Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 19 February 2002

Cold

Blair was coming home today. The Sentinel had missed his Guide, and Jim had missed his friend. Jim waited impatiently, surrounded by crowds and yet alone. He forced himself to outward stillness, amazed at how ridiculously excited he was that his partner was finally coming home after three long months. He glanced up at the display monitor; Sandburg's flight was due in ten minutes. Jim shifted awkwardly, too restless to stand here much longer and too disciplined to give in to the urge to pace. He scanned the crowd again, wondering if anyone noticed his tension, but he was ignored. He was alone. It was almost comical how that point had been driven home to him while Sandburg was away.

He sighed softly, then looked around to make sure no one noticed. He'd missed Blair so much. Everything was lonely, empty, when Blair was gone. The loft was a barren place, good for nothing more than sleeping, and even that came hard most nights. It was too quiet -- no CDs of tribal drums or Buddhist chants, no Discovery channel specials, no long-winded explanations of mundane things. It smelled wrong, too. No herbal teas, no algae shakes, no organic shampoos. Mostly though, no Blair. After three months, his scent had faded even beyond the ability of Sentinel senses.

His heart pounded in his chest, the rapid staccato of beats almost painful in their intensity. The tightening in his chest made it hard to breathe, and he forced himself to slow down, breathe deeply, willing himself to some semblance of calm. He'd missed Blair. And he'd been lonely. Nothing had seemed right -- not for three whole months. Jim chuckled out loud at the thought, grateful he'd not voiced it aloud since he sounded like a petulant child who'd been denied a sweet. And he was. He was a child denied his sweet and Blair was the sweet he'd been denied. Was it his fault that when it came to Blair, he was fanatically possessive, protectively territorial, and obsessively insistent that the Guide belonged to him? Of course not. Sandburg would have some convoluted and involved explanation about territorial imperatives and primitive bonding rituals. Jim shrugged. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that Jim had been lonely and Blair had been gone too long. But -- he looked at his watch again and then at the monitor -- in four minutes, he'd no longer be the child denied.

It was really strange when he tried to separate how he felt now. There was this primal urge coursing through him, threatening to eclipse the modern man. He just wanted to get to his Guide. No matter what. It was taking an enormous amount of energy to keep from stalking up the concourse, flashing his badge at everyone in his way and forcing his way onto the plane so that he could get to the Guide. That was where it all got mixed up in his head. Jim missed Blair. They were friends, buddies, pals. They hung out together, roomed together, spent time together. They were partners. They worked together and took care of each other. The loss of Blair from his life had left him bereft, and it was a loss the enormity of which he had never imagined when Blair had first mentioned the opportunity to go to Brazil and help map out the locations of some of the most isolated tribes in the country.

"Jim, man, it's an incredible opportunity. Funai -- that's the Brazilian Indian Agency -- is launching an expedition to search for isolated tribes living in the Amazon jungle and map their territory. They're looking for volunteers. It could be so incredible, man. The team they're putting together is going out on the Amazon, up several of the tributaries, all along the border of Colombia and Peru."

Jim had laughed, delighted at the excitement in his friend's voice. "How do they know where to look?" he'd asked, wanting only to keep Blair talking, to hear the rapturous joy that came from him when he talked about something he loved.

"Planes, man. Funai -- the Brazilian ..."

"Indian Agency. I know, Chief, I got it the first time."

"Oh. Yeah, well, Funai has these monitoring planes. They make sweeps looking for roads and huts and then an expedition can come in and map it out. They've gotten quite a list of sites, lots of indigenous populations sightings in the last few years."

Sandburg bounced around the loft as he spoke. And Jim had smiled. "Any contact, Chief? You gonna get to visit with these indigenous populations?"

"Nah. Not this time. This is just about tracking and identification. Find 'em and then demarcate the territory. We're talking people that have been isolated for a loooooong time here, Jim." Sandburg bounced into his room, and Jim heard the sound of books being shuffled, pages being turned. Then he was back, plopping onto the sofa next to him, a large, heavy book dropped in his lap.

"Look," Sandburg said, pointing to a map, "this is the Amazon forest. Funai estimates some 53 Indian tribes live in isolation in Brazil, most of 'em right here." He ran a finger longingly over the page, then looked up. "The expedition is gonna travel about 4,000 kilometers over ten weeks, all in areas of the Amazon basin that are accessible only by boat." He hummed a happy little hum of excitement. "Can you imagine it, Jim? Can you?"

Jim laughed again. "You imagine it well enough for us both, Doctor Livingstone."

"It's not just mapping and tracking totally, though. There's been reports of illegal miners and loggers in the area." Sandburg hopped up again, too excited to sit. "And you know me, if there's a protest, I'm there. A chance to try and set things right."

"Sounds like it's important work, Chief." Jim leaned back, sipping from the cold beer bottle he held. "You got an invite?"

Blair swallowed, suddenly nervous. "Well, uh, yeah, I did. One of my old professors from U Wash -- he, uh, recommended me." He was studying Jim as he spoke.

"Sounds like a good opportunity, Sandburg," Jim said quietly. "I think you should go."

"Yeah." The bounce had disappeared and this time when Sandburg sat, it was on the other couch and it was far too quietly for Jim's liking. He wanted the bouncy Sandburg back -- the one who was too excited to sit and who kept tripping over his words as he tried to speak. "It is a good opportunity, but Jim, it's ten weeks."

"More like twelve," he'd said quietly, "when you add in travel and prep time."

"Three months." Blair looked up as if he hadn't really considered the concept of having to be away in order to avail himself of this 'good opportunity.' He shook his head. "Nah. It's too long. I can't be gone that long."

He'd hopped up and come to retrieve his book, but Jim had held onto it, his hand resting over Blair's in a very unequal struggle for control. "Wait a minute, Chief. Before you put this away, show me again where these tribes are ..."

And so it had gone most of the night. Blair getting excited, talking, explaining, teaching about the native populations of Brazil. Jim asking questions. Then Blair settling, talking about how long it was, how he couldn't go, why it wouldn't work. It had taken most of the night, but Jim had convinced him he needed to go. Needed to do this for himself. Needed to keep up with the research, participate in the expeditions, stay in the field work loop.

In the end, he'd almost convinced himself it would be all right. That it was just three months. That he was a big boy now, and he could take care of himself. That he didn't zone like he used to. That he could control the senses, stay on top of things. It had been a hard sell, to both Sandburg and himself, but he'd made it. He smiled as he thought back. The deciding factor was probably the weather. The promise of three months in jungle warmth as opposed to Washington winter was more than Sandburg could refuse. Three months to be warm. Once Jim reminded him of that fact, the rest hadn't been all that hard after all.

People were coming down the concourse now, and he drew in a deep breath, searching for that unique Sandburg scent, but not finding it. Puzzled, he opened himself a little wider, reached out a little further but still got nothing. Could three months have made him forget? He shook his head. Not possible. Sandburg's scent was as imprinted in Jim's mind as ducklings on their mother. He'd never forget it, never fail to recognize it. He shrugged. Sandburg would get here when he got here. He couldn't make it happen any faster.

He'd wondered about his senses over these past three months. He'd had some trouble with spikes, some sensory overloads, and even a few zones. Two with Simon, one at the loft. He'd lost hours on that last one and he blushed to admit to himself it had happened when he'd picked up a flannel shirt of Blair's, held it to his nose, and breathed deeply. He'd been lost in traces of his Guide. That was why he knew now, he should be able to scent him.

He'd been so lonely. He'd gotten increasingly moody as the weeks wore on, his temper a fragile thing that flared without provocation. And afraid. When he'd seen Blair onto the plane three months ago, he'd been clutched by a moment of fear. What if something happens to him? What if he gets hurt? What if he needs me and I'm not there? What if he decides he wants to do this kind of thing all the time? What if he leaves me? What if he never comes back? It had taken every ounce of self-control he'd had not to race onto that plane and haul his Guide out, to keep him where he belonged -- by the Sentinel's side.

But he'd refrained. Sandburg needed this. Hell, he deserved this. A chance to do something he loved with people who loved it too. An opportunity to talk about his passion with people who felt that passion. Time to be who he was -- Sandburg, the anthropologist -- not Jim's partner, or the Sentinel's Guide.

But the fear kept coming back. It made him tense. His head hurt. He couldn't concentrate. He'd lose focus -- not a zone, really, just like when you're reading and you lose your place. Only for him it happened everywhere. In conversations, he'd lose the thread. He'd be in the truck, driving, and suddenly realize he had no idea where he was. Questioning people. He'd look up and realize he didn't have a clue where he was or what case he was working on.

And the fear was oppressive. The longer Blair was gone, the more the fear ate at him. One time he was in a meeting, and the fear washed over him, so thick, so real, he bolted from the room without a word and raced to the bathroom, tears on his face, his stomach churning. He'd lost his breakfast, then stood there, limbs shaking, hands trembling, gasping for breath, trying in vain to remember what it was that Sandburg always told him. Breathe, Jim, breathe. It had finally come to him. That was what Sandburg was -- the air in his universe. Without him, he couldn't breathe.

He allowed himself one small shifting of weight from left foot to right and then weakened and lifted up on tiptoes to scan over the heads of the crowds. Still no Sandburg.

"Mr. Ellison?"

The voice startled him and he dropped back on his heels, embarrassed. He looked down to see a young woman, little more than a girl really, staring up at him.

"Are you meeting someone, Mr. Ellison?"

Jim frowned. "Do I know you?"

She bobbed her head, blond curls falling forward to partially conceal her face and Jim's gut tightened as he realized that was a familiar motion. Blair did that thing with his hair, making it fall forward to hide his face when he was uncomfortable. "I'm Amanda Winters. From Mr. Sandburg's 102 class."

Jim stared at her blankly.

"I went on the expedition. Mr. Sandburg put me in for it. Got me a spot."

Now Jim nodded. "I'm here to meet him."

Her eyes widened. "Meet him? Where did he go?"

Jim looked at the girl. She had to be bright for Sandburg to take her on this trip of his, but she wasn't coming across that way. He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully as if that might help her comprehension. "To Brazil. With you. To study the natives." He forced a smile, cocking his head to the left. "Remember?"

But she was shaking her head, her heart was racing, and her hand was coming up to her mouth. She was biting on her fist as she stared at him, and he had to clamp down on his own fear to keep from ripping her hand from her mouth and forcing her to speak. "What's wrong, Amanda?"

She shook her head, still biting her fist, and mumbled round the obstacle. " 'm sorry, Mr. Ellison." She turned and started to dart away, but he reached out and caught her before she got far, startling a cry of surprise from her.

"Where's Sandburg?" he demanded. "What happened?"

She was tiny in his grasp, not more than five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds. He loomed over her and could just imagine the picture it made to the people who were starting to gather. He heard comments, but shut them out, focusing only on Amanda. Her eyes were wide and horror-stricken as she stared up at him and she paled visibly. She was beginning to shake and he tightened his grip, causing her to strangle out a little cry. "I don't know."

The murmuring of the crowd was growing louder and he reached in his pocket with one hand, pulling his badge. Holding it up, he announced, "Police," and the crowds backed away, everyone returning to their nice, safe, normal world. The world that no longer existed for him. There was no nice, or safe, or normal. The fear was rising up, threatening to engulf him, and he still didn't know where his Guide was. "Where ... When did you see him?"

"On the plane." The girl was crying now, pulling at his fingers where they dug into her arm.

"The plane home?"

She stilled under his hand, tears spilling down over pale, pale cheeks, as she shook her head. "N-n-n-o," she whispered. "The plane down."

Reality crashed.

It broke into tiny little pieces of sharp, painful hurt and rained down on him, slicing him open from the inside out. He tried to breathe but there was no air. Sandburg was the air, and he was gone. He felt the ground give way and dropped to his knees, no longer sure of where he was or why he was there. He was rapidly losing the thread of who he was -- Jim Ellison, Cascade PD, was disappearing beneath the Sentinel of the Great City. And the Sentinel had lost his Guide.

Pain!

Anger!

Fear!

Take action!

Protect the Guide!

Jim's head whipped around, eyes searching. His nostrils flared as he sought the scent of the Guide.

There was a noise, an insistent ringing sound and he patted himself until he found it. He lifted the black box and stared at it without recognition. A hand appeared and the box disappeared and then it was quiet.

Good.

Now he could listen.

He closed his eyes and began to filter out all the other sounds, straining to hear just one voice.

The Guide's.

There was a hand in front of his face, a voice hissing insistently into his ear. "Mr. Ellison!"

He jerked back with a start, surprised to find himself looking up at the young girl who had just told him Sandburg was missing. What was her name? He stared at her in confusion and then realized she was holding his phone. Why did she have his phone? He looked around again. Why was everyone so much bigger than he was? It took a few minutes, but he finally got it. He was on his knees. Figuring that out had exhausted him. He didn't have the energy to try and figure out why.

The girl was talking to him again, calling him Mr. Ellison. He shook his head. "Mr. Ellison's my dad," he mumbled.

"You have to come with me," she ordered, pulling on his arm to make him stand.

He looked up at her. He was too tired to go anywhere. She was really pretty. Blonde hair like spun gold. Lights dancing in it as she turned her head. Not as pretty as Sandburg's, of course ...

Sandburg!

Gone!

Pain!

It shot through him again and he clutched his stomach, doubling over. The girl was still buzzing at him. Something about Simon on the phone. A car coming for him. Something downtown. He shook his head. He just couldn't focus on it all right now. He started to slump forward again, thinking maybe he could just lay down for a few minutes, take a little nap. It was suddenly very quiet, and he stopped sliding down, puzzled. He opened his eyes, and saw the girl again. Her mouth was moving and she looked really worried. Probably because she wasn't making any sound. To not make a sound when you talk, well, that would worry anyone. He reached up and patted her on the arm, said, "Don't worry. You'll be able to make sounds again soon." Only he didn't make any sound either. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. He straightened back up, kneeling upright in the middle of the concourse and looked around. People were moving, people were talking, but there was no sound anywhere. Damn! His hearing had gone.

He shook his head. Sandburg would fix it. He'd know what to do.

And it hit him again, the pain rippling through his body. The physical reaction as real as if he'd just been sucker punched. And then the hearing was back and everything was painfully loud. He winced and slapped his hands over his ears, struggling for a dial that seemed suddenly impossible to access. He needed his Guide!

"Come with me, Sir. Your Captain said he knows where Mr. Sandburg is. You have to come with me!" The girl was pulling him again and this time he rose at her insistence. He followed her down the corridor, his large hand nestled trustingly in her small one. She'd said the magic words. She was taking him to Sandburg. His head was pounding and the lights were all too bright, but he could handle it now because this girl -- Amanda? -- was taking him to Sandburg.

They got to the front of the airport just as a police car pulled up. One of the cops hopped out and opened the back door. Jim looked at Amanda in confusion. "Sandburg?" he asked.

"It musta been a misunderstanding, Mr. Ellison," she replied. "These guys are here to take you to get him."

He nodded once and then climbed into the car, actually thankful when the cop pushed his head down a little in a habitual action to keep him from banging the roof. He'd have probably knocked it if he hadn't been helped. The man shut the door and got back in the front, asking him something as he did so. Jim just shrugged. He didn't understand. The words were too loud and garbled and it hurt his ears. He needed to see his Guide.

The ride was too long. The road was bumpy, every dip and turn exaggerated a hundred fold to his magnified touch. His pants hurt. They were too rough, too tight, too hard. Breathing was difficult, like someone had caught his chest in a vise and tightened it until there wasn't room for the oxygen. It all hurt and he was so tired. Like he'd been running on empty for three months and now there wasn't anything left.

The car stopped and the same cop opened the door, but he didn't move. What did they want now? Someone was screaming, a painful, non-stop yowl that plucked at his nerves before it suddenly crashed into a recognizable sound.

Blair!

That was his Guide!

Someone was making him scream!

He flew out of the car, racing toward the sound and stopped in amazement at the sight before him. Huddled naked in a snowdrift, backed against a building, was his Guide, mouth open as he screamed in wordless fear. He clutched a dirty duffel bag to his chest, clinging to it as if he might draw warmth or comfort from its presence. Jim drew in a deep breath and finally -- finally -- he smelled Sandburg. But it wasn't right. There was something else mixed with the Blairscent. He worked at it carefully, cataloging the odors.

Old dirt.

Urine.

Blood.

Reality crashed again and he pulled himself to a stop. Simon was suddenly there, blanket in hand, and Jim took it gratefully. "Get rid of these lights, Simon," he whispered. "They hurt my eyes and they're scaring him."

Simon nodded and within seconds the area was plunged back into a semi-darkness lit only by the streetlight on the corner. Jim moved forward slowly. "Sandburg," he called softly. "Hey, Chief? It's Jim."

There was a break in the screaming as the frightened man stared up at him.

"Yeah, Chief, it's me."

"Ambulance is on the way, Jim," Simon said. "We've got to get him out of the snow. It's 30 degrees out here. He's gonna freeze."

Jim waved a hand at him, hearing the words, but ignoring them. All that mattered was getting to his Guide. Protect the Guide.

"Blair," he whispered as he moved closer. "C'mon, buddy, it's Jim. Let's get you out of the cold, okay?"

"C-c-c-cold," Blair mumbled, looking around fearfully.

"Yeah, it's cold," Jim reiterated. "C'mere." He crept closer. "Let me put this around you, okay, Chief?"

"Jim, ambulance is here." The words were hissed in his ear, and as he watched, Sandburg drew further back, burrowing deeper into the snow. His teeth chattered and he shuddered convulsively.

"Damn it, Simon," Jim growled, "you're scaring him."

"You've got to get him out of the snow. Now, Jim. He's bleeding."

He breathed in again. The same odor of blood mixed with Sandburg's own unique scent. As he watched, Blair looked up, saw Simon, and began to keen.

"Hushhhhhh, hushhhhhh," Jim murmured. "It's okay, Chief. I'm here."

The head came up and dull blue eyes stared at him without recognition. The eyes lighted on the blanket, and for just a second, there was a spark in them, and then it died, too quickly to have ever been fully born. "C-c-c-c-cold," Blair whimpered. "C-c-c-c-old."

Jim moved forward again, almost within touching distance. "I'm just gonna wrap this around you, okay, Chief? I know it's cold. This will help warm you up." He moved forward once more, this time reaching Blair and wrapping the blanket around him. He was kneeling in snow that came nearly up to his groin but he didn't feel cold or wet. He felt inordinately happy and ridiculously pleased that he'd managed to get a blanket around his terrified partner. The resonance of his emotions was vaguely surreal.

"Ambulance, Jim. His lips are blue."

Jim growled wordlessly and Simon backed away. Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around Blair, pulling him forward to rest in his lap, mostly out of the snow. He pulled the blanket tighter, increasing his grip as the smaller man began to struggle. Jim leaned forward burying his head in Sandburg's neck. He breathed deeply, rubbing his face against the icy skin. Cold, but it finally smelled like Sandburg. He wanted nothing more than to stand his Guide up and sniff him up one side and down the other. He needed to see, and touch, and hear, and feel his Guide. One hand slipped inside the blanket, skin to skin, and he began to touch the younger man. His head was still buried against Sandburg's neck as he breathed deeply of the restorative scent of his Guide. Without conscious thought, his tongue slipped out, lapping at the pulse point in the neck. Salt. Sweat. Fear. Pain. He could taste it all.

Sandburg's struggling had stopped in some primal reaction to his Sentinel's needs. He curled inertly in Jim's lap, not helping as the big man touched and smelled and tasted him, but not objecting either.

It was this acquiescence that caused the problem.

Everyone else saw them sitting there quietly and assumed Jim had calmed down his friend and partner, and it was okay to approach. The EMTs came forward, reaching out to take Sandburg's arms and help him onto the waiting gurney, but at first touch, the small man exploded. He arched backward out of Jim's arms, screaming at the top of his lungs, his head slamming painfully into the wall of the building, and then the screaming stopped abruptly as Sandburg slipped down into unconsciousness.

Simon sat in the small office he'd commandeered, the borrowed TV/VCR unit in front of him. There were 15 tapes, all neatly labeled with date and time, and he spent a few minutes putting them in chronological order. The tapes weren't continual. They covered the entire period Sandburg had been gone, but there were gaps, sometimes of a whole week, in the dates. Of course, to cover every day, there would have been 92 tapes. Sandburg had been gone for 92 days.

He studied the pile of black plastic critically. Who had made the tapes? What was on them? Why the hell had Sandburg been wandering around in downtown Cascade at two in the morning, in 30 degree weather, wearing nothing more than a terrified expression and a duffel bag containing these tapes? How had he gotten back in the country? And where the hell had he been?

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, then seated his glasses there more firmly. He'd stalled long enough. It was time to get the show on the road.

Get things started.

Get it in gear.

Get things moving.

Shit, he was still stalling.

He reached out and plucked the first tape from the top of the pile and held it in his hand. He had a very bad feeling about this. It was one of those times when he wished he wasn't in charge, wished he wasn't the boss. It would be nice to delegate this to someone else, because he had a feeling he wasn't going to enjoy this particular show.

He'd seen the scars on Sandburg when Jim had been working so hard to calm the younger man, to get him out of the snow, out of the cold. New scars that he was sure had not been there when Sandburg went to Brazil. He'd seen long, thick scars on Sandburg's back, and several ugly, puckered scars on his abdomen that had to have come from a puncture or possibly burns.

And there were the still open wounds. The oozing places on Sandburg's feet. The weeping places on his thighs. The bleeding places on his back and chest and arms. He took off his glasses again and then scrubbed his face with both hands. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to see what had been done to his friend. He didn't want to watch those wounds be inflicted, hear Sandburg's cries. He didn't want to know what had been done to the bright, enthusiastic bundle of nonstop energy that had caused him to cry in fear at anyone's approach, to flinch from a touch -- even Jim's, and to now lie curled in a bed unable to speak or interact with them in any way.

He didn't want to know.

But because it was his friend, and because he was the Captain, and because someone had to do it, watching was all he could offer Jim and Blair now. That he would be the one to see it, to know what had happened. That he would spare Jim this and take it on himself. It would be his burden, his nightmare, his helplessness. And hopefully, by watching, it would be enough to help Sandburg get through this, help Jim survive it all, and maybe even find the assholes who'd broken that incredible mind and spirit.

He moved swiftly now, replacing glasses, inserting the tape, pushing the play button. The silence was quickly broken by an earsplitting scream. The time date stamp on the screen showed it to be the day Sandburg disappeared.

And then Sandburg's voice echoed in the room.

"Shit, man. Talk to me. What's this all about? C'mon, man, tell me what you want. Tell me what it is. Maybe I can ..."

The patter was interrupted by another earth shattering howl.

Simon tightened his jaw as he watched the red-hot metal point make contact with Sandburg's abdomen, joining two other wounds that he could see, and he listened to the last helpless screams as his friend writhed in agony on the ground. The camera focused on Blair, his face contorted, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for breath, and then it faded to black.

The next date stamp showed it was several days later. Sandburg was a mass of bruises, more burns, and there were long, open wounds on his back. A whip, maybe? He huddled in the corner of a bare room, shivering on the concrete floor and leaning against concrete walls.

He was naked.

Someone off screen must have spoken, because Sandburg looked up and for a moment the old Sandburg spark was there. "I'm not going to choose, you fuckers," he snarled. "I'm not playing your game."

The camera followed as Sandburg was dragged down a hall and then forcibly immersed in a tub of apparently frigid water. He fought frantically, cursed loudly, and then squealed in helpless frustration as larger, stronger arms and hands forced him down and a metal plate was secured over the tub.

"No, man, 's cold. Hey, what do you want? Tell me what you want? Why're you doing this? What's the point?"

Simon saw the rapid twitch of Blair's head and could only imagine the full body shudder that was occurring beneath the metal plate. Already, Sandburg's teeth were chattering and he had begun to stutter.

"C-c-c-c-cold, man. N-n-n-ot g-g-good. G-g-g-g-otta t-t-t-t-ell me w-w-w-what you w-w-w-want."

Blair kept up the patter, kept trying, for another twenty minutes. Then he fell silent. He struggled to keep his eyes open for another ten minutes, then he lost that battle as well. When he was unconscious, the metal lid was lifted off and he was taken out, still naked, still battered, and carried back to the bare concrete room. The camera focused on his form, curled fetally on the floor, and then faded to black.

Simon hit eject. He fumbled through the tapes skipping ahead three weeks. He inserted the new one and hit play. Sandburg lay curled on the floor of the same bare room. He rose slowly and carefully, moved to the far corner and urinated. Then he went back and sank to the floor again. His mouth was moving but no sound made it onto the tape. Simon narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out what Sandburg was saying. Jim would know. Jim would be able to tell. But Jim would never see this, of that Simon would be sure. He studied the anthropologist's dry lips and suddenly it became clear. Jim. He was calling for Jim.

Over and over and over again.

Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim.

It was unbearable.

Sandburg's arms were wrapped around himself and without thinking Simon mirrored the action. Sandburg rocked back and forth, and so did he. When Sandburg suddenly froze and looked up, Simon's unconscious movement halted as well. Once again, something was said off screen and Sandburg shook his head. "I won't choose," he said as he dropped his head. "You're not making me take responsibility for any of this."

Something else was said and Blair raised his head, horror on his face. "No," he panted, "no. I'll choose." Arms appeared, grabbing him, dragging him out of the room, down the hall and into the room with the tub again. "I'll choose, I'll choose," Sandburg begged. "Let me choose. I choose the cold. Cold. You hear me? Cold."

The hot poker appeared in the frame again, and Sandburg's eyes widened once more. "Nooooooo," he screamed. "Not both. I choose! I choose!" But he was held implacably in place and this time the metal headed for his thigh. The image moved in slowly, so Simon had a good chance to see the other three burns on Sandburg's belly, all red and weeping, as it panned in closer and closer to the new wound on the thigh. The metal touched and there was a raw, sizzling sound that seemed to crash against his ears, then Sandburg howled and his bladder released. The hands let him go and he dropped like a stone, legs splayed apart, hands hovering over, but not touching his new brand. The camera recorded it all unemotionally, with no commentary, just the unending screams and tears, the inability to do anything to ease the pain, the renewed cries of "Jim, Jim, Jim ..."

Simon was about to turn it off and move on to another tape when the arms appeared and Blair was once again dumped into the tub of water. He screamed as the cold made contact with the burn, and then ice was dumped in on top of him. Buckets and buckets of ice, until he was completely covered, only his head visible. The metal plate went back on, and this time Sandburg didn't try to talk. And the cries of "Jim, Jim, Jim," changed to stammered whimpers of "cold, cold, cold."

Simon reached out and turned the machine off. My God, this was only the third week. He still had nine more weeks to get through. Rage boiled in his chest, racing through his body, commandeering his limbs. He leapt up and began to pace, frantic little steps because the damned office wasn't big enough for anything else. His hands hung in fists at the end of arms so tight they could be made of stone. He wanted to break something. Hit something. Kill something. He moved more rapidly, back and forth, struggling for control, not finding it. On the next turn by the door, he paused, leaning up against the wall as he dragged in deep ragged breaths and fought the battle not to explode.

It was a battle he lost.

He watched as if it were happening to someone else as his arm lifted, and he drove the fist into the wall. He pulled back and did it again, and then again. And then, the pain signals finally connected in his brain, and the rage short-circuited, and he sat down and cried. Not long, and not hard, because he wasn't a man who cried, no matter what the provocation. But tears were shed; they crawled down his cheeks and dried there.

He studied his hand, ignoring the tears, and wondered how much it was going to cost him to get the damn wall fixed. He wondered if he'd broken anything in his hand. He idly thought that at least he was in the right place to have a broken hand. Bound to be a doctor around somewhere in a hospital. The wry thought made him chuckle and it was that sound that made him realize he was almost in shock. That seemed to be what he needed to force himself back into himself. He pulled his handkerchief and wrapped his hand, then shuffled through the tapes again, slamming the sixth week into the slot.

It started with a slow panning over Sandburg's inert body. He looked awful. He was rail thin with ribs visible through paper-thin skin. His hair was a filthy, matted mess -- the only part of him that hadn't been subjected to the brutal cold water baths. But the burns on his belly had healed now, the fresh puckered scars visible against the pale flesh. There were four on his thighs now too. Simon had only seen the first one administered. These were at various degrees of healing, from a fairly new one that still wept to two that appeared healed. There was a new one on the bottom of his foot as well, and Simon winced at the thought of Sandburg having to walk.

As he watched, Blair urinated where he lay, then pushed himself up and crawled a few feet away. Simon hit pause and covered his face in his hands. There was such helplessness in that action. Such a loss of control. Simon studied his mouth, but the lips didn't move. There were no more silent pleas for rescue by his partner. Something inside Simon's chest tightened at that silence. This was where Blair had begun to break.

The arms appeared again, and the off screen question was asked. Simon had the hang of it now. He could almost hear the words. "Choose. Hot or cold?" Sandburg hung limply in the arms, not even lifting his head to mutter, "Cold." He was dragged down the hall, strapped into the tub, covered in ice, and again, the camera ran until he was unconscious and he was removed.

He was dropped on the floor of the concrete room where he curled into himself, shivering and shaking and began to moan.

Simon ejected the tape, moved forward again to the ninth week. The room was different this time. The tub had been moved into the concrete room. Sandburg sat against the wall, shivering as he stared at it. There were no obvious new wounds that Simon could find as he studied the naked body on the screen. Sandburg stared at the tub, then murmured, "Cold." He glanced around the room, eyes darting fearfully into all the corners. "Cold," he whimpered as he began to crawl towards the tub. Simon watched in complete shock as Blair pulled himself shakily to his feet and once again looked around the room. He held himself erect on shaky legs, half bent over as he supported himself on the side of the tub. Tears began to stream down his face as he murmured, "Cold, cold, cold," over and over again. His body shook and his limbs trembled as the force of his fear spilled over, but he clung to the tub, eyes again staring around the room, tears glistening on his face. Slowly, and with great reluctance, he climbed into the tub.

He sank into the frigid water, closing his eyes helplessly as he was wracked with shivers that were so severe they bordered on convulsions. A hand appeared, patting him on the head, and then the ice was added. When he was unconscious, he was removed, and dropped back to the concrete floor.

What the hell was that all about?

Simon fast-forwarded the tape, stopped at an almost identical scene near the end.

Sandburg on the floor, eyes darting furiously around.

Muttered chant of "Cold, cold, cold."

Slow creeping towards the tub.

"Cold, cold, cold ..."

Frantic glances into the corners of the room.

"Cold, cold, cold ..."

Pulling to his knees by the tub.

"Cold, cold, cold ..." More searching looks. Tears began to fall.

"Cold, cold, cold ..."

But this time, before he made it into the tub, the hands were there and he began to scream at their touch.

"Cold! Cold! Cold!"

He heard the response this time -- the first voice that wasn't Blair's on the tape.

"Not fast enough."

That was all.

Just "Not fast enough."

Simon quickly put it together and realized Sandburg had been conditioned to choose and inflict his own torture of the tub, or face something else, something worse. Though what could be worse than repeated hypothermia to the point of unconsciousness?

It was the whip this time, and Simon finally saw where the long scars on Sandburg's back had come from. How the bleeding stripes had been incurred. It was five quick blows and Sandburg screamed non-stop, crying over and over, "Cold! Cold! Cold!"

Sandburg was dropped onto the concrete again, still conscious and moaning, and this time, when his bladder released, he didn't even bother to roll over and move away.

It was all he could take today. He couldn't watch anymore. There were 90 hours of tapes, and he'd sat through barely two hours, and hadn't gotten past the ninth week, but it was all he could do. He couldn't face it anymore. He reached out to stop the tape and froze, eyes glued to the screen.

Even with all he'd seen, all the thinking and convincing himself nothing else could surprise him, all the time he'd had to get ready, nothing could have prepared him for the last image that flickered onto the screen.

A bold red background.

Shining white circle.

Black swastika.

Simon hit pause, staring at the screen in complete shock until the nausea hit. And then, he simply pulled a trashcan over and emptied his stomach. When he was done, he rose, arms wrapped tightly about himself and moved to stand by the single small window in the room.

Simon looked gray when he came back a few hours later. His shoulders seemed permanently slumped and his hands shook ever so slightly. Jim could hear the other man's heart still racing. He carried extra blankets that he dumped unceremoniously on the end of Blair's bed. Jim started to rise, but Simon held out one hand.

"No," he said shortly.

Jim cocked an eyebrow. "No?"

"No." Simon pulled the second chair around the bed and placed it next to Jim. He studied the still figure in the bed, then pulled a blanket from the pile of extras and laid it over the sleeping man. At Jim's quizzical look, he said, "I don't want him to be cold." He stepped back and sank into the waiting chair.

"Let's go back to 'No,' Simon," Jim said carefully.

"I said no." Simon bit the words off angrily but the anger wasn't directed at his detective.

"I want to see the tapes." There was a hint of anger in Jim's voice now too, though he kept his tone low to avoid disturbing the man on the bed.

"No, you don't." Simon sighed, removed his glasses and ran one hand tiredly over his face. Silence stretched between the men until the older finally replaced the glasses and turned. "Look, Jim. You DO NOT want to see these tapes. You may think you do, but you don't." He shuddered slightly and rose again, his hand coming out to touch the brow of the man on the bed. It was warm and the frightening pallor of the man on the tape had been replaced with a natural ruddiness. "He looks better," he commented as he straightened the blankets, making sure they were tucked in tightly around Blair's shoulders so that no stray current of cold could invade his warm cocoon.

Jim nodded. "They had to tranq him again -- he woke up and went ballistic. Leapt off the bed, huddled in the corner. He kept saying, "Cold, cold, cold," like it was his mantra or something. He let me get near, let me put a blanket on him. But he wouldn't get back in the bed, wouldn't let anyone else touch him. He barely tolerated my touch, and only for a moment." Jim rose and began to pace. "Damn it, Simon, I need to know what happened to him!"

Blair moaned at the angry outburst and Jim hurried to the bed, reaching out to stroke the younger man's forehead, to push unruly strands of hair away from his face. "Shhh, Chief," he soothed, "it's okay. I'm here." He started to pull the blanket back, to reach for Blair's hand, but Simon stopped him.

"Keep him covered," he said softly. "Keep him warm."

Jim's brow furrowed as he stared at the bigger man, but he smoothed the blanket back down, tucking it in around Blair's hand. He went back to stroking his partner's forehead and murmuring assurances. "You're safe, Chief. It's okay now."

When the man in the bed had settled and was once again sleeping soundly, Jim turned on Simon. "Outside," he demanded in a terse whisper.

Simon nodded and led the way to the hall. He stopped to speak to the uniform by the door. "Detective Ellison and I are going to the family waiting room down the hall. I want you to remain in the room with Sandburg, and if he so much as moves or makes a single sound -- no matter how slight -- you come and get us immediately. Understood?"

The man nodded and ducked into Blair's room as Jim exited.

"What happened to him, Simon?" There was the beginning of panic in Jim's voice. "What was on those tapes?"

Simon shook his head and led the way to the small waiting room. It was empty and he closed the door behind them, then waited until Jim sat down. "You are not going to watch the tapes," he said in a rough, emotion-laden voice.

"I need to know what happened ..."

"I'm going to tell you. I'll tell you and the doctors and anyone else who needs to know. I can answer your questions. I can tell you what happened. But right now, James Ellison, you need to accept the fact that you are not viewing the tapes."

Jim stared up at the larger man, gauging the level of his determination, then asked, "Why?"

"Because you don't need to see it." Simon began to pace, one hand scrubbing at his face as he marked out a trail across the small room. "It was," he stopped and threw his hands up in frustration as he searched for the words, and finally settled on, "bad."

The simplicity of the statement seemed to affect Jim more than anything else Simon could have said. "Jesus," he whispered, face paling slightly. He forced himself to breathe and then closed his eyes briefly to listen to the man in the bed down the hall. Heartbeat steady, respiration normal. It was comforting. He focused on the sound of his Guide, let the comfort wash over him, relishing the ability to do that which had been denied him for over three months. Time began to stretch and he was lost in that wonderful world of Guide, heartbeat, breath. Guide, heartbeat, breath.

It enraged him to think that anyone would dare to take that from him -- from them. That someone would dare to take his Guide, hurt him, damage him, and think that they could just drop him back off at home with impunity. He was more determined than ever to know what had happened to Blair -- to find the ones who had injured him in this way.

"Jim."

"Jim."

"Jim!"

The sound was suddenly loud in his ears and he winced as he opened his eyes to find his boss kneeling in front of him, hands on his arms.

"You with me now, Jim?"

His eyes narrowed, cold and hard, as he studied the other man, and there was a part of him that was pleased to see the larger man drop his hands quickly, rise and back away. Jim was willing to bet Simon wasn't even aware he'd done it.

When he spoke, his voice was tortured and harsh. "That man in there..." he paused as his voice grew ragged for a moment, fought for control, and went on, "that man is broken, Simon. Broken. Someone, somewhere did things to him that have damaged him."

"He's back, Jim. He's alive." The words were spoken quietly. "What's broken can be fixed."

"Not always! And it's not the same -- the mending leaves its mark." It was his turn to rise and pace now. "God damn it, Simon! Can you imagine Sandburg not able to talk? Afraid of everything? Unwilling to be touched?" He ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. "How's he going to work? Finish his dissertation? Shit, Simon -- how's he ever going to be able to be alone again?" He stopped, looking at his Captain who stared back evenly. Jim drew himself up, forced himself to speak calmly. "I need to see the tapes. You know I need to see the tapes. I may see things, hear things no one else can. I may be able to tell who did this to him."

"What's your priority, Jim? Being here for Sandburg, helping him through this? Or tracking down the perps?" Simon exhaled audibly, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. "You can't do both."

Jim rose angrily and headed toward the door. "Fuck you, Simon. I need to see them."

Simon grabbed Jim by the shoulder, spinning him around, and used the element of surprise to slam the smaller man against the wall. "I. Said. No."

"And I said fuck you." Jim's eyes narrowed when his boss didn't release him. "Do you really want to do this, Simon?" he asked.

The older man's grip was implacable. "No. I don't. But I'm telling you, Jim, I'd rather beat you senseless than let you see those tapes. You hear what I'm saying, Jim?" The tension in the other man eased minutely. "I'll do it. You can take a beating better than you can take seeing what's on those tapes." Jim pushed against him again, and he tightened his grip once more.

"Don't make me hurt you, Simon." The words were low and dangerous.

"You can hurt me, Jim. Hell, you can probably kill me. But I guarantee I can give as good as I get before I go." He laughed a shaky little laugh that seemed to mock his decision to handle this in this way. Who the hell was he to take on a man with the kind of training Ellison had? He'd be lucky not to end up dead. "And you're not viewing the tapes." Simon shuddered and added, "Ever."

It was the shudder that did it. The tension leeched from Jim in an instant and instead of fighting to hold him still, Simon found himself fighting to hold him up. He wrapped an arm around his detective and led him to a chair, pushing him into it gently. He watched as Jim leaned forward, burying his face in his hands and rocking back and forth in silence. Simon turned away, moving to the small coffeepot in the room and busying himself with the task of making coffee, finding cups, and straightening up the little area. When the coffee was done, he filled two cups and turned back to find Jim sitting in the chair, watching him with eyes like cold blue steel.

"Tell me what they did to him."

It was late the second day when Simon popped his head in the door. Facing over 90 hours of tapes, he'd had no choice but to delegate some of the viewing. Given the nature of Sandburg's disappearance and the swastika symbol on the tape, he'd contacted the FBI. He couldn't bear the thought of making anyone in Major Crimes sit through the tapes -- hell, he didn't want anyone in the Cascade PD watching those tapes. Not for their own sake, and not for Blair and Jim's. It would be better if knowledge of what happened to Sandburg came from reading the transcripts, which he knew everyone in Major Crimes would do. It was too hard to watch and this one was more than personal.

Even as he stood here, there were people watching what Blair had gone through, and transcripts were being typed up. It was going to be a very thick file by the time all this was over. And even though he'd had to bring in others to get through the tapes, he'd still forced himself to sit through another six hours. It was painful, and vaguely masochistic, but for some reason he felt that he owed it to his men, that someone who cared should view these tapes, and not just the nameless, faceless strangers of the FBI.

Jim was seated in the same hard plastic chair he'd been in for the past 36 hours. It was close to the bed, within touching distance, but Simon noted that Jim hadn't pulled Blair's hand out to hold onto and the blankets, at least four by a quick count, were still tucked tightly around the sleeping man. As he watched, Blair shifted on the bed, a little moan escaping his dry lips. Jim rose immediately and pressed a hand to his partner's forehead, murmuring quietly into his ear. Once Blair was still again, Jim methodically retucked the blankets, making sure there was no possibility that a single molecule of cool air could invade the warm nest he had created for his Guide. He rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table and pulled a little pot of lip balm. Dipping his little finger in the ointment, he carefully, almost reverently, anointed Blair's dry and cracked lips. It was an oddly intimate moment, and Simon turned his head to offer them a bit more privacy. A soft sigh escaped those lips as Jim's finger lingered a moment and then the Sentinel wiped his hand, and replaced the balm in the drawer.

"How's he doing?" Simon asked, knowing Jim was aware of his presence.

Jim shrugged. "They keep drugging him. When he wakes up, he freaks out. Won't stay in the bed, won't keep his clothes on. Keeps ripping out the IV line." Jim moved a few feet from the bed and ran one hand through his hair in frustration. "He keeps wetting the bed." His eyes were averted from Simon's as he spoke.

"It didn't look like he had bathroom privileges while he was gone, Jim."

The detective nodded. "I know. You told me. I'm just wondering -- what if he's ... What if he can't?"

"Can't control it?"

Jim shook his head angrily. "I know it's stupid. It should be one of the last things I'm worried about. But I have a feeling it would be a big deal to Sandburg." He dropped his voice as he looked at his Captain. "They're pressing to catheterize him."

"And you said no?"

"I've got his medical power of attorney. A catheter is not what he needs." Jim turned and paced two steps then turned back. He was restless, angry, exhausted, and there was nowhere to go. "But every time he voids, they have to change the sheets, and he has to get up. Then he gets cold, and then he gets upset, and then they pump him full of drugs again." He moved back to the bed, checking the blankets almost obsessively, then dropped wearily into the seat. "I can't get him clear enough of the drugs to even try to talk to him." His head flopped forward, resting on the edge of the bed and one hand snaked out to lay protectively over his partner's leg. "I don't even know if he knows I'm here."

"He knows, Jim, he knows." Simon moved forward and laid a large hand on the detective's shoulder. It rested there comfortably for a long moment and then the older man said, "You need to get out of here for a while. Come with me. Let's go get something to eat."

"I can't, Simon. I can't leave him." Jim's eyes were haunted as he lifted his head to meet his boss's gaze. "What if he wakes up?"

"What if you exhaust yourself to the point that you're non-functional? What if you don't eat and then zone on the hunger pangs? What if you wear yourself down to the point that you're no good to him at all? Then what is he going to do?"

Ellison shuddered slightly, and let his head drop back to the blanket that covered his Guide. "I can't leave him. I've been sleeping some. I can sleep when I hear his heart."

Simon gave the shoulder beneath his hand a slight squeeze. "Come eat with me. We'll get Murphy to sit in here. We'll just go to the cafeteria and Murphy will call us if Sandburg so much as rolls over." He tugged gently and was rewarded when Jim got to his feet reluctantly.

"They just gave him another shot of the sleepy stuff. He shouldn't move for a couple of hours."

"We're not going to be gone that long." Simon was moving the exhausted man toward the door, his hand on Jim's arm now. "Murphy will call us."

The door opened and Simon leaned over to speak to the uniform in the chair. "I want you to sit with Sandburg, Murphy, while Detective Ellison gets something to eat."

The seated man rose and nodded. He was as big as Simon, but heavier. An older man who had worked a beat all his life and liked what he did. He was experienced, and knew all the detectives in Major Crimes and had volunteered to take some of the shifts guarding Sandburg. "Not a problem, Sir."

Simon passed him a card. "My pager is on that card. You page me if Sandburg wakes up -- or if anything else happens. Got it?"

Again the man in the uniform nodded. Simon pulled on Jim's arm again, but he broke away and moved back to the bed. He checked the blankets again, tucking in corners that didn't need tucking, and stroking Sandburg's cheek as he murmured to him. "Just gonna get a bite to eat, Chief. Murphy's gonna sit with you." He leaned in low and spoke right into the sleeping man's ear. "Coming right back, Chief. I'm coming right back."

Murphy moved past Simon and took Jim's chair. "I'll take care of him, Detective," he said quietly. "Go take a break." He reached out and patted Sandburg's leg. "How you doing, man? It's Murph, from downstairs."

"You call us if he moves, okay?"

Murphy nodded but still Jim did not move. Simon stepped back into the room, took Jim's arm again, and drew the man away. "He'll be okay. We'll be back within an hour. I promise."

The walk to the elevator was silent. The ride to the second floor was silent. They threaded their way through corridors lined with offices and meeting rooms and eventually found the cafeteria. Jim followed Simon blindly, still not speaking, and when asked what he wanted to eat, just shrugged. It was up to the Captain once again to make decisions. He grabbed two trays and then got two plates of the main course, roast beef. He choose mashed potatoes and peas for them both, added rolls, and then, with a slight glance back at his still silent friend, grabbed a couple of pieces of apple pie. "What do you want to drink, Jim?" he asked as he stood in front of the fountain machine. When Ellison just shook his head, Simon added bottled water for them both and pushed the trays forward to the cash register. He paid, then lifted his tray and nudged Jim. "I can't carry them both, Ellison."

The words seemed to break whatever spell Jim was under and he looked down at the full tray, wrinkled his brow as he took in the large amount of heavy food, then lifted it and followed Simon to a small table in the back corner. Once seated he just stared at the plate until Simon took the fork and passed it to him.

"Just a few bites, Jim. Get something in your stomach."

Again, Jim nodded. "Did you see what they fed Sandburg?" he asked as he took the first bite.

Simon shook his head. "Meals weren't on the visuals."

"But he ate."

"Had to. He's thin -- lost a lot of weight -- but it was too long for them to have not fed him at all."

Jim was eating almost methodically. Fork, lift, chew. Not thinking, just acting. "Wonder what he ate."

"What're you gonna fix him when you take him home?"

Jim shrugged. "Something goopy. Some tofu thing, or ..." He shrugged again. "Hell, I don't know. Something he likes." Jim forked another mouthful of mashed potatoes and swallowed. "Maybe he'll be talking by then and he can tell me what he wants." Jim finished the mashed potatoes and started on the peas. "FBI find anything?"

"Not yet." Simon wasn't really hungry, but he kept eating. It seemed to keep Jim going. Every time he lifted his fork, Jim did the same. When Simon put his down, so did Jim. There was more silence as he finished everything on his plate and looked over in satisfaction to see Jim had done the same. He didn't really want the pie, but he shifted plates and pulled the smaller one in front of himself.

" 's okay, Simon." Jim offered a half smile as he looked up at his boss. "I don't really want the pie either."

"Damn, Ellison. How do you know these things?" The older man laughed as he spoke and pushed the pie away in relief. He really didn't need it.

Jim lifted the water bottle and drank. "I want to go back." He rose and stretched, looking around for a place to take the tray and dump the trash. Spotting several bins by the door, he headed that way, barely acknowledging that Simon was following quickly behind.

With their table cleared and the trays returned, both men headed back for the elevator. "Thanks, Simon," Jim offered once they were in the small car and riding up. "I needed to eat and I needed to get out. It helped me clear my head." He stood relaxed against the wall of the car, looking steadily at the other man. "I know what Sandburg needs now." There was a short 'ding' and the elevator stopped, doors whooshing open. Jim exited and set off down the hall, Simon trailing in his wake.

Even before he had reached the door to Sandburg's room, he tensed and began to move more quickly. Simon could see him breathing deeply, sniffing the air, and when he entered Sandburg's room, he immediately pounced on the older cop sitting patiently in the chair.

"Why the hell didn't you call me?"

Murphy looked up in astonishment. "He's sleeping, Ellison. He never moved." He rose and his eyes cut to the bed to see if he had missed something obvious, but Sandburg still lay curled into himself, totally still.

"You were just going to let him lay here like this? Leave him like this?" His hands were running over the younger man now, stroking him through the blankets as he leaned down and whispered into his ear. " 's all right, Blair. " 's okay. I'll get you cleaned up. It's all right. Nothing to worry about."

He turned back to the uniform and glared. "Get out."

Murphy still looked baffled and seemed ready to say something else, but Simon took his arm and led him out, closing the door behind them.

"Look, Cap'n, I don't know what the hell that was all about, but I swear to you, Sandburg never moved ..."

Simon shook his head. "Not your fault, Murph," he offered. "Ellison's -- prickly -- when it comes to his partner."

"I understand that, but what the hell was he going on about? Leaving him there like that? What's he talking about?"

Simon cleared his throat. "Look, Murph, this is -- personal. I don't want this getting around."

"Soul of discretion here, Cap."

Simon looked up to the see that the big man who had volunteered his time to be here was seriously confused and a little bit hurt. "Sandburg's had some problems with -- incontinence."

Murphy looked at the door, then back at Simon. "Oh. Shit. I didn't know, Cap'n. He never said anything." He ran one hand through his hair. "Hell, he never moved." Murphy looked at the Captain, then sighed. "You gotta believe me. If I'd known, if I'd realized, I'd a called you."

Simon reached out and patted the big man's arm. "I know, Murph. And believe me, Ellison does, too. He's just on edge now. You were a convenient target."

The cop nodded. "Not a problem." He glanced at the door again. "You guys need any help, you know, cleaning things up?"

Simon shook his head. "No, thanks anyway. We can handle it." He reached out to the door, hand resting on the handle, then turned back as Murphy settled into the chair again. "Look, Murph, I know you volunteered to be here. Ellison shouldn't have jumped you like that, but ..."

"Nah, Cap, it's all right. I like the hairy little guy." He grinned up at the dark-skinned man. "And I'm big enough, I can ignore Ellison."

Simon patted his shoulder. "Good man," he said as he opened the door and went back in.

Jim was slowly stripping the blankets off the bed. He was down to just one, and now Simon could smell the faint odor of urine as well. Sandburg was moaning and shifting on the bed. Jim reached out and stroked his face, once again soothing the half-asleep, half-drugged man.

"Cold ..."

"Shhhh, Blair, 's all right." Jim ran one finger down Blair's cheek, letting it rest against the jawline. "I just want to get you cleaned up. Clean sheets, clean clothes."

"Cold." Simon watched as Blair's eyes opened fully, resting on Jim with crystal blue clarity, and then he shivered violently. "Cold. Cold ..." He began to struggle to get out of the bed.

"He thinks he has to choose again, Jim," Simon said quietly. "He's choosing the cold."

Blair turned to look at Simon, no recognition in his eyes. "I. Choose," he mumbled as he shivered again.

"No choices, Chief," Jim said softly, his voice low and husky. "You're safe now."

Blair closed his eyes again, still shivering and began to cry. "Cold," he whimpered.

A nurse came in just then, an older woman with a sour expression on her face. She took in the scene by the bed and said, "He's wet again, isn't he?"

Jim just nodded.

"He needs a catheter, Mr. Ellison."

Jim rounded on her, one hand still on his partner, stroking, soothing, even as he spoke icily to the intruder. "You only want to catheterize him to make your job easier." He looked back at the man in the bed, spoke softly to him as his hand continued to rub gently. "Just get me clean linens. I'll take care of him."

The nurse started to say something, but a hand on her arm from Simon silenced her. She nodded shortly and ducked out. In short order, a young aide appeared with clean sheets and two fresh blankets. "I can get more blankets," she stammered, "if the others are dirty, too."

"Won't be necessary," Simon said, accepting her bundle. "Thank you."

She bobbed her head quickly and left, leaving Simon to wonder exactly what Ellison had done to cow the staff so completely. He looked up to find Jim staring down at his partner with such an expression of sadness, it broke his heart. He cleared his throat gruffly, then asked, "How do you want to do this?"

"They want to cut his hair." Simon waited a moment to see if Jim would offer more than the nonsequitur. When nothing more was forthcoming, he focused on the matted nest that topped Sandburg's head. It had been washed, but even he had to wonder if the snarled, tangled mass could ever be made right again. Twelve weeks was a long time.

"I don't want them to cut his hair."

Simon eyed the matted rat's nest again, then said, "I don't know, Jim. It looks pretty bad." He shrugged. "I don't know if there's anything to do but cut it."

"I can fix it." Jim touched the thick snarls gently. He looked up at Simon and the older man could see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. "I can fix him, Simon," he whispered as his gaze returned to the man in the bed. "I have to."

Simon waited a few beats, then asked, "What do you want to do now?"

"Let's get him up and into the shower." Jim studied the IV. "Call that nurse in here and let's get the line out for a bit."

Simon started to argue, but then decided that when it came to Sandburg and what he needed, Jim probably knew best. He stepped to the door, asked Murphy to get the nurse, then came back. "Do you think he's ready for a shower? All that time in water ..."

"This will be warm water -- not cold. And a shower -- not a bath." Jim looked up. "And I'm getting in with him. He's not going to be alone -- not for a minute." Jim began to strip down until he wore nothing but his boxers.

The nurse came in, looked at him strangely, but under the weight of the glare he gave her, she didn't comment.

"Take the IV out," he ordered. "I want to give him a shower."

"We need to check with the doctor first, Mr. Ellison."

"You can take it out, or I can," Jim growled. "Then you can check with the doctor while I give him a shower."

The woman stared at him for a moment, then gave a little 'hmmph' of annoyance, but she bent over Blair's bed and in seconds the IV was out. "You know he's going to scream again, Mr. Ellison, and then we're just going to have to hold him down and stick him again to calm him down."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "No one's going to stick him again. And I'll calm him down."

The woman rolled her eyes, giving Jim a 'you're crazy' look, but she left without another word.

Simon watched with growing trepidation. "Are you sure this is such a good idea, Jim?"

"He needs to be clean. Sandburg likes showers."

Simon didn't ask how Jim came to know this.

"And he needs to feel safe, Simon." Jim ran his hands over the man in the bed, a gentle, soothing caress. "How can he feel safe if they keep him drugged to the gills?"

Simon studied the other's man face. Exhaustion was etched in every line. He was pale, and his normally bright blue eyes were dulled with worry and fear. He sighed and moved forward to lay a hand on Jim's back. "Okay, Jim. What do you want me to do?"

"Start the shower." Jim nodded his head over his shoulder, pointing to the bathroom. "As hot as you think we can take it. Then come back in here and help me get him up. I'm going to try and wake him, explain what we're doing, but he's still liable to panic when the blankets come off."

Simon moved to the bathroom and the sound of running water was heard. Very shortly thereafter, steam began to billow out of the open door. Jim nodded approvingly. The bathroom would be warm. If he could just get Blair out of the bed and into the bathroom, it would be warm.

He shook his partner gently. "Sandburg -- Blair -- wake up, Chief."

Blair rolled back toward Jim, eyes opening as he shivered under just one blanket. He stared at Jim with no recognition, then closed his eyes and once again said, "Cold."

"No." The word came out more harshly than Jim intended, and Blair's eyes shot open in fear. Gentling his tone, Jim reached out and stroked the other man's face. "No more cold, Chief," he whispered. "But I need to get you up. You understand? You need to get up."

"Cold ..."

Jim lowered the rail and pulled back the last blanket. Sandburg immediately began to buck and strain against Jim's hand. "Give me a hand here, Simon," he said softly, even as he cooed reassurances to the struggling man. "You gotta get up, Sandburg," Jim murmured. "Don't fight me, Chief."

Blair arched on the bed, then twisted out of Jim's grasp and darted out of the bed. He dropped to the floor and scrambled to the far corner, an unearthly yowling issuing from his lips. Jim winced and had his own struggle to turn down his hearing, then he moved slowly toward the terrified man in the corner. He held a blanket with one hand, and extended the other in supplication. "C'mon, Chief, it's just me. Jim. I just wanna help."

The yowling stopped. Blair blinked cloudy blue eyes and looked up fuzzily. "Jim?" he croaked.

"Yeah, buddy. Jim. It's me. Jim."

"Jim." Blair stared at Jim as if he were an apparition, then his eyes darted fearfully around the room. "Cold, cold, cold," he chanted, seeming to have forgotten Jim's presence as quickly as he acknowledged it.