by Beth Manz
He would have been content to sit for hours more, except for the fact that he knew Blair would be home by now, worrying about him. Or would Blair be there at all? Which loft would Jim be returning to? Would it be the barren apartment that mocked him with its absence of Blair's presence, Blair's unique imprint on his life? Or would he be greeted by the warmly appointed loft in which his partner still lived and laughed and continually turned Jim's life upside down with his exuberance and his love of life.
Please don't be gone, Blair... Please don't let the nightmares be real...
Hesitantly, Jim forced his gaze to the spot beneath the old weeping willow where Blair's gravestone had stood in his nightmare... the area was barren, only spindly brown tufts of crabgrass marked the location where the stone had been placed.
He's not here. He's home at the loft, alive. Please... please let that be reality. Please let me find Blair at home, alive.
Pushing up from the concrete bench, Jim stood, allowing his muscles to flex and stretch against the stiffness that had developed in his lower back and legs. Casting one final glance toward the Grant family tomb, silently cursing Marcus Grant for bringing all this agony down upon him... upon Blair... Jim began a slow trek across the cemetery grounds, toward his truck parked in the distance.
Later, he wouldn't remember starting the truck, pulling out onto the road, or even driving over half the distance between the cemetery and Prospect Street. What he would remember was the soul-crushing melancholy, the gnawing terror that he was possibly returning to an empty apartment, the dread of what he might have to do if the dreams turned out to be his reality after all.
And he would remember the persuasive tug of exhaustion, pulling at him relentlessly as he navigated his way across town; the fight to keep his eyes open against the strong urge to sleep; the sound, sight and feel of the pickup impacting with a towering oak; and darkness... spiraling darkness into which he happily surrendered himself.
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The curtain to the examination cubicle was ripped back and Blair Sandburg burst in, his breaths coming in short, audible gasps, stubborn determination etched in the set of his jaw. The young man's eyes darted between Jim, seated on the exam table holding an ice pack against his bruised cheek, and the nurse standing beside the detective, who was delicately situating a butterfly bandage across a gash on his forehead.
"What happened!" Blair demanded, stepping up to the table.
Ellison took a deep breath against the almost overwhelming relief that rushed through him at the sight of his partner. The doubts and fears that had assailed him in the cemetery--that had assailed him across the past several days--still held fast to the edges of his tattered emotions, but seeing Blair here, alive...
"I crashed the truck into a tree," Jim answered after a few seconds.
"No kidding, Sherlock," Blair spat out. "I knew that much before I got here. What I don't know is how it happened. Did someone run you off the road? Did you hit wet pavement? Was there--"
"Blair, please," Jim interrupted wearily, smiling wanly and raising his hand to halt the mind-numbing deluge of questions. He offered a grateful smile to the nurse, who had finished applying the bandage, then waited until she had exited the cubicle before turning his attention back to his partner. "My head is splitting here, Chief, and I can only handle one question at a time. One very softly stated question at a time, please."
Immediately, Blair's attitude changed. An apologetic grimace replaced the determined anger in his expression and he reached over and lay a hand against Jim's arm. "I'm sorry man. I was just so worried. Some ER nurse called and told me you'd been in an accident. She said the accident was minor, but I didn't know what to think..."
"It's okay," Jim assured his friend, reaching over to pat at Blair's shoulder, taking comfort in the warm, solid feel of Blair's body beneath his fingers. He's really here... I can touch him. He's safe. He's alive. The sentinel allowed his hand to linger on his partner's shoulder, allowed the presence of his guide to bring some semblance of order to his jumbled world.
"So, you gonna tell me what happened?" Blair asked.
"You aren't going to like it."
Blair snorted. "Probably not, but since when does that change anything." Sandburg folded his arms across his chest. "Shoot," he said.
Jim took a deep breath and then told his partner the truth: "I fell asleep at the wheel."
"You what!?" the younger man exploded, moving closer, staring at him incredulously. "I knew it! I knew you had no business being out today." Blair's eyes traveled the length of Jim's body then returned to the sentinel's face, meeting Jim's gaze evenly. "Look at you," he lectured. "You're exhausted--any fool could see that a mile away. You should have been at home, in bed--"
"Chief, please--"
"Where have you been all day, by the way? I went to the station, but you never showed up. I've been worried sick--"
Jim held up a hand, and Blair grimaced. "Sorry. Too much?"
"Right." Jim smiled wearily, squeezing Blair's shoulder one last time before reluctantly letting go. Scooting gingerly off the exam table, Jim discarded the ice pack and allowed his partner to help him shrug into his jacket. Sandburg turned to precede the detective out of the cubicle, but Jim reached out and lay a hand against his shoulder, stopping Blair, causing him to turn back and face him.
The young man moved close again, his expression a study in concern. "What is it? You all right?"
Jim stared down at his friend, reached up and brushed the back of his fingers softly down the length of Blair's face, once again taking solace in the fact that his partner was here, standing only inches away, alive. "I'm fine," he whispered out after a long moment, augmenting his words with a warm smile. "I'm just glad you're here, that's all."
Blair placed one hand against Jim's chest, palm across the sentinel's heart. Leaning close, he stared up into Jim's face and said quietly, "When we get home, you and I are going to have a talk. You know that, don't you?"
Part Six
Jim walked into the loft and tossed his keys to the side, aiming for the basket by the door. They fell to the floor with a hollow clang. There was no basket by the door for his and Blair's keys because there were no keys for Blair.
Blair is dead.
The three words echoed through his mind just as they had been over and over again since leaving the cemetery. He's dead. Jim closed the door behind him and shuffled inside... to the empty loft, to a life without his guide.
Alone.
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Blair placed the pan of lasagna in the oven and turned the timer to ring in an hour. Looking up, he listened for signs of movement from Jim's room above. He heard nothing. Jim was still asleep.
On the way home from the hospital, Jim had fallen asleep in the front seat of the Volvo--no easy feat for a man who stood over six feet--except that the detective was bone tired, exhausted. Once back home at the loft, Blair had helped Jim up to bed, then had run down to the corner deli for a pan of the four-cheese lasagna that Jim liked so much. Blair was hoping that a nice nap and a good meal would go a long way toward restoring Jim's equilibrium. Then, after dinner, they would talk. Blair would give Jim no choice.
Crossing to the phone, he snatched up the receiver and dialed the station. He still had to call Simon, fill him in on the details of Jim's accident. But even before the call could ring through, he heard a shout from Jim's room.
"No! Nooooo!"
Slamming the receiver back into its cradle, Blair ran the length of the apartment and took the steps to Jim's room two at a time. "Jim!" He reached the top of the steps and skidded to a halt. Jim sat on the end of his bed, the blankets flung from the mattress as though he had thrown them off suddenly, violently. His head hung down, his hands covering his face.
"Jim? Buddy?" Blair said quietly, crossing to his friend. "What's wrong?"
"No, you're not here." Jim shook his head not removing his hands.
"Jim, what are you talking about? I'm here." He moved closer, standing over Jim, but did not touch him, unsure what his reaction would be. "I'm right here," he said more firmly.
Slowly, Jim lowered his hands and looked up at Blair. Fear darkened his eyes. "Chief?"
"Yeah, it's me." He smiled down at him but still made no move to touch him. "Why don't we go downstairs so we can talk."
Jim pushed up suddenly from his bed and stepped away from it, keeping his back to the rest of the loft. "No," he said, his voice tight.
Blair stared after him in confusion. "Why not?"
"I don't want to go downstairs. I... I don't want to see the loft. I don't want to see your stuff gone..."
"My stuff gone?" Blair crossed to him, stepping in front of him. "Jim, why would you think my stuff would be gone?" he asked, staring up at him.
"Because in the dreams, you're gone. You're... dead," he finished softly.
Blair's eyes widened. "That's what you've been dreaming?" He stepped closer. "Jim, man, I am not dead. Look at me. I'm right here. Flesh and blood."
"But what if you aren't real? What if the dreams are real?"
"Jim, those aren't real. Here, I can prove it. All you have to do is touch me." Blair extended his hand, gestured for Jim to take it. "Go on, Jim. Take my hand. You'll see that I'm here."
Jim took his hand, squeezing tightly. Then moving closer, he reached out with both hands, running them down across Blair's arms. "You're here."
"Told you." Blair smiled up at him warmly. "Now you want to tell me about these dreams you've been having?"
"In them, you aren't here any more." Jim's hands tightened on Blair's arms. "Your stuff is gone, you're gone--dead." He stared down at Blair with wide, searching eyes as though he were trying to make himself believe that his guide was really here in front of him. "It was Lash. He killed you."
"Jim," Blair said softly, trying to move beneath the increasing pressure. He couldn't. "You killed Lash, remember? He never had a chance. He's dead."
"No!" He squeezed tighter, shaking Blair slightly. "You were dead! Simon showed me your grave. You're dead!"
"Jim, stop."
Another shake, his hands now vice-like on Blair's arms. "Lash is alive!"
"Let go of me!"
"I saw him!"
"You're hurting me!" Blair wrenched free from Jim's grasp. He staggered back a couple of steps, rubbing at the places on his arms that he knew would bruise.
"I... I'm sorry," Jim said, his voice low with panic. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never want to hurt you."
Blair shook his head. "No, Jim, it's all right. You were just scared, that's all."
"I'm sorry..."
"I'm all right." Blair stepped toward Jim.
"No." Jim backed away another step. "I just wanted to make sure you were really here. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Jim! Listen to me." Blair took another step, closing the gap between them. When Jim didn't move this time, just stood staring down at him with wide, haunted eyes, Blair whispered up at him: "Trust me." Without taking his eyes from Jim's, Blair reached down and curled his fingers around Jim's right wrist. Slowly, he drew Jim's hand upward and placed it against his chest. "Trust me," he whispered again, pressing Jim's hand over his heart. "Feel that? That's my heart beating. Do you feel it?"
Jim nodded his head.
"That's reality, Jim."
"I... I want to believe that..." Jim said, shaking his head as though he were afraid to believe what he was feeling beneath his hand.
"Believe it. I'm right here. All that other stuff with Lash? Just dreams, man." Blair placed his hand across the back of Jim's and pressed the sentinel's palm even harder against his chest. "I'm here. If this were a dream, you wouldn't feel my heart beating, would you?"
Jim just stared at him.
"Would you?" he persisted, wanting to force Jim to answer the question.
"No," the sentinel breathed out at last. And as Blair watched, Jim closed his eyes and leaned into Blair's touch. When the blue eyes opened and looked at Blair again, the haunted look had dissipated; in its place was sadness and relief, underscored by deep weariness.
"Hey," Blair whispered. "You with me, buddy?"
Jim nodded and then said softly, "I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," he said, his voice low. "You want to talk some more about this now?"
Another weary nod.
Blair smiled up at him. "Good. Why don't we go downstairs?"
He turned away but before he could even move two steps, Jim arms encircled him from behind, dragging him backward and crushing him against his chest. Blair let out a grunt of surprise at the unexpected embrace.
"I thought you were dead," Jim muttered, laying his cheek against the top of Blair's head. "Thought I was alone. That you were dead."
"I'm not," Blair whispered. Reaching up, he patted the arms that encircled him, criss-crossing over his chest, pinning him in place. He knew this was what Jim needed -- to hold him, feel that he was here. Real. But as seconds dragged into minutes, Blair began to worry again. Is he zoning? "Jim, why don't you let me go and we can go downstairs and talk about all this. Okay?" No response. "Come on, Jim. Let me go. I promise everything will be okay. I won't go anywhere."
Just as suddenly as he had grabbed him, Jim released Blair, stepping back from him. "I'm sorry."
Blair turned to face him. "It's okay, man."
Jim's gaze shifted away, obviously embarrassed. "I didn't mean to--"
"I understand." Reaching out, his touch tentative, Blair patted Jim's arm. "Come on. Let's go downstairs."
The two men made their way slowly downstairs. Jim sat on the couch. Blair perched on the edge of the coffee table before his partner, gently resting his hands on Jim's knees, leaning toward him.
"Tell me some more about the dreams, Jim."
Jim kept his gaze lowered. "In them, you're dead. Lash killed you."
Blair nodded. "I got that much. So you're dreaming about that case?"
"No," Jim said softly. "It's three years later. You've been dead for three years."
"Three years?" Blair frowned. "I don't understand."
"It's like... it's like that dream is showing me another life, one in which you died and I had to go on... alone. And I started to wonder, what if that was real and this wasn't?" He pushed up and began pacing before Blair. "In my dream, Simon shows up at the loft and tells me that I've done this before, created this life for you before. That it's not real. That you're not real."
"I am real, Jim. You know that now, right?"
Jim looked down at him, uncertainty etched in his features. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "What if Simon is right? What if I've just created all this because of some sense of guilt I feel over letting you die?"
Blair stood and gripped Jim by the arms. "You didn't let me die."
"How do you know?" he shouted, pulling out of the grip. "I keep going there, every time I go to sleep. And Simon is there telling me that you died. Showing me Lash. Showing me your grave." His voice broke on the last word. "It's so real, Chief."
"Jim, sit back down."
The sentinel hesitated but then took his seat. Blair sat before him again, locking his gaze with his partner's.
"Why didn't you tell me all this sooner?" Blair asked softly.
Jim's gaze shifted away from him. "I was afraid if I told you, I'd find out this wasn't real. You'd just... disappear."
"I haven't, have I?"
"No." Jim looked at him again, smiling with relief. "No, you haven't."
"That's right," he said, his voice firm. "Because I'm not dead. I'm right here. This is reality."
"This is reality," Jim repeated with a bit more confidence.
"So now that we have that settled," Blair said lightly. "Why don't we concentrate on figuring out why you're having these dreams." He shifted from the coffee table onto the couch, sitting beside Jim. "I guess the big question is 'why Lash'? Why are you sudden
ly dreaming about him?"
Jim shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't thought about him, about that case in so long."
"Okay, let's look at this another way. What's the overwhelming feeling you take away from these dreams?"
Jim dropped his face in his hands, shaking his head. "That I'm too late," he whispered. "I'm too late and you died because of it."
Blair dropped a hand on Jim's leg and squeezed. "Jim, it's okay. You weren't too late. You've never been too late."
"But I was," Jim said, his eyes wide as he looked at Blair again. "When Grant took you, when he had you on that bridge, I was too late. If you hadn't gotten away, he would have killed you. I was too late. I almost let you die."
Blair stared at Jim, stunned by the admission. "Jim," he began softly. "Have you been carrying around this guilt about Grant since that happened?"
The sentinel dropped his gaze to his lap and spoke, so quietly Blair could not hear him.
"What?" he asked softly.
"It's not guilt, it's fear," Jim said, looking up again. "Fear that one day I won't get to you on time and you'll die because of it."
Blair blinked several times as Jim's words settled over him, as the meaning behind them finally sunk in. "Now this all makes sense," he said slowly.
"What makes sense?" Jim snapped. "None of this makes sense."
"Don't you see? The dreams about Lash, they're a manifestation of that fear. Jim, that case... it was the first time that you really needed to reach me in time. That if you had failed to find me, I would have died. That's why you're cycling back to it now, playing out a different version of events. Because deep down, you can't let go of this fear." He narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Jim. "That's the solution, Jim. You have to let go of that fear in order to stop the dreams."
"You think it's that simple?" Jim said, his voice bitter. "You explain it and I just let it go?" He stared down at Blair, his eyes haunted, sad. "How can I do that?" he choked out. "How can I let go of this fear when it almost came true? When Grant came so close-"
"But he didn't succeed," Blair pressed. "I'm alive."
"Not because of anything I did," Jim bit out. "I wasn't there for you when you needed me the most."
