as Chambers' car made its way into the poorly-lit labyrinth of warehouses near the docks. God, he hated it down here. He'd always hated it down here, really; the smells, the barren ugliness, the vicious losers that haunted the place. But he hated it even more after his last visit, the low point of which was a private tour of Curtis Krakowa's den of horrors. He could only imagine what Blair was feeling. Jim stole a glance at his partner. Blair sat very still, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets, with the grim, stubborn expression of a man determined not to give in to his fears.

"Okay, Chief?"

"No problem," replied Blair tautly. "You notice that car he's got, Jim? Top of the line Mercedes. That's a lot of car on a cop's salary, don't you think?"

Jim nodded, letting it go. "Uh-huh. I've been wondering about that for a while, actually. That and the two thousand-dollar watch he wears, the designer suits he wears, that very expensive house he lives in…."

"All recent acquisitions?" growled Blair.

"Yeah. And he's probably in line for a nice fat bonus if he takes Simon down. Looks like IA doesn't keep a clean house."

"Who watches the watchers? This guy's being pretty damn obvious about it all, though. It's like he's flaunting it."

"Yeah, well, he's not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier," said Jim drily. "Unless he's got some cover story going."

"Won the lottery? Dead uncle? Buried treasure?"

Jim grinned in spite of himself. "Yeah. Probably about that believable."

"I'll bet Chambers' bank account would be real interesting reading."

"Safe bet. The only question for me is who's laying that little nest egg of his." Jim slowed the truck, dropping back further. Chambers might be stupid, but he was obviously twitchy as hell right now, and seeing a truck in his rear view mirror in the middle of the night among these deserted warehouses would definitely arouse his suspicion. Chambers had slowed significantly, his brake lights brightening every few seconds. "He doesn't know the way," said Jim thoughtfully. "He's never been here before." He pulled quickly into the shadows beside one of the warehouses and parked.

"Won't we lose him?" Blair's voice cracked with tension.

"We can't follow him in the truck without being spotted," said Jim, climbing out of the truck without taking his eyes off Chambers' car. "We'll do better on foot." He spared Blair a glance. "You with me, partner?"

Blair drew a deep breath and nodded, getting out of the truck and closing his door quietly. "Yeah, man. I'm with you."

Jim locked and closed his door, smiling faintly at the stubborn set of his friend's jaw. "Looks like he's heading for the water." He headed after the Mercedes quickly, careful to stay in the shadows. He heard Blair fall in behind him.

"What's down there?"

"Just more of the same. More warehouses and docks and mud and--" A thought struck him, and Jim came to such a sudden halt that Blair actually ran into him.

"What? What is it?" Blair sounded a little breathless.

Jim turned toward Blair, pulling his cellphone from his pocket and tossing it to him. "Hold on to that." He drew his weapon, thinking furiously. Yes. It had to be. It would explain everything. "And Chief, you stay behind me. I mean it." His voice dropped to a whisper and he started moving quickly in the direction of Chambers' car, which was still moving haltingly towards the water.

"Subtitles, please," growled Blair, obviously annoyed.

"Remember what I told you about the stakeout Rafe and Henri were on?"

Blair was silent for a moment. "Our friendly neighborhood heroin dealer?"

"Yeah."

"Chambers is going to Sherman's place?"

"Uh-huh."

"You think Sherman's the guy with the leash?"

"You got it. If our pal's going where I think he's going, then he's about to incriminate himself on police video. All we have to do is stay out of his way."

Blair started chuckling softly. "There's a certain karmic symmetry to this."

"I just want to confirm that's where he's going. Then we'll clear out. I don't want to screw up Rafe and Henri's surveillance."

"Okay. But can we rent the video?"

"I'll buy the popcorn."

"Cool. Simon'll love this."

Jim agreed silently. If this went down the way he hoped it would, then Chambers' credibility was shot to hell and his career was over. He would no longer pose a threat either to Simon or to Jim and Blair. If it went down the way he hoped. Peering ahead in the dim light, his keen eyes caught sight of the Mercedes slow to a crawl as it reached the docks, then make a right turn.

"Come on," breathed Jim to Blair, then sprinted down the lane in the gloom to the corner of the last warehouse. Blair pulled up behind him, breathing hard. Jim carefully peered around the corner in time to see Chambers' car stop in front of the few warehouses situated directly on the dock. "He's found it," he whispered to Blair. Chambers parked and got out of his car, peering uncertainly at the front of the building as if searching for an entrance. "To the right, to the right," muttered Jim impatiently.

"No help from the audience," came an amused whisper from Blair, who had gone down on his haunches to peer around Jim's knees.

Chambers finally found the door and pushed it open; after a moment's hesitation, he disappeared inside and the door closed behind him.

Jim snorted, restraining a shout of satisfaction. "Nice work, Burt."

"And he did it all by himself, too. What do you think'll happen when Rafe and Henri report in tomorrow?"

"I think 'certain things will come to light,'" replied Jim in soft, grim satisfaction. "We're through here, Chief."

Blair laughed softly, raising his hand in a high five. "Oh, yeah. It's Miller time."

Jim chuckled and slapped the hand. There was nothing quite like the satisfaction of watching a rat bastard do himself in. Blair rose to his feet with a broad grin, and Jim holstered his weapon, but they hadn't taken more than six steps back down the lane toward the truck when the sound four gunshots rang out, echoing among the corrugated steel walls of the structures around them in quick succession. Blair gasped and whirled. "What the--"

Jim drew his gun again. "Get back to the truck. Now!" He ran back to the corner and peered carefully to his right again, but for a few moments saw nothing but the dark, silent building. Blair's uneven breathing at his back alerted him to his presence at the same moment that the door to the building across the lane from Sherman's opened, and Rafe appeared, weapon in hand. He moved quickly across the lane and flattened himself against the wall of Sherman's building. Jim moved towards him, one eye on the door.

Rafe stiffened and leveled his gun. "Freeze! Police!"

"It's me, Rafe," called Jim as softly as possible. Blair cleared his throat behind him. "Me and my hearing-impaired partner."

"Jim?" Rafe lowered his weapon in obvious astonishment. "What the hell--"

"I'm not here," said Jim quickly, reaching Rafe's side and pushing Blair behind him with his back against the wall.

Rafe blinked and nodded. "Backup's on its way," he said in a taut voice. "Henri's on the dockside."

"Who the hell's in there with Chambers?"

"Guess."

Jim stared. "You're kidding."

"Sherman got here twenty minutes ago in a cab."

Jim shook his head in bewilderment. Sherman had never been stupid enough to show up anywhere near the operations end of his business. That was one of the reasons he'd enjoyed so much success at avoiding conviction for so many years. Had the man really gone crazy?

As if in answer, a high-pitched hysterical voice sounded from inside the building. "No! NO! Get away, get away, get away! Stop it!" More gunshots tore through the surrounding silence. Jim felt Blair flinch behind him.

Damn. Damn! How had this turned into Jim dragging Blair into harm's way again? He and Rafe exchanged glances. Rafe nodded and whipped around to the other side of the door. "High," he hissed.

Jim nodded. "Low. Blair, if you move one muscle from that spot, so help me God, Rafe will hold you down while I shave your head. Got it?" Rafe grinned, and Jim heard Blair mutter an obscenity under his breath. "Go."

Rafe swung around and kicked the door open, bringing his weapon to bear as he slid his back along the quivering door, and Jim dove in on one knee, throwing his heightened vision wide open as he scanned the dim interior. Only one bare light bulb lit the place, and it swung drunkenly in the breeze from the wide open dockside freight doors, casting bizarre, extreme shadows as it moved. Even with that distraction, however, Jim's sharp eyes could clearly see the figure sprawled on the floor a few feet inside the door, and another running for its life toward the dock.

"Freeze! Cascade PD!" Jim's voice boomed through the empty building like a roll of thunder. Jim winced at the volume, but it seemed to have no effect on the fleeing man. Jim prepared himself to fire, but froze as Henri leapt into his field of vision with drawn weapon.

"Freeze, Sherman! Police!"

Howling like an injured animal, Sherman barreled toward the detective as if he had no other thought than to get his hands on the man. Jim swore aloud, unable to discharge his weapon with Henri in the line of fire. "Henri, move! Move!"

Henri leveled his weapon and got off one shot in the same moment that Sherman lifted his arm and fired wildly. Henri screamed and staggered, falling to his knees as Sherman bolted through the dockside door.

"Henri!" Rafe sprinted across the warehouse floor toward his partner.

"Son of bitch!" broke furiously from Jim as he barreled toward the dock. His accentuated hearing made him subliminally but painfully aware of the sounds of the cellphone being activated and of Blair's voice; the phrases "shots fired" and "officer down" sounded in his brain. The kid sounded like a cop. Like a good cop; calm, steady voice, accurate information, everything a dispatcher would need to know. He had the best damn partner on the force, bar none. But Henri was down.

"Henri, you all right?" Rafe's voice was taut and wild as Jim flew past him, catching a whiff of human blood and fear and the blurred visual impression of a red stain growing across Henri's shoulder.

"Yeah … yeah," came Henri's voice, weak and uncertain.

Shoulder wound. Not life threatening. Good. Good. Jim scanned the dock, unable to see Sherman. He could hear him though … underneath? Under the dock, the son of a bitch had gone under….

The roar of an outboard motor nearly deafened him, and Jim involuntarily clapped his hands over his ears as he ran to the edge of the dock. He saw a small boat shoot out from under the dock in a wall of spray and panic and bounce out over the choppy harbor surf; and drawing a bead on the lone occupant, Jim fired two shots. Jim heard the second strike the hull of the boat, but Sherman piloted the boat through the odd obstacle course of flotsam that dotted the waters this side of the channel to escape into the darkness. Jim watched him go, gritting his teeth. Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch….

"Jim," came in a soft voice at his elbow. "You okay?"

Jim glanced aside to see Blair standing beside him. "Yeah. I winged him, Chief, but he got away." He holstered his weapon.

Blair breathed a visible sigh of relief. "Chambers is alive. And Henri's okay. He says it just grazed him. Backup and ambulance are here."

Jim let go a breath. "Yeah, good work, Chief." He continued to stare out at the water, peering at the objects bobbing up and down in the waves.

"Tell me what you see out there," said Blair quietly, touching Jim's arm lightly.

Jim shrugged. He had no idea why he was still standing here. There was just something about those--

"Tell me what you see," repeated Blair more insistently.

"It's nothing, Chief. Just some trash floating around out there."

"Do you realize you've been standing here looking at that 'nothing' for ten minutes?"

Jim started and stared into Blair's face, then back toward the warehouse. The dockside doors had been closed, but Jim became suddenly aware of the sound of many voices and approaching vehicles.

"Don't worry, I shut the doors. Nobody but Rafe and Henri knows we're here yet, but they're bound to come out here soon. Are you sure it's nothing?"

"Yeah. Just a bunch of rusty oil drums--" Jim stopped. Drums. Drums? "We should go."

Blair glanced at him sharply. "Drums?"

Jim forced a laugh. "Come on, Chief, don't get spooky on me now."

"Try your other senses," said Blair urgently.

"Why?" demanded Jim, wondering why the idea made his palms sweat.

"Because I'm asking. Let's start with smell. Come on, man. Radar up."

"Pain in the ass," grumbled Jim, and, with a resigned sigh, closed his eyes and dialed up his sense of smell. He grimaced as an onslaught of harbor smells stormed his olfactory sense.

"Isolate each scent," came from Blair in a soft chant.

Salt water. Rotting fish. Marine fuel. Dumped bilge water. Rotting meat. Engine exhaust. Heroin….

Jim gasped and his eyes snapped open. "What the hell?"

"Tell me!" Blair demanded, pulling Jim away from the water and down the dock as the voices inside the warehouse grew louder. Jim followed without question.

"The stuff! Sherman's stuff! It's out there, it's fucking--"

"What--"

"--out there! No wonder we couldn't figure out--"

"Jim, man, slow down--"

"--where the hell it was! No trucks, no cars, no boats--"

"Jim, they'll hear you."

"At least none that came to the dock--"

"Shhh! Are you saying that they hid--"

"Yeah, yeah, they put the stuff in the drums and dumped the drums in the water."

"And then they figured their dealers could -- what? Rent a boat and--"

"Give me the cellphone."

Blair handed it over as he pulled Jim into the cover of the shadows on the far side of the next building. They had moved just in time; Jim heard the dockside doors being rolled open as he dialed Simon's number.

"Who are you calling?" whispered Blair.

"Simon, of course," growled Jim.

"At this hour? Are you nuts?"

Jim shook his head as Simon's phone began to ring. "Sherman's not stupid. A cop's been shot. He knows this place will be ripped apart. He's going to get that stuff picked up as soon as possible, whatever the risk. If not--"

"Banks!"

Jim winced at the roar in his ear. Blair mouthed 'I told you so' and grinned. "Sir, this is--"

"Ellison. What a coincidence. You know, as I was lying here sound asleep in my comfortable bed, dreaming the sweet dreams of the clean living, a ringing telephone woke me rudely from my much-deserved sleep. And do you know what I thought at that moment, Detective?"

Jim stifled a sigh. "No, sir."

"I thought, 'That must be Detective James Ellison, trying to wake his hard-working, bone-tired captain at two in the goddamn morning.' Do you know why I thought that, Detective?"

"Sir, if you'll--"

"Because only Detective James Ellison would have the stones to wake his hard-working , bone-tired captain at two in the goddamn morning!"

"Sandburg and I followed Chambers to Sherman's warehouse, Sherman shot Chambers, Sherman shot Henri, and I shot Sherman," said Jim briefly in answer. Blair winced and shimmied away from Jim as if expecting a bolt of lightning to descend.

There was dead silence on the other end of the line for five seconds. "Henri--"

"Henri's okay. Chambers is alive. Sherman is at large."

"Ellison--"

"We found Sherman's stash floating in the harbor."

More silence.

"Ellison, put Sandburg on the phone."

Surprised, Jim handed the phone to Blair, who took it with dread in his expression. "Ah … hi, Simon." He paused, looking up at Jim, who hastily dialed down his hearing, certain that whatever Simon was saying, he didn't want to hear it. "No, he's not drunk."

Jim grimaced. He knew his captain very well.

Another pause. Blair's mouth twitched suspiciously. "No, I don't think you're drunk, either."

Another pause. "Yeah. It's in some rusty oil drums about--" Blair hesitated and looked at Jim.

"Two hundred yards out," supplied Jim. "Near one of the channel buoys. They're probably secured to it to keep them from drifting."

"Did you hear that? Uh-huh. Okay, I'll tell him." Blair broke the connection and handed the phone back to Jim. He cleared his throat. "I'm supposed to tell you that, if you ever call him at two in the morning again, he will secure you to one of the channel buoys."

"Chief--"

"And that he's going to get a surveillance team out here immediately to watch the drums."

Jim breathed a little easier. "Good." He shoved the phone into his breast pocket. "Now I think we should--"

"Lose the fuzz? Dodge the Man? Dust the pigs?"

Jim glared at his grinning friend, then looked away to conceal a smile that couldn't be restrained. Only Blair could make him want to laugh after a day like this one. "Exactly which pharmaceuticals did you abuse before we met, Sandburg? I'd like to know what kind of psychotic behavior to expect in the next few years."

"Nah, that'd ruin the surprise." Blair chuckled softly and patted Jim's arm affectionately. "Come on, tough guy. Time to go home."

Jim had to fight hard to resist taking Blair in his arms and kissing him. Just for fun. Just for love. Just for being the best man, the best friend, the best partner he'd ever known. Just for sticking with him through yet another dose of weird shit. "Yeah," he said gruffly, turning away, never wanting a perfect world more than in that moment.

He led Blair away from the crime scene and back to the truck via the most circuitous route he could find, shying away from any sound of police activity … and from conversation. He knew Blair wanted to talk about the drum thing. Blair tried several times to bring it up, but Jim just "uh-huh"'d and "yeah"'d until Blair sighed softly and gave up. Jim acknowledged to himself that it was a strange coincidence. On the surface, it looked pretty damn weird. But a coincidence was all it was. There was no possible connection between poor little Margie Woodson and that bastard Sherman. Blair could talk all he wanted to about the symbolic imagery of the subconscious mind. Jim wasn't buying it.

Blair finally spoke up again as they approached the truck. "You know, you'll have to deal with this stuff sooner or later, man," he said quietly. "It's not going to go away. You knew there was something about those drums before you smelled the drugs. You knew it. You were totally zoned on them."

"I zone on lots of things," said Jim edgily, unlocking his door. "I even zone on you," he added, his voice softening as the experience of losing himself in Blair's lovemaking came back to him. "I like zoning on you."

Blair actually blushed, then looked at him sternly across hood of the truck. "Do not sweet talk your Guide while he's lecturing."

"Lecture tomorrow, Guide," grumbled Jim, opening his door. "I'm too damn tired." He swung himself behind the wheel and leaned over to unlock Blair's door before he realized he wasn't alone.

"Hello."

Jim gasped in surprise, breathing in a pleasant scent of lavender, and leaned back, staring at the speaker in dumb amazement. A red-haired little girl stared back at him with a friendly expression. Jim struggled for speech for a moment. "Sandburg! I think your door is unlocked."

Blair yanked on the door to no avail, then bent to peer in the window. The little girl turned to look at him. "Hello."

Blair looked back at her wonderingly. "Ah ... hi."

"Where did you come from?" demanded Jim, leaning over to unlock Blair's door. Blair slid in and closed his door, his keen gaze riveted on the child.

"Mommy said I came from heaven."

Blair laughed softly. "A literalist."

"No," said Jim impatiently, "I mean how did you get here?"

The girl shrugged. "I walked. And then I opened the door and got in."

"The doors were locked--" began Jim accusingly, but Blair cut him off.

"What's your name?"

"What name do you like best?" returned the child eagerly.

Blair's eyes lit up and he smiled, obviously charmed. Jim groaned inwardly. Blair was such a sucker for kids. "Ah ... well, I always liked Emily."

"Chief--" broke in Jim impatiently.

"My name is Emily," said the girl proudly.

Jim swore under his breath and slammed his door shut. "Great. No, honey, what's your real name?"

"What's your real name?" countered the girl with a solemn expression.

Jim hesitated, surprised. "I'm Jim."

"Did you choose that name?"

Jim groped for an answer in bewilderment, wondering when he had lost control of the conversation. "No, my dad chose it."

"You should tell me the name you chose," replied the child loftily.

Jim started. "What?"

"Out of the mouths of babes, Enquerri," murmured Blair with an odd little smile. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it around the child's shoulders. "So what was your name before it was Emily?"

"Emily." The child's face dimpled in delighted mischief.

"Good job, Chief," grumbled Jim, starting the truck. "Now she's Emily."

"I like Emily," announced Emily with an air of authority. "Are we going for a ride?"

"Yeah, I guess we are," said Blair softly. He looked over Emily's head at Jim. "What are we going to do?"

"We should take her to the station and check with missing persons. And contact Family Services." Jim dutifully stated the practical, sensible solution to the problem, and waited for the inevitable objections. The wait was over before it began; Blair looked instantly horrified.

"They won't send anybody out until the morning. She can't spend all night at the station."

Jim answered through grit teeth. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking.…"

"It's only until morning." The Look beamed forth at genuinely lethal intensity.

Jim wilted under the barrage and, in order to prevent unnecessary suffering, ordered an immediate surrender. Muttering under his breath, he pulled a U-turn in the lane and headed back to town.

"Are we going to your house?" asked Emily brightly.

"Yeah, we're going to our house," said Jim grumpily.

"Good. I want to see your house."

"You and me both, kid."

"Where's your house, Emily?" asked Blair softly, settling himself comfortably.

"Oh, it's not too far."

"If you tell us where it is, we can take you home." Blair's voice was nonchalant but hopeful.

"No," said Emily firmly. "It's not time to go home yet."

"It's awfully late. Don't you want to go home? You must miss your Mom."

"No, I'll see her in a little while. Do you miss your Mom?"

Jim grinned broadly in spite of himself as Blair cleared his throat. "Ah...sometimes."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Blair."

"Did you choose that name?"

"No, my mom chose it. But I like it."

"It's a good name," pronounced Emily gravely.

Jim scowled again. "So what's wrong with Jim?" he muttered to himself as the truck left the barren warehouse district behind.

*

"Here we are," said Blair cheerfully, leading Emily through the door into the loft. He turned the lights on. "Home sweet home." He heard Jim snort behind him, but ignored it. The big guy had been stewing all the way home, but he was about due to snap out of it now.

Emily's eyes widened. "Wow. I like your house." She slipped out of Blair's jacket and wandered over to examine some of the artifacts that littered every conceivable surface.

Jim closed and locked the door and threw his keys into the basket. "Thanks," he said, heavy on the sarcasm. He pointedly picked up Blair's jacket from the floor and handed it to Blair.

Blair shot him a brief, quelling look, and Jim grimaced. "Why don't you get one of my t-shirts for Emily to sleep in, Jim?" He tossed his jacket to the couch.

"Sure, sure," grumbled Jim, walking upstairs with aggravation oozing from every pore. "I live to serve." He disappeared into the bedroom above, muttering something about "kids" and "house" and "no dancing tonight."

Emily watched him go with a disapproving expression. "He's so grumpy."

Blair grinned as Jim took his indignation at this assessment of his character out on his chest of drawers. "Yeah. But sometimes that happens when people get old."

A drawer slammed. "Here!" Blair's t-shirt was tossed unceremoniously over the railing and into the living room. Blair caught it and, going down on one knee in front of Emily, held it up in front of her.

"Just the right size," he said approvingly. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. "He's not really grumpy, you know. It's just a game he likes to play."

The irritation-induced noises from the loft above ended quite suddenly.

Emily rolled her eyes. "That's a really silly game!" she observed, with all the force of eight year-old exasperation.

"Yeah, I know," chuckled Blair, his voice pitched Sentinel-soft. "But it makes him happy, so I just let him play it when he wants to."

Emily nodded thoughtfully, taking the shirt from Blair. "My sister plays silly games sometimes, too."

"How old is your sister?"

"Oh, she's a baby. She's only five."

"Being a big sister is an important job." Blair sat back on his haunches, his gaze wandering over the child's expensive clothes, her tidy hair, her manicured nails. The faint but unmistakable scent of lavender hung about her. Perfume? Wherever she came from, it wasn't the wrong side of the tracks.

"That's what my mom says," said Emily gravely. "She says I should always take good care of Jamie. I should always protect her."

"Your mom's right. I wish I'd had a big brother or big sister to take care of me when I was little." Blair heard the words before he realized how true they were. Whoa. Where had that come from?

Emily regarded him solemnly for a moment, her deep blue eyes locked with his. The very air around them seemed to still. "I'll be your big sister if you want."

"I'd … I'd like that," stammered Blair in confusion, feeling a wave of disorientation pass over him.

Then Emily turned away. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Oh … oh, right through here." Blair quickly led the way on strangely unsteady legs. God, it had been a long day. "Um … you don't, like, need help or anything--"

"Blaaaaiiiiirrrr!" came in a keen of shocked indignation. "I'm eight years old!"

"Oh, right. Sorry, my mistake," said Blair hastily. "No offense."

Emily glared her wounded vanity and disappeared behind the bathroom door. Blair stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned on the light in his old room and turned down the covers on the bed. He sank to sit on the bed for a moment, exhausted, and closed his eyes.

"Chief? You okay?"

Blair looked up to see Jim looking at him in open concern, and was amazed all over again that a man that big could move that quickly and that quietly. "Yeah. Just tired."

Jim took a step toward him. "Why don't you hit the sack? I'll--"

Emily emerged from the bathroom and joined Jim in the doorway. "Is your game over now?" she demanded severely.

Jim's face resisted a smile for a second, then gave way to a wide Ellison grin. "Yeah, honey, game's over." He bent down and picked her up, then gave her an awkward little hug. Blair watched him and fell in love all over again, feeling what he knew must be a completely sappy smile spread across his face. Oh, yeah. Captain James Ellison, Army Ranger, aka Detective James Ellison, Cop of the Year. Soldier in the war against crime. Leader of men. Tough as old boot leather. The guy could kill you with a paper clip at fifty yards, but for God's sake keep him away from kids, puppies, and homeless grad students or he'll melt like butter in the sun. There was simply no one in the world like this man.

Emily laughed and hugged him back. "Good. I still think it's a silly game."

"Yeah, well, I'm a silly kind of guy. Isn't that right, Blair?" Jim met Blair's gaze with a rueful expression.

Blair laughed wearily. "Yeah, tough guy, they don't get any sillier then you." Blair rose from the bed. "Ready for bed, Emily?"

Emily nodded, and Jim lay her on the bed gently. "Hey, what's this?" he asked in a quiet tone, but one that caught Blair's attention.

Blair looked over Jim's shoulder to see his gentle finger tracing a large, nasty-looking bruise on Emily's upper arm.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," said Emily with a yawn.

Blair's heart sank as he watched Jim push up the other sleeve of Blair's shirt to reveal more bruises, then slide his gentle hands down the bruised, cut legs. Her jeans and long-sleeved shirt had hidden it all. "Are you sure you're okay, honey?" Blair bent over her to stroke the red hair away from her forehead.

Emily smiled up at him. "I'm okay, Blair. Just sleepy." She yawned again.

"Did somebody hurt you, Emily?" Jim spoke very softly.

"Doesn't hurt anymore," she answered with sleepy insistence.

Jim exchanged a grim glance with Blair. "Okay. You get some sleep, then." He reached out to turn off the light.

"No!" Emily sat up with wide eyes. "Leave the light on!"

"Okay, okay," said Jim soothingly. "I'll leave it on."

"It keeps the bad dreams away, mostly," said Emily, settling back again with a fearful expression. "Mostly."

"What kind of bad dreams, honey?" Blair knelt by the bed and tucked her in gently, suspecting that he knew all too well what sort of nightmares this child must be having.

"About the bad place." Emily folded her arms over her chest, looking up at their uncomprehending expressions. "It's dark and cold and wet and it moves all the time. And I can't get out. And I hit the wall over and over and call for my mom, but she's not there so she doesn't hear me."

"That's a really bad dream," murmured Blair soothingly, stroking her hair, aching at the fear in the child's eyes. "Really scary. but you're safe here."

"My dad doesn't hear me either," continued Emily in a strange, sing-song little voice. "I call for him, too. I know he's really close but he doesn't answer. He goes away and leaves me there."

Blair felt Jim shift position and tense. "Did your dad hurt you, honey?" Jim's voice was loaded with leashed anger.

Emily didn't answer. "And we keep going back there over and over again. Over and over until I can wake up."

Blair bent down and kissed the child's forehead, alarmed at her strained pallor and the trembling that coursed through her small body. "Shhhh. Everything's going to be okay."

"It's a bad dream. It's the worst dream I ever had," said Emily solemnly, looking up at Blair with wide, dark eyes.

"It sure is," murmured Blair, shaken and struggling to not to show it. "But I'll bet you won't have it tonight, because I used to sleep in here, and I never had a nightmare. See that?" Blair pointed to the dreamcatcher hanging over the bed. "That's Indian magic. It keeps bad dreams away."

"Really? Indian magic?" Emily inspected the object with a doubtful expression.

"Absolutely."

"Is that real, or is that just a story?" Emily scowled with the effort of bringing all her third grade cynicism to bear.

"Oh, it's real," Jim assured her softly, perching on the side of the bed and laying a hand on Blair's shoulder. "Blair knows all about magic. He makes my bad dreams go away all the time."

Blair smiled up at him in surprise, feeling the heat rush to his face, and Jim smiled back at him with so much sweet affection in his face that Blair found himself holding his breath. What on earth had gotten into the man? Jim was never so open with his feelings when there was someone else present, especially strangers.

Emily's gaze settled on Jim. "You have bad dreams, too?"

Blair watched in growing astonishment as Jim nodded. "Yeah, sometimes."

"What do you dream about?"

Blair hastily opened his mouth to run interference, but stopped, mouth still open, as Jim actually began to answer. "A friend of mine," he said in a strange voice. Blair fixed his gaze on Jim's face, wondering why Jim looked like he was sleepwalking again. "From long ago." He sounded like he was sleepwalking, too. "She was in trouble. And I tried to help her, but I couldn't. And … and…."

"Did something bad happen?" asked Emily gravely.

"Something really bad. And it was my fault." Jim lowered his head.

Blair found himself too tired to move or to speak. The call to set Jim straight, to comfort him, lay unanswered. He tried to say something, do something, and couldn't. He felt himself bending toward the bed, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"No, it wasn't," said Emily in a soft, chanting cadence. Blair rested his head on the bed and let his eyes drift shut. "You didn't get her in trouble. And you tried to help her. Trying counts."

"Even when it does no good?"

"Trying always counts!"

"She didn't know I tried, though. I never saw her again."

"I'll bet she knows. I'll bet she knows everything."

"But maybe she doesn't think trying counts."

"Don't be silly. Everybody knows trying counts. It's a rule. It's a big rule."

"But I wanted to help."

"That's okay. 'Cause I'll bet she wants you to help too…."

*

"Chief."

Blair sighed and stirred reluctantly, despite the fact that that he was becoming increasingly aware of being in an extremely uncomfortable position. "Jim?" He raised his head and winced as he straightened his neck.

"Shhh. Kid's asleep. Come on."

Blair felt himself being lifted to his feet and managed to open his eyes wide enough to get his bearings. Oh. Right. His old room. He glanced at the bed and smiled at the sight of Emily sleeping soundly, curled up under the covers, her red hair spread out over the pillow. "Good night, big sister," he whispered, letting Jim guide him from the room with an arm firmly around his shoulders.

Jim closed the door softly behind them, then turned off the lights as they made their way toward the stairs.

"How long was I asleep?" mumbled Blair, leaning on Jim heavily as he tried to navigate the stairs to the bedroom with legs that felt like rubber.

"Don't know." Jim didn't sound any more awake than Blair felt. "Must have nodded off too. Long day." He staggered against Blair as they made the landing, and the two of them lurched forward to fall onto the bed. "Blair," mumbled Jim, rolling over enough to allow Blair enough room.

"Mmm?" Blair snuggled up to his friend.

Jim wrapped himself around Blair and kissed him sleepily on the temple. "Raincheck on the dance?"

"Mmm-hmm." Blair kissed the part of Jim he could reach without moving, which happened to be his neck. "Thanks for Emily."

Jim's large, warm hands caressed Blair soothingly, and Blair sighed contentedly, feeling his stiff muscles relax under his touch. "You were great with her. You'd be a good dad," murmured Jim in Blair's ear.

"You, too," whispered Blair.

"You think?" asked Jim drowsily.

"I know."

"If I ever catch the son of a bitch who did that to her--"

"The line forms here," muttered Blair.

"Chief … tomorrow Family Services will probably have to hand her back to whoever it was."

Blair nodded in wordless grief, nestling closer. He knew it. He hated it. And he knew Jim hated it too.

"I'm sorry, babe. I'd help her if I could." Jim's voice was raw.

"You did help her," whispered Blair, keenly aware of how much this must be hurting Jim right now. "She's safe tonight. She knows people care about her. That's as much as you could do, Jim."

"For what it's worth," muttered Jim. He was silent for a moment. "Don't know what made me tell her about Margie," he added finally, in a subdued tone.

"Yeah. I was wondering about that."

"It was like I couldn't lie to her, you know? Just looked into those baby blues and found myself spilling my guts."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," yawned Blair. "There's something about her. She's special."

"I'll see what I can find out about her tomorrow," murmured Jim, becoming drowsy again. "We can try to keep an eye out for her, you know? Make sure she's okay. Don't know how much good it'll do, but we can try."

"Yeah," whispered Blair, smiling as he drifted off to sleep. "Trying counts."

*

What were the odds? What were the odds that a sane, intelligent, experienced, respected police captain would be in this ridiculous position at this ridiculous hour, getting looks from his officers that said as plainly as words that they thought their boss' turbolift didn't make it to the bridge? About the same odds that Jim Ellison would go bionic on him, Simon supposed. Served him right for asking.

The boat rocked ominously, and Simon lowered his binoculars to glare at the source of the disturbance. "Taggert, sit still. Maybe you'd like a dip in what passes for water in this neighborhood, but I'll pass."

Taggert cleared his throat and froze. "Yes, sir."

Simon raised the infared binoculars again, resuming his meditations on the subject of the indignity to which he was subjecting himself in an effort to cover Jim's Sentinel butt. Here Simon was, a senior officer with a sterling reputation and a fine career, squatting, at four o'clock in the morning, in a leaky motorboat that rocked and rolled in water that smelled like dead fish and bad eggs and looked like week-old bacon grease, and staring at the same bunch of rusty oil drums that he'd been staring at for the last hour and a half. All courtesy of James 'All I Need Is a Cape' Ellison.

Not that Simon doubted Jim about Sherman's stash. If Jim said the heroin was in the drums, then the heroin was in the drums. And God only knew that Jim's news about Chambers being cozy with Sherman had taken a huge weight off Simon's shoulders. IA was already chomping at the bit to initiate damage control, and Simon had received signals that the investigation Chambers had been so zealously pursuing would be brought to a very hasty conclusion. There was no doubt in Simon's mind that anything Burt Chambers said about Jim and Blair's private life would be treated with extreme skepticism at this point. These developments were all highly desirable and much appreciated.

But all that being said, Simon was still sitting in a leaky boat under a dock in the dead and cold of night with stinking harbor water filling his shoes. Life as a police captain was not the idyllic, barefooted stroll through the rose petals that he'd imagined as a rookie. He sighed softly at the folly of youth.

The roar of a boat engine distracted him from his ruminations, and he focussed his gaze on the oncoming craft, saying a brief prayer to the patron saint of put-upon police captains that this would be the one. There had been quite a few disappointments in the past hour and a half, and there wasn't much time left to be disappointed in. In another hour or so the sun would rise, and Simon knew damn well that Sherman's people wouldn't be stopping to pick up his stash in broad daylight. And unless they could link the heroin with Sherman's business, there was no case. End of story.

Simon held his breath for a few seconds as the boat drew closer. It was a large craft. A cabin cruiser, and it was definitely making for the channel buoy. Simon watched as the boat slowed, then cut its engine as it came alongside the barrels. Several men appeared from inside the cabin, and one of them used a boat hook to pull one of the barrels close enough to the hull to be grabbed by two of the others. With groans and complaints clearly audible onshore, they hauled it aboard.

Simon smiled grimly to himself, lowered his binoculars and spoke softly into his radio. "Go."

Searchlights from every small boat under the docks and from the harbor patrol boats on the far side of the channel lit the cabin cruiser brilliantly, and the men aboard her froze in surprise.

"This is the Cascade PD," boomed from a loudspeaker on one of the patrol boats. "You are surrounded. Remain where you are and put your hands on your heads. If you attempt to restart your engine, you will be fired upon."

Slowly, the men around the barrel lifted their hands to their heads. Simon lifted the binoculars and scanned the faces of the men quickly, then stopped as he found one he recognized. He chuckled softly. "Gary Corker."

"Corker." Taggert's face lit up. "Sherman's lieutenant."

"The one and only."

"Then we've got him," said Taggert in a soft, intense tone. "We've got him."

"Get me out there, Joel," said Simon in brisk satisfaction. Perhaps there were a few walks through the rose petals to be had after all.

*

A persistent, profoundly annoying trilling roused Jim from his sleep, and he growled in protest. He peered blearily at the clock. 6:18 a.m. He growled again, this time in exhausted irritation. Then he felt Blair stir in his arms; heard him sigh softly.

"Jimmy. Phone," murmured Blair drowsily.

Jim relaxed and smiled, annoyance forgotten. Blair had just made the day worth waking up to. The sound of "Jimmy" from Blair was music. He glanced down at his partner to find Blair curled around him with his head on his Jim's shoulder.

"Don't want phone," Jim murmured. He kissed his Guide's forehead, determinedly ignoring the shrill sound and vibration coming from his jacket pocket. "Want you."

Blair opened his eyes and reached inside Jim's jacket. "Work day, lover." He pulled the phone from Jim's breast pocket and handed it to him, smiling ruefully. "Maybe Simon's returning the favor, huh?"

Jim blinked. Work day. Simon. Shit. With a sudden jolt of adrenaline, everything that had happened the day before came rushing back into Jim's awareness. He swore silently as he answered the call. "Ellison."

"Jim, sorry to wake you. But I need all hands."

"Taggert?" Jim sat up. "What's going on?"

"All hell broke loose at the stakeout last night. Monty Sherman showed up out of the blue and shot Henri, but Henri's doing fine … Rafe says he's already yelling at the doctors to discharge him. And Burt Chambers got himself shot, too … turns out he's been Sherman's boy for years. He's stable, too, and he's under guard."

"Henri's okay," mouthed Jim to Blair silently, who breathed a sigh of relief. "No kidding," he said to Taggert with as much surprise as he could manage at 6:30 in the morning.

"You haven't heard it all. Simon decided to play some far-out hunch and took a bunch of us down to the docks with the harbor patrol. He had us all sitting in powerboats under the dock there at 2:30 this morning, watching a bunch of oil drums in the water. Can you believe it? I thought he was nuts. But do you know who showed up?"

"Well-"

"Gary Corker and six of his finest! Sherman's right hand man, can you believe it? He came rolling up in Sherman's cabin cruiser about four this morning and started pulling in those drums. Anyway, they're all in custody. We opened up one of the drums and damned if there weren't all these nice, neat little airtight containers in there, full of Monty's stash."

"I guess Simon's gotten psychic in his old age," remarked Jim mildly, giving Blair the thumb's up.

"They found it?" whispered Blair, and Jim nodded.

Taggert continued at top speed. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. Anyway, Simon's still down there on the dock opening drums. Couple of 'em were empty, but most of 'em are half-full of junk. An APB was issued for Sherman's arrest, and I've got a warrant to search his house. I'm on my way now. Meet me there, Jim."

"Yeah, I'm on it," said Jim as briskly as his exhaustion would permit, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Be there in fifteen minutes."

"Right." Taggert broke the connection.

Blair forced himself upright. "What is it?"

"Taggert's got a warrant to search Sherman's house." Jim rose from the bed. "We'd better move."

Blair nodded and scrambled off the bed, then stopped. "Oh, shit. Emily. We can't just leave her here all alone."

"We'll have to take her with us," said Jim, running down the steps.

Blair clambered after him, his voice raised in concern. "Jim, we can't take a little girl to--"

"We can have one of the uniforms take her to the station and catch up with her later," cut in Jim quickly, tossing Blair his jacket. "She'll be okay. Let's just wrap her up in a blanket and get going."

Blair scowled in disapproval, but obviously saw no other option. He tapped at the door to his old room and opened the door. Jim snatched up his keys from the basket, listening impatiently. "Emily? Wake up, honey, we've got--" Blair paused. "Jim. Come here."

"Blair, we don't have time for--"

"Dammit, Jim, get in here!" Blair's voice rose angrily, but Jim heard his Guide's heartbeat shoot up, and knew that it was fear he was hearing.

Jim sprinted into the small bedroom in time to see Blair lifting the t-shirt he had loaned Emily the night before from the empty bed. "What … what the hell?"

"Check the bathroom," said Blair softly. "She left her clothes in there last night."

Jim whirled and pushed the half-open door to the bathroom open all the way, flipping on the light. There was no trace of either Emily or her clothes to be seen. "Not here, Chief. She must have gotten dressed and headed out while we were asleep."

"How?" asked Blair, his voice preternaturally quiet. He turned to look at Jim with grave eyes.

"What do you mean, how? She got up and walked out the door! Don't worry, we'll get an APB out on her--"

"How did she walk out the door?" Blair dropped the shirt and took Jim by the arm, leading him back out into the living room, then pointed to the front door.

Jim gazed in the direction of Blair's gesture uncomprehendingly for a moment, then realized what his friend was talking about. The door was still locked and chained from the inside. He stared at the door in flabbergasted silence for a moment, then walked grimly from window to window to balcony doors, making sure each one was locked and secure. They were.

Jim shook his head in disbelief as he paced, fighting the familiar sensation of nightmare-induced miasma that made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was simply impossible for anyone to have gotten out of the loft last night. No one could leave a room and then lock door and windows from the inside. Reason dictated that there must be a rational explanation. But try as Jim might, he couldn't think of one. He raised his gaze to Blair, who had stood watching him silently.

"How did she get out of here?" Jim asked hoarsely.

"How did she get into the truck last night?" countered Blair gravely.

"That's not an answer," snapped Jim, unnerved more by Blair's calm acceptance of the impossible event than the event itself.

"There isn't an answer, buddy," replied Blair quietly, turning to unlock the door. "Let's go meet Joel."

*

Jim parked about half a block from Sherman's residence, pulling up behind Taggert's car. Several black-and-whites were already lined up along the quiet street; a small knot of uniformed and plain clothes officers formed a knot around Joel Taggert. Jim spotted Rafe among them as he piled out of the truck and trotted over toward him, Blair hot on his heels.

"Rafe," murmured Jim quietly. "How's the Big H?"

"Mean and ugly as ever," whispered Rafe, smiling despite the dark circles under his eyes.

"Glad to hear it."

"You 'here' this time?"

"We're here," said Blair determinedly.

"Glad to hear it," said Rafe, his smile broadening to a grin. "One of us'll get the son of a bitch."

Blair looked startled. "He wouldn't come back to his own house, would he? That'd be pretty stupid--"

"Who knows? The guy's gone over the edge, there's no telling what he might do."

Blair looked at Jim worriedly. "Jim--"

"Ellison, Sandburg. I was about to give up on you," said Taggert softly, as most of the officers around him headed out to assume their positions around the house. He handed Jim a kevlar vest. "Join us at the front door, Jim. Sandburg--"

"Joel, don't even think about telling me to stay here," said Blair tautly. "Give me a damn vest."

Taggert eyed him hesitatingly.

"He's not here, Joel," said Rafe lightly. "Give him a vest."

Taggert grimaced and threw a vest to Blair. "If Simon asks, you stole the vest and entered the residence without my permission."

"Right. Sure. No problem," said Blair hastily, shrugging into the vest like an old pro.

"And you stay behind me," said Jim harshly, knowing Blair would follow him anyway and hating more than ever the fact that his friend's devotion constantly put the younger man in the line of fire.

"Got it, got it," said Blair gently. "Don't go all BPS on me now, tough guy." He gave Jim a cop-acceptable swat on the arm.

Jim snorted and turned away before he could succumb to the temptation of grabbing his friend and kissing him in front of the entire Cascade PD. "Just behave yourself, Sandburg. For once."

"Quiet down, you two." Taggert lifted his radio, listening intently.

Jim listened as the voices of the backup teams started coming through, confirming that each was in position. The house was completely surrounded; every exit was covered. If Sherman were in there, he wouldn't be getting away this time.

"Okay. We're going in. Stand by." Taggert shoved his radio into his pocket and looked at the three men in front of him. "Ready?"

"Let's do it," said Rafe with grim satisfaction in his face.

Jim nodded, aware that Blair was nodding too, white-faced and determined.

"Okay. Let's go." Taggert turned and led them up the street toward Sherman's house.

*

Simon surveyed the growing pile of empty oil drums and controlled substance on the dock with genuine satisfaction. This had been a morning's work any cop could be proud of, and Simon's only regret was that there was no way that Jim Ellison would get the credit he deserved. Simon watched as a couple of uniforms worked to open the next drum. Only half a dozen or so to go, and they already had enough to put Sherman, Corker and his men away for a long time. It could only get better. Simon and several of the officers moved eagerly to stand by the next drum as the top was pried away.

An overpoweringly intense and sickening odor poured from the open container. Simon gasped at the unexpected assault on his senses, and several of the officers standing around him gagged or turned away with their hands over their noses and mouths. Simon coughed, shocked and blinking, but the smell was all too familiar to a cop of his experience. "Shit," he muttered, forcing himself to look inside the drum. Somehow, his experience failed to prepare him for what he saw there. It took him a few moments to fully realize what it was and what it meant; but as he did so, visceral disgust gave way to undiluted horror and stunned grief.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, sweet Jesus."

*

"We have a warrant to search the premises," said Taggert firmly to the frightened-looking woman who opened the door.

The woman immediately stook back and watched with wide eyes as Taggert, Jim, Blair, Rafe and four uniformed officers walked briskly into the house, only to be met by a familiar figure in the hall.

"Kirk," said Taggert coldly. "Your client is wanted for distribution of heroin and the attempted murder of a police officer. Where is he?"

Jim watched in grim amusement as the once-cocky Kirk shifted from foot to foot like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "My … my client wishes to discuss--"

"Your client tried to kill my partner last night and there's nothing to discuss except whether or not you two want adjoining cells," snarled Rafe, leaning toward the smaller man threateningly.

Jim threw his hearing wide open, wincing, and did his best to isolate each element of the cacophany of sound that assaulted his ears. The voices, footsteps, breathing, scents and heartbeats of everyone in the house slowly emerged from an indistinguishable mass to assume their discrete identities, but not one of them belonged to Monty Sherman. Jim drew a relieved breath and shot a reassuring look at Blair, who relaxed visibly.

"Evans, Hynd. Upstairs," Taggert ordered crisply. "DeAngelo, DeRespiris, take the back. Look sharp." The men hustled away, drawing their weapons as they went.

"All right." Taggert turned to Kirk with a grim expression. "I'll ask again. Where is Sherman?"

"He's not here," stammered Kirk, now agitated and sweating profusely, "I got here five minutes before you did, and he was already gone. Taggert, he's crazy. He's really crazy! The stuff he was--"

"We're not interested in your assessment of his mental health, counselor," snapped Jim. "Is he armed?"

"He's always armed." Kirk' gaze darted desperately from face to face as if searching for an ally, but finding none.

Jim turned to the housekeeper, who still stood to one side of the hall, wringing her hands with a miserable expression. "When did he leave?"

The woman shook her head, tears brimming. "I heard him coming and going about four this morning, but I didn't think anything of it. He's always kept such odd hours. But when I got up this morning, his little girl was gone too. He must have taken her with him."

"Making a run for it," said Rafe grimly. "Damn."

"He's not making a run for it, you idiot. He's going to do something crazy," snarled Kirk. "He's completely lost it. Kept talking about that damn drumming. All he could say last night was 'I've figured it out, I can stop it.' He didn't make any travel plans. He didn't pack anything. He didn't withdraw any cash. All he has with him are his daughter and his gun, are you reading me?"

There was a brief, stunned silence. "Do you have some reason to believe that he would endanger his own child's life?" asked Taggert softly.

"That's priviledged information," said Kirk through gritted teeth.

"You son of a bitch," growled Rafe dangerously. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know!" shouted Kirk. "He didn't tell me."

Distracted by a movement within his field of peripheral vision, Jim turned to see Blair dart through the arch to his left into what appeared to be the living room. Swearing softly at his partner's chronic lack of short-term memory, Jim followed him.

"Sandburg!"

Blair didn't stop, but made a beeline across the large room to the mantle, where to Jim's astonishment, he snatched a picture in a small silver frame from the shelf and stared at it with an incredulous expression.

"Sandburg, what do you think you're--"

Blair turned and held up the picture in answer, and Jim came to a dead stop, staring. A red-haired blue-eyed little girl smiled back at him, and Jim took the picture in his hands, shaking his head in confusion. "Emily?"

"Yeah," said Blair softly. "Emily." He went back to the hall. "Excuse me," Jim heard him saying softly to someone below the furor of the shouting match. "Could you come in here for a moment? My partner and I need to talk to you."

Jim shook himself and looked up sharply to see Blair leading the housekeeper into the room. The woman was visibly shaking and obviously hadn't slept that night; the tears Jim had noticed before had spilled down her cheeks. "Have a seat, ma'am," he said quietly, reminding himself that she was probably an innocent bystander in all this.

"I didn't know what kind of man he was or I would never have set foot in this house," blurted the woman helplessly as she sank to the sofa. "If it weren't for the children--"

"I understand, Ms. …?"

"Bradford. Joan Bradford."

"Ms. Bradford. I'm Detective Ellison and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Can you tell me who this little girl is?" Jim showed her the picture as Blair perched on the arm of the sofa beside her.

Ms. Bradford stared at him for a moment. "Why, that's Cathy. Mr. Sherman's older daughter."

Jim and Blair exchanged startled glances. "The one who's missing?"

"That's right. She ran away about a week ago now. That's when things here started to get really awful. Mr. Sherman starting behavingly … so oddly. He started hearing drumming. Drumming, he says, there's drumming everywhere. And then he started seeing little Cathy in places where of course she wasn't, places she couldn't have been."

"Ms. Bradford, have you ever seen Mr. Sherman hurt Cathy physically?" Jim did his best to avoid sounding too harsh, but he couldn't entirely keep the edge from his voice.

Ms. Bradford bit her lip and nodded. "Yes. Sometimes. He has a terrible temper, and sometimes … well, he loses control. He's always terribly sorry afterward. He tries to make it up to her with toys, or new clothes. But there have been times when he's gone too far."

"Why didn't you stop him then?" demanded Jim, hard pressed to conceal his anger. "Why didn't her mother stop him?"

"She tried. But he … he hit her too. And I was afraid."

"Too afraid to call the police? All you had to do--"

"Jim," said Blair evenly, and Jim caught himself.

Damn. Jim turned away, struggling for both comprehension and control. Things never changed. Trying counts, and these people hadn't even tried.

"Are you certain that Jamie is with her father?" Blair's voice was gentle.

Jim turned back to him, steadied by his Guide's voice.

Ms. Bradford wiped her tears away. "Yes. He must have taken her. The poor little thing, she must be terrified. She's been through so much. First her sister ran away. Then her mother committed suicide over it. It's no wonder she's been so strange lately. She keeps telling me 'I saw Cathy' or 'I talked to Cathy.' I just don't know what to do for her. And now this. I just don't know what will happen now."

"Neither do we," said Blair quietly. "Is that Jamie there, with her sister?" He pointed to the mantle.

Joan sniffed and nodded, and Jim lifted another small frame from the mantle shelf. Jim smiled involuntarily at the snapshot of the two grinning redheads seated together on a park bench. Emily's arm was around Jamie's shoulders in a protective gesture that Jim recognized immediately.

Being a big sister was an important job.

"She says I should always take good care of Jamie. I should always protect her."

"But I wanted to help--"

"That's okay. 'Cause I'll bet she wants you to help too…."

Jim drew a sharp breath, looked up and quickly spoke the first words that jumped into his head. "Has Sherman ever hit Jamie?"

Blair stiffened visibly, eyes widening as if in comprehension, although what conclusions he could have drawn from Jim's question Jim couldn't guess. Joan hesitated, looking from Jim to Blair and back again. "He never did, until … until--"

"Until he didn't have his wife and Cathy to beat up anymore?" demanded Jim acidly.

Ms. Bradford buried her face in her hands.

"Jim," murmured Blair quietly.

Jim clenched his teeth and stalked to the other end of the room, still clutching the two photographs. Blair followed him closely, and Jim turned to face his partner, shaking with fury.

"The bad guy's out there, buddy," said Blair gently, gesturing toward the door.

"You're wrong," snarled Jim. "These kids have been surrounded by bad guys, and that includes the oh-so-concerned Ms. Bradford and that fine, upstanding citizen out there with his 'priviledged information.' And every other adult who saw those bruises and did nothing."

Ms. Bradford rose and moved quickly from the living room, head bowed. Jim watched her go with clenched teeth.

Blair stepped closer, leaning in to speak sentinel-soft. "We all make fear-based choices sometimes, man. And then we have to live with the consequences. Those two included. You've got to focus now, Jim. There's a little girl out there depending on us."

Jim felt his rage wither at his friend's words, and let his gaze fall to the two photos in his hands. Those two smiling faces looked up at him trustingly, and he nodded, chastened. "Yeah. Okay. Let's--" He was cut off by the strident trill of his cell phone, and hastily dumped the photos into Blair's hands to fish it out of his breast pocket. "Ellison."

"Jim. What's the status there?" Simon's voice was harsh and strained, and Jim instinctively tensed at the sound.

"The house is still being searched, sir, but Sherman's not here. The housekeeper says he left about three hours ago with his daughter. According to Kirk, he's armed and mentally unstable. The good counselor claims he doesn't know where they went."

"Damn! Damn. I knew it." Simon paused, and Jim waited with a growing knot in his something. Something was wrong on Simon's end. Very wrong. "Jim, it's imperative that when we find Sherman we move with extreme caution. Sherman will not hesitate to harm that child. Got it?"

"What's happened?"

Simon sighed and was silent for a moment.

Jim met Blair's questioning gaze, his hand tightening around the phone. "Simon?"

"We found Sherman's missing daughter."

Jim felt his stomach turn over as the vision of beautiful little Emily passed by his mind's eye, cute as a button in one of Blair's Rainier t-shirts and sleeping peacefully in his old bed as if she belonged there.

"She's dead. The bastard sealed her up in one of these damn drums."

"… the bad place."

Jim laid a hand on Blair's shoulder. It was an involuntary response; but whether it was to lend comfort or obtain support he could not have said.

"She was severely beaten, but there's also … evidence to suggest that she was still alive when she was put in there."

"It's dark and cold and wet and it moves all the time."

"God Almighty," said Jim thickly.

"And I can't get out."

"What is it?" whispered Blair, eyes wide and dark with concern.

"And I hit the wall over and over and call my mom but she doesn't hear me."

"Jesus Christ."

Simon spoke more firmly. "Jim, we have to find that lunatic now. There's no telling what he might do."

Jim drew a deep breath, pushing the image of Emily away. "Yes, sir. We're on it. I'll tell Taggert."

"Keep me informed." Simon broke the connection, and Jim placed the phone mechanically back in his pocket. He looked at Blair helplessly, aching, groping for words.

Blair met his gaze steadily, paling. "Emily," he said quietly, unexpectedly. "Simon found Emily." He hugged the photos to his chest tightly.

Jim shook his head, struggling for comprehension. Emily? Emily had been alive and well and in their home just last night. How could she be dead and sealed in drum that had been floating in the harbor for days? It defied reason. Hell, it beat the shit out of reason. Reason was in traction and on life support. Jim wondered vaguely why he wasn't feeling anything. He should be feeling something, even though he knew that Blair would be feeling enough for both of them. "Yeah. In--"

"I know," said Blair unsteadily, the dull horror in his eyes telling Jim that his friend completely understood what had happened. "In the bad place."

Jim wanted to hold Blair. Hell, he wanted Blair to hold him. But he couldn't. He settled for a casual caress of Blair's shoulder, and cursed himself for a fool and a coward. "Guess I was born too late to save her, too." Jim found himself unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Blair looked up at him with grave eyes and a purposeful expression that for some reason made Jim flush. "Maybe. But you're not too late to help her. We have to find Jamie, Jim. Fast."

Yes. Find Jamie. That was a concept Jim could wrap his confused mind around, something real and solid. Police work. Right. "Right. I'd better bring Taggert up to speed."

Blair nodded, walked over to the mantle and very carefully replaced the photographs. He leaned against the shelf with head bowed as Jim turned toward the front hall, but Jim was keenly aware of the salty scent of his partner's tears. Damn. Blair had really fallen for that little urchin. Jim found himself swallowing convulsively, refusing to allow the thought that he'd fallen for her, too, reach him. He found the confrontation in the front hall still in full swing.

"I had nothing to do with my client allegedly shooting anybody. Chambers calls me, says he wants a meeting with Monty. Do I know what about? No. My client says it's private business; he agrees to the meeting. He says he doesn't want me there. I'm surprised, but he pays me, so I do as he says. Did I know they were going to have a disagreement? Did I know the warehouse was under surveillance by Detective Brown? No. How could I? I'm an attorney, not the Psychic Friends Network. I followed my client's instructions. End of story." Kirk folded his arms over his chest and glared truculently, but Jim could feel the fear pouring off him with his sweat.

"You're lying," snapped Rafe. "Who were you trying to set up, Jack? Chambers or Sherman? Or both?"

Kirk smirked. "You've got an overactive imagination, Detective."

"Why the warehouse?" asked Jim softly, coming up to the group.

Kirk shot him a sharp look. "What?"

"He could have met Chambers anywhere. In a public park, at his house on the Sound. Why there?"

"Who knows? He has a morbid fascination for the place." Kirk' heart rate skipped up as he spoke the words, and he hastily rushed on. "You have no grounds on which to hold me. My--"

"Morbid?" Taggert turned to stare at the man.. "Why morbid, Jack?"

"You miserable little shit," said Jim in a low tone of loathing, certain of his conclusions, but not knowing how. He'd never despised the little weasel as much as he did at that moment.

Kirk visibly recoiled. "What?"

"Did you help him stuff her in that damn thing? Or is this just another example of 'priviledged information'?" Jim found it difficult to control the urge to get his hands around Kirk' throat.

"I was not referring to any alleged illegal activities which my client … that is to say…. I have nothing more to say without counsel present," stammered Kirk, backing away. "Charge me or release me."

Jim turned to Taggert. "Simon just called. They found the body of Sherman's older daughter sealed up in one of those drums."

Ms. Bradford, who was sitting on the stairs, gave a little moan and began to sob loudly.

"God Almighty," said Rafe in a stunned voice. "His daughter? That sick son of a--"

"Charge me or--"

"You're under arrest," said Taggert flatly, looking at Kirk as if he saw a rattlesnake.

Kirk' jaw dropped for a moment. "On … on what--"

"Obstruction of justice. Conspiracy. Accessory to murder. How's that, counselor? Rafe, get him out of here."

Rafe already had his handcuffs in his hand. "You have the right to remain silent," he said between gritted teeth, spinning a dazed-looking Jackson Kirk around to cuff his hands behind his back. He shoved him out the front door as the rest of the Miranda warning wafted back to the two men standing in the hall.

Taggert turned to face Jim with a grim expression. "I've already got an APB out for Sherman and his daughter. But it's a big city, Jim. Let's hope that little girl has a guardian angel."

*

Blair stared out the window of the truck, wondering dimly where all his grief was coming from. He'd only known her for a few hours. But something of a kindred spirit had shone in her eyes, and Blair knew he'd miss her, miss knowing that someone like her was alive in the world.

"Chief."

Blair blinked, glanced over at Jim's pale face and forced a smile. "Yeah. With you, buddy."

"Tell me you're okay." Jim's voice was as taut as his grip on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead.

"I will be."

"I'm sorry." Jim cleared his throat. "Damn."

Blair saw the guilt in the man's face and restrained a groan. "Don't hurt yourself like this, man. You couldn't have saved her. You didn't even know she existed until it was too late."

"I know. I know that. And I still feel like I screwed up."

Blair swore silently to himself. "You didn't. You didn't screw up thirty years ago and you haven't screwed up now."

"Blair--"

"We are going to find Jamie."

"How?!" Jim finally exploded, much to Blair's relief. That brittle, fragile restraint of Jim's was painful to watch. "How the hell are we going to find her? That sick bastard could have taken her anywhere."

"No. Not just anywhere. He had one thing on his mind. Remember what he said to Kirk?"

Jim scowled, obviously trying to recall.

"He said he'd figured it out. He knew how to stop the drumming."

"Christ, Blair, that could mean anything. The guy's over the edge."

"Then we have to start thinking like someone who's gone over the edge," said Blair evenly.

Jim actually smiled, albeit very faintly. "You make a good cop, Sandburg. Okay. I'm over the edge."

"And?"

"I'm thinking."

Blair subsided for a moment, drifting back to his thoughts of Emily. Emily in his favorite Rainier t-shirt, smelling of lavender and looking up at him as if she trusted him to make her entire world right, to scare all her nightmares away. But Emily's nightmares weren't dreams. And there was nothing he could do to make them go away.

Blair closed his eyes and willed his thoughts away from the bad place. He'd gone there over and over again in the last couple hours, and it accomplished nothing. Over and over again….

"Stop the drumming," said Jim suddenly.

Over and over again. Smells like lavender in here.

"He knows how he started the drumming, right? Right?"

"My dad doesn't hear me either."

"He doesn't know she's been found."

"I call for him too. I know he's really close but he doesn't answer."

"He thinks he can stop it by…. Blair?" 

"He goes away and leaves me there."

"Are you all right?"

"And we keep going back there over and over again. Over and over until I can wake up."

"Babe, can you hear me?"

"Over and over again," whispered Blair. "Emily?"

"Blair!"

Jim's panicked roar was accompanied by a clutching, frantic shake of Blair's shoulder, and Blair gasped into awareness and opened his eyes. He looked at Jim's fearful expression in confusion for a moment, then laid a hand atop Jim's. "The warehouse," he said softly. "The dock. He's going back to the warehouse."

Jim stared at him, his hand shaking under Blair's. "Yeah. I know." He withdrew his hand and made a sharp right turn to head for the harbor. "Blair."

Blair leaned back in his seat and leaned his head back, unaccountably exhausted. "Yeah?"

"I smell lavender," said Jim unsteadily.

"Yeah," said Blair softly. "I know."

*

The body bag was very small this time. Simon had seen smaller, but not often, thank God, because the smaller those bags were, the angrier he got. Simon watched with clenched fists as the little bag disappeared into the coroner's wagon.

He wanted Monty Sherman. He wanted him found, arrested, tried, convicted and locked up never to see the light of day again. His own daughter. Jesus.

"How old was she?"

Simon blinked and turned to see Rafe walking across the dock, closely followed by Henri. Henri was sporting a sling, and looked like something you'd find at the bottom of a dumpster, but his walk seemed steady enough. Simon scowled. "What do you think you're doing here, Brown?"

"I'm on duty for--" Henri checked his watch. "--another forty-two minutes, Captain."

"Great," growled Simon, pleased. "Another superhero. Just what the Cascade PD needs. Have you been discharged?"

Henri looked as innocent as Henri Brown was capable of looking. "Discharged, Captain? What's that?"

Simon sighed. "Great. Just great."

Rafe grinned. "I found him at the station bitching about the hospital food when I dropped Jack Kirk off to be booked. Thought I'd better bring him along and keep him out of trouble."

The three men were startled out of their conversation as the doors to the coroner's wagon were slammed shut, and they turned to watch as the coroner climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

"Eight," said Simon quietly. "She was eight years old."

There was a pause as the vehicle pulled away.

"I want that pig," said Henri in a low tone.

"Get in line," muttered Rafe.

"Taggert's heading back to the station to set up an operations center," said Simon quietly. "Finding Sherman is our number one priority right now. Have either of you heard from Ellison and Sandburg?"

Rafe shook his head. "Nope. They're not with Taggert?"

"No, Joel said they headed out about an hour ago. Chasing one of Ellison's hunches, probably."

"Well, Ellison's hunches have been known to pay off," said Rafe mildly, avoiding the hard stare Simon gave him. Henri looked pointedly out past the channel buoy.

Simon fell silent. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered exactly how much the cops who worked with Jim had guessed about Jim's uncanny ability to come up with those 'hunches'. These guys were crack detectives, after all. If Simon were a betting man, which he was, he'd put down a hefty amount on the possibility that these clowns had figured out about Jim's senses, and probably about Jim's private life as well. The odds were just too damn sweet.

"Forensics is still working in the warehouse and on the drums," Simon continued briskly, nodding to the team clustered around the oil drums stacked in neat rows on the dock. "They've lifted some good prints. Sherman's stash is already on its way to evidence lockup. Why don't you two--"

A squeal of tires from the far end of the dock cut Simon off. "What the hell?" Simon turned in time to see a late model black BMW ram through the barricade that separated the dead-end street from the dock, then make a wild, fishtailing left turn and roar down the dock toward them at top speed. As the car bore down on the rows of drums and the forensics team working on them, it became patently obvious that the driver had no intention of stopping until it was too late.

"Clear out! Off the dock!" shouted Simon, waving them urgently toward the open dockside door of the warehouse. The half-dozen men and women scattered, dropping samples, equipment and personal possessions in a mad scramble to get under cover.

Simon drew his weapon, and the three detectives fell back to take cover behind Simon's car as the BMW came to a screeching, spinning halt, ramming passenger-side first into the first row of drums.

"Sherman," snapped Rafe, yanking his gun from its holster.

"No shit." Henri fumbled awkwardly to draw his weapon. "I think I'll run along back to the hospital and un-discharge myself."

"Thought you didn't like the food, H."

"I love the food. Can't get enough of it. Just let me at it."

Simon peered over the hood of his car. He could see the forensics team sheltering to one side of the warehouse door, behind the few armed uniforms that remained on the scene. The driver's side door of the still-running BMW opened and Sherman appeared, holding an automatic weapon and a small, red-haired girl in a strangle hold. He was babbling something to himself, and Simon got the odd impression that he was unaware of their presence. What the hell was the bastard doing here?

"Sherman!" Simon leveled his weapon at the man, cursing silently as he realized that he couldn't possibly fire as long as the man was clutching that child so closely. "Drop your weapon and release the girl."

Sherman turned toward Simon, stared blankly for a moment, then nonchalantly lifted his weapon and sprayed several rounds in Simon's direction.

Simon, Rafe and Henri dove for the ground as the bullets danced over and around them, striking Simon's car like a summer hail storm. And then it was over. Puzzled by the silence, Simon raised his head cautiously to peer over the hood again. To his astonishment, Sherman had lowered his weapon and was scrabbling from drum to drum, peering inside and jabbering something to the little girl he held around the waist under his arm. The child was crying and shaking her head.

Simon strained to hear what the man was saying, but was distracted by yet another screech of protesting car tires. He braced himself, fully expecting to see some of Sherman's soldiers round the corner, but was both surprised and relieved to see a familiar blue pickup truck instead. The truck sped down the dock to come to a skidding stop a few yards from the BMW, and Jim and Blair piled out, Jim's weapon already drawn. Jim came to a halt a few feet from Chambers and stood there without cover or kevlar, staring down the barrel of his gun at the man.

"Sherman! Let the girl go."

*

Jim heard Blair making his way slowly around the truck to get closer to him. Close enough to shove him out of the way of any bullets that came his way, knowing Blair. He'd told him to stay in the truck, of course. Not that Jim had expected compliance; not when Blair knew just how little Jim was taking bullets into account at the moment. All Jim could see as he slowly approached the heavily armed lunatic not twenty feet in front of him was that small, sobbing child, writhing to free herself from her father's grasp.

"Put your weapon on the ground. Now!"

"Leave me alone!" howled Sherman, raising his voice enough to be heard up and down the dock. "I have to find her. She's here, I can hear her!" He hauled the little girl up to give her a view inside the drum he was inspecting. "Do you see her? Do you?"

"No, no," sobbed the child hysterically.

Jim heard Blair groan helplessly at the sight. He knew what it must be costing his friend to restrain the urge to step in, to reason with the man, to snatch that poor child to safety. Jim knew how much it was costing him. God, she looked so much like Emily. So much like Margie. This had to stop.

"Sherman, put Jamie down. Put her down now." It took all his years of military and police discipline to keep his voice steady.

Sherman looked up and studied Jim carefully, as if noticing him for the first time. He grimaced as if in pain, then swung around to face Jim, bringing both weapon and daughter up as he moved.

"No," gasped Blair, sprinting to Jim's side.

Jim swung his left arm out to catch Blair across the chest as Sherman lifted the muzzle of his weapon to his daughter's head. No. No, this wasn't going to happen again.

"I know where Cathy is," he heard himself saying.

Sherman paused for a moment, examining Jim and Blair with narrowed eyes.

Jim eased himself down into a squat, then took a deep breath and laid his gun on the ground. He heard Blair's sharp intake of breath, and the muttered curses and exclamations of astonishment from the cops watching from cover. He rose slowly, with outstretched, empty hands. "I know where she is, Monty," he said steadily. "I can take you to her."

"She's close," hissed Sherman. "I can hear her. She can hear her." He indicated Jamie with a jerk of his head.

"Yes, she's close. I'll take you to her right now if you'll let Jamie go."

Sherman looked at him in doubtful suspicion for a moment, then smiled grimly. "I don't think so. What guarantee do I have that you'll take me to her after I give you Jamie?"

Crazy but not stupid. "You have me," said Jim simply, trying not to react to the low groan in Blair's throat.

"Not good enough," snarled Sherman dangerously. His gaze wandered to Jim's left, and Jim stiffened. "I want him," he continued with a strange, malign smugness. "I'll trade you Jamie for your boyfriend, there."

Jim froze in panic. Oh, God. Why for once hadn't he left Blair behind where it was safe? Why hadn't he made him stay home today, or go to the station with Joel, or stay in the fucking truck like he was told? Jim struggled for a response, his gaze darting desperately between the sobbing Jamie and the increasingly impatient Sherman.

"Okay," came in a soft, uneven voice. "It's okay, Jim."

Blair stepped forward and Jim moved with him without thinking, half of him wanting to stop his friend, and the other half knowing that nothing else could be done if they were to have a snowball's chance in hell of getting Jamie away from that madman.

"Not both of you!" shouted Sherman, and Jim could see the man's finger tighten on the trigger.

Jim and Blair stopped where they were. Jim could hear Blair's heart pounding, heard him swallowing hard. The third time in a month Blair had laid his life on the line, courtesy of yours truly. How the hell could Jim justify letting this man run these risks?

"Our work is dangerous."

"Just him." Sherman jerked his head in Blair's direction. "Send him over here and I'll send you Jamie."

"And we never really know how long we have."

Jim heard Simon cut loose with as foul an expletive as he'd ever heard from the man. Rafe was on his cell phone, calling for backup. They wouldn't get here in time and even if they did, they wouldn't do Jamie Sherman a damn bit of good. "No," he said firmly. "We'll send them at the same time."

Sherman hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Without taking his eyes off of Jim, he set Jamie on the ground. The child sank to sit at her father's feet, clutching her knees to her chest and crying softly. Blair shot Jim a weak, reassuring smile and started his walk.

"So I don't want to waste whatever time we've got, whether it's forty days or forty years."

"Go on! Go to the cop!" snapped Sherman, prodding Jamie with his foot.

"It's okay, Jamie," said Jim unevenly. "Just come on over here, and everything will be all right."

Jamie looked over at Jim uncertainly, then to the slowly approaching Blair.

"Hey, Jamie," said Blair soothingly, his voice shaking slightly. "Go on over, honey, Jim wants to meet you."

Jamie got to her feet hesitatingly, looked fearfully at her father, then started walking towards Blair. Jim could plainly see the livid bruises and cuts on the child's face and arms.

"That's it," encouraged Blair gently. "You go on over there and give him a big hug for me."

"I don't want to spend even one day being careful not to touch you, or hug you, or kiss you, or say I love you."

Jamie actually smiled a little through her tears, obviously responding to Blair's reassuring presence as she approached him, and Jim frantically tried to remember whether he'd told Blair he loved him that day. Had he? A hug? A kiss? No. Not today. They'd been in public. No PDAs.

He should have. He should have told him, shown him, no matter where they'd been or who they'd been with. Because Jim couldn't control everything that happened. He'd tried, but it was no use. He was a Sentinel, and a cop; Blair had chosen to be his Guide, and his partner. That was who they were now, and they'd face danger of some kind every day of their lives because of it. That's just the way it was.

Blair had been right all along. They couldn't be anybody else but who they were. They had to face whatever got thrown at them together, protect each other the best they could, and not waste a damn minute of the time they had together.

"Because our time might end before we're ready, Jim."

But not today. Please God, not today, I haven't told him I love him today. Let me get him through this and take him home, let me have one more day with Blair….

Jim was never sure, afterward, at exactly what point he had zoned on the three people in front of him. He hadn't had a clue that the damned rookie had crept from the warehouse and was crouching behind the last row of drums. Not until the shot was fired. But he heard the shot, all right. It ripped through his consciousness, jolting him into awareness. The bullet ricocheted off a drum next to Sherman and impacted dully into the wood of the dock. And then all hell broke loose.

Jamie screamed and clapped her hands over her ears, hunkering down on the dock in terror. Blair, who was within inches of her, started violently as Sherman, howling in inarticulate rage, aimed his weapon at his daughter's back.

"No!" Blair sprinted past the child and shoved Sherman's arm up, causing the weapon to discharge harmlessly into the air, then tried desperately to wrestle it from the man's grip.

Jim leapt forward and scooped Jamie up into his arms, fully intending to get her to cover and go back for Blair, but Sherman managed to yank his arm down enough to get off a few more rounds. Jim dove for cover behind the drums, shielding Jamie with his body as the bullets pelted every surface around them. Jim became dimly aware of the pounding of footsteps, and realized that the rest of the cops had broken cover and were on the way. "Stay here," he breathed to the quivering child. "Stay right here, honey, and I'll come back for you."

Without waiting for an answer, Jim vaulted over the barrels and ran as fast as he could toward Sherman and Blair. And then came to a dead stop.

Sherman had Blair up against his car with the gun shoved up under his chin. "Fucking cops!" he screeched wildly at Jim. "You fucking cops!"

Blair looked past the gun to Jim, and Jim could have sworn he saw relief in his eyes. Relief. That Jim was okay. Jesus Christ.

"Don't," said Jim shakily. "Sherman, don't. I can still take you to Cathy."

"You're a liar." Sherman turned, and in one smooth, brutal movement, delivered a stunning right hook to Blair's jaw and shoved him through the open car door to lie motionless on the seat.

A cry of rage tore from Jim's throat and he lurched forward, but Sherman laid the business end of the gun against Blair's chest. Jim stopped, panting, furious, desperate as Sherman slid behind the wheel, shoving Blair's legs over with one hand while holding his gun with the other. "Sherman, you're not going anywhere. There are cops all over this dock."

"Watch me," snarled the man, throwing the car into gear and taking off, sending empty drums scattering as Jim lunged madly for the car door. He tripped over a drum and fell to the dock as the BMW plowed its way through whatever stood before it, sending the small contingent of cops that had sprinted the length of the dock in record time scattering.

"Damn! Damn!" shouted Simon, giving Jim a hand up. "Rafe, tell me the street exits are covered down there!"

"They're covered," panted Rafe, clutching his phone. "He won't go anywhere."

"He has Sandburg," grated Jim, his eyes locked on the car. "Simon, he has--"

"He won't have him long," growled Simon.

Jim believed his captain. It didn't matter. He couldn't stand and watch. He broke into a run, determined to reach that car or die trying. The BMW veered to the left several times, as if trying to turn onto one of the streets that abutted the dock, but each time it veered away again as it encountered the backup units. Each attempt, each maneuver seemed to Jim to become more and more wildly and desperately executed, until a patrol car finally burst through the dead end barricade and pulled across the BMW's path in an effort to cut off Sherman's escape. Jim gasped and paused in his running for a moment, wheezing for breath.

The BMW made a violent turn to the right, as if Sherman were attempting to steer around the obstacle, but having done so he didn't turn left again. The car went careening off the edge of the dock and hood-first into the black water of the harbor.

Where Jim found the breath to scream he didn't know. But he screamed loud enough for everyone on the dock to hear him. And he kept screaming as he ran, screaming Blair's name over and over again, his gaze locked on the slowly submerging car as he passed the patrol car and shoved the officers aside who tried to restrain him, only to be dragged back again. Blair was drowning. Blair was drowning again, and Jim hadn't told him he loved him today. Blair was all the love Jim had ever really known and he was drowning again. He was sinking, sinking deep into the dark, like the burial at sea Jim had seen once: the body slipping down the plank and into the dark water, the chaplain talking about committing the body to the deep. But this was different. This body was Blair, and Blair was love. Love was being committed to the deep.

Howling, Jim shoved off the restraining hands and jumped into the water.

*

"No! Help me, help me, help me, it won't open, it won't open--"

Blair opened his eyes groggily, groaning at the pain in his head, and realized slowly that somehow he had gotten inside a car. A strange, muted light lit the interior, but it was getting steadily darker, and someone was pounding and yelling frantically nearby. His feet were cold, and the cold was rising slowly up his legs. He wanted to do something about that, but he felt dizzy and sick, so he decided not to. He did wish that guy would shut up.

It sure smelled nice in here, though. Like lavender.

"I'll be your big sister if you want."

"Being a big sister is an important job," mumbled Blair, wondering why his hands felt so warm all of a sudden. He felt a deluge of icy water soak him and rise quickly over his head, but before he could do anything else, someone yanked determinedly on his hands and pulled him out -- through a small space that was a very tight squeeze -- and up.

 *

Jim clawed his way down through the darkening water, his eyes locked on the bumper of the BMW, still gleaming in the muted sunlight. He could make it. He had to make it. But the damn car was sinking so fast. Jim had no idea how deep the water was here. Twenty feet? Thirty? Forty? It didn't matter. He was going to get Blair out of that car. How long had Blair been underwater? How long had he been without air? Jim had no concept of time. It didn't matter. He was going to get Blair out of that car.

He'd gotten Blair drowned before, of course. Old hat, now. Not that Blair saw it that way. Blair never saw things his way. Well, hardly ever. Blair had said that it had been as much his fault as Jim's. He joked about it now. Called it the Dip. Jim didn't know whether Blair called it that for Jim's sake, or his own. Maybe both. He was slowly catching up to the car, but it seemed to be taking him forever. He had to get to that car. That goddamn bastard car was taking everything that made life worth living to the bottom of the harbor. Blair. His Blair. His Blair, in that car just a few yards ahead of him, drowning. The pressure in Jim's ears was getting bad. He didn't care. He was going to get Blair out of there. Or drown with him.

A sudden movement near the car caught his eye, and he swam even more desperately. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was seeing, but when he did it was all he could do to remember not to open his mouth and shout.

Blair was swimming towards him.

Jim covered the distance between them in what seemed like a mere eternity, then grabbed hold of Blair and hauled him toward the light as fast as he could go. They broke the surface together, gasping for air and coughing. Jim clutched Blair to him, wheezing and unable to speak. He heard shouting and people clapping from above, and looked up blearily to see the dock crowded with uniforms. Simon was gesturing to a wooden ladder, while Rafe and Henri were giving each other high-fives.

"Oh, God," gasped Blair.

"It's okay, babe, it's okay," breathed Jim, holding him close. "I've got you. It's all over."

"Jim, he's still in there! He's still in the car!"

Jim stared at Blair blankly, then realized he was talking about Sherman. "Good," he snarled, unable to stop himself.

Blair stared at him with a horrified expression. "He's drowning!" Blair wrenched himself out of Jim's grasp and dove below the dark water again.

Jim almost screamed as his friend slipped from his hands, but drew a deep breath instead and dove after him. Damn, the kid was a fast swimmer. He had a quite a few yards on Jim already, but Jim quickly made up the distance. He knew the moment he scanned the deeper water that it was much too late for Sherman. The car was far too deep for them to be able to reach it and make it back to the surface. He could see what Blair couldn't. And he was glad that Blair couldn't. The BMW was slowly sinking into the deep shadows, but Jim could plainly see the rear of the car … and the face pressed up against the rear window, mouth sucking in the last few lungfuls of airpocket, fists drumming frantically against the glass. The car slipped gently into the blackness and mercifully out of Jim's view.

Shaken, Jim realized that Blair's decision to try to save the son of a bitch had been the right one. He would have probably have tried too, if he'd had half a minute to think about it. Blair didn't need those thirty seconds. That was one reason among a thousand that Jim loved him.

Having come to this conclusion, Jim promptly grabbed hold of the object of his devotion with an iron grip and dragged him, stuggling every inch of the way, to the surface. Blair continued to struggle in Jim's embrace as they surfaced, and Jim had to shout to make him listen.

"Chief. Babe, listen! It was too late. He was too deep. He's gone."

Blair went quiet and stared at him as he tread water in Jim's arms. "I couldn't let him drown," he said finally, barely audible. "I couldn't let anyone drown."

"I know," murmured Jim in sudden remorseful understanding, reveling in the feel of a living, breathing Blair in his arms. He glanced up at the people on the dock, surveying the variations on the theme of respect he saw in their expressions. "You did right, Chief. Come on, let's get back on dry land, huh?"

*

The divers brought Sherman up half an hour later, but Jim, Blair and Jamie were sitting in Jim's truck on the other side of the dock when they surfaced with him. Hearing the paramedics working on him as they bundled him into the ambulance was as much of a reminder as Jim wanted or needed of how close he had come to losing Blair. Sherman's heart still wasn't beating when the ambulance pulled away, and Jim couldn't help thinking that it would be best for all concerned that it not start. He didn't like thinking it. But he thought it all the same.

Especially when he looked at Jamie. The little girl seemed to be in shock, but Blair took her onto his lap and held her, humming some silly kid's song until she gradually relaxed and fell asleep. She was still sleeping when Jean Franks from Family Services showed up to take her to see the doctor. Jean said that Ms. Bradford had already provided her with the name and phone number of Mrs. Sherman's sister in California. She was hoping that arrangements could be made for Jamie to stay with her. Jim carried the little girl to Jean's car and covered her with the blanket Simon had given him. "Sweet dreams, honey," he murmured, closing the car door as softly as he could.

"You're a softie, Ellison," chuckled Jean as she slid behind the wheel. "I always knew it."

Jim snorted and watched her drive away, wondering why the observation didn't annoy him. Then he went back to Blair, who was standing on the edge of the dock, and draped an arm around his shoulders.

Blair looked at him in surprise, glanced down the dock as if to check on who could see them, then looked out over the water again. Jim could feel him trying to keep the appropriate distance between them, despite the embrace.

"Okay?" asked Jim softly, more to hear Blair's voice than anything else.

"Yeah," said Blair thoughtfully. "I think so."

"Warming up?" murmured Jim, bending down toward him, drawing in his scent.

"A little." Blair paused for a moment, then looked up at Jim gravely. "You did it, Jim. You saved her."

"We saved her, partner," countered Jim softly. "I couldn't have done it without you." He turned Blair to face him and wrapped his arms around him firmly, bending so that his face was inches from Blair's. Blair looked up at him with a startled expression.

"I thought I'd lost you today. You scared the hell out of me," said Jim a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "You've been doing that a lot lately." Jim heard footsteps approaching from behind him and ignored them.

"Scared. Yeah, me too," mumbled Blair, his eyes drifting in the direction of the footsteps. "Ah, Jim--"

"You've got to work on that, Chief. Because I can't make it without you." Jim drew a breath a forged ahead doggedly. "You save me. Every day. From myself, from the whole fucking world. You keep me going. You're--" Jim groped for more words. "--my--" He finally gave up with an impatient sigh of frustration. "--everything." His voice grew strained and he cleared his throat. His face was hot and he felt like a fool. But Blair's reaction made it all worthwhile.

Blair's expression softened in wonder; his mouth curved upward in a joyful smile; his blue eyes widened and filled. "Oh. Oh, man. Jim."

Jim grinned broadly at the sight; rendering Blair speechless was a rare treat. Well, he might as well do the thing thoroughly, since he'd come this far. "I love you." Jim drew Blair closer yet, angling his mouth toward Blair's.

Blair cleared his throat, and looked pointedly over Jim's shoulder. "Ah … Jim … ah … company, man. Com--"

Jim plastered his mouth over Blair's, not giving a damn who saw or who thought what, but determined to savor the sweetness of Blair's taste, his scent, the sound of his steadily pounding heart, the feel of the warm, strong body in his arms. Right now. This minute.

Blair froze for a second, then dropped the blanket and threw both arms around Jim's neck enthusiastically, kissing him back with the unique, joyful abandon that was Blair's alone. Jim let one hand slide down to caress the small of Blair's back defiantly. Let them look. Let them all see that Jim Ellison was the luckiest son of a bitch in Cascade.

Jim broke the kiss and stroked Blair's cheek tenderly before he turned to face their audience with his fiercest scowl. He was ready. Ready for shock, for anger, for disgust, for whatever whoever it was could throw at him. But Henri and Rafe simply grinned back at them like two idiots, as Simon regarded them with the resigned expression of the long suffering.

Blair cleared his throat nervously, his face scarlet. "Ah … hi, guys."

Simon eyed him sourly. "Sandburg. Ellison."

"Captain?" replied Jim stiffly, his arm still defiantly around Blair's shoulders.

"True love, one; reason, zip," growled Simon finally, with considerable irritation. "I should have known. Go home. A man can only take so much true love." He turned and walked away. "Be in on time tomorrow, gentlemen. I'll be expecting reports on my desk."

Jim watched him go, nonplussed, then turned to observe the other two detectives with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, don't mind us," said Rafe innocently. "We're not here."

Henri broke into a guffaw that sounded all over the dock, and Rafe doubled over in laughter. Blair jerked his thumb at the two and rolled his eyes, a smile lurking at the corners of his expressive mouth. If he was surprised by their friends' reaction, he didn't show it.

Jim, on the other hand, was genuinely flabbergasted. They weren't shocked. They weren't disgusted. They didn't even seem surprised, for crying out loud. These two clowns were acting for all the world as if Jim had just scored with a supermodel or something. "Is that all you've got to say?"

"Hell no," gasped Henri, wiping away tears of mirth. "I say, what the hell took you two so long, Ellison?"

*

Such a small coffin. Simon watched as flowers gently showered its lid, then scanned the group surrounding the grave. There were a lot of cops here. Almost everyone who had been present at the discovery of Cathy Sherman's body had made it here today. Cathy's aunt had arrived from California with her husband to assume custody of little Jamie; she was here, too. Jamie was playing on the other side of the cemetery with her older cousins. Too young to understand. A blessing. The adults here understood all too well what had happened to this child.

Simon watched as a red-eyed Blair struggled to keep a brave face and failed miserably; a tear slipped down his cheek. He brushed it away hastily. Jim stood close beside his friend, pale, jaw set against emotional display. The stony quality of his expression belied his feelings; Simon watched as Jim's hand slipped around Blair's and squeezed it gently. Those two had been profoundly affected by this child's death in a way that continued to puzzle Simon. As far as he knew, they'd never met her. Jim had barely known of her existence before her death, and Simon doubted that Blair had known about her at all. And yet here they were, grieving for her as if they'd known her all their lives.

There had been no such grief expressed at her father's funeral, an expensive and sparsely attended affair. Montgomery Sherman had never regained consciousness, and had been declared dead at the hospital forty minutes after having arrived. Simon couldn't help but think that the hand of God or Fate or Karma or whatever word someone would care to apply to the concept of divine justice had been at work there. He approved. No one who had seen the contents of that drum could do much else.

Simon's gaze drifted back to Blair's hand clasped in Jim's. Well, at least they were free of the threat of blackmail. Word travels fast in a police department, and in a matter of days Jim and Blair's relationship had become common knowledge. Evidently some of the uniforms at the other end of the dock had caught sight of that rather passionate and extremely public liplock of theirs. It had only been a matter of time in any case. They couldn't have concealed their relationship forever, not working with cops.

Simon had caught wind of a few members of the redneck contingent sounding off about it, but the reaction of the vast majority had been a shrug of the shoulders. Ellison was a good cop, and what he did off-duty was his business. And Sandburg … well, Sandburg was a good kid. He'd been there for a lot of cops, inside Major Crimes and out of it, and if any of the rednecks tried to mess with him they were likely to get a fellow officer's boot up their ass. Simon knew that this didn't mean that there wouldn't be ugliness over this. The rednecks were few, but vocal, and as mean-spirited as they came. Some ugliness was an inevitability. But if anyone could handle it, it was Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. Those two were solid together, strong. They could make it work.

Simon sighed very softly as the sorry realization finally sunk in. Simon Banks believed in the power of true love after all.

*

Blair tossed a flower onto the small casket, forcing himself to remember that what was being committed to the earth today was not Emily. Emily was far, far away from those sad little remains in that box. That joyful spirit could be wherever she wanted to be now.

Blair wiped his face quickly, catching a curious look from Emily's aunt. She must wonder why on earth a total stranger was crying for her niece. But Emily had never been a stranger. She was…. Blair smiled faintly. His big sister. And his guardian angel. Blair knew he'd never smell lavender again without thinking of her. And he was glad, and grateful. Grateful for his life. Grateful that he'd known such a loving heart, however briefly. Grateful that he and Jim had been able to help her. He felt Jim's hand curl around his and squeezed back gently.

And grateful that she had been able to help Jim, too.

*

"It was a lovely service, Father. Thank you."

Jim glanced over his shoulder at the couple talking to the priest. Martha and Larry Karlin. He was a history professor at the local community college; she was a published novelist who worked at home. They'd been married for nine years and had two kids, ages six and eight. They lived in a small town not far from San Francisco. Happy marriage, good kids. Nice, big house in a good neighborhood. A great place for a little girl to grow up in.

Jim didn't regret checking out the Karlins. Yeah, it had been a little out of line. But it had been important to find out what kind of people would be raising Jamie. He liked what he'd found out, and what he'd seen here today. Jamie would be okay.

Jim turned to his partner, who was still blinking back tears. This day had been hard on Blair. He put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and Blair looked up at him with a weak smile. "Yeah. Okay," he said in answer to the unspoken question.

"Mr. Ellison? Mr. Sandburg?"

Jim turned back again, surprised to see Martha Karlin approaching with little Jamie and her other two children gamboling beside her. "Yes, I'm Jim Ellison."

Martha extended her hand, and Jim shook it wonderingly. "Captain Banks pointed you and Mr. Sandburg out to me. I just wanted to thank you both … thank you so much for saving our little girl."

Jim relinquished the woman's hand, speechless for a moment as she shook hands with Blair. "You're … you're welcome," he stammered.

"We were glad to be able to help," said Blair softly, his gaze on Jamie. "She looks like she's doing fine."

Jamie grinned up at him impishly. "Hi, Blair."

"Mr. Sandburg, sweetheart," corrected Martha gently.

"That's all right," murmured Blair, his eyes misting over again. "She can call me Blair if she wants."

Martha smiled, then looked down at Jamie in surprise. "Now how did you know Mr. Sandburg's first name, Jamie?"

Blair smiled, and Jim gazed at the child in renewed wonder.

"The present, Aunt Martha," Jamie in a stage whisper, evidently categorizing the question as rhetorical. "Remember?"

Martha laughed softly and opened her purse, then handed a small package wrapped in tissue paper to Jamie. "There you are."

"For Jim and Blair," announced the five-year-old firmly, as if to leave no doubt about the matter. She handed the package to Jim.

Jim took it uncertainly, looking from Blair to Martha to Jamie again. "Should I … should I open it now?"

"Yes!" Jamie looked up at him impatiently.

"Okay." It took Jim a few seconds to unwrap the little parcel, but when the tissue paper finally fell away he found the photograph of Emily and Jamie from Sherman's mantle in his hands. He stared at it for a heartbeat, hot tears stinging his eyes for the first time that day, then went down on one knee and hugged Jamie tightly. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "Thanks, Jamie."

"It's a great present," said Blair unevenly. "We'll put it in a special place so we'll see it every day. Won't we, Jim?"

Jim nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice.

"It's to remind you of me," explained Jamie seriously. "So you won't forget."

"Oh, honey," said Jim, laughing shakily through his tears. "Don't you worry about that. We will never, ever forget you."

*

"You found her."

Jim looked up to see Blair making his way up the row of graves toward him and nodded. "I was just tidying up a little bit. No family left in Cascade, so I guess things have been let go."

Blair nodded, kneeling beside him. "We'll have to come back with some tools and some flowers."

"Daisies," said Jim quietly, brushing some moss from the stone. "She loved daisies. Was always walking around with a bunch of them in her hand." He brushed the leaves and twigs away from the small stone as best he could. "Margaret Woodson. Born March 23, 1961; Died July 7, 1969." He paused, remembering both the beauty and the horror of Margie's life. "God, Chief. There was so much more to her story than that."

"This isn't the place for people's stories, buddy," said Blair very gently. "They don't write them here." He laid his hand on the stone for a second. "They write them here." Blair rested his hand on Jim's chest.

Jim nodded in silent agreement as he took Blair's hand in his. "Do you think … she's okay now?" he whispered, finally.

"I know she is. I know they both are." Blair held on to Jim's hand as if for dear life, his sapphire eyes locked with Jim's. "So do you."

Jim caught his breath as a gentle breeze caught them both, and the scent of lavender, just a hint, caressed Jim's senses gently. Somewhere, a very long way off, he heard the mischievous laughter of two children. Blair smiled, tears in his eyes, and Jim realized in contented wonder that Blair had heard it, too. Jim smiled back.

"Let's go home."

End

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