Notes and Timeline: Post TSBBS but before Blair attends the academy. Spoilers for...well...pretty much for the entire series.

Warning, Rating, Series: Reference to an attempted sexual assault-not graphic, but if that is likely to bother you, don't continue with this one. Rating: PG-R, scattered rough language, some violence. Series: New Beginnings.

**When it comes to hindsight, everyone has 'Sentinel strength' vision** Blair thought as he pulled his knees up to his chest protectively, ignoring the pain that still wracked his underweight frame. He huddled on the industrial bunk, staring at the once green floor now faded over the years to a washed out non-color, and thought back to how this ordeal began....

"You sure you got that address right, Chief?" Jim Ellison asked his partner, his sharp blue eyes scanning the rundown neighborhood.

"Yeah, man, see for yourself. Sneaks wrote it down for us," Blair replied, holding out the crumpled scrap of paper.

The detective glanced at the paper with an expression of disgust, then surveyed the area again. "I think Sneaks is going to owe us a refund this time," he muttered. "There is no way Chandler would be in this neighborhood. Just no way. I don't care what kind of deal is going down."

"So let's head back, then. No need to waste our time out here..." the younger man's voice trailed off as he noticed the Sentinel's suddenly intense look. "What's wrong?"

"Shhhh..." Jim held up a hand to silence his partner as he tilted his head in the familiar pose that indicated he was listening to something quite distant.

The former student waited anxiously, watching his friend closely lest the Sentinel zone on whatever it was he was listening to. It had been a while since the older man had zoned, but Blair wasn't willing to take any chances. In two weeks he would start at the Academy, and Jim would be on his own until he finished, so they were spending as much time as possible honing the detective's control over his senses.

"Something's going down in that condemned house over there," Ellison reported at last, pointing to a two-story building with boarded up windows.

"Define 'something'," Blair requested, looking at Jim curiously.

"I heard about a half dozen different voices, plus a television, other electronic sounds - you know, beeps and whirring sounds. Not a lot of conversation right now, but something's tweaking my instincts. I want to get closer and check it out. Stay put."

"No way, man. I'm coming with you. You're planning to use your senses to get an idea what's going on, you need me just in case. Now, let's get going," Blair commanded, opening his door and getting out of the truck, leaving the detective no choice but to follow.

"Sandburg, just slow down, we don't know what we're getting into," the larger man cautioned, indicating the police observer should move to a position behind him.

They made their way silently across the neglected grounds to a shadowed corner of the building, where Jim held up a hand in a silent command to wait and listen. Puzzled, his instincts on alert, he took but a moment to realize there were people approaching quickly from both sides.

"We have to get out of here," he hissed at his companion just as a bright, concentrated beam of light blinded both men and the sound of guns being cocked was loud enough for a non Sentinel to hear clearly.

"Get your hands up where I can see them," a commanding voice demanded. "Now turn and place your hands against the wall, and don't make any sudden moves. We're feeling a little jumpy tonight."

The two men were quickly frisked, with Jim's service revolver removed, along with both their wallets and keys. There was silence as the apparent leader checked their ID, while the others kept their weapons trained on their captives.

"Cuff them and bring them inside."

Blair glanced worriedly up at Jim as his arms were roughly jerked behind him, and he felt the cold metal snap closed around his bare wrists. Jim spared his worried friend an encouraging look, before turning an angry expression to their captors.

"There's no reason to be so rough," he growled, trying to ignore the pain the bright light was causing his sensitive eyes. He received no answer save a jab in the back from a gun, urging him toward the entrance to the supposedly condemned home.

Within moments they were in a featureless room, seated on hardwood chairs, while their captor took a similar seat in front of them. For the first time Jim and Blair got a good look at the man, noting his military bearing and coldly handsome features. He looked to be in his early sixties, his steel gray hair was neatly trimmed, as was his moustache. Pale brown eyes under bushy eyebrows surveyed the younger men with cool contempt, while his well-cut clothing did nothing to hide his still muscular physique.

"Detective Ellison, what are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I had a lead from an informant, telling me a suspect I've been investigating was meeting someone in this neighborhood. It appears the information was inaccurate. We were preparing to leave when I noticed signs of activity around here and decided to investigate." His clipped report stated only the bare facts, but Sandburg could tell his partner was coldly furious.

"You always bring civilians along on investigations?"

"He's an observer with the Cascade PD, as you well know, since you have his ID. He was already here with me," Jim replied brusquely.

"He was here with you to follow up on that lead?"

Ellison declined to address that comment, his temper already near the breaking point, his jaw muscles so tightly clenched it was painful to even look at. He suspected their captors were government agents, which only added to his ire. If these were 'good guys' then why were he and Blair being held captive?

He glanced over at the former grad student, noting the accelerated heartbeat and faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the only signs of the younger man's fear. Meeting the smaller man's eyes, Jim nodded his approval of this display of calm at his friend, letting a hint of a smile cross his lips. His guide ghosted a smile back at him, despite the worried questions that shone in the dark blue eyes.

Their inquisitor sighed in mild frustration, rising to his feet wearily. "I see you are not going to be very cooperative under these circumstances. I need to check some things out, I'll be back shortly. In the meantime, you will sit here quietly, or this guard has orders to subdue you using any method available. Do you understand?"

Two silent glares were his only answer, and emitting another soft sigh the man rose and walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly on his two captives and the guard.

"You okay there, Chief?" Jim asked softly, ignoring the stone faced guard.

"Fine, man. A little pissed at the whole 'cloak and dagger' thing, but okay. What do you think is going on here? Any ideas?" was the Sentinel soft reply.

"The whole setup screams CIA, or FBI at least," the detective hissed back quietly, seeing the agreement on Blair's face even as he spoke.

"Well, what the hell are they doing here?"

"I dunno, but I think we're about to find out," the larger man responded, turning his attention to the door. Moments later their captor entered, looking no happier than when he'd left.

"You two are presenting me with a bit of a dilemma," the older man said at last, taking a seat opposite his two handcuffed visitors. "In good conscience, I have to offer you a choice." He stood and took his keys out of his pocket, using one to remove the cuffs from Jim and Blair's wrists.

"And what might that choice be?" the Sentinel asked tersely, rubbing his wrist as if it hurt.

"I'll get to that in just a moment. First, let me explain what's going on here," he said calmly. "My name is Daniel Brooks, I've worked for the FBI for almost thirty-five years, the last seven at our Sacramento office. I've been a good agent, nothing spectacular, just good, if you understand what I'm getting at. Then early last year, my daughter died. A drug overdose. One of those damned designer drugs, nearly impossible to treat. She was just twenty-six, my only child. Her mom and I had divorced when Sasha was twelve, but I had joint custody. God, she was so beautiful. And she danced, always she was dancing." His eyes took on a far off cast, seeing memories no one else was privy to.

"But that drug ended her dance," he continued, shaking off the memories. "I became a man with a mission: find the sons of bitches who were responsible for creating that drug. And make them pay. Problem was, I had no idea what I was getting into. I thought we'd be dealing with a 'backyard' lab and local yokels dealing. After three months of digging, I found out it was something so much worse. I was able to trace the drugs back to Canada, and outline the route they took to California, assisted along the way by those you least expect to be involved in such matters. It made me sick to think about it, but I never doubted what I had to do," he trailed off, looking oddly tired.

"It involves FBI agents, doesn't it?" Jim queried gently, understanding shining in his light blue eyes.

"FBI agents, DEA agents, a couple of officials at the Canadian border, and police officers at four precincts: Coeur De Alene, Idaho, Portland, Oregon, and Spokane and Cascade Washington."

"Cascade? Are you implying we have officers involved in drug trafficking?"

"I know of five who are directly involved. Cascade is the last one we need to tie down, and I figure in a couple of weeks I'll know the names of everyone involved. Then the sting can go down. Which brings me back to you two." He sat back and studied the two men carefully before speaking again.

"You two were the first ones I looked into. I mean, talk about intriguing. A lone wolf, ex-Ranger, covert ops trained detective suddenly teams up with an anthropology grad student? A ninety-day ride along pass is used for three years? And after all this the student declares himself a fraud? At a press conference no less? I was more than a little curious. And I got a copy of the fraudulent paper."

The older man's eyes met Sandburg's without flinching. "I don't believe for a moment you're a fraud. I looked more closely at the cases you two have handled the last couple years, and after reading those, along with the information in your paper, I believe Detective Ellison is indeed a Sentinel. Hell of a job you did on that thesis, young man."

Blair looked blandly at the man, shaking his head sadly. "I hate to disappoint you, but it was a fraud. I'm a fraud. But glad you liked the story."

"I think I even understand why you two decided to handle it the way you did. Makes sense, really," he went on, as if Blair had not spoken. "But, that aside, no matter how hard I looked, the two of you came up clean. So now, you have to make that decision."

It was obvious that Jim understood what was coming, just as it was clear Blair didn't, at least not fully. The one time grad student was obviously intrigued by the older FBI agent, and incensed over the tale of drug trafficking, but he was also obviously not considering the potential effect on his life, a fact that didn't surprise his partner in the least.

"I know from your files that you both have reason to hate drug dealers, even beyond the normal hatred a non-user has for those who distribute that poison," Brooks said, referring to the nightmare Jim and Blair had faced thanks to Golden, a designer drug that had nearly cost them everything.

"It's getting late, Brooks, cut to the chase," Ellison ground out, wresting his thoughts from the memories of seeing his best friend and roommate stretched out comatose on a hospital bed, courtesy of Golden.

"The way I see it, you have four choices. One, you walk out of here, go back to the station and spill everything. Our operation is shot out of the water, and the officers who contribute to this epidemic go unpunished. Two, we arrest you now, and take you to a holding facility, where it will take so long to get you released we have time to finish our mission. I'm not really ready to use that option, however. Three, you walk out of here and stay silent. Let us do our thing, and we never saw you," he gave both the Cascade men a meaningful look. "Or four, you join us. We can certainly use a man with Ellison's unique talents. But, you have to be clear on what the probable cost of option four is, before you make your choice. You know what I'm talking about, Ellison. Make sure Sandburg understands as well. You two discuss it, and when you decide, you come find me. Or, the door is unlocked, you're free to go."

The FBI agent stood and indicated the erstwhile guard was to leave, then he turned at the doorway. "Whatever you decide, good luck to you." He turned and left, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Jim? What exactly is he talking about? What probable cost? I mean, if we can help them, we should, right?"

"Blair, it's not always that easy," Jim started, flinching at his partner's incredulous look. "There is a stigma attached to cops who turn in other cops, even if they are dirty cops. It's not something that's taught in a class, or discussed openly, but it's there. A lot depends on the officers involved, the police department's overall attitude, things like that. But the odds are, if I agree to this, I won't be looked upon favorably afterwards. And if you help, then attend the academy...well...your time there is likely to be hell on Earth, and your chances of being hired afterwards will be virtually nil. The feeling is that we, as cops, have to depend on each other out in the field, and if one cop turns on another cop, that trust is betrayed," he stopped, seeing Blair nod in agreement.

"There are several similarities, in a number of societies," the former anthropologist agreed vaguely, his expression thoughtful.

"Well, then you do understand," the detective mumbled, his expression troubled.

"I understand that the attitude exists, it doesn't mean I agree with it."

"I don't agree with it either, Chief, but it does exist, and it will affect us. As it is, I suspect most of the officers involved in this operation here are either near retirement age or are lower echelon, who can plead they had no choice, but were following orders. And they are likely from the East, where ties to these offices are virtually nonexistent. But us...well...we're in our own backyard, so to speak," he commented.

"Still, Jim, they're transporting drugs. Kids are being killed by it. I think about what you went through-that girl dying, you losing your sight-and I just can't stomach the idea of turning a blind eye to what is going on," he paused, shaking his head in disbelief at what he'd just said. "Uh, no pun intended, man. But, I mean, hell, maybe I'll regret this...who am I kidding? I know I'll regret this. But I think we should help them. And if Brooks knows about your talents, then so much the better," Blair said, his voice oddly calm.

"You seem to forget I wasn't the only one who was physically affected by Golden. I watched you lying comatose on a bed for a day, heard the doctors talk about brain damage and flashbacks, and wondered if you'd ever wake up. I don't want to think anyone else would have to go through what we did, and I'm willing to do about anything to prevent that. But I need to know you're sure about this. You could be giving up your law enforcement future before you even get to start it."

"I'm sure Jim. I'm not certain I want to be in law enforcement if it somehow prevents me from capturing the bad guys. You know what I mean?" Blair looked anxiously at his partner.

"I hear you, Chief. Let's go find Brooks and hear what his big plan is, okay? Just remember, you're still going to do what I say, got it?"

"Yeah, yeah...got it, man. Business as usual, in other words," the smaller man chuckled, completely unperturbed by the frown his partner sent his way.

The detective shook his head in fond exasperation as the two of them walked out the door and went in search of the man in charge of this operation, knowing full well they might be setting on a course of action that would forever change their lives.

Captain Simon Banks was not a happy man, and he didn't care who knew it that blustery, cold day he found his best team was missing. When Jim Ellison didn't turn up at the station, and no call came to explain his absence, the captain sent Brown and Rafe to the loft at 852 Prospect to check on the detective. The two young men reported back that both Jim's pickup and Blair's car were parked in their usual spots, but that the loft was empty. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing appeared to have been disturbed, and none of the neighbors had heard or seen anything odd in the last 24 hours.

Banks was not prone to panic, but he knew James Ellison, and his gut was telling him in no uncertain terms that the former Ranger had not just wandered off willingly. Something was very wrong, and as usual Ellison and Sandburg were in the middle of it. Of this he was absolutely certain.

"I'm sending over a crime scene crew to go over the place, I want you two to coordinate that," the captain barked into the phone at Brown. "Let me know the minute they find anything."

He hung up and considered his next move before striding over to open his office door. "Taggart! Connor! In my office, please."

"What's up, Captain?" Megan asked, settling herself in one of the chairs in front of the cluttered desk.

"Do either of you know which cases Ellison was concentrating on yesterday? If there was anything odd going on with any of them?" he asked abruptly.

"He and Blair spent most of the day working on the Jackson securities case, I think. Blair was rattling off something about trying to trace one of Jackson's partners, hoping to catch him in the act, I think. But I don't know anything else about it," Taggart reported, his broad face wearing a worried look. "Is something wrong with Jim or Blair?"

"You mean outside of the fact Jim didn't show up for work today, detective?" Simon snapped.

Joel flinched a little, but didn't allow his captain's mood to disturb him. "I figured he'd gotten in earlier than I had, then took off on a case," he explained mildly.

"Taggart, I apologize. You don't deserve that sort of treatment," Simon sighed, running a hand over his face. "He didn't show up, he didn't call in, and both his and Sandburg's vehicles are at the loft, but neither of them are anywhere to be found. Given the amount of attention those two have been receiving recently, and the...well...the stress they've been under..."

"You think something's happened to them," Connor concluded.

"Call it a gut feeling, but yes. I do."

Connor and Taggart exchanged worried glances, both at the news that something could have happened to Jim and Blair, and at the unusual behavior of their captain. The last few weeks had been extraordinarily hard on all of them, starting with the unpleasantness of dealing with Jack Bartley, through the unexpected mess of Blair's dissertation becoming public and exposing Jim's Sentinel abilities to the world at large, then Megan and Simon being shot, Blair's public renouncement of his dissertation and 'confession' of fraud, and the capture of the Zeller. All of Major Crime had been rocked by the events, and it was only recently that things had settled down, with Simon and Megan both back on active duty, and Blair slated to begin the police academy in less than a week. Within the unit, Blair was treated the same as always; if anything maybe a little more kindly, even. But outside the safe confines of Major Crime, he was subject to various forms of harassment, ranging from derision to outright attacks, both physical and verbal.

The potential list of persons who would want to hurt either Ellison or Sandburg, or both, was extensive, to say the least.

"What can we do to help?"

"See if you can figure out what Jim was working on, who the partner they were investigating is. Anything that could possibly point out who might have grabbed them," Banks requested.

"You think they were snatched?" Connor asked.

"That would be my first guess, yeah. I have Brown and Rafe working with a crime scene crew at the loft right now."

"Are there signs of a struggle?" Joel wondered, remembering reading the report about the condition of the loft after Lash grabbed Blair.

"No, there aren't. And somehow that worries me most of all."

"You know, Captain, they may have just stepped out for a meal, or whatever," Megan commented, her tone even. "They aren't going to be happy if they come home and find their home crawling with cops."

"If that happens, I will be the most relieved man in Cascade, Inspector. But, until that happens, I'm going to treat this as a kidnapping. Now get to work." He waved his hand in the general direction of the door, his attention already turning to some paperwork on his desk.

"Hey, Einstein, you crack this case yet?" Jim asked his younger friend when he walked in to find the former anthropology student hunched over a computer keyboard, intently studying the information on the screen in front of him.

"Almost," Blair replied in a distracted manner, his attention not wavering from the screen in front of him.

"Oh?" The detective was immediately interested, having seen Sandburg in full research mode before and knowing the signs of imminent discovery. It had been two weeks since they'd joined the task force, and they had both spent countless hours poring over reports, surveillance shots, and other documents, carefully constructing a web of evidence against the drug dealers who were serving as police officers.

"Yeah, man, look at this," the longhaired young man said, pointing to the screen. Jim leaned in closer, as did Brooks, who had come in with him.

Seeing he had both the older men's attention, Blair launched into a detailed explanation of what the data was referring to. He'd managed to take the information the team had assembled before he and Jim had joined them, then extrapolated it to predict the most likely activities for the drug traffickers over the next three to four weeks.

"As you can see, there is a definite pattern here, I think my predictions are reasonably accurate, unless something is done to tip them off," Blair concluded.

"This is great, Blair," the FBI agent enthused, patting the Cascade Police observer on the back. "I want to call a meeting in a couple of hours, and I think we can map out the rest of this assignment. And tonight we are going to follow Captain Jensen to his 'meeting' and see if we can get enough evidence to make sure he falls. See you two at the meeting then," he said, heading back out the door with a hurried step.

"Looks like you did good, Chief," Jim said with a warm smile for his partner. "Brooks is impressed with your work."

"It's not that big a deal, man. Just doing what I was trained to do. You could consider this group of drug traffickers as a small society unto themselves. And analyzing and tracking a society's patterns is what I specialized in." There was a brittleness to the younger man's tone of voice, an underlying sorrow that hadn't been there only a few weeks before. It reminded his older friend once again just what the former student had given up to protect his Sentinel, and the now familiar pang of painful guilt hit once more.

"I've always said you bring a unique perspective to police work," the detective commented, tapping the curly head gently.

"Hmm. Uh, you really believe Captain Jensen is involved in this?" It was obvious Sandburg wanted to change the subject. Both the Cascade men had been shocked to find the suspected leader of the 'gang' on their home turf was the well-respected captain of the Vice division.

"It sure looks that way, Chief. We'll find out tonight, if the meet goes down as expected. I hope they're wrong on this one - I've known Allen Jensen for a long time - but so far their track record for accuracy has been outstanding. I won't kid you, though. We bring down Allen and I can guarantee we will NOT be popular at the station. The man has a lot of friends," Jim sighed.

"It doesn't seem right, does it? That doing the right thing can be seen as so wrong, cause so much trouble. But we are doing the right thing. Right?" the younger man asked, seeking reassurance from the veteran officer.

"Yeah, Chief, we're doing the right thing," Ellison replied absently, running his hand through his short hair in a distracted manner. "Look, I want you to stay here tonight, okay? I have a bad feeling about this meeting."

"That's fine, Jim, if you're staying here. If not, I'm going. You've been pushing your senses a lot recently, and you know that's when you're more subject to zoning. Brooks doesn't know how to bring you out of a zone, you need me there."

"Chief, don't buck me on this, okay? Just stay here, finish your research or whatever you have to do. I'll be fine without you for a couple of hours."

Blair sighed tiredly, knowing how incredibly stubborn the Sentinel could be, but also knowing his feelings were usually accurate. But, if Jim zoned when alone with the other members of the task force, he could end up being caught, something his guide was not willing to risk. "I'll think about it. Now let's go grab something to eat, all right? I skipped lunch, I think. I was too engrossed to stop for a meal, but now I'm starving."

Frowning in displeasure, though whether it was at his young friend's reluctance to do what he was told, or at his tendency to forget to take care of himself, was impossible to say.

Later they would wonder just how a simple surveillance could go so spectacularly wrong.

Jensen showed up as expected, as did his contact, a widely recognized member of the local branch of a national drug cartel. Based on prior knowledge of the cartel's methods, plus what Jim was able to hear of the conversation, the man who was meeting Jensen had no interest in exchanging information or establishing a working relationship. Murder appeared to be the agenda from the get-go, and there was literally nothing the observers could do to prevent it.

Almost before Jensen's lifeless body hit the floor, the old factory building was a beehive of frantic activity as the task force mobilized to capture the murderer, just as a contingent of Cascade police officers arrived on the scene, alerted by Jensen's unnoticed backup. Once the pandemonium had ceased, the frustrated police officers found themselves with only two things for all their efforts. A dead Vice Captain and one prisoner-Blair Sandburg.

"Banks," Simon growled into his phone, his hand automatically reaching for his cup of coffee. He'd just sat down at his desk, without even having had five minutes of peace to review the night shift's logs. He listened to his caller with a growing sense of disbelief, then growled out a terse reply before hanging up forcefully.

"Taggart! You're with me," he called out impatiently as he strode across the bullpen toward the doors. Joel didn't waste time with questions, but fell in step beside his captain without comment until they reached the elevators and Simon had punched in the required floor.

"What's up, Sir?" the former bomb squad captain asked.

"Captain Jensen of Vice was killed last night. Looks like a possible mob hit. They didn't catch the guy, but they did take a prisoner."

"They're sure the prisoner isn't the killer?" Joel queried.

"They don't sound too sure about anything, but they don't think he is."

"Why are we being called in?"

"Their prisoner is Sandburg," Simon ground out.

"What?!? Blair? Blair wouldn't kill anyone. What was he doing there? There has to be some sort of explanation," Taggart exclaimed, turning a disbelieving look to his superior.

"An explanation that personally I am looking to hearing," Simon muttered, the last two weeks of worry weighing on him. He burst in to the booking/holding area like a tornado, barking out questions and orders until he'd arranged a meeting with the arresting officers to be followed by a chance to interrogate the prisoner himself.

"Captain Banks, we can use the conference room to talk," Detective Abrams said, indicating a small, windowless room.

"That'd be fine," Simon growled, motioning for Taggart to join them. "Now, how'd you come to arrest our observer?" he asked without preamble after they had seated themselves.

"Captain Jensen told us he had a meeting scheduled last night at that warehouse, and we arranged it so it would appear he went alone, but we'd be able to swoop in and get the guy once the Cap had the evidence. But, somehow, it went so wrong..." the younger detective's voice trailed off as he suddenly seemed to become fascinated with the scarred tabletop.

"Do you have any idea why he was killed?" Banks asked calmly, understanding all too well how upset the officers in Vice were. Losing a man was never easy, but when it was a captain as well liked and respected as Captain Jensen, it was especially hard.

"No. Nor do we know who he was supposed to meet. I guess it was set up by one of his snitches. He didn't tell anyone, and now it's too late."

"Where does Sandburg fit in all this?" Joel asked.

"That's what we'd all like to know. There was a small group of people in that warehouse. We have to assume they were with the killer, probably his own backup. When we came in, they fled, and your man is the only one we were able to catch."

"What's his explanation?" Simon wondered.

"Wish I knew! The little prick won't talk. Not at all. Won't speak, won't look at anyone, won't write. Frankly, Captain Banks, I'm hoping you can get something out of him. God knows we've tried," Abrams sighed.

"We'll try. Though, normally, getting Sandburg to talk isn't a problem. Getting him to shut up, is. Did you check him for injuries? Signs of having been held against his will? That sort of thing."

"Of course. No sign of anything. The kid appears totally healthy. We asked him if he'd been being held by someone. No answer. Asked where his partner, Ellison, is. No answer. Asked if he needed something to eat or drink. No answer. Frankly, I had to leave because I wanted to pick him up and shake the answers out of him. For his sake, I hope he opens up to you. If he keeps this up, he'll end up in lockup without bail until he talks. You might want to mention that."

"I will. Can we see him now?"

"Sure. I think Jeffers and Nelson can use a break," Abrams said, leading the two captains to the interrogation room.

"Guys, let's let these fellas have a shot, okay? Go take a break, have some coffee, food, whatever," Abrams ordered, ushering the Vice Detectives out and leaving Simon and Joel alone with their prisoner.

Blair was dressed in the orange prisoner coveralls, his right wrist cuffed to the table, his long hair partially obscuring his face. Simon felt a rush of protectiveness, and in that moment understood what Ellison must have gone through every time he had to rescue the younger man. There was just something in that small, hunched figure that brought out every protective instinct the larger man possessed.

"Sandburg, you want to tell us what went down last night?" the Major Crime captain asked without preamble.

Silence greeted that question, as it had greeted every preceding query, and would continue to for every following question. Banks found himself frustrated to the point he wanted to just grab the prisoner and shake an answer...any answer...out of the younger man.

Blair didn't appear defiant, more like resigned, which was doubly frustrating to the older officers. Defiance was far easier to respond to, even if it was only with anger, compared to this stoic acceptance of their suspicion and accusations.

"Blair, do you understand what you are facing here?" Joel finally asked with oddly angry patience.

At the younger man's disinterested shrug, Simon's patience snapped, and he loudly, and graphically, described what was likely to happen now; what the stubborn young observer faced unless he started talking and shed some light on the events from the previous night. But nothing they said - none of their entreaties or their orderss or their threats - broke through the stoic silence. Their words were absorbed by the younger man without any visible impact, until at last they were forced to admit defeat and watch in puzzled despair as the anthropologist was led away to a holding cell.

"I know you've got an inside man, Brooks, so don't even try to say you don't know what's going on with Blair," Jim growled at the FBI agent the morning after the ill-fated shooting.

"They're holding him as an accessory to Jensen's murder. So far he hasn't said a word, and I mean that quite literally. Apparently he has turned completely mute, to the officers who questioned him, to fellow inmates - who are not in the same cell as hhe is, mind you, they're treating him with kid gloves, believe me. But the word is he'll be charged, and probably held without bail due to the nature of the crime, and the fact that it's unlikely anyone will show up to help him out."

"Was he injured?"

"Word is, no. Apparently fine and healthy, just completely incommunicado. He'll be okay, Ellison. He isn't going to be in there long enough to get to trial. And I'm betting Banks will make sure the kid is sequestered away from the general population, kept safe. Remember, he agreed to all the risks, same as you did," Brooks noted solemnly.

"I'm well aware of that," Jim ground out through clenched jaws. "And how would you feel if it was your partner?"

"Probably the way you feel."

"This is just not like Blair," Joel complained, rolling his glass of beer between his large, nimble hands.

"I agree it's not like Sandy or Jim to worry us needlessly, but I can't imagine why they would disappear like that and not tell us. And where is Jim now? There's no way he's going to leave Sandy in jail," Megan added, her eyes flashing with anger.

"Well, we have an APB out on him, so if he gets anywhere near the precinct they'll pick him up," Simon reported tersely.

It was a rather subdued group sitting around the corner table at The Waterfall Bar, a small establishment two blocks from the police station. Taggart had been the one to suggest they go out for an after-shift drink, and the others had agreed, however unenthusiastically. They had spent all their spare time in the previous two weeks trying to find any trace of Ellison and Sandburg, working on their off hours more often than not. Sandburg's arrest had been an unpleasant surprise, to say the least.

"Come on, guys. We know Hairboy wouldn't do anything like murder. Maybe we should look around ourselves, see if we can find something to clear him," Henri suggested.

"I like that idea, Captain," Megan agreed with a determined look. "They aren't going to pin this on Sandy."

"I agree. They act like they want to hang Blair, like they caught their man. And you know that's not the case," Joel chipped in.

"Guys, I know how you feel. Believe me, I know. But we have to be careful here. It won't do any good if we just stomp all over the other divisions," Simon cautioned.

A round of reluctant nods greeted that comment, then Henri turned to his so far silent partner. "Brian, you okay man? You're kinda quiet, even for you."

Rafe looked around at the others, then back to his untouched beer. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said in a tone that convinced no one.

"Come on, Partner, spit it out. What's bugging you? You can tell us," Henri encouraged him.

The dark haired detective took a deep breath then spoke softly. "First, I just want to say, I don't think Blair had anything to do with Captain Jensen's death. He's not the sort to kill anyone. But...well, you know I transferred to Major Crime from Vice, right? I served under Captain Jensen for a year, my first year as a detective."

The others winced, having forgotten that Rafe, like Ellison before him, had come via Vice; but apparently, unlike Ellison, Rafe had liked the gruff Captain Jensen.

"You want to talk about it?" Simon prompted him.

"There was this one case," Rafe began after a considering pause. "I was undercover, and one of my sources was a young prostitute, went by the name Petal. She couldn't have been more than 16, 17 years old. Nice kid. And when the bust went down, she got caught in the crossfire...she died in my arms in a filthy alley. I held it together, for a while at least, gave my statement, did the report, the whole bit. Then, I don't even remember what was said, I think it was some offhand comment about there being one less hooker in Cascade to arrest, and I came unglued. Yelled at my fellow officers, yelled at Captain Jensen, called him a few less than complimentary things, turned in a hand written resignation, tried to stomp out of there. I mean, I totally lost it." He glanced up nervously, gratified to see only understanding shining in his friends' eyes.

"What'd Jensen do?" Taggart encouraged him.

"Grabbed my arm and marched me down to the gym, which fortunately was pretty much deserted. Threw me some gloves and let me at the punching bag. I went berserk. I have no idea how long I punched that thing, I do know I was soaking wet with sweat when I was done. I punched, and yelled, and cried, and he stayed there with me, egging me on, forcing me to let it all go, then telling me to clean up and meet him back in his office," Rafe's smile was a combination of sad and embarrassed.

"When I got to his office, he gave me the chance to tear up my resignation, which I did. Then he told me about his first case, the first time he saw an innocent killed." Rafe looked up then with an abashed grin. "Then he told me if I ever called him that again he'd chew me a new asshole and bust me to meter maid. But, after that afternoon the incident was never mentioned again. And when the opening came up in Major Crime, the division I'd wanted from the start, he helped me get the transfer." He fell silent for a bit, obviously lost in thought.

"So, see, while I'm certain Blair had nothing to do with Captain Jensen's death, nor did Jim, I'm still angry he was killed, you know? He could have let me resign that day, or washed me out of the detective force. But he didn't. And I can't help but feel any success I have now is at least partly contributable to what he did for me."

The group was silent for a few moments, then Henri spoke up gently. "Sorry, Brian. Guess we got so caught up in worrying about Blair, we forgot a good man died there."

"Yeah, and we owe it to both good men to find out what happened," Simon agreed.

Blair stared at the meal with a marked lack of interest or enthusiasm. It had been a week since the shooting, four days since Captain Allen Jensen was laid to rest with full honors. Seven days of being taken from his solitary cell twice per day; once for questioning, once for a shower. Meals were delivered three times daily, and after twenty one meals the health conscious young man was still debating the relative merits of eating the slop he was served vs. giving up eating entirely.

He had maintained a stoic silence, refusing to answer even the most innocent of questions, afraid if he lowered his guard for even a moment he'd somehow betray Jim and the others. The daily questioning session was a torture in and of itself, though he couldn't decide which was worse; the barely restrained hostility of the Vice detectives or the hurt puzzlement of the Major Crime members.

They had tried threats, physical intimidation, bribery, even laid on guilt for disappointing those who had trusted him; and still Blair remained mute and closed in on himself. Those who knew the usually loquacious young man were suspended somewhere between surprise and dismay at this display of stubbornness, and most figured somehow Jim Ellison was at least part of the reason behind it.

Simon, for one, was one hundred percent convinced Blair was protecting the older detective, though from what he couldn't begin to guess. He was more than a little surprised that Jim hadn't shown up to either break Blair out or clear up the situation in some way; he just couldn't believe that the former covert ops Ranger would leave his younger partner to face this situation alone. That left the depressing possibility that his best detective was UNABLE to help Sandburg; that he was either injured or imprisoned himself.

The situation was not helped by the fact that there had been no leads or breaks in the case; forensics had not uncovered so much as a single clue at the site. They didn't know who the shooter was, or who the others in attendance that night were, or why Captain Jensen has circumvented the regulations and had gone to the meeting sans backup. And it infuriated the Vice division that the one person who could probably answer most of those questions was sitting mute and protected in a solitary confinement cell.

The former grad student's reputation had taken a beating with his renouncement of his thesis, making it easier for those who didn't know him well to believe he was capable of participation in criminal activities. Despite his three years of involvement with the police, during which time he was never found to be anything but honest and upright, the events of the last couple of months had completely turned a majority of officers against the young man, and more than a few were secretly glad to see 'Cop of the Year Ellison's' hippie freak partner take a fall.

Blair looked up as his cell door opened and the now familiar sight of Officer Laron filled the open doorway. The young patrolman was his usual escort for his evening shower, and Blair felt oddly comfortable in his presence, sensing neither hostility nor disgust from the large rookie.

"Come on, Sandburg, you know the routine," Laron said mildly as he stepped back and gestured the prisoner out. The walk to the showers was silent, and moments later Blair gratefully stepped under the warm spray, savoring his one daily pleasure. His guard allowed him some privacy, and, unless there was an emergency, normally let the anthropologist have as much time as he wanted.

So it was nearly a half hour later before he exited the showers to find Laron gone, and Detective Madera of Vice standing in his place. At Blair's startled look the dark haired detective smiled in an unpleasant manner.

"What's the matter, Jewboy? Scared now your protector is gone? He had an urgent call to backup, so I offered to take his place. Just doing my duty, you know. Here we go," he said as he stopped at the door to the main holding cell, currently filled with a motley assortment of rough looking men who eyed the smaller prisoner with obvious interest.

Blair turned anxious eyes to the Vice detective, his fear evident in the blue depths.

"Problem, boy? You want to go somewhere else? Then just speak on up. You just have to ask. Well, ask, and also tell us what you know about the shooting. Otherwise I'll just consider your silence as...acceptance." He glared down at the smaller man, then sneered derisively. "Come on faggot, you know how this works. You've been working with the police long enough, been Ellison's partner long enough." The angry man spoke purposely loud enough to be clearly heard by all the prisoners inside the common holding cell. "You know how this works. You give me what we want, we may give you what you want. Still nothing to say? Well, in that case, I'll just put you back in with your buddies here, okay?"

If Jim had been near by he would have been nearly deafened by his guide's wildly hammering heartbeat as Madera grabbed his arm and roughly shoved him in the cell, clanging the door closed with a click that chilled Sandburg with it's soft finality. The other prisoners formed a loose circle around the terrified anthropologist as Madera strolled away without a backwards glance, closing the riot door behind him. It was against regulations to close the solid metal door unless there was an emergency, since it completely muted the sounds from the holding cells.

**Let the little hippie scream all he wants,** Madera thought maliciously. **No one will be able to hear him.** The officers at the duty desk didn't even spare the veteran detective a glance as he strolled by, whistling cheerfully.

"Jim, it's nearly two in the morning, you need to get some rest," Daniel Brooks said softly as he joined the Cascade detective on the dark porch.

"I'm not sleepy," the big man replied tersely, his intense gaze roaming the quiet neighborhood. He knew the source of his unease was not nearby, but instinct born of his special talents demanded he keep a vigilant eye on his surroundings.

"It's almost over. Another day or two, and we can put an end to this," the FBI agent sighed, leaning against the wall near the seated Sentinel.

"It was supposed to only be another day or two a week ago," Jim ground out, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles vibrated with tension.

"We had no way of determining how Jensen's death would affect our operation. We're damned lucky it didn't completely blow it out of the water. And a large part of the credit goes to your partner." Brooks was silent a moment, then huffed out a breath in quiet amusement. "I have to admit, Blair surprised me. Even though I had checked into you both quite thoroughly before you showed up so unexpectedly on our doorstep, he still surprised me. It's one thing to read about an unarmed, untrained anthropology student who 'partners' the cop of the year, but something else again to actually see him in action. He's quite a piece of work. He'll make one hell of a cop if he gets a chance, and I sure as hell hope he does. You two have been invaluable to this phase of the operation, and if I have one prayer beyond putting an end to the flow of drugs into my country, it's that your partner comes out of this okay."

"That makes two of us."

"How could dispatch get that call wrong? Geez, drive all the way across town for nothing. Hmph. Maybe it's 'make the rookie's life hell' day or something."

Simon Banks glanced up as he walked by the muttering officer, his distracted mind taking a moment to place the vaguely familiar face.

"Is there a problem, Laron?" he asked gruffly.

"No, Sir, Captain. Not a problem," the younger man replied crisply, his face bland but his agitation plain in the stormy look in his eyes.

"You sure about that?" Simon softened both his tone and his expression to encourage the young man to speak up. Phillip Laron was new to the force, but already he had a reputation as being level headed and good at his job. Simon, as was his practice, was keeping an eye on the promising rookie, hoping to recruit him for his division should Laron decide to move on to being a detective.

Laron sighed a bit and grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. It probably happens all the time."

"What happens all the time?"

"Calls that end up being nothing. I got a call to backup a bust going down in the warehouse district. When I got there, no one was around. When I called to confirm the location, dispatch claimed they didn't take the original call. I figure someone's just having fun with the rookie, you know?"

An icy ball of dread formed in the Major Crime captain's gut. "What were you doing when the call came in?"

"Oh, I'd just taken Sandburg for his shower. Was waiting for him to finish. Madera had just dropped off a prisoner, he volunteered to take Sandburg back to his cell...Captain Banks?" Laron paused for a moment in surprise, staring at the retreating back of the tall man, then hurried off after the rapidly moving Banks.

Simon's long strides quickly carried him to the counter outside the holding cells. "I need to see Sandburg, immediately," he demanded, ignoring Laron's questioning look.

"Sure thing, Sir," the officer in charge said, looking at the captain curiously even as he stood to lead them to Sandburg's cell.

"What the hell is this doing closed?" Impatient hands opened the riot door, letting out the obvious sounds of disturbance in the main holding cell.

"Kingsburg! Martin! Get down here now," Officer Orman called up as he, Banks and Laron loosened their weapons and approached the cell.

"Everyone back up against the walls. Now!" The roar from a fully enraged Simon Banks was not something that could be ignored. The knot of men dissolved against the far walls of the cell, leaving a pale, crumpled nude figure lying motionless near the center.

"Oh, my God," the Major Crime Captain breathed out, his heart thudding painfully with the realization he'd failed his friends. He fought his urge to rush forward and get Sandburg out of there, knowing he couldn't enter the cell until enough backup was available and procedures were followed. After more officers arrived, and handing over their weapons for safety's sake, Simon and Laron were able to enter the cell and carefully remove the injured prisoner, wrapping the battered body gently in a blanket.

"Is he alive?" Officer Martin asked, not shifting his gaze from the assembled prisoners.

"Yeah, but we need to get him to a hospital," Banks reported grimly, not wanting to think about what had probably been done to the much smaller man.

"I'll call for an ambulance," Kingsburg offered, as the cell door was relocked behind them.

"Forget it, it would be faster if I take him," Simon growled out, reluctant to release the former grad student from his protective hold. "Laron, you drive. If you want to send an escort, feel free, but I'm taking him to the hospital now."

A pair of muddy brown eyes watched the action around the cellblock area, and sharp ears listened intently to the snatches of conversation that made their way to the silently laboring janitor. There was no change in his demeanor or his expression as he came to understand that the imprisoned police observer had been assaulted, but behind the bland face a quick, well-trained mind had filed away all the essential information.

Debating with himself, he finally decided to wait until the next day, when he could find out Sandburg's condition, before reporting the incident to Agent Brooks.

"Simon, I just heard. Any word yet?" Captain Banks looked up into the concerned eyes of Joel Taggart and shook his head in the negative.

"Nothing yet. I don't know if I should be worried or relieved."

"How'd it happen? How'd he end up in with the general population?"

"The officer who normally escorts Blair for his shower, Phillip Laron, a rookie, was called away to backup at a bust. He got there and no one was around. Now, call me suspicious, but I'm not taking bets against it being a bogus call to get him out of the way. Detective Madera of Vice was conveniently in the holding cell area, and kindly offered to take care of escorting Blair back to his cell." Sarcasm all but dripped from the big captain's tone. "Only, Laron neglected to point out that Blair was in a solitary cell, figuring Madera was well aware of that."

"Of course he was! All the Vice detectives know that. God knows they bitch about it enough," Joel cut in angrily.

"Exactly. But Madera is claiming ignorance, and Laron did admit not giving proper instruction before leaving, so there you have it. IA will be called in to investigate, but the probability is that Madera will get an unofficial reprimand."

Joel looked down at his hands with a sigh. "Simon, they said...Blair was...they had..." the former bomb squad captain couldn't make himself say it.

"I don't know for sure, Joel. We'll have to wait for the doc's word on that. He was unconscious, and bleeding in several places, but I'm not sure exactly how or where he was injured. I was too concentrated on just getting him out of there." Simon dropped his head wearily into his hands. "Oh, God. What am I going to tell Jim?"

"Where the hell is Ellison, anyway? What's he thinking, leaving Blair to face this alone? You know as well as I do Blair's protecting him. He'd throw himself in front of a bullet if he thought it would protect Jim. So where is he?" Uncharacteristic anger colored Taggart's voice.

"Have you considered the possibility that Jim may not even know what happened to Blair? Maybe he's hurt. Or a hostage. Something's wrong, anyway. Because one thing I AM sure of is that James Ellison would never leave Blair Sandburg to face a dangerous situation alone. That devotion you spoke of, it works both ways."

"I know, Simon, I know."

"And worse than that is that Jim was probably counting on us to protect him when he couldn't. God, what a mess."

There was nothing that could be said to that, and the two men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. Simon was remembering a young man who without hesitation jumped from a plane to rescue him and his son in the jungle, who trailed Jim through the forest despite his injuries to save Simon from a killer, who never once seemed to think of his own safety above someone else's. Courageous, impetuous, intelligent and determined, Blair was everything Simon Banks would look for in a friend or detective, and the realization that he'd failed to protect the younger man ate at his soul. Rubbing a large hand over his tired face, he was startled when the doctor strode briskly into the room.

"Are you gentlemen here for Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes. How is he?"

"In a word? Lucky. Very lucky. He has three cracked ribs and several broken bones in his left hand; looks like someone stomped on it, with a boot perhaps. That's the worst of it. A lot of bruising, which will make him uncomfortable for the next few days. No internal bleeding that we could determine, though he should be watched for signs for the next day or so. As a matter of fact, I'd like to keep him overnight for observation, if possible. Otherwise he got off lucky."

"Doctor, when we got there...they had stripped him..."

"He was not raped," the doctor said bluntly. "At least he was not penetrated. There may have been elements of sexual assault, but it was stopped before the actual act was completed. I am curious, though. Mr. Sandburg is in custody? I thought he worked with the police? I've treated him, and his partner, the big detective...Ellison, is it?...several times before. And I'm a little concerned that Mr. Sandburg is not speaking, though I'm assuming it due to the trauma and will work itself out in a short while."

"Yes, he's in custody. And the not speaking has been going on for a week or more. We've assumed it's his way to avoid telling us what he's involved with. As for his partner, Ellison is missing, and has been for over three weeks. We'll arrange a guard, and Sandburg will have to be admitted to the locked ward, like any other prisoner."

"I'll see to it, Captain Banks," the doctor agreed, giving the dark man a searching look before returning to the ER.

Daniel Brooks had pushed to be given a task force to fight the influx of drugs from Canada, despite the fact he'd be 'taking down' members of the FBI and assorted police forces. He'd painstakingly gathered evidence, spent four months directing nearly two dozen operatives in every phase of the sting, finding nearly every day more evidence of his fellow officer's descent into greed and opportunism. And still the hardest thing he felt he'd faced yet was telling Jim Ellison that his partner had spent the night at Cascade General due to a beating by the other inmates after being 'inadvertently' turned loose in the general population.

"Jim, he's okay. He's back at the precinct, they released him this morning. I'm sorry, you know I didn't want anything to happen to him. Damn it, man, you can't run off half cocked now. We'll be moving in at all locations day after tomorrow. Think man. It's too late to do anything but undo all the good he's done," the veteran agent was frantic to make the distressed Sentinel recognize reason.

Ellison paced the room in quick, angry strides, obviously wishing he had someone...something...he could physically strike out against. The news that his partner had been injured did not sit well with the detective.

"How the hell could they have put him in with the other prisoners? When I find the idiot responsible he'll be lucky if he's fit for duty again this year. Goddammit! Why the hell wasn't Simon keeping an eye out for him? I knew I shouldn't have gone along with this, I knew it! And as usual, it's Blair who paid for it. Why doesn't he wise up and stop hanging around? God, I should never have let it get this far," Jim's ranting continued as his pacing increased.

"Ellison! Dammit man, stop this! It's done! We can't undo what happened, but we can be sure it wasn't for naught. What is it with you? Ever since Blair was captured you've been restless and irritable as hell," Brooks huffed out an exasperated breath.

That finally got the Cascade detective's attention and stopped his restless movements; taking a deep breath he rubbed his hands over his face. "You're right, I know you're right. It's just...he's my partner. He's my friend. And this just sucks, to use a Sandburgism."

"'Sandburgism'? Somehow that sounds about right," Daniel chuckled a little, glad to see the other man calming again.

"Yeah, Henri came up with that one day after Blair used some obscure term around him. Claimed Blair was just making it up on the spot, and somehow the term just caught on at the station." Jim paused for a moment, then spoke quietly. "Look, I'm sorry I went off on you, it's just the stress, you know? You don't need to worry that I'll blow it, I know what's at stake."

"Didn't doubt it for a moment," the FBI agent noted, clapping the taller man on the shoulder before leaving the Sentinel to his thoughts.

"Jesus, Chief, I'm sorry," Jim muttered to himself, pinching the area between his eyes as yet another headache settled in. The headaches had been a daily ordeal since Blair's capture, as had the occasional sensory spike; though, at least he hadn't zoned yet. He was anxious and irritable and Sandburg would have diagnosed extreme 'Blessed Protector' syndrome by the second day. However, that wasn't something he could explain to Brooks or any of the other agents. He missed Simon, who at least knew how to cope with Jim's moods and attitudes when this happened, and who seemed to recognize instinctively when to push the Sentinel, and when to let him be.

But, thinking of Simon darkened his mood even further. Before, he'd taken comfort in the thought that at least Blair had friends and potential defenders in the police department, but it sure sounded like Banks had fallen down on the job. How had his guide gotten into a situation where he could be hurt? He should have been relatively safe in custody, even being held in connection with a cop's death. Simon and the rest of the Major Crime gang had some answering to do, that much was certain.

Soothing himself with thoughts of how he'd make those responsible for Sandburg's injuries pay, Jim went back to join the other agents, anxious to ensure nothing further delayed the completion of the operation.

"So, what's the matter, Sweetie. You think you're too good for the likes of me, is that it? Listen Sweetcheeks, you're going to have plenty of time to get to know all of us. Several times in fact, ain't that right boys. We're always glad to meet a cop, right? Now, let's see our prize, huh?" Rough hands pulled at the orange coverall, ruthlessly tearing it from the trembling form surrounded by comparable giants.

"No. Please...no..."

The bedraggled form on the narrow bunk tossed restlessly, the movement sending a jolt of burning pain through damaged ribs and rousing him from vividly reliving a waking nightmare. Blair cautiously rolled to a position sitting on the edge of his bunk and rested his head in his hands.

"God, wasn't living it enough?" he muttered, drawing in a shuddering breath and waiting for the pain to fade again. He'd spent the day drifting in and out of disturbing dreams, unable to actually rest enough to make any difference in how he was feeling. He'd ignored the meals he'd been offered, as well as the medications that had been delivered one pill at a time. Laron had come by to take him to the showers, an offer that had been silently declined, just as the officer's heartfelt apology was ignored. It was taking all the young man's considerable determination to remain silent, and never before had he wanted to see Jim more than he did that day. If Jim wasn't available, then nothing else would do.

He could still vividly see and hear the rough men in the main cell as they closed around him, towering menacingly over him in a confining circle that offered no chance for escape. The taunting jabs and pulls on his hair, accompanied by verbal abuse, escalated fairly quickly to punches and the seemingly fascinating pastime of playing 'pass the anthropologist' as each inmate took their turn roughing the smaller man up. It eventually devolved into kicking his battered body as they stripped off his coverall to the accompaniment of crude descriptions of exactly how they planned to defile him. It seemed he'd lost consciousness before the depravity began, and according to the doctor's examination, Simon showed up with the cavalry before the prisoners could begin the final festivities.

He may not have been technically raped, but he still felt ashamed and emasculated, and if his ribs hadn't been throbbing so wretchedly he would have gladly taken a two hour turn in the showers. But the thought of leaving the comparative safety of his cell, of making himself vulnerable in any way, was too much for him to contemplate, and in the end he chose to be safe, even if he felt unclean.

He scooted further back on the bunk, so his back was against the wall, and turned to rest his flushed cheek against the cool surface, biting his bottom lip to keep the words at bay as his mind filled with a soundless cry to his blessed protector to come and take him home.

"Detective Ellison? Here are the last of the Cascade files. Agent Brooks thought you'd want one last review of them before tomorrow." Three more manilla folders joined the small stack already on Ellison's desk.

Grunting out his thanks Jim searched his memory for the young agent's name, finally coming up with a match.

"Is there anything else, Agent Tanksley?" he asked finally.

"No sir," he replied, before flushing a little. "I guess I'm just a little jazzed, you know? We've been working so long on this, it feels good to be almost done."

Jim smiled slightly, understanding the younger man's attitude. A fairly high percentage of the agents involved in this operation were young, and from the East, like Tanksley. This was his first big job, and anyone would have to agree the youngsters had done an outstanding job under difficult circumstances.

"I guess it's different for you, being used to things and all. And they aren't just names to you, are they?"

The kid's perceptiveness startled Ellison, as his eye fell on the name neatly typed on the label of one of the new files. "Yeah, you got that right," he muttered as his heart clenched painfully. **Oh, God, Blair is going to be so upset!** he thought miserably.

Sensing the shift in the older man's mood, Tanksley decided it was time to beat a tactical retreat. "Agent Brooks also wanted to remind you of the briefing tomorrow morning before we move in. See you then, Detective. Good night."

"'night," Jim muttered, already scanning the meager contents of the file in hope of finding something to prove the suspicions wrong. But as usual, it looked like the team had assembled a good case against the suspect.

Damn.

"They want you for questioning again, Sandburg," Officer Laron announced calmly as he opened the cell door. Blair didn't look up or react as the younger officer stepped in and cuffed him, placing one well above the bulky cast and bandage on his damaged left hand, before assisting him gently enough to his feet. The anthropologist bit back a moan of pain as his ribs protested to the movement, then moved slowly out of the comparative safety of his cell and down the corridor toward the exit.

Phillip Laron kept his expression carefully neutral, but inside he seethed anew at what had been done to the seemingly harmless prisoner, and his unwitting part in it. Blair shuffled slowly, head down and shoulders slumped, like an old man at the end of a hard life's journey, a far cry from the boundless energy he'd been wont to exhibit only a few short weeks before. The long curls partially hid, but couldn't completely obscure, the horrendous bruising that marred the features that under normal circumstances caught most women's eyes. Laron had the distinct impression that if the ground were to open up and swallow the smaller man whole, Blair's only reaction would be a weary gratitude.

"Someone will be with you shortly," he said, attaching one of Sandburg's cuffs to the table. He straightened up and left the room, relieved to be out of the police observer's company, and ashamed of himself for feeling that way.

Blair studied his feet with almost eerie concentration, dreading the sound of the opening door, and only vaguely wondering if it would be a Vice or Major Crime officer this time. He had hoped that since his assault that they would finally give up, but apparently that was a bit premature. He supposed their dogged determination would normally be viewed as admirable, but all he could dredge up was a resigned irritation at being dragged into the interrogation room yet again. At last the faint squeal of the hinges signaled an end to his solitude, and heavy footsteps moved slowly near, pausing a moment before the officer sank into the chair to his immediate left.

"Hey, Blair."

Sandburg flinched internally at the soft voice of Joel Taggart. Of all the Major Crime detectives who'd tried to question him during the last few days, Taggart was the hardest for Blair to handle. The man was genuinely fond of the anthropologist, and honestly puzzled and dismayed by the younger man's attitude; his feelings plainly showing in the former Bomb Squad captain's sorrowful hound dog eyes.

"Guess you've really had a rotten time, huh, Blair. I'm so sorry, man. If we'd known something like this would have happened.....we would have been there for you." The big detective noticed his young companion's lack of response and sighed in resignation. "I don't blame you for being mad, and I know this isn't much, but they said you weren't eating. I thought maybe you'd like this." He set the Styrofoam cup in front of Blair, then pried off the lid, releasing the warm fragrance; not of the expected coffee, but herbal tea.

Blair's eyes drifted shut as the warm aroma surrounded him in an invisible shroud of pleasant associations. The scent took him immediately back in his mind to a winter evening a few months ago; before Alex, before the dissertation, before Agent Brooks. He and Jim were in the loft, papers that Blair was meant to be grading were spread out on the low table in front of the couch, but were mostly ignored as both men had their attention firmly on the Jags game showing on the television. The peace of the loft was occasionally interrupted by shouts and whoops as the Jags soundly trounced the Suns, as outside a bitter wind blew sparse snow fiercely against the windows while the cheerful fire kept the inside warm and comfortable. There were no problems bothering either man, their worlds were as tranquil as they ever could be, their friendship strong and untroubled. Nothing extraordinary happened that night, but it stood in Blair's memory as the most wonderful of evenings; simple, serene, and content.

It represented all the things the young man felt he'd lost-security, friendship, and a promising future. Home. A surge of loss cut through him like a blunt knife, and with a soundless whimper he curled upon himself as much as his tender injuries would allow.

"Blair? What's wrong? Are you okay? The girl at the teashop said that was your favorite, I'm sorry, I thought you'd like it," Joel stammered unhappily, wondering if the tea was upsetting his friend's stomach further. It wasn't until he leaned down and caught sight of the moisture on Sandburg's face that he understood that the young man had finally lost his battle to remain impassive.

Acting on an instinct born of a kind and loving nature, Joel reached around the smaller man in a half hug, carefully pulling him close. "It's okay, Blair," he whispered into the tumbled curls. "You've been so brave, I don't know what's going on, but we do know you're not a killer, we figure you're protecting Jim. You just keep on doing so, Blair. We may not understand exactly why, but we know you have to have a good reason. You're not alone, Son."

The kind words were both his salvation and his undoing as the emotions he'd struggled with since his capture, intensified exponentially since his assault, finally found vent in his soundless sobs. Joel held him in that half hug until he finally felt the smaller man regain control and pull away gently.

"Okay, young man, this is an interrogation, so now it's time for the questions. And I won't take any more of this silent treatment. You will answer me!" The big man could growl nearly as well as Simon when properly inspired. Blair sat back, a look of apprehension crossing his pale features. Had he just been played for a fool? Would his vulnerability be exploited by the man he'd come to consider a friend?

Joel fixed his prisoner with a stern look.

"How do they get the stripes in that gel striped toothpaste?"

It was eleven thirty in the morning in Cascade, Washington, when a swarm of FBI and DEA agents descended on the precinct, with warrants to arrest thirteen officers, ranging from a rookie patrolman to a veteran detective and former division captain. The arrests went smoothly, though the shock waves they sent throughout the entire force pretty much disrupted work for the remainder of the day. The other precinct in Cascade, as well as all the others that had been under investigation, were busted simultaneously, resulting in eighty-eight arrests total, without a single shot fired. When details of the operation were made public later, it would be lauded as one of the most successful ever, a model of efficiency and success to be emulated.

But on that bleak Thursday morning, the controlled chaos left a lot of questions, suspicion, and betrayed feelings behind. Friendships, partnerships, and relationships were left in tatters as the allegations flew. Emotions only rose higher as an all too familiar face was spotted amongst the arresting team, and whispers more than loud enough for Sentinel ears to discern were flying.

Jim Ellison ignored the whispers as he did the shocked glares that were sent his way, focusing only on his part of the job, anxious to finish and reclaim his partner from custody. Not much else mattered to him, and certainly not the opinion of those he felt had let him and Sandburg down so completely. Agent Brooks had bluntly offered Jim the chance to forgo the actual arrest segment of the operation, knowing it was his own precinct, but it had never been James Ellison's nature to shirk his duty, and he wasn't about to start now.

Besides, there was a certain former grad student turned faux fraud who was not going to remain behind bars as much as a minute longer than absolutely necessary. And that was a duty the Sentinel would carry out with all enthusiasm.

With only one arrest from the Major Crime team, Simon Banks knew he was lucky; at least his mind knew it. But his heart was a different matter, and a devastating feeling of betrayal tore at him as Joel Taggart was led away in cuffs, the former captain's eyes firmly on the ground at his feet as puzzled, hurt looks were sent his direction.

Banks let his gaze roam the room, coming to rest on a tall figure with short cropped brown hair and relief warred briefly with anger before the anger won.

"Ellison! A word with you in private please," he spat out, indicating a nearby conference room that was conveniently vacant. "What the hell are you doing! First you and Sandburg disappear without a word or a trace, then Sandburg gets arrested, and now you're here helping the FBI arrest your fellow officers! I thought we were friends, Jim. I thought we trusted each other."

"I did trust you. I trusted you with Sandburg's safety, and look how that turned out," Ellison stated flatly, taking grim satisfaction in the pained look on his captain's face. "I did what I had to do, so did Blair. I don't have to justify myself to you."

Hurt quickly evolved into fury. "The hell you don't! You left the kid to face the consequences alone, damn you! You hung him out to dry while you ran off and played 'super cop' with the FBI. Did you even consider the danger you put him in? And you let him trash yet another future, you selfish prick! You have a strange way of expressing your loyalty, Ellison!" Four weeks of worry, frustration, and fear lent added fuel to the Captain's anger.

"Sandburg is not a kid, he's a full grown man more than capable of making his own decisions. He was given the facts and he made his own mind up, and I couldn't have changed it if I'd tried. Though if I'd known how little I could count on our so-called friends, I would never have sat back once he was captured. It's a mistake I'll never make again, I assure you."

"Don't try to pin the blame for this on us, Ellison. This could have been avoided it you'd been upfront with me."

"It was a covert operation, Simon! You, of all people, should be able to understand that!" Jim was fighting his own anger, his history of respect and friendship with his captain providing the impetus for some restraint.

"I also understand friendship, Detective; a concept that seems to elude you. Loyalty seems to be another difficult concept for you to grasp. Maybe you should consult with Sandburg on that, he seems to have plenty to spare." Simon saw the flash of hurt and guilt in the pale blue eyes before cold fury replaced them, and realized he'd overstepped his bounds in this matter. He took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly.

"Go see to your partner, Jim. He needs you. But tomorrow I expect a full report."

"Yes, sir." The degree of contempt the former Ranger managed to convey with that final word was unmistakable.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees as the two men glared at each other. Then Jim turned on his heel and strode out without a word or backward glance.

Since the arrested officers were being processed through the local field office of the FBI, the cellblock residents at the station were unaware of the turmoil going on just outside their enclosed area. So when the door to the solitary confinement cell opened, the small, hunched figure on the narrow bunk didn't even glance up, figuring it was just time for the daily questioning session.

"Well, Chief, you gotten so fond of this place you don't want to leave?"

Wide, startled blue eyes rose to stare in mute disbelief at a dream the young man had begun to believe would never come to pass.

"Oh, God, Blair, they really did a job on you, didn't they?" the Sentinel whispered, cupping a bruised cheek in his sensitive hand, feeling the unnatural heat of the injury.

"Jim," he whispered, a smile - the first in far too long - crossing his battered features.

"Come on, Junior, let's blow this pop stand. Sound like a plan?" He reached out a supporting hand to steady his friend as he wobbled a bit upon rising. The veteran detective carefully schooled his expression to stay neutral, but inside he winced at how badly his gentle guide had been injured.

"It's over?"

"Yeah, Chief, it's over. You did great, Kid."

"It's finally over," the smaller man sighed, walking slowly beside his friend, stumbling occasionally with exhaustion and weakness but happier than he'd been in days.

They were finally going home.

It was two exhausted, hurting men who entered the loft at 852 Prospect and stood side-by-side surveying the dust encrusted home they'd left almost a month before, at that time completely unaware of how much their lives would be changed before they saw it again.

"Why don't you sit down, Chief, and I'll see about getting this place cleaned up." Jim automatically headed toward the kitchen to check the refrigerator, knowing all food they'd had would be spoiled and wanting to get it out of the loft as soon as possible.

"I'd rather help, man. I've been doing nothing but sitting for days now, I need to move around some. Besides, if I sit, I'll fall asleep, and it's way too early to sleep, unless I want to be awake at three in the morning."

"Suit yourself, but if you get too tired, just lay down. We don't have to do everything today," Jim informed him even as he packed spoiled foodstuffs in a trash bag to take to the dumpster.

"With that in mind, I think I'll change the beds first," Blair decided, grabbing fresh sheets from the linen closet near the bathroom. "You gonna go get some more food?"

"Well, we definitely need it. If you're sure you'll be okay alone for a while?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'll be fine. I'll lock the door and not answer the phone, and if the boogie man from under my bed comes I'll run down the hallway and stay with the neighbors," Blair smirked back.

"Smartass. Okay, I'll just run down to the store on the corner, they carry enough for me to get what we need the most. You don't overdo it, Junior, I know those ribs are cracked." The Sentinel leveled a stern look at his guide.

"Geez, Jim, back off on the mother hen act, okay? I'm fine. And I'm not sure, but I may even be hungry. So hurry it up, okay?"

By the time the detective returned, with two hefty bags of groceries, Blair had managed to remake the two beds and was nearly finished running the vacuum over the furniture and hardwood floor, cleaning up the worst of the dust.

"What'd you get for dinner, man?" he queried as he put away the vacuum and headed into the kitchen to join Jim.

"Chicken and vegetables. Figured stir-fry would be quick, easy, and we both like it. You want to go get cleaned up while I start this?"

"Sure. Sounds good. Umm...you mind helping me cover this bandage with a plastic bag? I'm supposed to keep it dry."

"No problem, Chief. Come on over here." The former medic adroitly wrapped the damaged left hand, surreptitiously using his senses to check the condition of the injuries for himself, then sent his weary friend to the shower with the mock-stern admonishment to not use all the hot water.

Unconsciously monitoring his guide's activities, he winced in sympathy when he heard Blair grunting in pain as he apparently unwrapped his damaged ribs. With accompanying moans and gasps, he heard Blair finally strip off the rest of his clothing, then a soft sigh of contentment as the warm water hit his obviously hurting body.

Feeling like a voyeur, Jim dialed down his hearing, granting his roommate the privacy he knew instinctively the younger man needed now more than ever. He mentally renewed is vow to make those responsible for Sandburg's pain pay as he chopped and diced and heated oil in a sudden frenzy of activity.

"Whoa! Jim. Jim! Hey, man, come on back, zoning on chopping is so not a good thing to do," Blair's 'guide voice' broke through at last, bringing Jim to a somewhat shamefaced halt.

"Sorry, Chief, I guess I got lost in thought there," he muttered.

"Must have been some thoughts," Blair exhaled, taking the knife and tossing it in the sink away from the recently zoned man.

Jim gave a growling groan while rubbing one hand over his face, his expression clearly stating he had no intention of discussing it. Not feeling up to a battle with his obstinate roommate, Blair wisely decided to drop the matter. For now, at least.

"Why don't you go take your shower, and I'll do the cooking part," he offered instead, turning down the heat under the pan and turning to the assembled ingredients. "Just don't take too long, this won't take more than a few minutes to cook."

"Then wait a few before you start, okay?" The big man hurried toward the stairs to grab some clean clothing when he stopped suddenly.

"Hey, Chief, how'd you re-wrap your ribs?"

"Uh, I didn't. I called for you, but you didn't answer; I thought something might be wrong. But don't worry; it can wait until after dinner. Now get moving." The anthropologist waved a dismissive hand at Ellison, already turning toward the task at hand. "And hurry up, I'm hungry!"

Muttering about bossy guides who don't know their station, the Sentinel nevertheless did as ordered, since hunger was winning the battle with pride in this particular case. It was less than fifteen minutes before Jim took his seat as Blair slid a steaming plate in front of him before serving and seating himself.

"Dig in, man. It's best when it's hot," the younger man grinned, reaching for a dinner roll with his good hand.

"If it tastes as good as it smells it won't get a chance to cool off," Jim agreed with a smile at his roommate as he picked up his fork and prepared to follow orders.

For the next few minutes nothing was said as both men turned their full attention to the meal, each savoring it as a further proof that they were at long last home to stay. The muted clink of silverware against stoneware and the soft thump of drinks being set down were the only sounds in the loft.

"Guess I was hungrier than I thought," Blair murmured at last, sitting back a bit shamed faced and pushing his empty plate away.

Jim looked up with a guilty expression. "I'm sure you didn't enjoy jail cuisine. God, Chief, I'm so sorry this happened," he began, puzzled when Blair held up his hand to halt the words.

"Jim, it was my decision to join the task force. I knew the dangers, Agent Brooks and you both made it clear enough. I ignored your advice to not go to the meet that night. It is not your fault in any way." The young man took a breath and looked down at his empty plate. "I can't say I'm fine with what happened. I'm not. I'm actually very far from fine. But, Jim, I will be fine, eventually. But I'm not up to discussing it tonight. I just want to relax, savor being home, watch some TV, sit on a nice soft couch, go to bed in my own, comfortable, bed. For a few hours at least I want to pretend the last month didn't happen. If that makes me a coward, then so be it." He ran his right hand through his still damp curls in a nervous gesture.

"No, Blair, you are anything but a coward. I personally think your plan sounds like a good idea, if you don't mind me joining in." His smile was warm and genuine, encouraging his younger companion.

"No problem, man. Come on in, the water's fine here in de-Nile," he quipped with a grin, his relief showing plainly in the dark blue eyes.

Jim groaned comically. "Any more cracks like that Darwin and you can do the dishes yourself," he warned his snickering friend with an exaggerated serious look.

"Argh! My lips are sealed!" he cried out in mock horror, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Though Jim smiled at Blair's antics, the action also served to remind him that his roommate only had one good hand, so he stood to start cleaning up.

"In that case, since you cooked, I'll clean," Ellison said easily.

"I don't think I'll argue that," Sandburg capitulated, wandering into the living room and his favorite spot on the couch.

"Hey, don't get too comfortable, I still need to wrap those ribs. In fact, why don't you grab the bandaging while I finish up in here?" He watched Blair reluctantly redirect himself to the bathroom, then turned to put on the teakettle to heat some water, figuring the younger man would want his customary cup of tea.

The Sentinel's momentary reveling in the normalcy of the evening was shattered when his guide wandered in sans shirt, and he finally got a good look at the vivid bruises covering most of the compact upper body.

"Jesus, Blair! Are you sure you're okay?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Blair replied a little sheepishly, looking down, unable to meet Jim's concerned gaze.

"Right," Ellison grumbled as he started to carefully bind the injured ribs, a skill he'd had too much practice in in the last few years. His patient sat quietly, letting out a soft hiss of pain now and then as a particularly tender place was bound.

"All right, Chief, that feel okay?" At Blair's nod he gently cuffed the younger man on the shoulder. "Good. Then put your shirt back on before you freeze. Go find something good to watch on TV and I'll get our drinks."

Blair found a John Wayne retrospective showing on one of the independent stations and had settled back in the corner of the couch when Jim came in and set a steaming mug on the table by his arm.

"Here you go, something to help you relax," he smiled at the comfortable looking man before sinking gratefully into his favorite chair.

"Thanks, man," Blair murmured, lost for the moment in the action on the TV where John Wayne and Dean Martin were arguing in a stable. He reached out unconsciously for the cup of tea, bringing to his lips for a sip when the fragrance hit him and he gasped out loud.

"Blair? Something wrong, Buddy?" He didn't like the sudden paleness that showed as a background to the bruises.

"Ah...no. No, I'm fine. I just...I have to remember to call Joel tomorrow. I need to let him know I'm okay. He...he did something nice for me...geez, it was just yesterday, it seems like a year ago, you know. Anyway, I don't think he has any idea how much I appreciated it, and I need to let him know..." Blair hazarded a glance at his friend and his words stumbled to a stop at the expression on the veteran detective's face. "Jim, what's wrong? Has something happened to Joel?"

"Chief," Jim's voice was little more than a whisper, as if by softening his voice he could somehow soften the blow to his sensitive friend. "Some information came in after you were arrested...Joel was implicated in the mess and was among those we arrested. I'm sorry, I tried to find a way to prove it couldn't be true, but the evidence looked convincing."

"No way man! No way is Joel involved in drug running! I can't...I won't believe it!" Agitation had brought the injured man upright, ready to launch into his feet to pace the length of the loft as he tended to do when extremely upset.

"Blair, you need to stay calm. Please." Jim sat down on the low table in front of his upset roommate, effectively preventing the smaller man from standing up and aggravating his injuries. "You getting upset isn't going to help, it's already done, Chief. For what it's worth, it looks like his was a 'sin of omission' not one of commission."

"What are you talking about Jim?" He stayed seated, but his expression was anything but peaceful.

"From the information the team gathered, it appeared Joel has known about the drug activity for quite some time, but never reported it. If that's the case, he'll be in trouble, of course, but probably won't be facing jail. Just forced retirement, I would guess. It could be a lot worse, Chief."

Blair released a long sigh, leaning back against the back of the couch and staring at the high ceiling. "Joel was the only one who said he understood what I was doing, and that he supported it. He brought me tea when I was hurting, and gave me hope when mine was nearly gone. Dammit!" He punched the couch with impotent anger.

"I'm sorry. Just so damned sorry this happened to you. But I am curious about something. They said you didn't speak at all. Why?" He gave Blair a considering look, both curious about his reasoning and wanting to distract him from his dismay about Joel.

"I was so afraid I'd say something to betray you guys. You know me, Jim. I get to talking and tend to just ramble on, especially if I'm nervous. So I figured if I never spoke at all then I couldn't say anything wrong," he shrugged dismissively. "It appeared to work."

"I imagine it did. Probably drove them nuts."

"I think Simon wanted to strangle me a couple of times. All those times he told me to shut up, and the one time he wants me to talk, I won't," Blair smiled in spite of his unhappiness over Joel. "You talk to Simon today?"

"We had words." Jim's tone was suddenly clipped and ice cold.

"What do you mean? Jim, did you and Simon get into it?"

"It's not your problem, Sandburg. Forget it; it's between him and I." Ellison drifted back to his chair, avoiding looking at his guide.

"Simon's my friend, too, Jim. What affects you two affects me as well," the anthropologist began only to be cut off by Jim's raised hand.

"Not tonight, Chief. You don't want to talk about what happened, I don't want to talk about Simon. We can deal with those things tomorrow, but for tonight I want to see if the Duke can keep Dean Martin sober long enough to defeat the bad guys. That's as complicated an issue as I feel up to dealing with, okay? You're here, I'm here, and for tonight that's going to be enough. Deal?"

"Yeah, man. Deal. I'm definitely down with that. But you know, we really need some popcorn to go with this," he grinned suddenly, glad to see his Sentinel grin back.

"You want popcorn, Junior? Well, you know where the microwave is," Jim replied, settling more comfortably into his chair and taking a swig from his beer.

"Ah, on second thought, tea's enough for me," as he also settled back more to a more comfortable position.

Tomorrow decisions would be made, stories told, reports written. The consequences of their decision nearly four weeks before would begin to make themselves known. But for this one evening both Sentinel and guide would ignore the future, disregard the past, and simply enjoy the simple pleasure of the present: safe, warm, and together.