And Dream that I am Home Again by LRHBalzer . Note: This story follows "No Center Line" It is assumed the reader has also read "Primary Focus" and "A Different Way of Seeing", and has watched the two-part episode "Sentinel, Too". . Smarm warning. . This story is written for an adult audience. . Synopsis: What actually occurred when the panther and wolf merged briefly in "Sentinel, Too, Part Two", and how did it affect Ellison and Sandburg? Part 1 Half to forget the wandering and the pain Half to remember days that have gone by And dream and dream that I am home again... James Elroy Flecker. . Pain woke him, dragging him, resisting, through layers of consciousness until he hovered on the edge of awake/not awake. Dreams vanished, fading toward nothingness. He struggled to reclaim them, but like a dandelion's seeds in a gentle breeze, they eluded his grasp, slipping away while he watched helplessly. Then, between one breath and the next, even the faint memories dissipated, leaving behind only the pain that had awoken him. He couldn't tell what exactly hurt, just that it was building, second by second. It had begun as a steady throbbing, echoing his pulse, an undefined ache in his right leg. Then he shifted, and the ache sharpened, localizing to his ankle. He stilled immediately. The pain died down, leaving him trying to convince himself that it wasn't that bad. No need to wake any further. Everything was okay. The pain would go away. And even if it didn't, the rest of him was comfortable and warm, and he wasn't willing yet to leave his bed to find relief. "I brought your pills." With a gasp, he opened his eyes, fastening his attention first on the blurred image of the man who bent over him, and then, a blink later, to the darkened room he was in. The man he knew, but the context was wrong. Why is Simon in my bedroom in the middle of the night? But then the room proved to be wrong, as well. Beyond Simon, he could see a cheap floral picture on the wall -- definitely not something I would put up -- and a heavily curtained window. Okay … Where am I? "Blair?" Simon Banks sat beside him on the bed, looking at him strangely, gently. "Does your foot hurt?" He nodded, not trusting his voice. Actually, not even finding his voice. Yeah, my foot and my head, too. And a few other places, now that you mention it, Simon. But the foot is definitely the worst at this particular moment. Simon drew back the bedspread to check his foot, and Blair frowned when he saw he was lying on top of the blanket and sheets, not between them. And he was still wearing jeans and a T-shirt. So … that's a little weird, too. Why am I still dressed? I hate sleeping in my clothes. Was I drunk or something? Do I have a hangover? Is that why my head hurts? And what's that pink thing on my foot? He peered blearily at Simon fussing with his leg, trying to see what he was doing. I did something to my leg. What did I do to my leg? There's a cast on it. Why is it pink? Did I ask for pink? I should have said white. Or blue would have been nice. Denim blue, the same color as my jeans that they ripped so I could get them on over the cast. Maybe I should have taken Jim up on his offer to go buy me a pair of sweat pants to wear, but … I just can't. Not yet. Maybe never. Not after the sweat suits Jurgen made us wear. Color-coordinated hell. What did I do to my leg? "Here's some water, kid. You have three pills you need to take, then you might as well go back to sleep for another hour. If you're feeling rested, we can still go to dinner at six, then we need to hit the road." He stared at the pills in Simon's hand. The words were all ones he knew, but they still didn't make much sense. Wasn't it the middle of the night? Why have dinner at six in the morning? Wouldn't breakfast be a better choice? And what road? Where was he, anyway? Not in the hospital … There were too many questions, so Blair cleared his throat and asked the one question that might clear up all the others. "Uh, Simon … where's Jim?" Simon's soft chuckle accompanied arms tightening around him and Jim's voice rumbling in his ear, "Right here, Chief." Oh. He couldn't seem to find the memory that would fill in the blanks. Like where he was, why he was in bed with his partner -- with Jim doing an octopus routine around him -- and why Simon seemed to think his question was cute or something. Blair raised his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder. He was on his side, his head pillowed on Jim's right shoulder, drooling a bit on the man's T-shirt. Jim was reclining against the headboard of the double bed, his guide neatly tucked under his right arm. So, everything's cool here, right? I'm not dying or anything, am I? No one seemed freaked out, so he assumed this had been going on for a while. He shifted slightly, trying to coordinate his limbs. Okay, so this arm here isn't mine. Jim's arms were wrapped around him rather possessively. Chill, man, I'm not going anywhere -- trust me. Simon walked around to the other side of the bed, put the glass of water he was holding down on the floor, then reached for Blair. "Come on, Darwin, sit up." "Huh?" Blair stared at the police captain, more confused than ever, wondering why the man was calling him 'darling'. That's kinda weird, Simon. Jim's voice was low, as though he had been sleeping, too. "Why don't you sit up just a bit more and take the pills, Chief?" Just a little disoriented here, Jim, in case you hadn't noticed. I have a feeling moving around isn't all it's cracked up to be. I might just want to stay right where I am, if it isn't going to be a major inconvenience or anything. I promise not to make a habit of using you as a pillow, but if I could just stay where I am for a while longer … He really had to get this brain-to-mouth thing organized a bit better, because neither man had apparently heard him. Some sentinel you are, Jim. Ignoring his unvoiced protest, the two men sat him up to swallow the pills and drink the offered glass of water. It took an inordinate amount of time to accomplish that little feat, as his brain seemed to have little say in how his body reacted. Open mouth. Drink water, swallow pill. Should be easy, but it all was strangely difficult, making his world slip further into the realm of the surreal. Finally, the deed was accomplished to everyone's satisfaction, and Jim eased him back, shifting him so his face wasn't against the damp part of Jim's T-shirt. Which was considerate of him, Blair thought, considering who had caused the damp spot. Boneless, he let his eyes close. This was nice. No apologies. No explanations. He needed this closeness and no one seemed to begrudge him the time. No one threatened to take it from him. They were talking -- he could hear them -- but the words hovered just beyond his grasp. He figured they would wake him up if he needed to know what they were saying. As he drifted toward sleep, Simon adjusted his leg again, placing a pillow under his cast. Might as well put the pillow there, Simon. Thanks. Apparently Jim's chest works just as well for me. Jim, I promise that I won't make a habit of this. It's just … well... A door opened. "How are we doing for time? Should I be waking Evan up, yet?" Yet another voice entered the room, and after mulling it over for a moment without coming up with a name, he forced his eyes open. They closed before he could see anything, so he tried again and saw Harvey Leek. Harvey's partner, Evan Cortez, was lying on the other bed, and Harvey was checking him over. Hi, guys. What are you doing here? Visiting? Or-- He blinked and the details he'd wanted earlier surfaced, followed by more than he wanted, providing the answer to why his foot hurt -- his right ankle was broken -- and why they were all in a motel room in … in Seattle. He'd been in the Seattle General Hospital, both he and Evan because … because … Oh, God. He started shaking. JimJimJimJimJimJim, he chanted, reminding himself, reassuring himself that Jim was there, but the pictures wouldn't leave his head. His own senses, normal as they were, provided him with graphic memories. The hands that had touched him, stroked him, fondled him. The leers, the threats, the words that had frightened him. The screams, his own and those of the others, the sounds of pain and panting. Gunfire. The smells of lotions and semen and damp earth and blood and death. And death and death and death -- the bodies. Sightless eyes staring at him. Mouths hanging open in endless silent screams. Flies hovering over slit throats. Trapped beneath the bodies in an open grave, with yet another corpse tossed on top of him, a lifeless, cold hand landing on his face. He was whimpering, shivering, his fist in his mouth, rocking himself frantically, trying to block it all, trying to hide from the vivid, pressing images. JimJimJimJim His world was spiraling, totally out of control … except it wasn't. Because Jim was still there, still holding him. Blair battled, trying to keep his rocking at the frenzied pace he had set, but Jim had his own idea of the correct tempo. The sentinel's arms held him, surrounded him, overwhelmed him, absorbing his feverish beat and replacing it with a slower, calming rhythm. Which was okay, because it was too frightening the other way. He couldn't breathe before, and now he could. His world stabilized, coming back to him. His foot hurt. It really hurt. The pills aren't working, Jim. "Just relax. I'm here. Shhhh." I said, the pills aren't working ... damn. He was crying again. What a waste of effort. As though crying would take away the memories or undo the things that were done to him. It was just because he was tired, and his emotions were a little raw, he supposed. What did he expect? He just got out of the hospital that morning, and he suspected Jim had to convince the doctor to let him go. The doctors at this hospital were a lot stricter about visiting hours. Jim hadn't been allowed much access to him after that first night. The doctors kept saying he needed his rest, but they didn't seem to get that he couldn't rest without Jim. Why was that? It never used to be like that. But since Mexico … since Alex … since dying … he needed Jim around. So he'd know he would wake up in the morning. I'm sorry, Jim. Thanks for being here. I'm sorry. He was still crying. Big, almost silent, gulping sobs that made his head hurt. And his throat. So why can I carry on a conversation in my head, while the rest of me is hysterically sobbing on my best friend's chest, being rocked like I was a two- year-old? He didn't seem to be slowing down or anything. In fact, the sobs just got a little louder. Hysterical, for sure. So what's freaking you out the most, Sandburg? Huh? Gee, there's so much to choose from … let's see … I was raped. That seems to be the most obvious thing. That's what seems to be upsetting everyone else the most. That I was raped. But I haven't really had time to process that yet, and I don't remember much about it except the pain in my butt afterwards and all the questions and paperwork at the hospital. Which reminds me -- I should send a thank-you card to Dr Morrison. He was really nice to me. I should let him know I'm okay. There should be medals for things like that. Going above and beyond the call of duty. He deserves one after dealing with us. It was getting harder to breathe. He had to gasp for enough air to continue the wracking sobs which were majorly pissing off his bruised ribs. Jim's hand was doing a slow massage on his back that felt nice, but for some reason it wasn't working very well. Why am I still crying? Enough already! Geez, Sandburg. Maybe it's because I was raped, but also because the other men died and I couldn't do anything about it. I helped rescue Evan and Scott, but Pat and Kelly died before help arrived. I really wanted to rescue them all. I thought I could. My plan was supposed to work … There were so many bodies. I was in a fucking grave. The bodies ... looking at me. Blood and brains sticking to them... That's what freaked me the most. Their eyes … their dead angry eyes … and Pete's face … A sharp wail pierced his ears, and he was dismayed to realize that he was the one who made it. I sound like a banshee. Jim, can you get this under control for me? I'm making so much noise they're going to call the cops in to see what's wrong … ha, ha. That was supposed to be a joke. Why aren't I laughing? Huh? Huh, Jim? Huh? Make this stop. Hey! What the hell was that? Who put that thing on my face? Get it off! He forced one eye open, the one that wasn't scrunched up against Jim's chest, but he couldn't really see anything. Everything was very blurry. What did he expect? He was still crying, after all. It had been a washcloth, he decided, feeling a little foolish for flinging it across the room. It had startled him, that's all. It had actually felt kinda nice, now that he thought about it, but it was a little late to figure that out. Jim, I'm getting scared here. I can't stop crying. My chest hurts, and my ribs, even though I know you're holding me carefully so they won't get more damaged. My foot is throbbing. My head feels like it's going to explode. That's not a good sign, is it? Sorry for being such a wreck, but it kinda all hit me at once, I guess. You understand, right? Could you explain it to Simon and Harvey and Evan, if he's awake -- although I'm making so much noise that I don't see how he could possibly still be asleep. I certainly can't sleep with all this racket. I'm just a bit frazzled, Jim. Tell them that, okay? I'm glad you've got your arms around me, because I really feel that I'm falling apart, and you won't let that happen, right? Just keep it together for me for a few more minutes. I'll try to stop, but I seem to have a mind of my own about this. Two minds, actually. The part of my brain that keeps talking and won't shut up and the part that's letting the rest of me have a nervous breakdown. I don't think it's gonna turn into a split personality or anything. Later, I'll have to get my emotional half and my mental half together on all this. So like, I might break down again, but only so that I can do it right. This isn't dealing with anything, Jim; it's just emotional release, which you know about. Mind you, you don't do it often enough -- it's probably what you've suspected it would be like, though, huh? Whoa … another wave of being scared. This is so not good … Jim? I need to stop all this. It's starting to hurt too much. Jim! "Jim, don't--" he heard Simon order, which didn't make a lot of sense. But then the nicest thing happened. Just like his grandfather's old song, it felt like soothing oil poured down over him. Blair could feel it start at his head, easing the pounding headache, resting like a cool cloth on his forehead and over his eyes, then spreading to his sore throat and neck. It kept going, bathing his throat and chest in a warm comforting band, gliding over his ribs, padding the area and bracing it as his breathing calmed down and the deep hitches of air stopped and evened out. His stomach felt soothed, the cramping relaxed, and he almost felt hungry there for a minute. The places he hurt, like his anus and thighs, stopped burning and itching, and that horrible heavy, constipated feeling in his butt vanished. The pain in his right foot faded to a faint throbbing, just enough to remind him that something was mending there. Jim's arms tightened around him, and he let himself drift into the sentinel, his eyes closed, listening to the beat of his partner's heart. He took a deep breath and exhaled sleepily, feeling the pull into unconsciousness that promised release from his tears. Jim kissed his forehead, sealing a promise that Blair no longer wondered about. As he let himself fall asleep, he did wonder at Simon's words, and what it was that Jim shouldn't do. . "Jim?" Simon Banks stood in the center of the room, holding the discarded washcloth and staring at Jim Ellison, hardly breathing himself until he saw the detective's chest expand to take in air. "Jim? Can you hear me?" No answer, not that he had expected one. How the hell can you do that? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? His face ashen, Ellison lay against the headboard, his partner still held tightly in his arms. While Sandburg appeared to be resting peacefully, breathing normally, and in no pain, Ellison looked just the opposite. He seemed more unconscious than asleep, his uneven breathing shallow, sweat beaded across his forehead and on his upper lip. His forehead was wrinkled in pain, his eyes tightly closed as if a massive migraine had clamped hold of him. Simon groaned, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. What am I supposed to do now, Jim? How am I supposed to help? What the hell can I do? He opened his eyes and stared at his detective. Ellison's nostrils were flared, as though he had taken a deep breath and zoned midway. Banks cautiously approached the bed and touched Ellison's forehead. "Jim?" he said, but the detective didn't seem to notice. "Jim!" he called out sharply, but the only effect his touch and presence had was Ellison tightened his hold on Sandburg. Shit. Double fucking shit. Why can't this ever be easy? Banks rested his hands over his eyes, trying to think. He really didn't know what to do. Stay? Go? Call for an ambulance? Or did they just need privacy? Did they need him at all, or should he just let this sentinel/guide thing proceed normally? Is this normal for them? Sandburg was sleeping, though, peacefully draped over his partner, and Banks watched as Ellison moved slightly, his chin coming to rest against the top of Sandburg's head. That's where the man's focus was right now, consumed with restoring his guide. Maybe it was fitting it should be at such cost to him personally, after all that had happened between the two of them in the days and weeks before … the fountain. Would all time now be divided into before or after 'the fountain'? The cry of anguish -- how often had Simon heard it in his years on the police force? How many deaths mourned by loved ones? Never had one affected him, though, like Ellison's cry of denial at that fountain, bent over the lifeless body of his friend. Not even Sandburg's sobs aroused such a clenching in his own heart, echoing his friend's pain. Banks rubbed blindly at his face, suddenly aware of tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks. Damn. He hadn't cried since … Sometimes those horrible moments a month before at the fountain at Rainier were far too vivid, too clear in his memory. This was okay, though, he told himself firmly … Blair was alive. Jim was alive. I'll do what I can. They all would. Sandburg's alive, Jim. He's alive. Just hang cool. Simon swallowed, allowing himself a moment to get it all back under control. He looked from Sandburg to Ellison. His focus had been on the younger man, but the older one was in need, as well. Blair was injured -- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually -- and they would all make sure he was taken care of. Doctors, counselors, friends. Whatever he needed, they would provide for him. But Jim was injured, too, and they had passed over him, focusing on the more obvious need of his partner. Ellison's wounds were deeper, perhaps, some self-inflicted, all neglected and hastily patched so he could do what he needed to do to keep Sandburg alive. Whether motivated by guilt or by extreme need, or by some other passion or directive, Ellison was doing everything in his power to restore his guide, without regard to his own health or safety, without even knowing what he was doing. When Sandburg was better, they would discuss it. Maybe Blair would have some answers, some explanation for the strange new connection between them. Something had happened when Sandburg came back to life, and something else had happened when Ellison was in the grotto in Mexico. Much as he'd like to ignore it, Simon knew he had to find out what that was. For now, though, he was