by Beth Manz
Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.
Note from the Authors: In our Sentinel universe, the events depicted in The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg did not occur. Therefore, any "canonical" references that may be found in this story are related to episodes up to and including Most Wanted.
Dedication: This series is dedicated to friendship, for only through caring for others can we truly find a sense of peace and belonging.
Full Circle
Part Three of The Progressions Series
by Beth Manz
Prologue
Dr. Marcus Grant stood at the window of his father's library and stared out at the extensive gardens that dotted the grounds of the Grant family estate. A light spring rain pattered at the window, and the dampness and the dull gray sky only served to further darken his thoughts and his mood. Disgusted, Marcus tucked his hands deep into his pockets and exhaled a deep, frustrated sigh. It had been three months since he had taken Blair Sandburg out to that field and tried to finish Eddie Rostin's game. Three months and still, no matter how many times he went over the incident in his mind, he couldn't see where he'd gone wrong.
It should have worked, he thought to himself for the thousandth time. It should have... except he hadn't counted on Sandburg being so tenacious that he would escape from Eddie, or on Jim Ellison being so determined that he would figure out his plan and come to that field in search of his partner. Grant's brow furrowed as he again remembered Ellison's hunt for Sandburg. Something about the entire incident bothered him. It was as though the detective hadn't really searched. In his mind, he could see Ellison again, standing out in that field as the rain poured down on him, eyes closed, head cocked to one side, almost as if he were.... listening. But listening for what?
Marcus had thought about the two men a lot since that day. Out on bail and effectively banned from practice as he awaited trial, he'd had little else to occupy his mind. But Marcus knew that even if he hadn't had all that time on his hands, his thoughts would have still been fascinated with the unusual partners. There was something about them... Something in the way they acted with each other, something in the way Ellison had searched for Sandburg. Something...
The double doors on the other side of the room opened suddenly. Marcus turned as a tall, handsome man with blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses and a small mustache entered. He wore a dark blue Armani suit and carried a glass filled with an amber liquid, most likely scotch.
His father's favorite drink.
"Marcus," Gerald Grant intoned dryly. "I didn't expect to see you today. What brings you here, son?" He moved to the large mahogany desk in the far corner of the spacious study and sat behind it. Reaching forward, he pulled several files toward him and began flipping idly through them.
Marcus strode across the room and took a seat in the plush leather chair that sat in front of his father's desk. An old, painfully familiar feeling crept over him; sitting here, competing with a pile of documents for his father's attention, he felt more like one of the older man's business acquaintances than his son. He waited for his father to look up from his work, to acknowledge him again, but Gerald Grant seemed to have forgotten that Marcus was even there. Clearing his throat, he said, "My trial is coming up soon."
Gerald glanced up briefly before returning his attention to the files in front of him. "Yes, Lofton called me," he said without concern. "He's filed several motions on your behalf that should result in some rather substantial delays. We should be able to put this thing off for months."
"Perhaps. But no matter how many delays you get, this will eventually go to trial," Marcus pressed.
His father waved a hand, dismissing the matter. "Lofton is one of the best defense attorneys in the city. You'll be fine."
Marcus bit back a fiery retort. His father could be so coldly frustrating at times. "Father, I don't think you understand fully what's going on." He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "This man, Blair Sandburg? He's been working with the police for going on four years. He's probably testified at several trials, knows the district attorney and the judges. He's respected at Rainier, will actually be receiving his Ph.D soon." He paused briefly before adding, "In other words, Father, this isn't some two-bit street kid I'm going up against. Frankly, I'm a bit worried."
Gerald Grant looked up, his eyes locking on his son, anger flaring in their gray-green depths. "I remind you again, son, that none of this would have happened if you would have taken my advice and gone into private practice. But no, you had to try to make a name for yourself working with the most marginal of people. At a state institution, of all places! I hope you see now what can happen when you get involved with people who are beneath our social circle."
Marcus dropped his head in feigned humiliation, knowing that was what his father wanted to see. He'd learned long ago that only by playing the part of the shame-filled son could he ever expect to receive anything from this man. "I'm sorry, Father," he said quietly. "I've learned my lesson."
Gerald let out a long, impatient breath. He flipped through the pages of the file in front of him. Tapped his fingers on the desktop. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Marcus, he asked, "This man who's going to be testifying against you... what's that name again?"
"Sandburg." Marcus looked up, careful to hide the smile that threatened to breach his features. His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought about what his father would do to the anthropologist--or rather, what he would pay someone else to do to him. "Blair Sandburg," he clarified.
His father wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Sandburg." The name sounded like a curse on the elder Grant's tongue. "I'm going to take care of this for you, Marcus." Lifting the phone on his desk, he shot his son a warning glance. "But this is the last time."
Part One
Blair Sandburg's sandal-clad foot tapped against the tiled floor of his office, keeping perfect rhythm with the pounding beat of the music emanating from his portable stereo. Bent over the top of his cluttered desk, Blair meticulously printed the address of the University of New Mexico's Anthropology Department onto a white label, pulled the label from its backing, and secured it firmly to the front of a carefully wrapped carton. "There," he said to himself triumphantly as he straightened and walked the package over to the small stack of similar boxes waiting just inside his office door. "Finished!"
He placed the package on top of the stack, then stood back and looked with satisfaction at the result of his afternoon's work. Every artifact he had borrowed throughout the school year and every book or research paper on loan to him had been carefully prepared for shipment back to universities, libraries and colleagues around the country.
He opened his office door and began moving the packages into the hall, where they would soon be picked up by one of night clerks and taken to the mailroom for processing. He pulled the last wrapped box from his office and balanced it on top of the sizable stack, then he crouched down and placed a worn clipboard against his knee. Quickly, he scrawled out the insurance information needed for shipping the various artifacts he had prepared, then he stood and placed the clipboard on top of the mound of parcels.
Turning back to his office, his gaze fell upon the modest nameplate that adorned the outside of his door. "Blair Sandburg," it read. He smiled. The university had already ordered a nameplate for him that would read, "Dr. Blair Sandburg."
"Doctor," he whispered to himself, bouncing up on the balls of his feet. "Doctor Sandburg. You
did it, Blair. You really did it!" Suddenly, realizing that his broad smile and his self-congratulatory monologue would no doubt appear odd to any passersby, he cut his impromptu celebration short and stepped into his office and closed the door firmly behind him.
His gaze swept the small room. He had to admit that it was beginning to look a bit less cluttered than it had a few days earlier. He had spent the better part of the last week organizing his paperwork and readying for graduation. He still had one full day of work ahead of him, but at least the necessary things had been taken care of. Now it was just a matter of organizing his files and other paperwork, attending graduation practice and waiting for graduation itself.
And after that? Again, Blair smiled. Jim had promised him a week's vacation at the beach--just the two of them--to celebrate his completion of the doctoral program. And in the fall he would return to Rainier, to this very office, to begin work as a permanent professor within the Anthropology Department.
He shook his head absently as he thought of how quickly his life had changed in just the past few months. It had seemed sometimes as though he would never earn his Ph.D, and now it was only a few short days away. His future at Rainier was assured with his acceptance of the teaching position the University had offered him, and he would be able to continue his sentinel research on the side. And while he and Jim were still awaiting official word from the police commissioner, Simon kept assuring them that the request for Blair to be granted status as a permanent consultant to the Major Crimes department "looked promising".
Blair sighed at the thought of the pending position--a paid position that would allow him to continue working alongside Jim Ellison as the detective's partner. Of all the new opportunities opening up in his life, this was the one that held the most importance to him. He had to be able to remain at Jim's side. He knew his responsibilities at the university would be heavy, but he was determined to continue to work with Jim as much as possible, not only for the sentinel's safety, but because that was where Blair wanted to be.
Another quick glance around his office brought his gaze to the clock above his desk. 9:16 p.m. He hustled over to his desk and lifted a pile of papers into his arms. Jim would be arriving any minute now and he still had quite a few things he wanted to take care of before stopping work for the night.
He grinned as he transported the papers and files over to the file cabinet near the windows. Blair's car was in the shop and Jim had insisted on picking him up at 9:30, even though Blair had told the older man he was perfectly able to catch a cross-town bus at that hour and save him the trouble. He didn't know why he even bothered. Jim had told him in his typical no-nonsense style that he would be there at 9:30. How did one win an argument with a protective sentinel? Blair nearly laughed out loud. There were times when it was just no use to even try.
He stepped up to the file cabinet and pulled a stapled stack of papers from the top of the stack, intending to file it. But as he lifted the papers away, a lone piece of stationery came along with it, then wafted slowly to the floor. Bending, Blair retrieved the paper and looked at it. It was his notice from the university that he had passed his orals and that his dissertation had been approved. He glanced at the date. Two months ago today. Two months! Unbelievable... It seemed like it was just yesterday when he'd first received this notice from the dissertation committee and had gone home to tell Jim...
Blair crossed his forearms against the balcony railing and leaned forward. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the late afternoon sun, enjoying its warmth on his skin. He stood that way for several moments, then opened his eyes and allowed his gaze to move slowly downward, taking in the pedestrians on the street below, a group of teenagers playing football in the park.
The limbs of the trees in the park would soon be dressed in tones of green and crimson budding, and then it wouldn't be long before the buds opened into tender green leaves, unfurling to meet the new spring. But today the sun's rays probed at still barren trees, cutting through the branches to cast odd patterns on the ground beneath the oaks and maples. Blair smiled. It was only a matter of time now--in another few weeks winter would be just a distant memory.
He shifted his body a bit as a slight pull in his side reminded him that his ribs, while almost completely healed, were still tender. Thoughts of Dawson Quinn, Eddie Rostin and Marcus Grant sliced through his mind, threatening to destroy the beauty and peace of the moment, and he pushed them away with impatience. Taking a deep breath, he looked out at the setting sun again, tracking its lazy progress as it dipped closer and closer to the horizon.
His thoughts turned inward and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. It had been a good day. A quiet day spent working in his office at the university while Jim had spent the day at his job. Blair would have gone into the station with his partner that morning, but his advisor at Rainier had wanted him to be available in case word came down from the dissertation committee regarding his thesis. Absently, Blair reached up with one hand and fingered the folded letter that was tucked into the pocket of his flannel shirt. His smile broadened as he thought of what that piece of paper meant to his future, of how very much it changed things.
He turned his attention back to the ground below and noticed that long shadows had fallen across the area where only moments ago the sun had created a kaleidoscope of shifting contours on the grass. Sandburg looked up to see the sun slipping languidly below the horizon, slowly pulling the light of day along with it, leaving Cascade behind under a blanket of dusky half-light. It was one of his favorite times of day, and he was glad that he had taken the opportunity to enjoy it.
Below him, the familiar hum of Jim's truck engine caught his attention and he looked down to see the Ford pulling into the parking spot directly below the loft's balcony. Blair heard the shift of the transmission as Jim placed the vehicle in park, then the sound of the engine died away, the door opened, and Jim's tall frame exited the cab. The detective closed and locked the door and turned toward the front entrance of the loft. Then, as though a second sense told him he was being watched, he turned his face upward. The smile that lit his features when he saw Blair warmed the younger man's entire being, and he returned it, along with a welcoming wave.
Jim held up a large brown box for Blair's inspection and called out, "One half veggie special, one half hamburger and mushroom. Sound like a winner?"
Blair laughed and nodded his head. He would have recognized the box anywhere--bold red and green lettering on the top and a small white sales receipt taped neatly to the upper left-hand corner could mean only one thing--Milano's House of Pizza, a favorite of the two men. "Sounds perfect," he answered. "I'll open the door for you."
Jim nodded, then disappeared from sight. Blair turned from the balcony and entered the loft, making his way to the front door where he slipped the security chain from its bracket, disengaged the dead bolt and swung the door open. Jim was there almost immediately, smiling and pushing by him in a rush of warm air and the scent of tomato sauce and worn leather.
"Smells great, Jim," Blair commented as he closed and locked the door behind his partner, then joined him at the kitchen counter where he had already opened the box. Bending to pull the pizza pan from the cupboard next to the sink, Jim looked up at Sandburg and said, "Got stuck in construction over on River Road. Pizza's almost completely cold."
"I'll do that," Blair insisted, nudging Jim out of the way and gesturing toward the coat rack. Jim did as Blair wished, moving around him to remove his leather jacket and hang it on the hook. Then, within seconds he was beside Blair again, pulling plates from the cupboard, nudging the smaller man with his elbow as they worked in comfortable, close proximity.
Blair placed the pizza in the oven and moved over to the refrigerator. "I'll make up a quick salad," he called over his shoulder. "How was everything today?" he asked, as he brought an armload of vegetables over to the counter.
"It was okay," Jim answered, his voice coming from the dining area, where he was de
positing dishes, silverware and napkins on the table. "Always better when you're there, though" he appended. And with that simple statement the detective moved over to the far side of the kitchen.
"Um, thanks," Blair managed, slightly embarrassed, as he watched his partner retrieve two beers from the antique refrigerator.
But by the time Blair had mumbled his surprised thanks, Jim had already stepped up to him and placed an open bottle of beer next to the chopping block where he was cutting up vegetables. Jim's hand, still cold from carrying the beers, reached out and patted Blair on his cheek. "It's true," he assured his friend, smiling at his discomfiture. "Simon always yells at me more when you're not around."
"Well, sure," Blair muttered, "That's because when I'm there, he's too busy yelling at me to notice you."
"Exactly," Jim drawled, taking a long drink from his bottle.
But Blair knew, by the look Jim gave him, the little half wink, that Simon had absolutely no part in why Jim missed him when he wasn't at the station. The grad student bit back a pleased smile and returned his attention to the vegetables.
Jim leaned against the counter and leafed through the day's mail. Tossing the envelopes back onto the counter, he observed, "Not much here today."
"Guess I got all the good mail today, then," Sandburg said nonchalantly as he placed the completed salad into the refrigerator.
Jim raised an eyebrow at the statement.
Blair scooped up the beer Jim had opened for him, then reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter he had received that afternoon. He passed it over to Jim and said quietly, "It's from my advisors." He paused and looked up at his friend, wanting to see his reaction to the news. "My dissertation was approved. I'll get my degree this spring."
Jim lowered his beer to the counter and stared at Blair wide-eyed, his mouth open in surprise. Looking down, he opened the letter and read through the short message, the message that told Blair his dissertation had been approved. According to the letter, not only would Blair be awarded his doctorate degree that spring, but the university also wished to meet with him regarding a permanent position on the Anthropology Department's teaching staff.
