Sentinel - Progression Series 07 Blessed Protector

  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.

  Blessed Protector

  Part Seven of the "Progressions" Series

  by Beth Manz and Shiloh

  Part One

  Jim Ellison walked down the stairs from his bedroom cinching his robe closed. He yawned, rubbing wearily at his eyes with one hand. He and Blair had been up late last night working on the Morelli case; in spite of the long hours, Jim still felt as if they'd made little headway.

  He yawned again. He'd hoped that Sandburg would be up already, the coffee made, but when he extended his sense of smell, he didn't pick up on the aroma of the morning brew. As he neared the bottom of the stairs he cast a tired glance across the loft, then stopped dead in his tracks. His foot hovered over the last step and his right hand shot out to grasp the stair rail.

  What's going on?

  The apartment was stark, barren. The bookcases were not tucked in the corner near the windows, the brightly colored throw was missing from the back of the couch and the table with all their photos was now covered in magazines. Jim's gaze jerked to Blair's room. The French doors were gone. In their place hung the gauzy orange curtain he had taken down and discarded three years ago.

  "Blair?" he called out, crossing the loft quickly, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding heavily in his ears. Yanking back the curtain, he stared in unbelieving. The room beneath the stairs was filled with boxes, exercise equipment, a few odd pieces of furniture, stacks of papers.

  "What the hell is going on?" Jim muttered. Cold fingers of fear snaked down his back and twisted his stomach.

  He stalked to the refrigerator and jerked the door open. Cold pizza, old bean dip, moldy rye bread and beer. No color-coded Tupperware containers, no leftovers from that Mexican dish Blair had made for dinner last night, none of that organic milk the kid liked so much. Jim slammed the door shut before opening the cupboard beside the refrigerator. All of Blair's teas and herbal remedies were missing.

  Crossing to the phone, Jim snatched up the receiver and punched in the number to Simon's office. He waited through three rings before the phone was picked up at the other end.

  "Banks."

  "Simon, have you talked to Sandburg today? I just got up and all his stuff is cleared out. It's like he never lived here."

  "Jim?" Simon asked, surprise evident in his tone.

  "Yeah, Simon, it's me," Jim bit out impatiently. "Do you know where Sandburg is? Have you talked to him?"

  There was a pause, then, "Blair Sandburg?"

  "Of course Blair Sandburg," Jim snapped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Jim, listen... I'm going to come over to the loft, okay? You just sit tight until I get there."

  "Simon, I don't need you to come over. I just need to know where Blair is!"

  "Jim," Simon placated, his voice low, sad, "Don't you remember?" There was a long pause at the other end of the line, then Simon's voice reached Jim again: "Blair died three years ago at the hands of David Lash."

  /

  /

  /

  Jim jerked upright in bed, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He shivered as the cool temperature of the loft impacted with his moist skin, chilling him.

  "Jim?"

  He jumped at the sound of his name being called. Leaning over the railing behind his headboard, he looked downstairs. Blair sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, his eyes wide behind his glasses as he stared up at Jim.

  "You okay, man?"

  Relief spread through Jim at the sight of his partner and he exhaled the breath he'd been holding. A nightmare. The barren loft, Blair's absence--it had all been a nightmare.

  "Yeah, Chief, I'm fine." He fell back against his mattress, running a shaking hand over his eyes, wishing he could just as easily wipe the memory of the disturbing dream from his mind.

  Why am I dreaming about David Lash? The man's been dead for over three years.

  Jaw clenched, Jim pushed back the blankets and slipped out of bed. As he walked down the stairs, knotting his robe, he was struck by how similar the actions were to those in his dream. Only this time the loft was as it should be--warm and inviting with reminders of his partner's existence sprinkled throughout. Jim's gaze landed on a half-eaten sandwich sitting on one of the living room end tables. Sprinkled a little too liberally, he thought, eyes narrowing slightly.

  He snatched up the plate as he headed toward the kitchen for some coffee. "Chief," he said, stopping beside Blair and extending the plate. "Is there a reason you left this... thing in the living room?" He waved the plate back and forth to get Sandburg's attention.

  But Blair didn't even look at what Jim was holding. "Sorry, man," he mumbled, continuing to type away at the keyboard. "Just put it in my room," he added absently.

  Jim shook his head as he crossed to the kitchen and dumped the food into the garbage can. He poured himself a cup of coffee before carrying the pot to the table. "Refill?"

  Blair held up his mug, again not taking his eyes from his computer screen. Jim lifted the pot but as he looked down to pour the coffee, he realized the kid's mug was still full.

  "Sandburg," he complained good-naturedly.

  For the first time, Blair looked up at him. "What?" he asked, clearly confused.

  Jim nodded toward the cup Sandburg held in his hand. Blair glanced inside. "Oh. Sorry." He took a sip and grimaced. "It's cold."

  Jim scowled at him, took the cup, crossed to the sink and emptied it. By the time he had refilled it and set it back down beside his partner, Blair was already typing again, lost in whatever was on the computer screen in front of him. "What are you working on?"

  "My lesson plans for next semester. They're due tomorrow and I'm not even halfway finished."

  Jim leaned back against the island counter, sipping his coffee. "Can't you get an extension or something?"

  Blair let out a short laugh. "I'm a professor now, Jim, not a student. I don't ask for extensions. I give them."

  "Right," Jim muttered. "Well, listen, I'm going to grab a shower."

  Blair nodded, glancing over at him briefly. "By the time you get out, I'll be gone."

  By the time you get out, I'll be gone... I'll be gone.

  The words, spoken casually, sent a chill through Jim. He's just going to school, Ellison, he reprimanded himself silently. Get a grip. But as he continued to watch Blair, he couldn't help but think about his nightmare, about Blair being gone.

  Blair died three years ago at the hands of David Lash.

  Jim crossed behind Blair and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "You still coming to the station this afternoon?"

  "Yeah. You want me to pick up lunch on the way?"

  "Deli?"

  "Sounds good."

  The conversation was over. Blair was busy typing again, lost in the words before him. Yet Jim didn't want to walk away, didn't want to remove his hand from his partner's shoulder. It was a dream, Ellison. Blair is fine. He squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand before making his way toward the b
athroom.

  "Hey Jim?" Blair called out.

  The sentinel glanced back at his guide, eyebrows raised in question.

  "You sure you're okay?"

  Jim waved a hand, dismissing the concern. "I'm fine."

  Blair nodded toward the bedroom above. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Nothing to talk about," Jim said lightly.

  "You sure, man? You-"

  "Chief," Jim cut in, pointing a finger at the open computer. "Your lesson plans?"

  Blair's eyes narrowed slightly as he continued to watch Jim, as if trying to decide if this were worth pursuing. Jim tensed, knowing there was no way he was going to tell Sandburg about his nightmare. Frantically, he tried to come up with some lie if the kid pressed him further. In the end, Blair simply shook his head and turned back to his work.

  Relieved, Jim made his way into the bathroom. As he stepped under the hot spray of the shower, he thought about the dream again. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed about Lash. Since finding Blair in Resurrection Cemetery with Marcus Grant two weeks earlier, he'd had a variety of nightmares involving the good doctor... and Lash. Each of the dreams ended the same way--Blair always died because Jim simply could not get to him in time to save him. Sometimes it was Grant who killed him, sometimes David Lash.

  But this latest dream... it was the most disturbing of all.

  As he stepped out of the shower, he tried to push away the images of the sterile loft from his mind. He didn't want to think about how different--how empty--his life would be now had Blair died in that warehouse so many years ago.

  Toweling off, he dressed quickly and stepped from the bathroom. Pausing for a moment outside the door, he glanced over at the French doors that opened into Sandburg's room. Hesitantly, he crossed to Blair's bedroom. He stood just inside the doors, his back stiff with tension, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had no reason to be in here, didn't even really know why he was... except that some part of him still needed to verify his partner's existence.

  He stepped forward, his gaze taking in the cluttered desk, the rumpled bed covered with brightly colored pillows, the small pile of clothes tossed in one corner. What am I doing? Jim shook his head at his overreaction. Blair is at school. He's safe. Alive.

  But as he stepped from his guide's room, closing the door softly behind him, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had followed him up from sleep.

  /

  /

  /

  "One artery clogging pastrami on rye with extra spicy mustard." Blair dropped the deli bag in front of Jim. "And to really mess with your heart, a side of onion rings." He waited for Jim's return jibe.

  The sentinel didn't even look up. "Yeah, thanks."

  Instead of returning to his own desk, Blair plopped himself into the chair beside Jim's desk and pulled out his own turkey sandwich. He eyed Jim as he bit into his food. The sentinel was unnerved about something but Blair had no idea what.

  Did he have another nightmare about Grant?

  Something had awakened Jim abruptly this morning, and it wasn't the first time. In fact it was the third time it'd happened in the last two weeks. But it was the first time whatever he'd dreamed about seemed to flow over into his mood for the day.

  "Hey Jim," Blair began, hoping to lighten his partner's disposition. "You won't believe what happened in class this morning."

  Jim chewed his sandwich, glancing at him briefly.

  "You remember Donny Winters? He's that kid I told you about in my first period who is always begging for extra credit work so he can get his grade up? Well, he gets up in front of the class this morning to give an oral presentation on some extinct tribe from the southern Yucatan Peninsula. He's wearing this long trench coat, which struck me as being sort of odd but hey, who am I to judge?"

  "Yeah, with your wardrobe," Jim muttered.

  Blair scowled at him. "Anyway, Donny starts his report... and drops the coat. The kid's wearing a costume of the tribe, which in this case means he's wearing almost nothing."

  Jim glanced at him again, smiling now around his mouthful of sandwich.

  "So he's standing in front of a hundred of his classmates--almost nude--giving this report and I'm doing my level best to pay attention to the subject matter and not laugh my head off, right? Well, the kid's doing a pretty good job with the material when all of a sudden, the side door opens and three coeds come in.... all wearing trench coats."

  Jim started to laugh. "Oh, no. Don't tell me..."

  "You got it, man. They drop the coats and they're all wearing even less than Donny." Blair laughed, slapping Jim on the arm.

  "So what grade did you give the kid?"

  "Well," Blair drawled out, "I was leaning toward a solid B until the girls walked in. Then..."

  The two men exchanged a knowing look. "A plus," they said in unison, then laughed together.

  "Sandburg," Jim warned when their laughter died down. "I hope I don't get a call to come over to Rainier and arrest you for lewd behavior. Just remember those girls are your students."

  Blair held his hands up in surrender. "Hey, man, I was just looking. I may be their professor but I am not dead."

  The smile left Jim's face. The detective stiffened where he sat.

  Blair frowned. "Jim, what's-"

  "Sandburg, did you get your lesson plans done?"

  "Um, yeah," Blair replied, surprised by the harsh tone that had suddenly crept into Jim's voice. "I had a free hour between classes today and managed to get them finished."

  Jim rubbed at his forehead. "Good. I've been doing the paperwork on the Morelli case all morning and I'm still not finished. Can you take the case file and type up the interview notes?"

  "Sure." He watched Jim, noticing the thin lines of tension that had formed around his eyes and mouth. He leaned closer. "You have a headache?"

  "No. I'm fine," came the clipped reply.

  Blair raised his eyebrows. "Sorry I asked."

  Jim glanced at him and his expression softened. "Sorry, Chief. I'm just sick of this paperwork." Reaching out, he grasped his shoulder. "I don't mean to take it out on you."

  "You sure that's all it is?"

  "I'm sure."

  Before Blair could push the subject further, the door to Simon's office opened and the captain leaned out. "Ellison, Sandburg. In my office. Now."

  Blair followed Jim across the bullpen, brushing his hands across his clothing to get rid of the last of the crumbs from his half-eaten turkey sandwich. Once inside the captain's office, Blair closed the door behind them then took a seat next to his partner in front of Simon's desk. Banks had dropped into his chair and opened a manila folder.

  "Gentlemen, we got a call this morning from a woman named Ida Hillman. She reported that a young man who has been renting a room from her hasn't come home for the last three days. She's concerned."

  "Sounds like a problem for Missing Persons," Jim said matter-of-factly. "Why would it come to us?"

  "Because of something she told the officer who was taking the report." Simon glanced down briefly at the open folder on his desk before returning his attention to the two men before him. "She said this is the third young man who has rented from her who has suddenly gone missing. The officer heard that and bells and whistles went off."

  "Oh man," Blair muttered, coming to the most obvious conclusion. He glanced at Jim, but his partner's face was passive. He waited for Jim to ask another question, state the obvious, but the sentinel remained silent. Stoic.

  "You think she might have done something to these guys?" Blair finally asked.

  "We don't know." Simon closed the folder. "That's what I want you to find out." He held the file out toward Jim. "Her address and the names of the three missing men are all inside."

  Blair glanced at Jim again, waiting for his partner to take the offered file. When he didn't, Blair reached out and took it himself. "What do you want us to do?"

  Simon's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Jim. Then slo
wly, he shifted his attention to Blair. "Interview her. See if she has any other information about the three missing men. See if you can get a look at their rental applications. Basically, I want you to size up the situation. Are these three men truly missing or is this woman just trying to get attention?"

  Blair slipped his glasses on, nodding, and opened the folder. Jim remained silent beside him.

  "Jim, are we keeping you awake?" Simon snapped at his detective.

  Blair looked up, his gaze shifting to Jim. The sentinel was looking at his captain with a bored expression.

  "No, sir," he said casually. "I just don't see why you're assigning this to us. It sounds like a waste of time. Can't Brown and Rafe take it?"

  Blair raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from Jim to Simon and back again. Never before had Jim questioned an assignment. What is going on here?

  "Detective," Simon bit out, standing behind his desk. "Last time I looked, I was the captain in this station, which means I decide who takes what cases. Now, I've assigned this case to you. Is that going to be a problem?"

  "No problem," Blair said quickly, pulling off his glasses and standing to leave. "Come on, Jim," he said, reaching out to grab Jim's arm. "Let's get going, man."

  Jim sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. "Waste of time," he muttered sarcastically as he followed Blair out the door.

  The two men grabbed their jackets and rode down the elevator to the parking garage. As Blair slid into the passenger side seat of the truck, he scowled over at his partner. "Jim, man, what were you thinking back there?"

  Jim glanced at Blair, confused. "Thinking what where?"

  "With Simon. Questioning this assignment."

  Jim shrugged as he inserted his key into the ignition and cranked the engine to life. "I just don't think there's a case here."

  "Well, then all we'll be out is a drive across town, right? So why upset Simon over it?"

  "Because I have better things to do," Jim ground out angrily.

  Blair held up his hands, backing off. "Fine. So you have better things to do. Don't jump down my throat because this case isn't challenging enough to merit your attention."

  They rode the rest of the way across town in silence, but it wasn't the comfortable silence the two usually shared. Blair could feel the tension building in Jim, pouring off him in almost tangible waves. But he knew better than to try and get him to talk about whatever it was that was bothering him. Jim was obviously in no mood to be sharing anything and Blair wasn't in the mood to get his head ripped off again.