"Last chance, Simon. You're sure you won't come with us?" Jim Ellison looked relaxed, leaning in the doorway of Banks' office, with one arm slung casually over his partner's shoulders, but there was a bone-deep weariness in his blue eyes. Even Sandburg looked subdued.

The odd-couple team had been pushed to the limit by the abduction case they were just coming off. It didn't help that the victim had borne a passing resemblance to Ellison. They'd solved the case, thanks to Sandburg's knowledge of neopagan culture and Bronze Age ritual, but it had been too late for the victim. They'd found him in a pond with his throat cut and a rope triple-knotted around his neck. Sandburg had been there when they found him and he'd taken it hard. Ellison had told his boss privately that the kid was waking in a panic two or three times a night with dreams he refused to talk about, and that he'd erupted in uncharacteristic anger when Ellison had gotten tied up on an interrogation and come home a couple of hours late. It was pretty much a no-brainer that reheating the spinach lasagna wasn't the core issue. Both of them badly needed some time away from the dark side. Neither of them knew how many favors Banks had been forced to call in to clear Ellison's calendar for the week of Rainier University's spring break and he intended to keep it that way.

"You two go on and have a good time," Banks said, pulling a cigar from his inside pocket. "I don't think I could take a week of listening to you two squabble like an old married couple."

"Your loss," Ellison said.

Sandburg grimaced at the sight of the cigar. "I don't know how you can stand those things, man. You know, there have been studies showing that it takes seven to eleven minutes off your life every time you smoke one."

"Sandburg, if you don't get out of my office, I'll take more than eleven minutes off of yours."

"Hey, your body's a temple, and if you..."

"Ellison! Take him and go. Some of us are not on vacation."

Ellison tightened his arm around Sandburg's neck, turning the casual contact into a playful half-nelson. "Let's go, Grasshopper. Enlightenment can wait. We have some very large fish to catch."

"Speak for yourself," Sandburg retorted as he was dragged away. "The only thing I'm gonna be catching is rays."

Banks shook his head, not allowing himself to laugh until they were well out of sight. He'd miss the pair of them, though nothing less than a gun to his head would make him admit it publicly.

"They have one survivor, Sir."

Banks' knuckles went white on the phone. One survivor. Please, God, let it be Ellison. Ellison would take it hard, but they'd get him through it. But Sandburg... How many times had they all heard Ellison's voice interrupting to tell the kid to, `Breathe, Sandburg. Just breathe'? They joked about it. The reason they were always together, people said, was that Sandburg would suffocate without Ellison reminding him to breathe. The banter wasn't so far from the truth. Sandburg seemed to draw his very life force from Ellison's presence beside him. Banks didn't want to face losing either of them, but a quick death would be a kinder fate for Sandburg than the slow, agonizing death he'd suffer in losing his partner. And it would kill him. There was no doubting that. The phone in Banks' hand squawked at him, forcing his stunned mind to concentrate again.

"Sir? Sir, are you still there?"

"I'm here," Banks said.

"It's Sandburg, Sir. He's still unconscious, so he hasn't been able to tell us anything yet, but they think he'll be OK."

"Ellison?"

"They're still looking, but..." The voice trailed off with the man's reluctance to say the words aloud. They're looking for bodies now, not survivors.

"I understand. Thank you."

He put the phone down and allowed himself only a moment to absorb the loss of a good friend and officer. Then he took a deep breath and prepared himself for the task that was Ellison's final bequest to him. He'd never felt so inadequate in his life.

As silver linings went, it wasn't much but Sandburg, at least, wasn't badly hurt. The hairline fracture just below his right shoulder was the worst of the damage. Physically anyway. The doctors insisted on an overnight stay for observation, but they turned him loose the following afternoon.

"I really wish you'd change your mind," Banks said, as Sandburg climbed awkwardly from his car. "You shouldn't be on your own. Not for a few days anyhow."

"What, you're afraid something's going to happen to me?" Sandburg shoved the door closed. "Go home, Simon."

"If you need anything," Banks said.

Sandburg's eyes turned in Simon's direction, but they were empty. A dark void. "Go home, Simon," he said again, and walked away without looking back.

The phone woke him at two AM. He fumbled it to his ear without rolling over. "Banks."

There was silence on the other end, then heavy breathing. "Damn kids," he muttered. "This is Captain Simon Banks. Cascade P.D., and prank phone calls are a..."

"Simon?"

He could hear the tears in the voice. Jesus, he'd almost hung up on him. "Sandburg? Is that you? I'm here. Are you OK?"

"Simon, man, you gotta help me."

"What is it? Talk to me."

"It still hurts. They gave me these pills, but it's bad, man. I don't know what to do. Jim's not here."

"All right. OK." Banks pushed himself up in bed, still struggling to wake up fully. "What's it say on the bottle? Read it to me."

"I dropped it. I can't... It says `as needed for pain.' But it's not working. I took it."

"How long ago?"

"I don't know."

The kid sounded seriously out of it. Leaving him alone might not have been such a good idea, but he'd been so insistent and he'd seemed as stable as anyone would have been, under the circumstances. Banks swung his legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for his clothes with one hand. "OK, look. I'm coming over, OK? I think it's probably safe for you to take one more. Take one more and lie down and I'll be there..."

"I can't. I need another bottle, but I... I don't think I can drive."

Adrenaline surged through him, making his hands sweat and his heart pound. "Why do you need another bottle? How many did you take? Sandburg! Talk to me! How many?"

"They're gone, man. I can't find the phone number. Can you call `em for me? Tell `em I need more. I took `em but it still hurts."

Christ. He wasn't talking about the shoulder. "All right. I'll call. You stay awake. I'm on my way over. You stay awake and wait for me. You got that? Stay awake."

"Simon? I don't feel so good. I think I'm gonna..."

Banks had never in his life been so happy to have his stomach turned by the sounds of retching. He pressed the speaker button on the handset so he could keep monitoring, then grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and used it to dial 911.

For two days Banks had been almost numb, shutting the door tightly on his own grief to focus on the lost, wounded survivor Ellison had left in his care. It was almost a year ago that Ellison had appeared in his office after a close call on an arson case. He'd knocked first, and that in itself was unusual enough to make Banks look at him in concern.

"Something I can do for you?" Banks had asked.

Ellison hadn't answered immediately and Banks had followed his gaze to where Sandburg was actually standing on Ellison's desk, hefting an imaginary spear, apparently giving an impromptu lesson on Cree fishing techniques to half the bullpen.

"Jim?"

Ellison had turned to him then and nodded. "I had a pretty close call out there in that warehouse."

"It was in your report. Was there something you wanted to add?"

Ellison looked oddly uncomfortable. "No, Sir. Look, I know we're on duty here, but I need to ask a favor. As a friend. If it's a bad time..."

"As good a time as any. Is everything all right?"

"This time. Yeah. But if you could have seen the kid's face yesterday. He was sure I hadn't made it out."

A commotion in the bullpen made them both turn in time to see Sandburg in Henri Brown's arms. Apparently his fishing lesson had ended in an unintentional dive and Brown had managed to catch him before he hit the floor. A couple of onlookers made lewd comments about the position he'd ended up in. Brown played into it, lowering the kid into a dip, clamping a big hand over his mouth and planting a resounding smooch on the back of his own hand. A ragged cheer went up from the crowd. Sandburg wriggled free, half out of breath with laughter. "H, baby! Not on the job, man."

Caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement, Banks could only shake his head. "You were saying...?"

Ellison turned away from the window. "I don't know how to ask this, but seeing him yesterday, when he thought I hadn't made it... I'm telling you, I thought hell was a myth until I saw it in his eyes. And the worst of it is, yesterday it worked out. But today? Tomorrow? You and I both know there are no guarantees in this business. I guess I just need to know that if anything happened to me... It sounds ridiculous, I know. I mean, he's a grown man and I'm sure as hell not his father."

Banks had wanted to brush it off. To say something about how Ellison wasn't going anywhere. But something in Ellison's eyes stopped him cold. Platitudes weren't going to cut it here. "No, you're not," he said. "You're his hero, and that's not a position I qualify for."

"Simon..."

Banks help up a hand to silence the protest. "As if he were Daryl, OK? As if he were Daryl. You have my word on that."

And now here he was. Two days and already he'd nearly let the kid join his partner. Banks pulled off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Jim. I've screwed it up royally so far. You've left some damn big shoes for me to fill, but I swear to god I'm trying." He sighed and replaced his glasses. If this was a nightmare, any time would do to wake up. Just any time at all." His cell phone rang and he snatched it up, grateful for the distraction. "Banks."

"Simon, it's Ellison."

What the hell? "Jim? Jesus we thought you were..."

"Fishing. I know. There was an accident. I'll tell you later. Right now I just need you to get choppers in the air. The boat went down. Sandburg and I got separated. He was hurt. I don't know how badly."

"Jim, wait. Where the hell are you? We've got Sandburg. He couldn't tell us what happened to you, and the Coast Guard..."

"You have him? Thank God. Is he OK?"

"Yeah we've got him. Just tell me where to pick you up."

"You didn't answer me, Simon. Don't mess with me here. How bad is it?"

Banks hesitated. "He was dehydrated. A little hypothermic. He has a hairline fracture near the shoulder of his right arm. Some scrapes and bruises. They kept him overnight and released him."

"That doesn't sound so bad. So, why is your heart pounding so hard I can hear it over the damn phone?"

"Jim, the Coast Guard. They, uh... they were looking for remains, OK? It's a bit of a..." His voice broke and he coughed unconvincingly to cover it. "A bit of a shock to hear your voice."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. I ended up a long way for the phone, so... Oh, god. You told Blair I was... OK, look. Call him. Now. I don't even know where I am yet. There was a phone. I plugged in my card number. You call him and tell him I'm OK. I'll call you back after I figure out exactly where I am." He paused. "What was that?"

Banks cursed silently. He'd forgotten how many sounds could give away his location. "What was what?"

"Don't give me `what.' You're at the hospital. Why are you at the hospital? It's Sandburg, isn't it? You said they let him go home. I swear, if you don't tell me what's going on..."

"All right. But first, you need to know, the doc says he's going to be fine."

"Simon..."

"All right. I'm just trying to... The kid didn't take the news too well about, you know."

"My death."

"Yeah. He called me tonight, completely out of it. They'd given him Demerol for his shoulder. He'd emptied the bottle."

"Shit."

"The doc says he'll be OK. He hadn't eaten anything so most of it came back up before it could do much damage."

"I'd say the damage was already done, Simon." The bitterness was even more pronounced than the fatigue in his voice. "Is he conscious?"

"Off and on, but not really lucid."

"You talk to him. Tell him I'm coming. Make him understand. Hold on."

Banks could hear the muffled sound of a conversation. Then Ellison was back. "The local law just showed up. They say they'll get me back to Cascade. I'll call when I get there. Don't leave him alone, OK?"

"You know I wouldn't. I may ride his ass, but it's only because half the time I confuse him with Daryl."

"I know. I gotta go."

Banks was about to close the phone when Ellison's voice came through one more time. "Simon? He knows it too."

Then he was gone and Banks found himself grinning like an idiot. He reached into his jacket for a cigar. `No Smoking' signs be damned. This called for a celebration.

He had it halfway to his lips when he paused to look at it. What was it Sandburg had said? Eleven minutes? He thought of Jim Ellison stealing coffee from his private stash and making sure he knew about it. He thought of Sandburg backing away from a well-earned ass-chewing, pleading, "Whoa! Simon! Detach with love, man!" He thought of Ellison growling and shaking his partner playfully by the back of the neck, trying to hide his affection behind rough words that fooled no one. He thought of Sandburg lying cold and still beside the fountain, Ellison on his knees, clinging to him, mad with grief and terror, shouting, "Don't you leave me! Don't you go!"

Eleven minutes. He raised the cigar to his nose, breathed deeply of its comforting scent, and with a last regretful sigh, slid it back into his pocket.

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