The International House of Pancakes looked anything but international. Blair Sandburg sat, certain Aberdeen's entire populace had gathered within the dingy restaurant walls. The picture windows held years of cigarette smoke which clung rebelliously and yellowed the cars parked outside.

"What's wrong with your pancakes, sweetie?" Naomi asked.

She sat close. The five of them pressed into the wrap-around corner booth. Actually they were lucky to have gotten the table after only a mere fifteen minute wait. Blair was glad. He'd felt exposed in a tiny alcove by the front cashier. People entered and exited the restaurant, going about their normal morning activities. They'd stop and stare at him. Blair would pick at invisible dirt under his fingernails, aware of the colorful display of bruises on his face.

Yeah, the corner table was better.

"Do you want some fruit?" She nudged her side bowl a little closer in response to his mute head shake.

Blair noticed the pain lines around her mouth and eyes. God, the woman was healing from a gunshot wound and she was worried about his stomach. Were the others watching? He hoped Naomi wasn't going to pick now to get all maternal on him.

"No, thanks." Blair used the side of his fork and started cutting precise little pancake squares. He'd poured way too much syrup, some kind of berry. It flowed over his breakfast and filled the concave plate like...

Spilt blood.

Shit.

"Chief?" Jim's whisper came from Blair's other elbow as he leaned down close to Blair's ear. "You okay?"

Yeah, sure, Jim. I'm fine. Blair nodded while his fork hand trembled and continued to mangle the pancakes into less than perfect bite-sized shapes. He could do breakfast. He could act normal for an hour or so.

Well, maybe not. The table edge crushed into his gut. The back of the booth shoved. The floor pushed. The ceiling pressed. Jim's large hand covered Blair's knee and squeezed, in and out, like a kneading jungle cat, giving Blair something physical to focus on. No one witnessed the un-Jim-like action or the support it provided.

Blair closed his eyes briefly. The world backed off and the syrup was just that again, syrup. He took a steady breath and speared a bit of pancake, guiding it past his lips. Jim patted his knee one last time before letting him go.

Normal, act normal.

Blair listened to the table talk. Tristan and Simon were chatting about flying. Seems Simon's cousin was a pilot.

"I'm not kidding. That trip over the mountains brought me to religion." Simon shuddered. "Robert lost us in the clouds. He'd just gotten instrument rated and looked so damn scared. Hell, we both expected to see a nesting eagle before crashing into a mountainside."

"God, I hate flying in clouds," Naomi added, leaning on her non-injured hip, giving her the effect of a listing boat. "Remember that flight over Brazil, honey?" She turned to Tristan. "Thought I was going to rip the yoke right out of the floor."

Tristan gave her a fond look. "You're a fantastic pilot. Best I've ever seen."

Whoa. Mom flew? Blair looked at her with wonder. Was she ever going to stop surprising him?

"You know..." Simon used a triangle of sourdough toast to scoop egg onto his fork. "They need to invent a pill for passengers. It erases the last three or four hours from your memory. Then all the airlines will have a boost in sales because no one will be able to remember the trip."

Now that made sense, Blair set the fork down. Only he wanted the jumbo-sized pill, the one that erased days, not hours, just enough to take away that memory of the desperate escape from that mountain estate, of the fight, of picking up Jim's gun.

"Actually, our doctors do have a procedure," Tristan commented casually. "Although we save it for more serious situations than bad travels."

Blair looked up with interest.

Really?

Home.

Blair shuffled through the door and let the luggage strap slip off his shoulder. The loft greeted him like a sheltered bay accepting a storm-ravaged ship. He resisted the urge to drop and kiss the floor.

"Not here, Sandburg. Try and stop the clutter before it starts once in a while, okay?"

Too weary to lift the large overnight bag up, Blair pulled the luggage along, ignoring Jim's long-suffering sigh. It was still early in the afternoon. After breakfast in Aberdeen, the party had broke up. He, Simon, and Jim had driven back to Cascade without stopping for lunch. Simon was dropped off at his place. Tristan and Naomi had flown directly to some undisclosed location on the East Coast for `debriefing'.

God, she had said the word as if she'd been talking about an afternoon tea with a bunch of soccer moms.

Not that Blair had ever played soccer.

Blair opened his bedroom door, eyes drinking in the familiarity; his unmade bed, text books littering all available flat surfaces, unwashed clothes hanging over the back of his chair, pillows everywhere. Blair sighed happily.

When had he been here last? A week? Less than?

Screw it. He didn't care. He was home. Naomi was safe. Life goes on.

Over his head, Jim's footfalls descended from his upper bedroom. That bed was probably tidy and neat. Jim kept his clothes put away. His books stand straight and at attention on their shelves.

Yuck, what a way to live.

Sounds of water filling a metal container - probably Jim's pasta pot - drifted through the doorway, preparations for a late lunch or early dinner. Blair left his soft-sided suitcase on the floor and toed off his sneakers. Even rumpled, with less than fresh smelling sheets, Blair's futon beckoned to him.

When Jim stood in the doorway, Blair already had his jeans off and had burrowed under the covers.

"Hungry?"

"Na uh," Blair mumbled into his pillow.

"Later?"

"Dunno."

Sounds of retreating footsteps surprised him. Too easy. With a happy sigh, Blair let the exhaustion of the trip take him.

Blair woke to the six o'clock news. The local weatherman was doing that annoying thing he did; a sort of deep, grating laugh after each stupid joke. Blair hated it. He hated waking up to the sound of it. Rolling to his side, he blinked at the darkened room, feeling out of sorts. Sleeping during the day reminded him of being sick.

Blair hated being sick.

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and stumbling out of his room, he smelled tomato sauce, garlic and oregano. Jim was stretched out on the sofa.

"Heat up some spaghetti." Not lifting his gaze from the TV, Jim waved toward the icebox.

Blair dropped onto the other sofa, falling sideways with a yawn. His stomach held no interest for food. "No, thanks. Maybe later. You going into work tomorrow?"

This time Jim looked over at him. "Think so, check in at least. What about you? Still spring break the rest of the week, right?"

"Right." Rolling flat on his back, Blair studied the high ceiling. School. Why did the thought of returning hold no interest? A little voice in his brain answered. `Because killers belong in prison, not in college.'

Blair knew better than that. He killed a man, sure. But he'd had to. Jim's life was being choked out of him.

"I think you should call that psychologist," Jim said calmly, his eyes back on the TV. The weatherman was done and they'd moved on to sports. "Set up your appointment. Your mom gave you his number, right?"

"Yeah." Blair threw an arm over his eyes, the bend of his elbow centered over the bridge of his nose, cutting off the loft's light. If only he could do the same for his ears. And another for his memory. That would be sweet.

The government was picking up the tab for this shrink. Good thing, too. He knew the score. No way would his insurance cover the visits. With a soft groan, he thought about the plethora of afternoon sessions; on some leather couch in an expensively furnished office with lots of green, leafy plants and some stupid indoor water fountain set up in one corner, or more likely, one of those dumb Zen sand gardens to drag the tiny little rack around in, drawing designs that got erased by the next head case...

Whoa, what the hell was that all about?

Blair took a deep breath and cleared his mind. God, he was depressed, and depressed enough not to give a shit.

"Yeah, I got the number." Blair lifted his arm and looked at him. "So, can I go in tomorrow with you?"

Jim frowned. "You'll call?"

"I'll call."

"Okay, then."

He felt almost human again. Blair sat up straighter and watched the buildings on Prospect Street go by. Jim was taking the long way in to work, following the shoreline. The morning was cool, but promised to warm up by lunchtime. It had rained last night, leaving the buildings with a `just washed' look. The good mood stayed with Blair all the way to the seventh floor.

"Hey, guys!" Brown called out as they entered. "Welcome back. Hear the fish were as big as dead bo -." His comment was cut off as Rafe smacked his arm hard. "What?"

"It's okay, man," Blair said. He'd expected a few comments along these lines. That was part of the ritual of this particular closed society. "It was gross and all. I left Jim to deal."

Speaking of Jim, he looked ready to rip Brown's tongue out, tonsils and all. Blair rolled his eyes. "Hey, you want a latte? My treat? I meant to get one before coming up."

Jim paused in his sorting. "Yeah, sounds good. Make mine a double, light on the caramel." He went back to lining up a dozen pink `while you were out' slips on the desktop.

Blair backpedaled toward the doorway. Jim was looking at an easy twenty minutes of paper shuffling there. "'Kay, although the offer was just a latte, you're gonna pony up the thirty cents for flavor, Caramel-man."

Jim's snort followed him out into the hallway.

Later, with lattes in hand, Blair and Jim made short work of the pressing matters found on his desk. The two pleasant hours of normality further helped Blair's mood. In fact, he was starting to think the last couple of days could be closed and filed, like the final report he had just proofread for Jim.

Jim took the offered report and slipped it between the other files in the cabinet drawer, closing it with a firm hand. "Why don't you call that doc while I talk to Simon?"

"Simon's in a meeting, remember? All morning," Blair told him, pointing to the dark office windows.

Jim casually reached up to his own earlobe and tugged, nodding purposefully toward the door just as the police captain in question entered.

"Ellison, Sandburg," Simon greeted them with a professionalism that belayed any hint they three of them had stayed together recently. "A word?"

"Sandburg's got to make a phone call first, sir." Jim gave Blair a `go do it' glare as he followed Simon into the office.

With a sigh, Blair reached for Jim's desk phone and dug his wallet out. He found the card. The print was small. "Jeeze, give us optically challenged a break," Blair muttered while fumbling for his glasses he'd just tucked away in his shirt pocket. "Pay the extra buck for larger font."

Just as Blair's call had gone through, a pair of plainclothes detectives burst through the door, each dragging a squirming prisoner. The two prisoners screamed obscenities at each other. Blair was reminded of two male, enraged pit bulls in a small cage. The accusations being tossed back and forth involved one of their girlfriends, or was it the fact both of them thought she was exclusive?

Blair tuned out the profanity and plugged his free ear. Maybe he should hang up and call from the lunch room. Before he could follow through, a woman answered. Blair couldn't hear her over the shouting.

"Hey! I'm on the phone here!" Blair yelled at the nearest prisoner, then stopped to assess the situation. Whoa, check out the biker outfit. Blair flashed an apologetic smile.

Too late, the three hundred pound Hell's Angel threw off his captor's hold, cursing the air blue. "Now I've got hippies ordering me around?" he hollered.

"Sit down!" the exasperated detective shouted.

Both bikers were shouting, as were the arresting detectives were shouting. Simon and Jim emerged from the side office; their loud inquiries adding to the verbal melee.

The scene got ugly fast.

Biker one, the same that called Blair a hippie, pulled a short and wicked looking knife from his huge belt buckle. Biker two stood too close. Before anyone could move to stop him, Biker one slashed.

Blood.

Blair's hand lost the phone. It clattered to the floor.

Jim moved forward, fast and deadly. The knife wielding biker still slashed air. The arresting detectives managed to pull the injured biker back, out of the way.

Blair's attention focused on the blood flowing from the wound. The cut was deep. Starting at the base of the bikers pectoral muscle, then up and out, traveling at an angle off his shoulder. Dark and red, the blood spurted as if under low pressure, staining his grey sleeveless t-shirt.

"Watch it!" Jim shouted. "Sandburg!"

Blair turned to see the knife coming his way, held by the grease-stained hand, attached to the dirty forearm and followed by the murderous face of the biker. It was like watching a drama on TV, one of those wide screen jobs.

Here it comes. This is what happens to people that kill.

They get killed.

Eye for an eye.

"Sandburg!" Jim's fury was deafening. Leaping over his own desk, Jim caught the knife hand with inches to spare from Blair's throat. Jim's tackle threw the heavy man sideways. Both crashed into the drywall, leaving a sizeable dent that stunned the prisoner. The knife dropped. Jim ended the one man uprising with a powerhouse punch to the man's jaw.

The biker crumpled and lay still.

Leaning back, Jim looked up at his roommate, his face dark with anger. Jim was mad... and it was directed at him.

"What the HELL were you thinking?" Jim demanded.

"I..." Blair found himself pulled backwards by both shoulders, gently repositioned. He blinked in surprised, his view blocked by Simon's broad back.

"Jim," Simon ordered in an uncharacteristically soft tone. "Calm down. Everyone... just calm down. Anderson, get a medic in here. In fact tell them to send up two teams. Jim, you're bleeding."

"No." Blair tried to squeeze around, but found the space too tight. Simon easily blocked him. "Simon, let me -"

"Sandburg, stay." Simon turned, giving the smaller man his full attention. "It's not serious. He'll need some stitches. That's all. Give Jim some space right now, okay?"

Blair closed his eyes and gave in.

No, it was not okay.

"Chief, it's only a couple of stitches," Jim grumbled. "Give it a rest, would you?"

Thirteen stitches. And a damaged tendon.

Blair's lame attempt to apologize died on the vine. Jim didn't want it anyway. Blair snapped his mouth shut and took a step back. They'd just finished dinner. Standing from the table, Jim picked up his plate with his healthy right hand and carried it to the counter.

Yeah, okay. Blair knew he was hovering. Damn it, he knew Jim wasn't a total invalid, but Blair couldn't help it. "It's my fault, man."

Turning to lean against the counter, Jim crossed his arms, supporting his bandaged and splinted hand on top of his right arm. "It's not your fault the guy had a knife. It's not your fault the detectives didn't properly search him, or cuff him. It's not your fault I got cut, okay? What I do want to know is what happened to that `Sandburg-self-preservation' I'm used to seeing. What was with that statue-in-the-park act?"

"Let me do the dishes, okay? You have to keep that bandage dry tonight." Blair gathered the rest of the dirty dishes and the stir-fry pot that prepared dinner. "You think we should save these leftovers? Might taste good."

Jim sighed, dropping his arms with surrender. "Not the eggplant... never tastes good reheated."

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I'll pick that out and toss it."

"Hey." Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Did you ever make that call?"

Not looking up, Blair shook his head. "Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow."

The loft was empty. Jim had walked down to the waterfront for a morning paper. Snagging the cordless, Blair made the call from his bedroom, praying Jim wasn't listening.

"Hello?"

Blair wet his lips.

Okay, he could do this.

"Tristan?"

"Blair?"

"Yeah, I-I need..."

"Your Mom's not here right now."

"No, I needed to talk to you." Blair dropped his forehead to his palm, his elbow on the bedside desk. "You said I could call you at this number."

"Yes, and I meant that. What's wrong?"

Blair took a deep breath, glad this conversation wasn't face to face as his eyes filled. "It's just h-harder than I thought. I heard you talk about a procedure to make a person... sorta forget? Were you serious?"

"It's only been a few days," Tristan said softly.

"Yeah, but I'm screwing up. Now Jim got hurt."

"Jim's hurt? How bad. What happened? Tell me everything."

Blair sat on the edge of the futon. With luck, Jim would be gone a while. The walk for the paper often involved chatting with the old men that sat at the corner coffee shop. One was a retired Seattle cop who Jim liked. Sometimes the chat would turn into half an hour of sitting and drinking coffee with them. If he was lucky, the old man was there.

"Well, there was this fight in the bullpen yesterday..."

Jim slammed the phone down. He refused to give up. Dialing still another number, the fourth one in the last hour, he waited for the call to connect.

What was her name? Maggie?

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Jim Ellison. I'm looking for Blair Sandburg."

"Oh, hi, Jim," the woman said cheerfully. "Blair's not around. I'm not really expecting him..."

Jim drummed the top of his desk. It was late afternoon and most of the day shift had already left the bullpen. Simon was still in his office. Offering a hurried thanks, Jim hung up and left his desk chair.

Maybe Blair told Simon where he was going.

"Enter." Simon said in response to Jim's knock. Looking ready to call it a day himself, Simon looked up. "Yeah, Jim?"

"Did Sandburg tell you anything? Anything at all?" Jim dropped into an empty chair with a frown.

"Jim, give the kid a break. So he didn't come home last night. He's had a shitty couple of days and he decided to get away. Not everything has to be the beginning to an Ellery Queen novel."

Jim felt his eyebrows climb. "Ellery Queen?"

"Yeah," Simon said with a look of challenge. "You got a problem with me reading Ellery Queen?"

"No, not at all." Jim sighed, giving both temples a fingertip massage. A dull headache had occupied his skull all afternoon. "I can't help but think something's squirrelly. Sandburg doesn't disappear without telling me."

Simon continued to shuffle paperwork around, as if sorting it into recognizable piles for the morning. "I thought you said he did tell you."

"A note, he left a brief note," Jim said. "That's not the same thing. He wrote he was taking a break and would be staying with some friends. Not to worry."

"His handwriting?"

"Yeah."

"So the only part I'm fuzzy on is why you insist on worrying."

"I've called everyone I can think of. I'm not finding him." Jim shifted in his chair. "Something's wrong, Simon, I can feel it."

That got the other man's attention. He paused in paper sorting. "Is this a sentinel thing?"

Shrugging, Jim dropped his hands to his lap. He worried the bandage on his injured hand. "It's a roommate thing. Something's wrong. That knife fight in the bullpen messed with his head."

Simon's answer was cut off by a cell phone ring. Instantly following the sound to his own jacket that currently hung on his desk chair, Jim bolted out of his seat. "Sandburg."

With a sigh of relief, Simon clicked off his desk light and rose. "Good, I'm going home."

Jim pulled out his phone, awkwardly flipping it open and trying to punch the green key. The bandage made even everyday tasks hard. "Ellison."

"James Ellison?"

The voice was male, established and cultured, but not the one he wanted to hear.

"That's right," Jim answered while his headache matured.

"I'm Doctor Tapas. Your number was given to me by Tristan Cahill."

Not good news. Jim didn't bother to reply. He knew there would be more and he wasn't disappointed.

"Tristan is with his son right now, but he asked me to call you."

Covert ops training kicked in. Confirm nothing. Give nothing away. Learn as much as possible. Jim offered a sound of encouragement, a cross between a hum and a grunt.

The man chuckled. "I understand your reluctance. In fact, let me have you talk to Tristan, he just came in."

Jim knew that; well, he knew someone had walked in to the room this man was in. He also heard other people walking nearby with rubber soled shoes on heavily waxed floors. He heard beeps and chirps. He heard several different TV channels being played in different locations.

The sound he wanted to hear the most was not there; Blair's voice.

"Jim?"

"Tristan, where are you?" Jim's injured hand ached and he forced himself to relax his strangle hold on the phone.

"We're in a private clinic on Mercer Island, that city in the middle of Lake Washington?"

"I know the place," Jim said. "Where's Blair?"

"With me."

Jim's hearing was so focused he heard Tristan pass a hand through his own hair. Skin scraping hair follicles, fingernails and cuticles catching knots and breaking them free.

"Jim, I can't go over this on the phone. Can you come down?"

"Is he okay?" Jim demanded.

"He's fine. But he needs you here when he wakes up. Can you come?"

Simon was standing in his office doorway, pinning Jim with a look that told Jim he wouldn't be making the sixty minute drive alone. "Give me an address."

Jim swore. He wanted to break something. He and Simon had arrived at the Mercer Island clinic. The place smelled of money. He suspected doctors here performed non-life threatening operations for the rich and pampered. The staff looked like they belonged on a modeling runway. Jim couldn't afford half the damn furniture in the waiting room in which he and Simon had been sequestered. All this show and no sign of Blair.

"You want me to watch a video?" Jim said in his best Ranger voice. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor, pleased to see the man pale.

The doctor swallowed, looking extremely thankful when Tristan captured Jim's attention. "Blair made this video for you to view. The least you can do is watch it. Then you can see him."

Tristan looked tired and stressed, but not grief-stricken. When he and Simon had arrived, they'd been assured Blair was fine. Jim believed them, to a point. During the drive down, Simon had shared - with horrifying detail -the time Jim had been kidnapped and how Naomi and Tristan had drugged Blair's dinner to perform a minor operation on him. Jim was not about to trust any `spook' with his partner again. No matter how they were related.

"Play it," Jim demanded.

Ignoring the doctor's hand gesture to sit, Jim watched a forty-plus TV screen glow to life revealing Blair sitting on a chair in a bare walled room. The lighting was artificial. Dressed in the same clothes Jim had last seen him in, Blair appeared nervous.

"Ah, Jim," TV Blair said, pulling on his earlobe. Jim noticed the missing hoops. "God, this is totally weird, man. But... okay, here goes. I'm here to... it's like this... Shit." Blair looked off camera a second. "No, it's okay. Just give me a second."

Jim sank down into the plush chair, watching, waiting for `Recorded Blair' to pull thoughts together. When was this taken? Yesterday? This morning?

"Okay," Blair started again, leaning forward toward the unseen camera. The effect was so real that Jim leaned forward in response. "Jim. I know you're going to freak. I know this is not something you'd approve of. Just hear me out. That fight in the bull pen made me see how important it is that I... stay focused, ya know? And I didn't. I screwed up. I know what you're gonna say; that it takes time."

Blair sat back, his Adam's apple jiggling as he swallowed. Jim watched him swipe his palms on his frayed jeans. "I just can't risk it. I know you, man. You're like... the kind of guy to jump back on the horse. And that's cool, I respect it. I do. But what if something happens while I'm `taking my time'? I'm not there to watch your back? I just can't take the chance." Blair offered a tired smile. "Really, Jim. No one made me do this." Blair nodded. "Okay, that's it."

An off-camera voice sounded unsure. Blair shrugged. "Believe me. He'll understand."

The screen went snowfield white, then the power to the TV was cut.

Jim didn't know where he found the strength to stand. The unknown terrified him. The doctor, a thin man with heavy eyebrows looked ready and willing to answer any question asked, as if all was well in Jim's world. Ignoring the medical man, Jim turned to Tristan. "What the hell did your ghouls do to him?"

The doctor's indignant blusters didn't even register.

Tristan met his gaze coolly. "Jim, he called me. I didn't initiate this."

"What was the procedure, Tristan," Jim asked again.

"It's non-intrusive. A chemical is introduced to a part of the brain through a very small hole in the skull." Tristan held up his hand, showing Jim with his thumb and forefinger how small the hole was.

A hole - they drilled a hole...

Simon groaned. "Oh my God," he whispered, dropping his face into both open hands.

"It erases memory. We've learned how to target the area that stores short term memory." He nodded his head toward the other man. "Doctor Tapas will explain."

Simon held up a hand. He'd come to stand at Jim's shoulder during the explanation and Jim was thankful for the support. "Just a second, please. Was this the same operation you casually spoke of over breakfast in Aberdeen?"

Tristan nodded. "It was."

"That's how Blair heard it then." Simon muttered, obviously unhappy as he shook his head from side to side. "Shit, Jim... I had no idea."

Jim's mind still played the comment `hole in the skull' over and over in his head, like a skipping record. "How experimental is this operation?" His voice sounded alien even to himself.

Tapas took the question as in invitation to join in. "We've had very good results with this latest drug. Nothing like the earlier side effects found. Of course, Mr. Sandburg was fully informed of all the research. I must say he was very intelligent for someone so young. His interest -"

Jim cut him off. "Where's Naomi?" he demanded, his voice raising a few decibels.

A flicker of emotion crossed Tristan's face and was gone. "She's not available. She doesn't know about this, Jim."

"You didn't tell her?" That seemed impossible. "Why?"

"She's not available," Tristan repeated firmly and Jim recognized official stonewalling. "Something's come up. I'm not going to be in contact with her for another few days."

"We just got her back and you've sent her off on assignment?" Simon demanded. "Incredible!"

"I didn't send her. She volunteered," Tristan corrected calmly. "National security."

"Riiight." Jim shoved past the man, heading for the door. "Enough of this. Where's Sandburg?"

"Ellison," Tristan said, snagging Jim's forearm as he passed by. "There's more you need to know."

Jim froze. A tiny muscle under his right eye erupted with seizer-like movement. He clenched his right hand into a fist. "What," he whispered in a deadly voice. "What else?"

Tapas answered, showing the sense to keep out of Jim's swinging range. "He'll be waking up soon, two to three hours. He'll be confused, maybe even scared -"

"You think?" Jim shot back.

"He wanted this," Tristan said forcefully.

Jim pulled his arm free, turning to point a finger under Tristan's nose. "He had no idea what he wanted! He's rebounding from some pretty heavy shit! He should have had counseling - not a Black and Decker to the skull!"

"Jim," Simon interrupted loudly enough to register. The hand on Jim's shoulder seemed to dissipate some of the blackness.

Jim turned to his friend and boss, needing not to see Tristan. He felt his control being shredded. It had been a long time since he'd felt this level of rage. "Simon... they put a hole in his head," Jim whispered.

Simon stood close, offering support, and Jim focused on the other man's calm, drawing it in and letting it eradicate is own desire to mutilate and maim.

God, he'd been hanging around Blair too long.

"Committing an assault is not going to help Blair," Simon whispered back.

Blair lay still, curled on his side. Someone had been generous with blankets. The room was similar to a five-star hotel. No IV's or machines tethered him down. Still, in Jim's eyes, he looked sickly.

Tapas held a narrow portfolio-style notebook made from expensive leather. His pen was gold and he drew it from his pale blue doctor smock and absentmindedly clicked it as he read. "Might be fewer than two hours. I see the nurses have recorded signs of waking."

Tristan seemed to take charge. "Okay, then. Let's clear out and let Jim handle it."

"Why?" Jim stood by the top of Blair's bed. He wasn't saying he wanted to leave, just why everyone else needed to.

"Previous research has shown the patient does best when his family -" Tapas seemed to realize his blunder as he looked guiltily at Tristan. "-er... when someone well known to the patient is in the room."

"I thought Naomi would be available," Tristan added. "She's not. You're the next best thing."

Simon, Tristan and the doctor moved toward the door. Tapas paused, the last to leave. "When he seems calm, tell the nurse. Normally, we record this. But seeing the patient is related to Tristan..."

Yeah, whatever. Jim dismissed him with an ill concealed grimace as he sat on an overstuffed moss colored chair. The room's indirect lighting was soothing to his senses. Any other time Jim would be relaxed in such a well designed room.

Blair sniffled. The mass of wavy hair moved a fraction, revealing more face, jaw dark with stubble. Blair hadn't shaved that morning.

"Chief, you've done some stupid things before, but..." Jim let the comment go unfinished. The doctor said he'd likely be affected by the drugs when he woke; anything from mildly scared to terrified. Jim didn't need to add fuel to the fire.

Damn it. Blair let these people put chemicals directly into his brain.

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, when blue eyes appeared from under pale lids, Jim had a smile in place. He'd meditated, like Blair had taught him, and actually found a small amount of comfort from it.

"Hey."

Blair's eyes widened.

"Easy, partner." Jim leaned forward, moving slowly. He laid his hand lightly on Blair's blanketed shoulder. "You're fine. Everyone is fine," Jim said. "How do you feel?"

Sinking deeper into the pillow, Blair tried to talk, his voice rough. "Wha..."

Jim pondered how to reply. "I'm still catching up here, Sandburg. You left yesterday, early. I got a call from Tristan to come and pick you up. What's the last thing you remember?"

Blair was trembling now, full body vibrations that shook the bedding. A hand snaked out from the blanket and Jim caught it.

"J-jim."

"Blair, everything's okay," Jim repeated. "Now, answer my questions, Van Winkle. How do you feel?"

Not releasing his hold, Blair's gaze surveyed the room. "Head h-hurts a l-l-little."

Jim didn't like the stuttering. This wasn't Blair's way. God, what if the drugs...

No, he wasn't going to speculate.

"I'm going to raise the bed." Jim reached for the control box clipped to the corner of the mattress. "How about a little water?"

Blair weakly groaned, but accepted the water. Worried about the possibility of having it return, Jim kept the drink short. "I'll give you more in a while," he explained, setting the tumbler back on the nightstand.

Blair closed his eyes, giving Jim a chance to really take in his friend's appearance. Sentinel vision couldn't find the hole, too much hair. Blair's cheek was creased. He was bathed, however, and appeared cared for. The temperature of the room was warmer than Jim normally liked, yet Blair looked cold.

"Tell me the last thing you remember." Jim kept his tone light, even though a part of him wanted to shake the younger man by the shoulders until his teeth fell out.

"Ah... search warrant for the... B-blake case." Blair wet his lips as he looked down with a puzzled expression. "We were eating at Mr. Tube Steak? J-jim? Why am I...?" His voice shook, eyes filled and a tear dived down his cheek landing in the rough stubble.

Jim switched to sit on the edge of the bed. "It's okay. It's just a normal reaction. It'll go away in a minute."

"W-what happened?" Both eyes were dropping tears now. "S-shit, I'm f-freaking out, m-man."

"Sandburg," Jim raised his voice, he leaned over Blair's legs to stay in his partner's line of vision, "I want you to listen to me, okay? Everything is going to work out. You've got some medicines throwing you for a little loop, that's all."

Blair looked hopeful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jim squeezed the ice cold hands. "I promise."

Simon was the last to enter the room. Blair started to become agitated.

"What's happening? Why is everyone here?" Blair asked. "Where's Naomi?"

Tristan held out a legal sized white envelope. "She's working, Blair. She'd be here if she could. I want you to read this."

"What is it?" Blair accepted the envelope, turning it over to read. "This is my handwriting."

"That's right." Tristan nodded. "You wrote it yesterday."

Blair was already pulling out the paper, he read it quickly. Then rubbing his forehead, he read it again. Jim stood near the top of the bed, catching a few lines and able to decipher parts of Blair's scrawl; something about `garbage truck'.

Blair seemed to realize Jim's presence; he slapped the letter face down on his blanketed knees. "Jim, I need to talk to Tristan."

"Okay."

Blair frowned. "Alone, man. You mind?"

Yeah, he minded. But he followed Simon and Tapas into the `Ethan Allen' decorated hallway. Voices were easily picked up through the heavy wooden door, if the person listening from the hall was a Sentinel.

"Naomi would have come if she'd known, son," Tristan was saying. "I know you -"

"Wait a second," Blair's voice cut him off. "Jim, dial it down. Play fair, okay?"

Shit. Jim let his hearing return to a normal setting. He caught Simon smirking knowingly at him.

"Got shut out?" Simon asked.

"Yeah," Jim admitted. He saw Tapas talking to a nurse behind a nearby counter. "I'm really hating this, Simon. Why would Blair allow his brain to be doused with chemicals?"

"You're asking me?" Simon said half-jokingly. "Like I've got hidden insight on the kid's motivations? I'm just glad he's awake and acting normal."

"Somewhat normal." Jim looked at the door.

"Ah ha, James. Be good," Simon warned.

"Right."

A few minutes later the door opened and both Tristan and Blair, dressed in a white robe that reached the floor, exited the room.

"What are you doing up?" Jim asked.

"I'm fine." Blair waved his hand. "Tristan says it's normal to be up and walking."

Tapas joined them. "That's right. It's a very good sign in fact. Any problems? Dizziness... vision?"

"Nope," Blair answered, managing a pathetic smile. "Feel great. Hey, Jim, why don't you and Simon head on back to Cascade? Thanks for driving down and all. I'll catch a ride later. I need to do some reading before I leave. I'll meet up with you at the loft, okay?"

Simon answered for both of them. "We'll wait, Sandburg. You do your reading. We'll all go back together."

Blair's eyes widened. "Oh... ah, okay. Thanks."

Jim and Simon waited in the dining area, guests of Tapas. The food was like everything else about the place, beyond indulgent. Still, Jim had picked at the meal, an Italian chicken breast served over wild rice. Simon ate his London broil and kept Jim distracted.

Two hours later a very different Blair Sandburg emerged; showered, shaved and dressed in street clothes again. Tristan walked at his side. "Sorry that took so long, guys. I'm ready." He turned to his father, offering his hand. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Tristan shook. "Make sure you come back for the follow ups. You've got my cell number. Call if you need anything. I'll brief Naomi when she checks in."

"Okay," Blair said. He looked at Jim. "Ready?"

They left. Blair opened the back door of Simon's car and got in without a word, sitting calmly and gazing out the window into the night as they crossed the floating bridge to catch the freeway that would take them north. The silence was strained, at least for Jim.

Simon made small talk. Jim answered out of courtesy. After all, Simon's plans for Friday evening had probably not involved driving Jim around. When they arrived home, Blair spent several minutes thanking Simon before heading up to the loft.

The street was dark. Jim could smell the salty mix of water from the harbor a few blocks below the hill. Colette's and the other shops on the block were locked up for the night.

Jim wearily ran a palm down his face. "Thank you, Simon."

"You're welcome." Simon drew a cigar out of his leather case. "What are you going to do?"

A good question. "I'm not sure. This is Blair's call. He started down this path... as stupid and asinine as it is."

Simon hid a grin behind his hands as he lit up, taking a few seconds to get his cigar tip glowing to his satisfaction. He watched the silhouette from a low flying sea bird pass by to land in an adjacent neighborhood park. "They wouldn't have released him unless they were sure he was okay."

"I know. But we're still talking experimental shit." Jim crossed his arms. "It's not like Sandburg to take the quick and easy route."

"You watched that video, he had his reasons." Simon clapped Jim's shoulder. "Go on up, relax. I'll see you Monday. You're not on rotation this weekend, so take some time and just talk."

"Yeah." Jim had to agree with the man's logic. "Thanks again, Simon."

Upstairs in the loft, he half expected Blair to be hiding in his room. Instead his roommate was watching the news. He flicked it off when Jim walked in.

"You're pissed," Blair stated frankly.

Jim hung up his jacket, taking the time to organize his feelings. "Yeah, I'm pissed."

"I didn't talk to you about this, did I?"

Turning back to his friend, Jim rubbed his brow. Did he really want to have this conversation right now? Blair looked rested and ready to go all night. Jim felt like fifty miles of bad road. "Sandburg, I don't know what to do here. You went through a... risky procedure for a stupid reason. What if someone blurts it out? Huh? Then what? You had some doc drilling in your head for nothing."

Blair chewed his lower lip in thought before answering. "I kinda have a clue what must have happened. Not the actual facts, man. But I did leave a very clear reason for myself. I'm okay, even if someone says something; the actual event is gone from my memory. I'm not going to freeze or anything. That's all that counts."

"Sandburg, that's crap and you know it," Jim responded, giving in to his emotions and ignoring his brain. "You create problems that don't exist!"

"My note said you'd say something like that, man." Blair stood up, waving both hands outward in anger.

"It's true! Give me that note and I'll break it down for you."

"Forget it! You're not reading that. It's private," Blair said, his voice raising. He took a breath and brought his volume back to normal range. "Jim, listen to me. I'm sorry, okay? You weren't supposed to drive down."

"You made a video -"

"-To show you later, man, after I returned. The plan was for Naomi to be there, but -"

Jim cut him off. "Forget the damn trip. I'm not upset about a stupid drive, okay? I am upset about what you did."

Blair's eyes narrowed. He stood straight, achieving an `in your face' stance that his height normally didn't allow. Jim felt the temperature of the loft plummet from the younger man's hard gaze.

"Deal with it, Ellison," Blair whispered. "It's done. I'm not a kid. I made a decision and it stands. Good night." With a sharp turn on his heel, he crossed the loft and disappeared into his room.

Jim fought the desire to follow.

Shit.

Dropping onto the smaller sofa, Jim pressed both heels of his hand into his eye sockets. His head ached.

The following Monday found Jim lifting and slipping under the yellow `crime scene' tape. He'd gotten the call to respond to a restaurant right after lunch. Homicide detectives were on scene, but wanted someone from Major Crime to take a look.

"Ellison, back here," a short woman with broad shoulders called out.

Though an open pass-through window, Jim could see several crime scene technicians working in the back kitchen. Entering through a swinging door, he found the murder scene.

"Thanks for coming."

Jim recognized the woman as Edwina Stone. He couldn't recall her partner's full name, but the last name was Gleason. "No problem, Eddie, what's up?"

The victim lay flat on his back next to a long food preparation table. A young looking man, Asian in features, he sported a large butcher knife which stuck out of his sternum. The left side of his forehead was flattened as well. It was going to be a toss up as to which attack actually killed him.

"Recognize him?" Gleason asked. He stood next to the body, unwrapping a chocolate kiss before popping it into his mouth and chewing. The wrapper was tucked into his jacket pocket.

Jim looked again at the victim. "Yeah, looks like Dicky's little brother. Don't remember his name."

"Bernard Yu," Eddie Stone said. "Aren't you guys working a case with Richard Yu?"

"Yeah, we are." Jim had just spent the morning catching up on the open files that had come in while he and Blair had been away. "Regular racketeering stuff, some extortion and illegal gambling on the side."

"Any idea who'd `off' the brother?" Gleason asked. He was working on another chocolate. "We thought he was legit."

"Just keep an eye on the morgue," Jim answered. "The killer's bound to turn up soon. Dicky's going to hit the roof when he finds out. They were close."

"Speaking of..." Gleason made a point to look behind Jim. "Where's your trained monkey?"

Jim ignored the man, turning instead to Eddie. "You want to pass this to Major Crime?"

She smiled. "God, I was hoping you'd offer. We're getting nailed in homicide. Can I write up what we have so far and CC a copy to you?"

Jim nodded. "Sure, I'll look around some. I'm just getting back from a short vacation and my in-box isn't too bad right now."

She beamed up at Jim. "That's the best offer I've had all year."

Jim glanced at Gleason. "I'll bet."

Jim entered Simon's office. It was after three and he'd finished examining the restaurant. He'd found a few clues, but catching the killer was going to involve good old-fashioned police work.

"Hear we got a new case."

The sarcasm was thick and Jim realized he'd overstepped his bounds a little. "Sorry, sir. Didn't think to call you first. Stone and Gleason were up to their collective necks in open cases. This one does tie-in with Brown and Rafe's case."

"Yeah, I know," Simon said with a small sigh. "Just sometimes I like to feel I'm the boss around here. Not just a lackey for the Police Chief."

"New committee?" Jim guessed.

"Don't even get me started, Detective." Simon pushed back from his desk and tilted his chair as he studied Jim. "There are days the pay does not make up for the crap that comes with the captain bars. So...talk."

Jim opened his notebook. "Not much yet, some evidence at the scene. We've got human hair, possible skin under the vic's fingernails, a shitload of prints, but none on the knife handle. The cook tells us one of his cast iron pans is missing, probably the other weapon. The place is owned by a woman currently living in California. It's just an investment for her. A local manager runs it. We're checking; don't think they're connected to organized crime. The place serves dinner only, the employees found the vic when they arrived for work."

"Bernard Yu, right?" Simon asked.

"Right." Jim closed the notebook and crossed both arms. "I've called Dicky's normal haunts, no go. His attorney's aware of the death and promised to call me if she hears from him."

Simon pursed his lips, his gaze switching to the ceiling. "Okay, you take the primary on this, but work with Brown and Rafe. I'll have them keep you in the loop with their investigation. Who knows, they might hear or see something that helps. We'll work it for a few days and see what happens. If we need to, we'll steal a few bodies from the organized crime division; God knows they owe us some favors."

"Very good, Simon." Jim turned toward the door.

"Wait, Jim. How's Sandburg?"

Jim shrugged one shoulder. "He's fine. Spent the last two days getting ready for classes and being pissed off at me."

"Why, what did you do?" Simon was standing now, carrying his empty coffee cup toward his coffee pot. "Want some?"

Jim had smelled the coffee when he'd entered. It had to be at least three hours old. "I'll pass, thanks anyway. And I didn't do anything. I'm just not going to pretend everything's `hunky-dory'"

"I see." Simon poured his coffee. "So what you're saying is you walked around the loft for two days looking like a constipated drill sergeant and he refused to admit he'd done anything wrong."

Jim sniffed. "You got half of that right."

Chuckling to himself, Simon waved toward the closed door. "Get back to work. Keep me informed, okay? Is Sandburg coming in?"

"I think so," Jim tossed back as he left.

"Hey, Jim." Blair set his pack down on the floor next to Jim's desk and dropped into the empty chair.

"Hey." Jim's answer was short. "Don't get comfortable. We're going back out."

Wonderful. Blair leaned down and snagged his pack again. It felt heavier all of a sudden, as if someone had managed to slip bricks in. "Where?"

"New case," Jim answered. He stood and lifted his jacket off the back of his chair with a crooked finger while frowning at Blair. "You look like shit. You okay?"

"Tired." Blair managed a smile. "Do you think we'll be working late?"

"Nah, shouldn't be." Jim strode toward the door with purpose, causing Blair to pick up his own pace. He passed over a file as they walked. "Body found in the kitchen at Paolio's, the baby brother of one Richard Yu from China Town. Suspected of running organized crime."

Blair studied the file's contents, not looking up as Jim pulled him out of the path of two approaching uniforms. He appreciated the gesture. Maybe Jim was thawing a little. He'd been acting pissed all weekend. Blair's thoughts returned to the information he held. The picture of the body wasn't as bad as some Blair had seen, but the knife was the stuff nightmares were made of. He scanned the bare facts of the case, easily deciphering Jim's hand notes.

They were in the elevator when he finished. "You know, I think I've seen this Bernard guy around Rainier. What's he do?"

"His brother's attorney said Bernard was into imports and exports," Jim answered. "Where did you see him?"

"Maybe the anthropology museum?" Blair held up the picture. "Do we have any photos of him before half his skull got caved in?"

"Not yet, we're working on it. Tell me what you saw."

"Not much. I didn't talk to him. He was meeting someone. I was giving a talk on the Kitwancool Village - we have a very cool memorial totem pole that belonged there - and I remember looking over and seeing these two guys talking."

"Why did the fact they were talking stick with you?" Jim asked.

Blair bit the corner of his lip in thought. "I guess it was because the other guy was so scared looking."

"What did he look like?"

"White, dark hair, sorta short like yours. Heavy set. He was a few years older than me, I think. That's all I remember, man."

They were soon driving south along the waterfront. Blair sank into the Expedition's seat cushions and closed his eyes. The first day back to school had been hell. A dull headache happily banged away at the back of his eyeballs. No matter what he'd tried, he couldn't shake it. On top of feeling crappy, he'd forgotten about a meeting just before lunch and got chewed out.

Then there was that stupid business with the copy machine...

Jim turned into a parking lot next to a four-story glass front building that smacked establishment and stock investments. They walked through the recessed entrance. The lobby wasn't manned with a receptionist so Jim scanned a large directory hanging on the wall.

"Who we looking for?" Blair asked.

"Richard Yu's attorney." Jim pointed. "Third floor."

The attorney turned out to be a woman in her forties, wearing a dark blue suit with silver jewelry. Her black hair was fashionably styled, cut a few inches above her shoulders and curled in. She invited them into her inner office and handed Jim an envelope before sitting down behind an elegant bird's eye maple desk. After the formal introductions were over, she explained the envelope.

"Richard's traveling. I've left several messages. I'm sure he'll check in soon. I'm also Bernard's counsel, so I've gathered some information and a few pictures like you requested." She sat, posed on the edge of her chair, radiating confidence.

"I find it interesting, Ms. Thomas, that Richard doesn't carry a cell phone or pager," Jim said as he opened the envelope and pulled out the papers. Many were folded in half to fit inside. As Jim unfolded them, a photo slipped to the floor.

Blair squatted down to pick it up. A pleasant looking man stared back at him. "He's the one, Jim."

"Okay." Jim took the photo back.

"He's which one?" she asked, turning to Blair.

"Nothing, ma'am," Jim said. "So... you're telling me Richard doesn't have a cell phone?"

"He does, Detective." She crossed her arms. "I've tried it. He must have turned it off. All the data is there. You can call yourself if you don't believe me." She stood up.

"Thank you. One more question." Jim tilted his head. "Do you know if Bernard had any reason to be in that restaurant?"

"I know Richard is a silent partner in a quite a few local businesses," she answered. "I'm not privileged to all that information, he has other counsel for that. Perhaps the restaurant was such a place?"

"Do you know the names of his other attorneys?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, no."

The interview, such as it was, was over.

They followed her out into the waiting area of her office. A water cooler, several chairs and wood file cabinets lined the wall. Hand panted, crude looking ink patterns on thick, handmade paper decorated the walls. Each one was carefully framed.

"These are African, right?" Blair asked as he walked over to study one closely.

"That's right. Zimbabwe, I traveled there a few years ago and bought them." She smiled at the framed art. "They're nothing special, but I enjoyed bringing part of my past back with me."

Blair nodded, wishing he felt better. "Never got a chance to travel that way yet. I hope to visit every continent. Do you have family there?"

She nodded. "Distant cousins."

Back in the truck, Jim turned drove toward the loft. "What do you say we leave your car in the PD garage? I'll drop you off on my way in, then pick you up after your last class."

"Man, I'm down with that plan." Blair stretched his legs out. "Although after today, I might not be welcome back at Rainier."

"What happened?"

Blair shrugged. "Just had a tough time getting back into the swing of things." He probed his face gently with his right hand. "At least I don't look like an extra in a Rocky Balboa movie anymore." He had just a few yellowish-green bruises on his face. It was totally weird not knowing how they got there. He noticed Jim's hands tightening on the steering wheel and changed the subject. "So... is it your night to cook?"

"Jim?"

Jim looked up from his dicing. He still had half a tomato to go. "What?"

Emerging from his bedroom wearing baggy pajama bottoms and a dingy T-shirt two sizes too large and way overdue for the rag box, Blair set his wall calendar down on the table. "Who's Cindy?"

"Cindy?" Jim continued to dice. "Cindy at the station? The fingerprint tech?"

"I don't know. I've got a name on the calendar for tomorrow, next to the letter seven."

"Maybe it's a date."

"You'd think I'd remember that." Blair scratched his head. "Did I meet a Cindy in the last two weeks?" The tomato was a smidgen over ripe and hard to hold. Jim watched his bandage catch a stream of juice. "I don't know, Sandburg. If you did, you didn't share." He didn't intend to sound irritated, it just came out that way.

"Sorry, man." Blair turned toward his room.

Great, now he felt like a jerk. "Sandburg, wait."

When Blair paused, Jim set the knife down. They had enough tomato anyway. Scooping the small mound onto a saucer, he dumped it into the pan of cooked pasta and garlic. "You probably would have told me if she was from work. Why don't you check with your friends at school? It must be someone from Rainier."

Blair looked doubtful. "You're still pissed, huh?"

Jim smiled. "I'll get over it, okay? You made your point the other night and I do respect your decision. Now, would you do me a favor here? The tomato juice is really starting to sting." Jim started stripping the gauze off.

"Sure," Blair said eagerly as he dropped the calendar on the table. "Where's the bandages?"

Jim snorted, taking a seat at the table. He had the old wrap off. His stitches looked fine. "In the bathroom, Einstein, where we've always kept them."

"Right," Blair answered with a grin. "I knew that." He disappeared into the bathroom and Jim could hear cabinet doors opening and closing.

When Blair returned with the Johnson and Johnson box of supplies, Jim watched his friend selected the necessary material to replace the bandage. Something wasn't' right. "Sandburg, you did remember where we keep the first aid box, right?"

Tearing the paper off the sterile squares of white, Blair kept his head down. "Sure."

"Uh huh." Jim held his hand steady.

Blair did a good job. He covered the fresh cover with a figure-eight pattern of rolled gauze, then secured the tip with tape. "That's not too tight, is it?"

"Nope, it's perfect." Jim stood and gathered up the old bandage to toss. "While dinner is cooking, I'm going to run the garbage down to the alley. You mind putting a new liner in the can?" Jim had the door under the sink open and the full sack of garage in hand. Tightening the draw string closure, he headed for the door.

Blair went to the same cabinet and opened it.

Jim sighed. The extra bags weren't kept under the sink. They were in the end cabinet next to the refrigerator. Blair should know that. The location hadn't changed since the day he had moved into the loft. When Jim returned from his trip to the alley, Blair was still opening cabinets.

"Sandburg, we've got to talk."

"What?"

Jim pointed to the living room.

"You want the liner replaced, remember?" Blair sounded angry. His heart rate was twice as fast as normal. "Shit!" He slammed the door under the range top and crossed his arms over his chest, his head down.

Jim moved close. He laid a gentle hand on Blair's shoulder. "When did this start?"

"Today, at Rainier," Blair mumbled, looking miserable.

"What did you forget at Rainier?" Jim asked, gently moving Blair out of the kitchen and onto the sofa.

"A meeting. But that wasn't my fault, really. But then I couldn't remember how to run the copier, Jim." Blair looked up, his eyes haunted. "I've been known to make that old machine stand up and dance. We've had it for a year."

"Anything else?"

"How can I tell?" Blair flung both hands in the air. "I can't remember."

"We've got to call Tapas. This isn't good, Chief." Jim reached over and picked up the cordless phone at the end of the sofa. "Did he say there might be side affects?"

Blair shook his head. "I don't think so. I read the post operation notes they gave me. Didn't see anything like this."

"So far, everything you've forgotten seems to be before the procedure, right?" Jim pulled his own wallet out of his pocket and found the business card from the clinic. There was a twenty-four hour number listed in the corner.

"I think so," Blair answered.

Jim dialed the number and handed the phone over. "Make an appointment." Standing up, Jim headed back to finish dinner. Tomorrow he'd tell Simon he'd need some time off to accompany Blair back to the clinic. He had a few questions for Tapas.

Heading for the shower, he saw Jim's jacket missing. Some mornings his roommate got up an hour early and worked out at a gym a few blocks away. By the time Blair had finished the shower, dressed and fixed his algae shake, Jim was walking into the loft.

"Morning." Jim hung up his coat. He carried a small white bag and held it up for view. "Onion bagels were fresh this morning. I scored you one."

"Thanks, man. Can you still drive me to Rainier?"

"Sure, I just need to grab a shower." Jim walked toward the bathroom. "What time is your appointment?"

"Three." Blair sniffed the bagel. It smelled fresh. "I'll just cancel my office hours. Wait, though... what about the investigation? Maybe I should drive myself."

Stopping at the doorframe to the bathroom, Jim leveled him with a stern look. "I'm going. I want to hear what they have to say. I'll explain to Simon. I'll put in six solid hours before I pick you up. Okay?"

"Sure." Blair took a big bite of bagel and set his empty glass in the sink, for washing later. He needed to gather his books for school. Jim had a knack of being able to shower and dress and still leave Blair standing at the gate when the starting gun for the morning went off. Blair learned to be ready.

And Jim did work hard. He poured over the medical examiner's report first thing in the morning. Interviewed the manager of the restaurant, talked to the owner by phone, neither had a clue what the victim was doing inside their building. Jim skipped breaks, didn't eat lunch. His file was an inch thicker by the time he had to leave to pick up Blair.

"Jim." Simon appeared suddenly at Jim's side as he went through his `end of day' procedure, getting his desk in order. "Call me as soon as you guys get in, okay? I don't care what time it is."

Jim closed the last desk drawer and stood, his jacket draped over one arm. "I will."

"And, listen to me, don't do anything stupid. I don't want a call from the Mercer Island police that you assaulted a doctor."

That brought Jim up short. Yeah, he was getting ready for a fight, a big fight, a showdown of fights. Jim forced his shoulders to relax. "Damn it, Simon. I'm watching this go from bad to nightmare."

"I know. But keep this in mind; the doctor was doing his job. I may have issues with Tristan for his part... and definitely with Sandburg." Simon shook his head. "Just play nice at the clinic, got it?"

Jim nodded. "Got it."

Traffic was light and Jim reached the University, parked illegally in a wide turnaround and trotted toward the side entrance to Hargrove. The overhead trees were heavy with delicate leaves and fragrant blossoms. In a few weeks tiny white flower pedals would carpet the wide walkway. He entered the building and strode down the arched ceiling hallway toward his partner's office.

It was empty.

"Wonderful," Jim muttered as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Blair's cell number. He left Blair's office and headed back outside, his goal the bookstore, or the student lounge. Jim let the phone ring as he left the building behind and walked down the center mall. The university was huge and Jim was fast becoming irritated. He didn't have time for a game of `find the anthropologist that doesn't wear a watch'; they still had a long drive to look forward to.

Blair still wasn't answering. Jim changed direction. He was right in front of the library, he'd try that first. Extending his hearing in hopes of hearing his roommate's voice, Jim ended the call and tucked the phone away.

Somewhere behind him, a cell phone stopped ringing.

Jim turned, his eyes raking the campus in its spring greenery. No Blair. Jim hit the resend button and waited.

There is was again. A phone started ringing. The sound was coming from the far end of the mall. Jim ended the call again.

The distant ringing stopped.

What the hell was going on? Jim jogged toward his Ford, passed it, crossed the circular turnaround and looked over a low concrete wall to a rose garden. He saw Blair below him. His friend was sitting on a bench, his feet drawn up and both arms circling his shins.

Exasperated, Jim found the stairs leading to the garden and waited until he was standing directly in front of his roommate before speaking. "Are you having fun playing hide and seek?"

Blair looked up.

Jim immediately dropped the sarcasm upon seeing Blair's weary expression. He sat beside his friend. "What's wrong? Another headache?"

Blair shook his head. "I'm fine." He lowered his feet to the ground.

"Then why aren't you answering your cell? We have to hit the road, partner. You've got an appointment."

Blair's backpack rested next to him on the bench, the top opened. Reaching inside, Blair pulled out a paper. It looked like a photo copy. He handed it to Jim, who read it quickly.

"You're resigning? Why?"

Blair looked sick. "Today I was answering questions after one of my lectures on social organization. You know, just basic anthropology. A student asked me to explain `fictive kinship'." Blair paused to swallow. He rubbed his closed eyes with one hand.

"What happened?" Jim had an idea.

"I stood there like an idiot, man," Blair answered in a whisper. "I didn't know the answer." He turned bloodshot eyes on Jim. "I have to resign. I'm losing it."

"Sandburg, you're not losing it. You don't even know what it is yet. That's why we have a doctor's appointment, remember?"

If there was ever an example of a person that had already given up, Blair was it. "I told my dean I was seeing the doctor today..."

"And?"

"He refused to accept my resignation." Blair snorted. "I'm on a leave of absence."

Jim stood. "Okay, then, enough `pity party'." He slipped a hand under Blair's arm and lifted. "And get your ass in the Ford."

Blair sat in the doctor's office with Jim at his side. The physical exam was complete. He's answered a billion questions, filled out pages and pages of food he had consumed, products he had used. His blood and urine had been sampled. Hell, they'd even taken some spinal fluid.

That had hurt.

Now it was nearly dinnertime and the doctor had brought them back to his office. Tapas studied the papers spread out on his desk, clucking quietly. Blair was ready to explode with impatience. "Well?"

Tapas looked up. "I'm completely puzzled. You say you had a headache?"

"Right." Blair shot Jim a brief look. He'd already explained this a dozen times. "Can you tell me if this is going to stop?"

"I'm afraid not." Tapas looked genuinely remorseful.

Blair was going to throw up.

"Wait, doc." Jim held up a hand. "No... you can't tell us - or no, this is not going to stop?"

Tapas leaned forward urgently. "I'm sorry, the first one. I don't know, Blair. I'm not sure how this is even happening. Theoretically, this is impossible. You see," he stood up and walked over to a wall chart depicting a human brain, "the portion of the brain that processes new memories is called the hippocampus." He pointed to the chart.

Blair was instantly reminded of the TV commercial that started out with the famous `this is your brain' and then showed a chicken egg. He felt as fragile as that egg.

Tapas continued. "We target the hippocampus for this reason. No long term memories are stored there, they are moved - or transferred - from one region to another. In the past, people who've suffered damage to the hippocampus, either through head trauma or a stroke, have specific memory deficits. They lose recent memories, but more distant memories remain intact." Tapas pointed at Blair. "You're experiencing loss of long term memories, commonly believed to be stored in the anterior cingulated cortex. Now conventional wisdom, at least since the 1960s, has been that once a memory is "fixed" biochemically, it's permanent and cannot be erased."

And this is your brain on drugs... any questions? Blair blinked stupidly at the doctor. What did all of this mean?

Jim voiced his own thoughts. "So... bottom line, Doc. How do we stop it?"

Tapas converted from a confident lecturer back to the frustrated medical man in a nano-second. "I don't know. It could be anything. This new drug is a biochemical blocker; it had none of the side effects we found with our earlier choice, propranolol, which interfered with the action of stress hormones in the brain. Somehow our new drug mutated... or became disrupted by protein synthesis inhibitors. Still, none of our previous test subjects showed this complication."

"And just how many subjects were there?" Jim leaned forward, his voice hard.

Tapas returned to his chair, as if he was looking for the largest physical barrier in the room to put between himself and Jim.

"Human subjects?" Tapas asked with a nervous smile. "None."

Blair groaned, dropping his face into his palm.

"I'm still waiting for more detailed test results, but I believe we have two avenues to pursue," Tapas said as he sat, drumming long fingers over the stack of papers. "We could wait and see if this is a temporary condition. It might run out of steam, so to speak, and stop. Or I could fly you back to the east coast with me, to my main office and lab. We can run some tests, under a very controlled environment. If I can map the protein produced by the neurons that signal memory activation..."

Blair couldn't help himself, his mind tuned Tapas out. He was so screwed. What had he been thinking? His own note had told him the first priority was to get back into shape as Jim's partner. Surely he had considered all the possibilities before leaping? He just didn't play a lab mouse and lay down on the operating table, that wasn't his way. Words like electrodes, MRI, memory array, cognitive abilities were thrown about and Blair tried to focus. Jim seemed to follow, even asking a few questions. Finally Tapas stopped and looked expectantly at Blair.

Caught in his own world, Blair looked at Jim.

Jim leaned towards him. "Do you want to think some more about this?"

Blair managed a nod.

They picked up tacos on the way home. Jim managed to get Blair to eat one. When they arrived back at the loft, Blair sat on the smaller sofa and looked out at the harbor lights. The answering machine light was dark. Jim knew Simon was sitting by his phone, waiting for a call. But Jim didn't feel up to it. Instead, he took the opposite sofa and stretched out.

Blair lifted one corner of his mouth, but kept his focus on the view outside. "Jim, I know I screwed up. Royally, big time. It's okay, you can say it."

"Let's wait for the rest of the tests results before we scuttle the ship, okay?" Jim joked half heartedly.

Blair's attention left the view and fixed on Jim. "The last thing I intended was to be some stupid albatross around your neck. But if my memory goes, I'm not going to see that happening, am I?"

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

Blair frowned, sitting a little straighter. "Shit, man. What if... what if I even forget you, ohmygod! Jim! I could forget you're a Sentinel." He stood up suddenly. "I've got to talk to Simon!"

"Calm down," Jim ordered, fruitlessly. Blair was already on the phone dialing. Jim moved fast, muscling the phone away before the call went through.

"Jim! Give that back!"

"Blair, listen to me; calm down." Jim kept his right elbow locked, palm against Blair's chest He held the phone up. "Let's sit back down and -"

The phone picked that second to ring. Jim thumbed the button and brought it close. "Hello?"

"Jim? You guys didn't call, so I thought I'd -"

"Simon!" Blair hollered. "You got to come over, man! I've got to talk to you!"

Shit, this was getting ridiculous. Jim shot his friend a look and let him go.

"Jim, what's wrong? What's the kid yelling about?"

"Everything's fine, sir." Jim took a few steps away, dropping his voice to a whisper. "He's just... leaping to the worst case scenario. We were just getting ready to talk. I'll call you, okay?" Jim hung up. Before he could turn around, it rang a second time.

"Ellison!"

"Ahh... hello?" The voice was feminine and elderly. "Is this the residence of Blair Sandburg?"

For crying out loud. Was the entire city of Cascade going to call the loft? "One moment please." He handed it back to a relatively angry looking roommate.

Blair took the phone, shooting Jim a poisonous look. But as Blair listened to the caller, he slapped his forehead and walked into his bedroom.

Nothing left to do, Jim cleaned the kitchen. When Blair returned half an hour later, he slumped into a kitchen chair, dropping the phone onto the table with a clatter. "That was Cindy."

"Cindy?" Jim wiped his hands on a towel.

"You know, that note on my calendar? Next to the letter seven?" Blair scrubbed his face with both hands. "She's a professor that retired three years ago, she moved to Florida. We had plans to see each other tonight."

Jim checked the clock. "So go, it's only half past."

Blair shook his head, looking sad. "She's already gone, man. It was a short lay over at the airport. Shit, man. I totally forgot her."

"But you remembered after talking to her? You remembered who she was then?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah, for now." He rested his chin on a fist, looking up at Jim in despair. "But what about tomorrow?"

The next morning Blair accompanied Jim to the station. He had woken up feeling better. No new discoveries of forgotten memories. They ate breakfast and treated themselves to an espresso at a local drive through. Jim had briefed Simon on the phone last night after Blair had gone to bed. At least Blair said he was going to bed. Sounds of paper rustling drifted up until past midnight, when Jim had fallen asleep.

Walking into the bullpen side by side, they met Brown and Rafe getting ready to leave.

"Ellison, we've got some info for you," Brown announced as he passed over a `while you were out' pink slip. "Word on the street has it that Dicky is after one of his own men, could be his brother's killer."

Jim read the note. It wasn't much, just a name, George, and a phone number with a local area code.

"Number belongs to a cell phone. Rafe already tried to get an address on it, no luck." Brown gave a casual salute. "I'd keep trying, though. Who knows? We gotta run, dudes. Hey, Hairboy."

"You going to call it?" Blair asked after the two detectives had gone.

"Yeah, let's just check in with Simon first." Jim saw his boss was alone.

"Good, you're both here." Simon made a waving `close the door' motion after Blair entered, then continued once the door was shut. "Did Henri give you that information?"

"He did." Jim held the slip up. "Also, I ran local and statewide checks. Bernard's a boy scout. Nothing pending on Dicky. His housekeeper keeps telling me he's traveling. Even his parking tickets are paid up."

"Well, I might be able to help out." Simon pushed a thin file over. "Called a buddy of mine with ATF. He's got some history with Dicky, but nothing on his brother. He faxed all he had. Some of the addresses are old, but who knows? You might get a lead on his location."

"We can use anything at this point," Jim admitted as he scanned the file. Blair looked over his arm. "Thanks, Simon. Appreciate the assist."

"No problem." Simon looked at Blair, his face softening. "How's it going, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged.

"Have you spoken to Tristan yet? Or your mother?" Simon asked.

"No." Blair held up his hands. "And I don't want to either. Not until I know more."

"Tapas is running more tests. Blair has another appointment next week," Jim said, filling Simon in. "We'll know more then."

With a guilt ridden sigh, Simon shook his head. "Damn it. If I hadn't made that stupid comment in Aberde-"

Jim stopped him upon seeing Blair's obvious confusion. "He doesn't remember that conversation, Simon."

Simon's jaw snapped shut, his eyes going wide. The room grew quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again. "It's hard to imagine. You really don't remember any of that trip, do you? God, Sandburg, I keep forgetting." As the words left his mouth, Simon grimaced as if in pain.

Blair's gaze slid to the floor, face red as he drank his coffee.

"We'd better get going." Jim nudged Blair toward the door. "Lots to do, suspects to interview. Talk to you later, okay?"

Jim called the phone number on Henri's slip of paper and got no answer, or voice mail. Blair waited quietly at his side. Simon's ATF file looked promising. One address was even worth checking out. They headed for the parking garage.

Once back in the Expedition, Blair released a heavy sigh. "Okay, that was totally weird."

Jim checked his city map. "He didn't mean anything by it, Chief."

"I know," Blair muttered.

"Besides, think about it. You haven't had any new problems yet and it's after nine." Jim pulled out into the street. The traffic was heavy. It never failed to amaze him how many streets the city could tear up in the name of progress at the same time.

"I suppose," Blair said slowly. "Maybe this is over."

"Maybe."

Jim glanced down at the map to check his bearings again. When he looked up, the traffic light ahead was red. He slammed on the brakes and watched in surprise when Blair fell heavily into the lap and shoulder belt. "Sorry, Sandburg. Thought I had time."

"Time?" Blair looked at the intersection. The bisecting one-way street didn't have anyone waiting to pull out. The street was being torn up and a man in a yellow vest was holding back cars to allow a backhoe to reposition. "Why'd you stop?"

"The light's red." Jim pointed up.

Blair looked, squinting into the dazzling spring sunshine. "What's that mean?"

Oh, shit. Jim closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

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