Grit covered every inch of his body, rubbing his skin raw. The city's stench suffocated. Hundreds of thousands of people crammed on top of one another, forced to coexist just to make enough bread to live. Their voices followed him where ever he went. He couldn't escape. Body whacked out, he couldn't run away from his own senses.

He took another swig from the brown-bag wrapped bottle and crouched deeper into the shadows of the alley. The whisky helped. It dulled his brain.

God. He was going mad. That was the only possibility.

"Ellison."

"What."

"Don't be an ass and tell me what's eating you."

Jim Ellison flicked an impatient glance at his temporary partner. Brown was okay, but he wasn't Jack. He wasn't the reason Jim left his field of anthropology and joined the police force.

Brown wasn't Jack Pendergrast. Brown wasn't his Sentinel.

Walking side by side toward Jim's truck, Brown tried once more to draw Jim into a conversation. "Look, I know you've only been back for a couple of weeks. I know you're still missing Jack. And finding his car in that river brought it all back. But you need to move on. You've got a real future with Major Crimes. Hell you're one of our best. I heard Simon just the other day tell-"

"Shut up." Jim held up a hand.

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Brown said with an angry gesture.

"No," Jim said, stopping and looking down a dark alley. "I mean I thought I heard something."

Brown reached for his gun. "What?"

"There." Jim pointed. Whatever he heard, he felt something pulling him into the ally. For a wild second, he thought it was Jack. But Jack was dead.

Long shadows hid the garbage cans and large dumpsters. Jim took the lead. He felt Brown guard his back. A memory of him and Jack from before haunted him. Raw pain made him blink.

A `snuffing' sound came from a corner. Jim squinted, unable to see more than a shape of rags. "Cascade police," Jim announced, using a dumpster as cover. Both of them had their guns drawn. They had started their day interviewing witnesses, but the recent attacks on the storeowners in these rundown blocks of Cascade made them jumpy. "Come out into the light."

"No' bothering..." a hiccup and belch sounded, "...any `ody. Go `way."

Jim had his small flashlight out. He pressed the button. "Shit, he's only a kid."

Small, filthy, looking about sixteen, the boy was folded around his bottle possessively. His eyes were squeezed shut. His hair was long and ratty. The red, raw skin on his hands, neck and cheeks had traces of rust colored blood.

"It's just a drunk," Brown whispered.

The kid flinched violently, covering his exposed ear with one hand and whimpered.

Oh. My. God.

Jim quickly doused the light.

His pristine truck smelling like a wino's flophouse, Jim drove with the windows down, ignoring the light mist that swirled into the cab and coated his jacket with beads of moisture. Brown's protests still rung in his ears. The kid had fought them. But he now sat quietly in his passenger seat. They had checked his I.D, so it wasn't as if he'd kidnapped a minor.

Although the term kidnapping did come to mind.

Blair Sandburg, age nineteen, had not actually stated his refusal to come with Jim. Partly because the guy was so drunk, none of the shouts had been exactly coherent. That and being handcuffed made it hard to resist. Jim decided not to leave Blair behind. He needed all sorts of help, medical included.

Jim parked in front of his apartment and studied the man next to him. He knew enough to know that sentinels came in all sizes, all colors, and all genders. What he didn't expect, however, was to personally meet more than one in his lifetime.

"We're here," Jim whispered.

The kid didn't flinch, like before, whenever Brown had spoken.

Blair lifted his cuffed hands. "Leck me go, Pig."

Jim shrugged. "Either you stay with me, or you're going to jail for minor in possession."

Blair's drunken reply involved Jim and dubious acts with several farmyard animals.

Jim smiled. The kid was imaginative.

Getting him up to the third floor was no problem. Jim had twice the muscle mass and could have carried him if needed. Locking the front door, he un-cuffed his new guest and caught the fist swinging toward his face. Jim turned the boy around, wrapped an arm around an undernourished chest and lifted his feet off the floor, hugging his filthy body close.

Blair screamed with fury. Jim breathed through his mouth and waited.

When the cursing stopped, Jim spoke with his quiet, guide voice. "I know you're scared, Blair. I know everything hurts right now. You're confused and you have no reason to trust me. Listen closely. I'm going to tell you a story about a man named Richard Burton. He was an explorer a long time ago. He wrote a book about people that have enhanced senses. These people can see, hear, feel, taste and smell better than anyone around them."

Blair's body tensed, but he mercifully remained quiet. Still holding him tightly, Jim lowered his feet to the ground and continued to murmur gently into his ear.

"They're called sentinels. They're very, very rare, but they still exist. I know, Chief. I know because my first partner was one. It made him a great cop. But every sentinel needs a partner, someone to watch their back. That's my job, understand?"

"Tur' it off," Blair whispered in a harsh, drunken slur. "Don't wa' it!"

"It's a gift."

"Like HELL!" Blair's body shook with a sob. "Curse, man. Isz' a curse!"

Painful memories burned through Jim: those early days with Jack; how he'd convinced the man not to eat his own gun; to trust him; to listen to him and let Jim do what he was born to do - guide a sentinel. All of that protectiveness flared brightly again. Jim had thought Jack's death had extinguished this feeling.

"No, Blair," Jim said. "Let me show you. Trust me."

That first sob was followed by wave after wave. If Jim had picked that moment to let him go, Blair would have collapsed to the hard wood floor. No longer restraining a prisoner, Jim guided the distraught young man to the sofa, gently positioned him on his side and covered him with an afghan.

Blair's hand shot out to wrap dirty fingers around Jim's wrist as the older man moved.

"Shh, I'm not going anywhere," Jim soothed, sitting on the coffee table. He put his hand inside Blair's and held on.

"Help me," Blair begged through wracked sobs.

Jim leaned close. He put his other hand on Blair's head. "Count on it, Sandburg."

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