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MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS by Dreamweaver Rating: PG, mild profanity
Characters:
Jim, Blair, Major Crimes Personnel
Plot
Blurb:
Jim
returns from an out-of-town trip to find Blair’s been injured in the
line of duty. Standard h/c
fic. My everlasting thanks to Nancy H. who painstakingly beta-read this and caught NUMEROUS typos and glitches! Blessings on you, Nancy! ***** Police detective Jim Ellison stared pensively through the
scratched plastic window of the jetliner, watching his home city of Flying to a small town in Was it because he’d gone alone?
Perhaps...Ellison was so used to having his roommate, best friend
and detective partner Blair Sandburg with him, it almost felt like he
was missing a body part when Blair wasn’t at his side.
Maybe that’s what happens
when a Sentinel travels too far away from his Guide, he mused,
shutting his eyes against the afternoon sunlight streaming through the
window. Not that he’d ever
mention this philosophical notion to Sandburg, of course!
It would satisfy him way too much.
Blair dearly loved it when Jim came up with these
Sentinel-related things which he,
of course, had been touting for years, but which Jim always refuted –
until they became so obvious that he couldn’t argue any longer.
He couldn’t deny that he’d missed Blair, even just for the 48
hours, but there had been no way Captain Banks – head of the Major
Crimes Division of the Cascade Police, and Jim and Blair’s boss –
had been willing to allow the absence of both halves of the
Ellison-Sandburg team without a very good reason.
And since Blair hadn’t known the funeral’s guest of honor,
Jim wasn’t in any great need of ‘Guide-ance,’ and they were
swamped with work in the department, Banks had been obdurate in his
refusal to grant Sandburg time off to accompany Jim to He’d ended up flying to Not knowing whether or not his partner would be able to pick him
up, Jim had taken the truck to the airport and left it in long-term
parking. That way no matter
if the plane was late, if he caught an earlier flight, if Sandburg was
tied up with work, whatever; he could just get in it and drive it home.
He rather resented the parking fees, but it was less costly than
a taxi – and anyway, he despised taxis.
He much preferred to drive his own vehicle. The jetliner touched the tarmac precisely on schedule, and Jim
stood to retrieve his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment,
thankful that he didn’t have to get any checked bags.
He edged down the crowded aisle to the exit, giving a perfunctory
smile to the flight attendant who wished him a pleasant evening “and
thank you for flying with us!” Thankfully quickening his pace once he reached the Jetway™, Jim
strode down the long corridor, heading for the exit and a shuttle to
take him to where he’d parked. But
just as he neared the security checkpoints, he was surprised to hear a
familiar voice hail him. “Ellison! Jim!
Over here, man!” Jim whipped around; the voice was familiar, all right, but it was
not the hoped-for familiarity of Blair Sandburg’s voice.
Instead, he saw another face from Major Crimes – Detective
Henri Brown was gesturing to him from just the other side of the metal
detectors – and he felt as if his heart had suddenly plunged to the
bottom of his stomach. There
was absolutely no reason Brown would be here, unless... “H? What’s
happened? Has something
happened to Sandburg?” Jim
reached Brown in three strides, dropped his bag and clutched his
colleague’s arm tightly. “Now take it easy—” “You wouldn’t be here otherwise!” Ellison snapped.
“What’s happened?” Brown lowered his eyes momentarily, avoiding the other’s
penetrating gaze, then looked up. “He’s
been hurt, Jim,” he said gently. “How? When?
He was fine this morning; I talked to him on the phone!
Why didn’t someone let me know—?”
Ellison stormed. “It just happened a couple hours ago, babe; you were already in
flight.” “How bad, H?” The
Sentinel braced himself for the worst.
“And what?” “I’m not real sure,” Brown admitted.
“I wasn’t there when it happened, but—” “When WHAT happened?” “Come on, let’s walk as we talk.”
Henri pivoted around and started towards the exits.
“You don’t have to go to Baggage Claim, do you?” “No.” Ellison
shook his head and followed the other detective.
“TALK, H,” he demanded. “Okay, okay – but understand this: I wasn’t there.
I don’t have all the details.
I’m just the messenger, okay?
You don’t shoot the messenger, remember?.” “Talk.” Jim’s
jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were starting to ache. “About The Sentinel felt his heartbeat speed up in apprehension.
A hostage situation? He
could think of two different scenarios that might involve his partner
and Guide in a hostage situation...and he didn’t like either one of
them! “That’s when Major Crimes got called in,” Henri went on.
“Simon was asked for – one guess – our newest detective,
who just happens to be about the best hostage negotiator around.” “Blair,” Ellison said flatly.
He had been right: he didn’t like this situation at all, but it
had some positive aspects.
At least Blair hadn’t been one of the hostages. “You got it,” the other detective sighed.
“But Jim – he didn’t go alone, don’t think that!
Simon sent Rafe and Connor along with him.” Rafe
and Connor? The Kangaroo and
the Dandy? What kind of
backup is that?
Jim sighed; he was being unfair, and he knew it.
Rafe and Megan were both excellent police officers, and Blair
would have been as safe with them as with anyone else.
Anyone else except me! “You need a ride home?” Brown asked now, interrupting
himself. “No, I’ve got the truck in long-term parking.” “I’ll drop you in the lot, then,” H offered.
“I’m right outside.” Ellison noted with bleak amusement that Brown had parked in a
loading zone and left his ‘bubblegum’ lights flashing.
No one was likely to tow an official car on police business, or
bother the cop. Indeed,
people were giving both grim-faced detectives wary looks and a wide
berth. He tossed his bag
into the back, and got into the passenger seat while H slid behind the
wheel and started the engine. Once
he’d moved into the flow of cars leaving the terminal, heading for the
far-flung parking lots, Brown resumed his story. “At first, I guess it went down okay – the whole place was
surrounded by SWAT teams, just waiting...but Hairboy just went about
talking the guys in the bank down. So
they contacted ‘em, with a bullhorn.
And they said okay, Sandburg could come in and chat.” Jim ground his teeth again. Damnit,
why did his partner have to be so good at this?
“So – what went wrong?” he made himself ask. Brown sighed. “He
started up those front steps. Rafe
and Connor were a little ways behind him; he’d negotiated that they
could accompany him up the steps but not inside.
One of the perps was standing in the doorway at the top, holding
a gun on them; there was another guy inside – armed – with the bank
people and customers. The
SWAT guys were just waiting for an excuse to shoot, if you ask me.
And then....” He
broke off, shaking his head. “H!” Jim yelled
in frustration, “TELL ME!” “There was a car backfire down the block,” Brown said
miserably. “It startled
everybody – and the guy at the top of the stairs spooked, and fired
his gun. At Sandburg.” Jim made a dreadful, agonized sound.
“He was shot?” he whispered.
He dug his fingernails into his palms in an effort to stay
focused. This was no time to
zone, tempting though it might be, even to get away from the horrible
thought that his partner had taken a bullet at close range. “No! Well, yeah,
but Jim, it was just a graze! Really,
Simon told me!” Brown hastened to reassure him.
“It just nicked the edge of his shoulder – but...ah, damn,
babe, when he was hit, Hairboy jerked back, naturally, and went
off-balance. He was about
two-thirds of the way up the stairs, and—” “And he fell.” Ellison
could see it in his mind’s eye, see Blair clutching at his bleeding
shoulder, tumbling helplessly down those goddamn marble steps, Rafe and
Connor futilely trying to break his fall.
Saw him crumpled at the bottom, on the unforgiving cement.... “Uh-huh. Damn, why
am I always the one that has to deliver the bad news?” Henri mumbled.
“Jim, he was wearing Kevlar,” he added, striving to comfort
his colleague. “It would
have protected his ribs and midsection and his back.” They’d reached the long-term parking lots, and Ellison
abstractedly pulled out the slip of paper where he’d written down the
location of his truck. “E-14,”
he muttered, and Brown turned in the appropriate direction.
“How bad is he hurt, H?” “Not sure,” the other detective said softly.
“A SWAT sharpshooter took out the perp, and they rushed the
building – guess everything turned out okay; I haven’t heard the
details. There were
emergency crews there already, of course – they got Sandburg headed
for the hospital almost immediately. Rafe called me outta the courtroom
and I went over to the hospital...Rafe and Connor had to stay at the
crime scene...Simon was already there at the hospital, and he sent me to
pick you up.” He stopped
his car next to Jim’s blue-and-white pickup.
“Babe, are you okay to drive?
I can take you over to the hospital,” he offered. “I’m fine,” Jim sighed.
“I’m fine to drive.” “Well, you’ll get a po-lice
escort, at any rate,” Brown grinned a little, and flipped on his
flashers. He gave a nudge to
the siren, which obligingly yipped.
“Turn yours on too, Jim; we’ll cut through traffic like
nobody’s business!” Ellison retrieved his bag from the back seat of Brown’s car and
heaved it into the truck, then climbed in and started the engine.
Following Brown’s example, he activated his flashing
warning lights. After a
hasty stop to pay Jim’s parking fee to the startled attendant, the two
detectives accelerated their vehicles out of the parking lot and into
traffic, sirens wailing a dismal warning. ***** When they reached the parking lot of “I’ve got to go check in at work,” he half-apologized,
“there’ll probably be a message for me about when I need to be back
in court. I’m keepin’ my
fingers crossed for Hairboy.” “Thanks.” Ellison
nodded curtly. He didn’t
resent Brown, wasn’t mad at him – but right now he couldn’t
marshal his feelings sufficiently to be more than decently civil.
His mind was focused on Blair. “Later, Jim.” Henri
eased his car away, and Ellison strode across the asphalt towards the
emergency entrance. He
walked in, trying to keep everything under strict control.
Unconsciously, he slid into his most ‘military’ mode, with
all emotions tightly clamped down. Whatever
had happened to his partner, Jim Ellison was not going to crack under
the strain, no way. He was only a few paces inside the ER waiting room when he sensed
Simon Banks’ presence. Jim’s
eyes locked on his captain...and he abruptly relaxed.
Being a trained detective as well as a Sentinel, Jim knew how to
read body language, and he knew Simon’s better than anyone else’s,
save Blair. Simon was
concerned...he was worried, a little, anyway – but he was not afraid. And if he
wasn’t afraid, then that meant.... “Simon.” Jim
strode purposefully across the linoleum flooring.
Banks looked up from the magazine he was absently leafing
through. “Jim!” The big
captain got to his feet, a relieved smile on his face.
“Glad you made it.” “Brown made sure of that.”
Ellison searched his boss’s countenance.
“How’s Sandburg?” Simon shook his head and sat down again.
“I haven’t heard much yet,” he admitted.
“Doctor came out once and said they were going to do x-rays and
a CT scan, because of the head injury—” “Head injury? What
head injury?” Jim
exclaimed, looming over the other man.
Suddenly he was all taut nerves again.
Banks sighed. “I’m
sorry, I thought Brown would have told you.” “He said he didn’t know about Blair’s injuries.” “Well, when he fell, he bumped his head pretty hard on the
steps – more than once, evidently.
He hadn’t regained consciousness by the time he got here,”
Simon confessed reluctantly. He
knew Jim wasn’t going to like news like this. “Oh Jesus, Simon....” Ellison
sank into another chair and dropped his face into his hands.
Banks reached to put a hand on his shoulder, trying for
encouragement. After a
moment Jim raised his head again. “Who’s
his doctor, do you know?” He
felt a grim, ironic amusement. Just
how pathetic was it when you knew all the doctors in the emergency room
by name, anyway? “Penhallow,” Simon
grunted. Penhallow. Okay, he
was a good guy. Tall and
thin and bald, with wire-rimmed glasses and an aquiline nose, in Jim’s
estimation he looked like he ought to be teaching Higher Biology in a
college somewhere, rather than commanding a hospital emergency room.
Appearances notwithstanding, Penhallow was a good doctor, and
he’d treated both Jim and Blair before.
He knew about Jim’s sensitivities to drugs and medications; he
knew they were partners and roommates, and he knew that if you wanted
Ellison or Sandburg to cooperate, you kept them together as much as
possible – yeah, of any of the ER doctors Jim might choose, Penhallow
ranked right up near the top. “That’s good,” he said aloud.
“He’ll take good care of him.”
He paused a moment. “How
did the bank robbery thing work out?” “Both perps killed,” Simon said brusquely, “couple of bank
employees roughed up a little, but no real damage.
Sandburg’s injuries were the only ones the police took.” “That’s good,” Jim said dully, wishing he could sound more
enthused about it. He felt
contrary and spiteful; he caught himself almost wishing resentfully that
some others on the police force had been hurt too; he didn’t want
Sandburg to be the only casualty....Footsteps made him look up, and he
started to his feet when he saw Dr. Penhallow approaching. “Detective Ellison – Captain Banks,” the physician
acknowledged, and shook Jim’s hand.
“I thought you’d like to know how things stand with Detective
Sandburg.” He gestured
towards the chairs. “Please,
sit down again.” He took
his own invitation, and waited until Simon and Jim had re-seated
themselves before going on with the conversation.
“The vest he was wearing saved him from broken ribs, which in
turn probably saved him from punctured lungs,” he began.
“But of course, it didn’t protect the rest of his body, and
he took quite a tumble. He
has a broken left wrist, fairly severe bruising on his arms and legs,
and a couple of nasty bumps on his head. Some
facial bruising, nothing broken.
X-rays and CT scan showed concussion, but no skull
fracture. Oh, and of course
the bullet graze on his upper arm.”
He smiled encouragingly at the two intently-listening detectives.
“Once his wrist is in a cast, he can be released, assuming you,
Detective Ellison, will be around to keep an eye on him.
Otherwise, we’d like to keep him overnight for observation,
just to be on the safe side.” He
paused, a slight frown furrowing his forehead.
“I thought you were out of town...?” “I just got here – came straight from the airport,” Ellison
said. “I take it
he’s conscious now?” “He’s conscious....” Something
in the doctor’s voice made Jim uneasy.
“But he’s pretty dazed yet.
And he’s showing signs of some short-term memory loss.” Memory loss?
Jim’s tension increased exponentially, and he felt Simon
stiffen beside him as well. “What
kind of memory loss?” he grated. “He can’t recall anything about getting hurt,” Penhallow
explained gently. “From
what I can tell, the last thing he remembers is going to lunch today.
I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he half-apologized.
“It’s minimal, believe me.
Blair knows who he is and where he is, and what day it is – and
he remembered you were out of town, after he’d asked for you a couple
of times,” he added to Jim, “but the whole thing with the bank
robbery and the bullet wound and the fall – well, that’s a blank.
It’s a very common occurrence, believe me,” he assured them.
“Nothing to be concerned about.” “Will it – come back? Will
he remember?” Banks asked. “That I can’t tell you,” Penhallow admitted.
“Sometimes complete memory returns within 24 hours.
Sometimes little bits and pieces come back.
Sometimes the person loses a little chunk of time for good.
It’s kind of a crap shoot, quite honestly.” “Can I see him?” Jim
quietly requested. He needed
it more than ever now; he had to get to Blair, he had to see for himself
that his partner and Guide was all right.
“...and
he remembered you were out of town, after he’d asked for you a couple
of times...” Blair
had asked for him, and he hadn’t been there when his best friend
needed him. Memory
loss. The thought of
Blair losing any part of his
amazing brain function, even this tiny bit, was unsettling.
Although Jim had to admit to himself that if he could selectively
wipe some of Blair’s memories, he’d do it.
The memory of being kidnapped by David Lash, for example.
Of being pursued through deep mountain forests and shot....Of
being tossed out of the loft by Jim, and then...the fountain..
The memory of being repudiated once again by Jim, when the
dissertation was leaked. The
memory of his press conference.... “Yes, you can see him.” Penhallow’s
voice interrupted the Sentinel’s grim thoughts.
“Come with me.” “Jim, I have to get
back to the office,” Simon interjected guiltily.
“I’ve got to deal with all the...garbage,” he modified what
he would have liked to call it, all the red tape, paperwork and politics
of interdepartmental workings, especially where loaning an officer out
had resulted in injury. “Now
that you’re here...” “Go ahead, sir,” Ellison nodded his understanding.
“I’ll let you know how he is later.
Thanks for being here for him.” Banks took his leave and Jim followed Dr. Penhallow down the
hallway towards the treatment cubicles.
He heard his partner’s voice suddenly, sounding miserable and
fretful. “...but I want to go home!” Blair was saying – no, make
that whining.
“I’ll be fine; I want to go home.” “Detective Sandburg...” It
was a female voice, Jim noted, probably a nurse.
“We can’t send you home yet; your wrist isn’t casted, and
Dr. Penhallow doesn’t want you to be by yourself, remember?” Penhallow turned, grinning, and jerked his head towards the
cubicle from whence the voices came.
“Go on in,” he murmured.
“I’ll alert Orthopedics to get that cast on his wrist.
Then you can take him home.“
He brushed past Jim, heading back up the corridor.
Ellison sidled up to the curtained entrance and glanced in,
careful to remain out of sight. Blair was lying on a hospital cot, the head slightly elevated.
He was wearing his khaki pants, his socks and shoes, but no
shirt. He was cradling his
left arm against his stomach, and there was a bandage taped to the same
arm, just below his shoulder. Bruises
were starting to come up on his arms and shoulders – and one
spectacular one on his right cheekbone which made Jim wince just to look
at it. A gray-blonde, fortyish nurse in blue scrubs was standing at the
foot of the bed, writing something on a medical chart.
She smiled and shook her head as Blair spoke again. “I don’t need anyone with me; I’m an adult.
I’ll set an alarm to wake me up every couple of hours.
Jeez, I’ve got to get home...” That was his cue. Jim
pulled back the edge of the drape and stepped into the cubicle.
“As soon as your wrist is done and the doc says it’s okay,
I’ll take you home, Chief.” Blair turned his head, wincing with pain.
Tight lines of discomfort radiated around his sea-blue eyes as he
gazed blearily at Jim. He
frowned and then spoke: “And you would be...?” ***** It was a little while later – after a contrite Blair had
apologized: “Jim, Jim,
I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry, but it was just so...I knew you’d heard
about the memory thing, and it was too much to resist...I didn’t mean
to scare you so much....I’m really sorry...Jim, breathe, man,
please!” After Jim had finally ceased hyperventilating:
“I swear, Sandburg, when you are healthy again, I am going to
KILL you! And no one will
ever find a single scrap of your miserable, pathetic hide!
Damn you, Chief!” And after the nurse had stopped laughing herself silly –
“Detective Sandburg, shame on you; that was mean!” – and
had taken herself off down the hall, giggling all the way, to find a
wheelchair to take Blair to have a cast put on his wrist...
After all those things, Jim found himself perched on the edge of
the hospital cot, carefully holding his partner flat and attempting to
soothe him, for Blair, trying to offer reassurance, had sat up much too
fast, turned a ghastly shade of grayish-white and nearly pitched onto
the floor. “Easy now....Not a smart move, there, Einstein...dumber than
your usual, you know?” His
voice shook a little; he felt as if he’d been riding a roller coaster
of emotions for the last hour or so.
He’d been contented on the airplane, terrified in the airport,
worried out of his mind on the way to the hospital, relieved after
talking with Dr. Penhallow – and just now he was still irked by
Sandburg’s regrettable attempt at a joke, but his exasperation was
swamped under vast concern for Blair.
“Sorry...stupid, I know...”
Blair didn’t indicate whether he meant the joke or the attempt
to sit up. He shifted
restlessly, then hissed with pain, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, and
whispered plaintively, “I just wanna go home, Jim....” “I know, Chief. Me
too. It won’t be too much
longer.” I
hope! Jim wanted to smooth the lines of pain away from Blair’s face,
wished to soothe the bumps and bruises – but he didn’t dare, not
yet. The hurts were still
too fresh, too raw; even a light touch would cause more pain than
comfort. He managed to find
a relatively unmarked area – Blair’s right hand and arm – and
rubbed it gently, meanwhile scanning him with all his senses opened
wide. Despite the x-rays and
other tests the hospital had run, the Sentinel had to ascertain for
himself that his Guide was all right.
He was vastly relieved to find all Sandburg’s vitals strong and
in normal range, and felt himself relaxing just a little. Blair opened his eyes, squinting against a throbbing headache.
“You came straight from the airport, didn’t you?” “Yeah – Brown met me there to tell me what happened.” Blair sighed. “I
wish he’d been here to tell ME what happened,” he complained.
“I can’t remember anything after going to lunch!
Jim—” he went on, gazing up at his partner wistfully, “do
you think I’ll remember later?” “Hard to say,” Ellison said frankly.
“The doctor said it was a crap-shoot; can’t predict who
remembers, or what or why or when.” “Swell,” Blair groused. He
flounced a little, then flinched again. “Lie still,” Jim told him firmly.
“Maybe it’s just as well you don’t remember, Chief.
From what I hear, it wasn’t a very enjoyable afternoon, from
your point of view, at least.” “I know, but...I don’t like having something missing, ya
know? I DID things, said
things...and now it’s gone.” “Just pretend you were knocked out,” Jim advised.
“Don’t keep pushing at trying to remember; you’ll just make
your headache worse.” “But I—” “Chief, if it’s any comfort, I hear you did some really good
things in that time,” Ellison tried to reassure him.
“It’s not like you went out and committed axe murders or
anything.” The arrival of the nurse with the wheelchair ended their
conversation. Jim helped
Blair off the bed and into the chair, steadying him when he swayed
dizzily. Once settled, Blair
smiled wanly up at him. “I’ll be done soon,” he half-promised. “I’ll be here,” Ellison assured him, and quickly departed
for the waiting room, before he could disgrace himself by demanding to
go along. ***** He’d been waiting about half an hour, working in a desultory
fashion on a crossword puzzle he’d found in the back of a magazine,
when, to his surprise, a familiar voice, face and form accosted him:
“Detective Ellison!” He got to his feet and greeted the pretty blonde woman with scant
welcome. “Ms.
Hawthorne,” he replied distantly.
Wendy Hawthorne had come and gone and reappeared again in
Cascade, over the last few years, always the potential for being a thorn
in the sides of Ellison and Sandburg.
He hadn’t thought about news coverage until now, but of course
the radio and television stations would have been all over the situation
at the bank. But why was she
here?
Didn’t she already have her story? “It was your partner who was the hostage negotiator at the bank
this afternoon, wasn’t it? Detective
Sandburg?” Wendy asked now, without preliminary. There was no sense in lying to her; she probably had it all on
film anyway. “Yes,” he
said tersely. Wendy Hawthorne came nearer.
Jim glanced around, looking for her ever-present cameraman, but
she appeared to be alone. “Detective
Ellison,” she said quietly, “I’m not here to badger you, but you
must know this is a big story. You
weren’t at the bank with your partner, but now you’re here—” She paused, waiting for him to say something.
He eyed her with distaste and refused to take the bait, drawing
himself up to his full height and folding his arms obdurately.
“Jim—” she tried again, “listen.
If you give me an exclusive interview, you’ll only have to tell
it once, and then when I break it, you’ll be left alone.
We’ve got film footage, but I need a follow-up about Blair.” “The police department has a public relations contact
person,” he reminded her wearily. “They don’t have anything at all about Blair’s condition; I
already tried that route. And
of course the hospital won’t tell me a thing.” Hmmm.
Simon probably hasn’t had time to give PR the updated news on
Blair, Jim mused.
Well, since the whole thing was already on film, up to the time
Blair had been whisked away to the hospital, and there wasn’t anything
secret about it – why not? This
way Wendy would owe them one. “Blair has a broken wrist and a concussion,” he said quietly,
careful to phrase the information in as neutral a way as possible, “a
bullet graze on his shoulder, and a whole lot of bruises.
But he’ll be released as soon as his wrist’s in a cast.
He’ll be on medical leave for a few days, but a complete
recovery is expected.” He
watched dispassionately as Wendy scribbled hasty notes.
“I wasn’t at the bank with him because I was out of state the
last two days, attending a funeral,” he continued.
“I was contacted after landing, and came here directly from the
airport. I really don’t
have any other details for you.” She looked a little disappointed at the brevity of his
‘interview,’ but managed a bright smile up at him and pocketed her
little notebook. “Thanks,
Jim. This is great – and
I’m very glad Blair is going to be okay, you know!”
She suddenly craned her neck to peer down the hallway, around
Ellison’s large form. “Isn’t
that him now, being wheeled out?”
She raised her voice: “Detective
Sandburg? Blair?”
She made an abrupt move to dart past, but Jim stepped into her
path. “No.” The
syllable was quiet, but implacable.
“But an interview – just a few comments—”
She feinted left, then dodged back.
Once more Ellison blocked her way, seemingly without effort. “No, Wendy. Leave
him alone. I mean it.”
No way was Jim going to let Blair be pressured and harassed by
Wendy Hawthorne – especially since he couldn’t remember any of what
had happened anyway – and they most definitely didn’t want that
little detail on the six-thirty news! She gave up reluctantly, pouting her displeasure, but Jim put a
large hand on her shoulder, turned her around and gave her a slight
shove towards the exit doors. “Go
do your story and be grateful I talked to you at all.
And if you try to bother Sandburg again...”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the threat was implicit. “Okay, okay – tell Blair I’m glad he’s all right,” she
said, with surprising warmth. “Thanks
again, Detective.” The
next moment she was gone. Ellison shook his head, and turned to greet Blair as an orderly
wheeled him into the waiting room. He
was wearing a short hospital gown in lieu of his shirt – Jim suspected
it had been cut off upon Blair’s arrival in the ER, and was therefore
gone for good – and his left arm was now encased in a dark blue
fiberglass cast and supported in a sling.
Blair attempted a smile, but he looked both battered and
exhausted, and the pleasant expression died away almost immediately.
Jim reached for the handles of the wheelchair.
“I’ll take him from here,” he informed the orderly.
“Got all your paperwork?” he asked his partner kindly.
“Pain meds? Instructions?” “In here.” Blair
indicated a small plastic zippered bag on his lap, which appeared to
contain several sample packets of pills, and some folded sheets of
paper. “Dr. Penhallow said
I could go.” “Then let’s get out of here, buddy.”
***** “You hungry, Chief?” Jim
eased his partner down onto the couch.
Blair had adamantly refused to go to bed, but conceded that lying
on the sofa sounded like a plan he could live with. “No...” Blair sighed. “But
I’ll bet you are, aren’t you? You
don’t get fed on airplane flights anymore.” Jim nodded. He’d
been trying to ignore the mutinous rumblings of his stomach for nearly
an hour now, but it was getting to the point where he was actively
considering gnawing on his leather jacket in search of any meager
sustenance. “Yeah –
kinda.” Sandburg chuckled softly. “’Kinda’
meaning you’re starving to death.
Go ahead and eat; you aren’t going to hurt my feelings.
And really, I’m not very hungry – call it a side effect of
the pain medication.” “You haven’t HAD any pain medication yet.
They didn’t give you anything at the hospital,” Jim pointed
out, although he was perfectly aware that being banged up as much as
Blair was could certainly affect a person’s appetite.
“Could you manage a cup of soup or something like that?”
He rummaged through the refrigerator with great determination,
triumphantly hauling out a glass casserole dish filled with leftover
lasagna, and placed it in the microwave oven to heat. “No...but tea sounds good,” Blair admitted.
“I’d like some...some...lemon ginger tea and...um...some Ritz™
crackers,” he requested. He
carefully leaned his aching head against the back of the couch.
“Jim,” he added dejectedly, “is there any chance I could
get outta this stupid hospital gown and into some real clothes?”
He shivered. “Some
warmer clothes?” Ellison had quirked an eyebrow at the ‘tea and Ritz™’
crackers request, but simply put the teakettle on to heat and got out
the box of teabags and the crackers. Tea
and crackers was better than nothing.
The appeal for different clothing met with an equally sympathetic
response. “Sure,
Chief. I’ll bring you some
stuff to put on,” he said, and disappeared into Blair’s bedroom. Ten minutes later Sandburg was stretched full-length on the sofa,
wearing a pair of sweatpants, heavy knit socks, and a sweatshirt long
designated as his ‘Owie Shirt.’
They each had one, Blair’s a deep red, Jim’s navy blue, and
both men had gotten a lot of use out of them, over the years.
Although Ellison certainly never called his shirt by such a
ridiculous name out loud, once he’d heard Sandburg refer to his that way, he did so in his head – something else he never
intended to divulge to Blair. The
shirts were extra-large in size, to fit over bulky bandages.
They zipped up the front, so they could be put on without being
pulled over the head. The
cuffs were cut off the sleeves, so that there was more room to stretch
over casts or braces. And
they were lined with soft cotton, extra-soothing for a Sentinel’s
sensitive skin, and for extra warmth, since pain meds often dropped a
person’s body temperature. “That feels soooo incredibly much better,” Blair sighed,
stretching gingerly. “Thanks,
man.” Jim carefully adjusted the sling, and covered Blair with an
afghan, then headed into the kitchen, where the microwave was beeping
insistently, reminding him that his lasagna was hot.
He quickly dished up his meal, set it on the table, and got a
bottle of beer out of the fridge. Then,
before sitting down to eat, he made Blair’s tea and took it, along
with the crackers, a glass of water and a packet of prescription pain
medication, to his partner. Blair made a wry face at the sight of the little yellow tablet,
but didn’t argue about taking it.
He began to sip carefully at the hot tea, and nibble on a
cracker. Jim went back to
his dinner. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he glanced at his watch.
To his surprise, it was just past “Why?” Blair
turned languidly curious eyes in Jim’s direction. “Well, there’s probably coverage of the bank robbery,” Jim
said reasonably. “I’d
like to see what went down – and it might jog your memory, whaddya
think?” He didn’t
mention his encounter with Wendy Hawthorne. “There is that...” Sandburg
picked up the remote control and aimed it at the set. Their timing was good – as sound and picture came up on the
screen, the anchorman was saying “An attempted bank robbery in
downtown Cascade today turned into a bloody shootout with police....” Jim got up from the table, carrying his plate, and came over to
sit on the loveseat, barely taking his eyes from the screen.
He set the plate on the coffee table. “How’d you do that?” Blair sounded slightly awed.
“You said – and it was on...” “Coincidence. Now
hush, I want to hear this.” “As if you couldn’t hear it anyway,” Blair muttered, but
obediently fell silent. They watched as the film rolled, listening as the announcer did
an explanatory voiceover. Jim
found himself tensing again as he beheld his partner, followed by Connor
and Rafe, starting up the marble steps.
On the sofa, Blair was gazing at the screen in fascination, as if
watching a particularly engrossing movie.
When the crack! of the
backfire came, he jumped slightly. Ellison bit down hard on his lower lip as the man in the bank
doorway fired his gun. He
watched onscreen-Blair jerk sideways, grabbing at his shoulder, and
topple down the steps in an uncontrolled tumble.
He heard the angry fusillade of gunshots as the SWAT team fired
their weapons, but his concentration was on the crumpled figure of his
partner and best friend, lying at the bottom of the stairs.... “Jim...Jim!” Blair’s
anxious voice cut through the fog of misery threatening to overwhelm
him. Jim blinked and turned his head.
“Yeah?” “It’s okay, I’m here, remember?”
Blair smiled in reassurance.
“I’m all right.” The Sentinel smiled too, although the sight of Blair’s bruised
face made him ache inside. “Yeah,
you are, aren’t you?” The
television caught his attention again, as the videotape cut off, showing
the anchorman at his desk. “Reporter Wendy Hawthorne talked with Detective James Ellison,
partner to Detective Sandburg, at the hospital,” the man said, “and
has some good news to report, to add to this story.
Wendy?” “Thanks, Jeff...” The
camera shifted to show the perfectly-groomed-and-polished blonde
newswoman. In a corner of
the screen, a file photo of Jim and Blair was displayed; lacking
videotape of the interview, Channel 11 had gone with what they had.
Jim grinned in wry appreciation – he couldn’t remember
exactly when the photo had been taken, but knew it was at the wrap-up of
some case or other. The
camera had caught him looking determined and focused; Blair, beside him,
appeared resolute and competent. Not
bad..... “Wait a minute, you talked to Wendy Hawthorne?
When?” Sandburg
demanded. “While you were getting your cast on; she ambushed me in the
waiting room. Shhh.” “...spoke briefly with Detective Ellison, who had just returned
from business out of town,” “Relatively minor, huh...” Blair muttered resentfully.
“They don’t FEEL very minor!” “You’re home, aren’t you?” Jim reminded him, and thumbed
the remote to turn off the TV as the broadcast cut to a commercial.
“Well, did seeing that video jog your memory any?” Sandburg frowned. “A
little,” he said uncertainly. “I
can remember flashes now – riding to the bank in Rafe’s
car...talking to Captain Martinez. And...Rafe
dropping my vest on the ground before I put it on.”
He shivered. “I
remember feeling something stinging my arm – and—”
He gulped and added faintly, “and...falling....” Ellison reached a steadying hand out to his Guide.
“Hey. It’s
okay,” he echoed Blair’s earlier words.
“You’re here. You’re
all right. It’s okay.” Blair nodded and raised his mug of tea to his lips, taking a
small sip. Suddenly he
grinned – albeit painfully, as it jarred his bruised cheek.
“Hey, I just thought of something!” he said.
“If I can’t remember what happened, I won’t have to write
up a report on it!” ***** Blair finished his tea and crackers, and dozed off shortly
afterwards. Jim finished
eating, quietly cleaned up the kitchen, then took his bag upstairs to
unpack it. He was tired,
with the weariness one acquired from traveling, but knew he needed to
get Sandburg settled in bed before he himself could crash.
He hadn’t thought about asking Simon if he could have an extra
day off, to take care of his partner.
He noted the time – Okay, it’s still early! – and picked up the phone. “Banks.” “It’s Jim, captain.” “How’s
Sandburg?” “Asleep. Doing
okay, but I was wondering about tomorrow...leaving him alone....”
Ellison let the words trail off suggestively in hope that Simon
would take the hint and offer the day off without his actually having to
ask for it. The captain didn’t disappoint.
“I don’t expect you in
until afternoon at the earliest,” he said gruffly,
“And if you need more
time, take it.” Ellison smiled. That
was Simon Banks, all bark and – in the case of his Major Crimes
detectives – just enough bite to be an effective boss.
He saved the serious
biting for other people. “Thanks, sir, I appreciate that.
It’s been kind of a long day.” “You’ll
make up the time, detective; don’t kid yourself.
You and Sandburg both,”
Banks snapped. Jim just
smirked. He wasn’t
concerned. He and Blair
accumulated so much comp time it was a standing joke.
“Did the doctor give you
any indication about when the kid can come back?
And has he remembered anything more about this afternoon?” “Maybe the first of next week, depending on how much the
concussion bothers him – if the headaches are a problem.”
Jim had the answer, having read the page of instructions Blair
had been given. “If they
aren’t, probably Friday. As
Connor would say, no worries with the bullet graze or the broken wrist,
as long as he takes it easy. And
he’s remembered a few flashes...specifically, falling down the steps,
which wouldn’t be my first choice of a memory to recover.
Maybe more coming; remember, the doctor said it can take up to 24
hours. Or longer, for that
matter.” “Definitely
riding a desk for a few days,” Banks grunted.
“Well, that’ll give him
a chance to catch up on reports.” Recalling Blair’s realization that he wouldn’t have to write
a report about an incident he didn’t remember, Jim grinned more
widely. “He can’t type
in that cast,” he reminded his boss cheerfully, and he distinctly
heard Simon’s snort of disgust over the line. “In
that case, you can type ‘em,” the captain said,
and ended the conversation. Jim finished his unpacking, consigning everything in the bag to
the clothes hamper. He
stowed the bag in his closet, and looked longingly at his bed.
It seemed to beckon to him, crooning a siren song about sleep...and
rest...and smooth sheets, and soft pillows....
He shook himself free of the reverie, reminding himself that
first he had to get Sandburg alert enough to go to bed.
Then – ah, then he
could succumb to sleep himself, surely!
Even if it was interrupted periodically to check on his
partner’s well-being. Before he could move down the stairs, however, Ellison was
startled to hear a groan of pain from his roommate.
Peering over the railing, Jim saw Sandburg moving restively on
the couch, and although he appeared to still be asleep, every so often a
soft whimper escaped his lips. Bad
dream...flashback...keep him from moving around, so he doesn’t fall
off the couch and hurt himself....As the thoughts flitted through
his mind, Jim was already diving for the stairs, descending so rapidly
he nearly ended up falling to the bottom as Blair had done.
Getting his feet under him, he sprinted for the sofa. “Chief. Blair...wake
up. C’mon, wake up.” Jim
didn’t want to shake him, or slap his face, even lightly; Blair had
been roughed up enough already today, no reason to add any more
discomfort. Instead, he used
a little judicious jiggling of Sandburg’s good arm, as well as his
voice, to rouse his sleeping roommate.
With a little gasp, Blair came awake, his eyes blinking open to
stare dazedly up at the hovering Sentinel. “Uh...?” “If you ask me who I am again, I’m gonna smack you good,
concussion or no,” Ellison threatened gently, smiling to take the
sting from the words. Blair smiled in return. “No,
I know who you are...and I’m sorry about before....”
He took a long, slow breath, then let the air out in a sigh.
“I was dreaming,” he murmured.
“Dreaming about today...” “Remembering more?” Jim
pulled the afghan away and slid a hand behind his partner’s head,
urging him to sit up. “I
think it’s time you headed for bed, buddy, even though it’s early.
If you stay on the couch all night you’ll be stiff in the
morning – well, stiffer. You’ll
be stiff and sore no matter what, I’m afraid.” “Remembering a little more,” Sandburg acknowledged, pushing
himself up. He closed his
eyes briefly as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and Jim tightened
his hold. “I think.
But how do I know if what I’m dreaming actually happened or is
just...dreaming?” Ellison pondered that a moment and shrugged.
“Good question. I
guess you don’t.” “I’ll have to ask Megan if I had a turkey sandwich on pita
bread for lunch,” Blair said thoughtfully.
“If I did, maybe I am starting to get things back.”
He shoved the afghan away and swung his feet to the floor. “You’re gonna end up writing that report after all,” Jim
warned. He eased his
roommate to his feet, keeping a supporting arm around him, and headed
them in the direction of the bathroom. “That’s all right. There’s
not much to write, after all. I
went to the bank, I talked to the guy, I started up the steps, I fell
down the steps. End of
story. Someone else has to
write all the parts I missed by being knocked out!”
Blair pushed the bathroom door open, switched on the light and
stared at his battered reflection in the mirror with dismay.
“Good Lord, I look awful!
How can you stand having me around? I
could star as the fourth monster from the right in the latest horror
flick!” “Well, I’ve seen you look better,” Jim allowed, fighting
back laughter, “But I’m a former Ranger, Sandburg, remember?
We’re the really tough ones.
I’ve seen it all – besides, I’m concentrating real
hard on not fleeing screaming into the night – hey!”
He stepped back as Blair made a half-hearted jab at his stomach
with his elbow. “You need
any help in here?” “Nah, ‘m good. Just
gonna be a few minutes.” Blair
grimaced at the mirror again. “Can
we cover up all the mirrors for a few days?
And keep the drapes shut so the windows don’t reflect?
Sheesh....” True to his word, Blair emerged shortly, and headed directly to
his bedroom. Jim followed
with a glass of water and another packet of analgesics, but his partner
eyed them dubiously and then shook his head.
“I don’t think I need to take any more just yet.
The pain’s just kinda...there, ya know?
Not real bad.” “Sandburg, if you keep on top of it, it won’t get
bad,” Ellison reminded him patiently.
“Don’t play catch-up with pain, doofus; don’t let it get
ahead of you. How about you
split one, and take half?” “I’m down with that,” Blair conceded, and proceeded to do
so. Jim helped his Guide get settled in bed, tucking extra pillows in
various places to elevate and support the broken wrist and take pressure
off the worst of the bruises.
Blair blinked up at him. “I’m not really sleepy, Jim.
It’s not even Ellison acknowledged the truth of that statement with a
thoughtful nod. He pulled
Blair’s desk chair over next to the bed and sat down. “Just relax, Chief, and maybe you’ll get sleepy – we can
talk for a little, if you want to. Or I could read to you, if you’d
rather.” “Tell me about your trip,” Sandburg requested.
“Were the flights okay? Was
the funeral service nice? Did
you see some old friends?” Jim spent some time telling his partner all the details of his
brief trip. Once upon a
time, he thought, that would have been a real pain, all the talking, the
in-depth review of the past two days – sort of like testifying in
court! But years of
associating with Blair had developed his communication skills – and
he’d never really minded talking to Sandburg in any case!
Blair listened quietly, watching Jim’s face, occasionally
asking a question. When
Ellison finished his narrative, Blair smiled. “So it was a good trip, overall.” “Until I got home and got the news about you,” Jim said
honestly. “That kind of
put a bad spin on it.” “I’m sorry...”, Sandburg sighed.
“Have I even said thanks for all this?
I know you have to be tired from the trip...and here I am,
demanding all your attention, being my usual wimpy self....”
“You’re not being wimpy, Chief; don’t talk like
that. You’re hurt.
And there’s no need to be sorry; I’m not that tired,” he
lied smoothly. “It all
evens out; next time it may be me nursing the bruises and the headache,
and you doling out the aspirin.” Ellison
gently pushed a wavy strand of hair away from Blair’s face.
“I’m just glad this turned out to be ‘relatively minor,’
to quote Ms. Hawthorne.” A
sudden dreadful vision of Blair’s brain functions being seriously
compromised made his throat tighten, and words come hard.
“You might have lost a little tiny bit of what happened today,
Chief...but all the important stuff’s still there.
You still remember...” He
stopped, unable to continue. “I still remember you – and what you are – and what
you do...and us –and what we are, and what we’ve done,” his
Guide said softly, “so you’re right.
All the important stuff’s still there.” “Chief...” Jim
hesitated over what he wanted to ask.
He knew what he’d
thought Blair might want to forget, given the chance, but – would
Blair’s opinions match his? “If
you could erase memories – any memories you wanted – what would you
get rid of? Would you
get rid of anything?” “Whoa, heavy question, there, Jim.”
Blair eyed him curiously, but appeared to give the query serious
thought. “If I could erase
memories, huh, as opposed to losing them whether I want to or
not....Well, yeah, there are a few.”
Blair reached for Jim’s hand, linking their fingers, and Jim
braced himself for the inevitable. “The
memory of you disappearing, when Colonel Oliver snatched you.”
Sandburg swallowed hard and went on:
“The memory of you going under, in that vat on the oil rig,
when I didn’t think I was going to be able to get you out in time.
The time you were blinded by Golden....When you went undercover
at the prison – I thought you were going to die in there, Jim, I
really did. When I heard
those goons on the train say they’d thrown you off.
When I thought you’d been caught in that warehouse fire....” The Sentinel listened to his partner, scarcely able to believe
what he was hearing. Everything
Blair wanted to forget – they were all about something happening to him,
not to Blair himself! “Ah,
Chief....” “I can work myself right into a panic attack real easy,
thinking about all the times I was sure you were going to be killed, Jim
– or already had been.” Blair’s
grip tightened to a painful intensity.
“So if there were memories I’d be willing to lose...those
would be the ones.” Ellison sighed softly. “I
think we need to have a little talk about this when you’re feeling
better, buddy,” he said. “Somewhere
along the line your priorities and your sense of self-preservation got
screwed up.” “Nah...my priorities are right where they should be.
And my self-preservation’s just fine.”
Blair closed his eyes, smiling.
“It’s your lack of it that’s making me old before my
time!” Jim could feel tremors shaking the hand which still clutched his.
“You’re exhausted,” he said.
“Whether you feel sleepy or not, you need to rest.” “’kay....” “I’ll check on you every couple of hours,” Jim promised,
feeling weary at the thought. “No way.” Sandburg’s
eyes flickered open and he glared at his partner.
“You’re exhausted too – you need a full night’s sleep.
I’ll be just fine; I don’t need to be checked all the
time.” “Chief, the only reason they let you out of the hospital is
because I said I’d keep an eye on you – and that means waking you up
periodically!” Jim snapped in exasperation. “Let’s compromise. Eight
hours,” Blair wheedled. “Wake
me up in eight hours, not two.” “Three.” “Six.” |