New
Arrivals
Author-Sherrylou
Titles
Secret Santa
by Sherrylou
Summary: A holiday gift exchange -- harmless, right? A response to the 2001 December Themefic, originally posted to the SentinelAngst List. Rated PG.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: This story will become part of a series (as of yet, unnamed). I extend my thanks to CJ (Alberte) for taking the time to beta this piece. Your suggestions and help were invaluable! A few small changes were made, so any remaining mistakes are mine.
Glancing around at the festive decorations adorning the normally utilitarian bullpen, Blair leaned back in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee, and smiled. Even Jim's desk was not left untouched, gaily decked out with swags of garland. The warm feeling from earlier still remained and he sighed happily. He belonged. He was one of the guys -- part of a group. It was a great feeling!
Blair had been surprised when Jim asked if he wanted to participate in the Secret Santa exchange. Not officially a member of Major Crimes, he'd felt honored to be included in the annual departmental tradition of a holiday gift exchange. But even more so, this year he had an opportunity to do something that as a youth he'd longed to experience -- draw a name and buy a gift.
Through the years, with all the traveling Blair and his mom had done, he'd never stayed long enough in one place to be included in the joyous custom. Then, once he was older and more settled, his youthful longing had been forgotten. But now, that had all been changed.
So with drawn name in hand and a price limit as a guideline, Blair had purchased his first ever Secret Santa gift. Having drawn Rafe's name, he had fun browsing through different specialty shops until he finally decided on a silk tie, one where a portion of the profits were donated to 'Save the Whales.'
Now, after the early morning pre-Christmas celebration, packages lay open on desktops along with assorted remnants of cookies and goodies as slowly the men and women of Major Crimes got back down to business. Blair set down his coffee and picked up the pair of fuzzy gloves that vaguely resembled his Fargo hat and waved them at Brown. "Thanks again."
"Didn't want you to freeze off those nimble fingers of yours, Hairboy. Who'd type up Ellison's reports?"
Chuckling, Blair set the gift aside and asked, "What'cha get?"
Brown swiveled his chair around to face Sandburg and held up a CD. "From Rhonda. Mighty smooth listening."
Blair nodded and then looked at the package on Jim's desk. "Hey, check out what Jim got. Two pounds of maple nut fudge from Sweet Connections. Oh, man. That's my favorite."
"What? Mr. 'Health Conscious' puts processed sugar into his body."
"Well, this place only uses the finest ingredients and no preservatives -- one hundred percent all natural." He shrugged a little. "A man's got to have at least one vice."
"We all thought we knew what that one vice was, Sandburg."
Blair laughed. "I'm a man of many mysteries." Turning his attention back to the box of fudge, he opened the box, cut off a small hunk, and popped it into his mouth, letting the sugary treat dissolve slowly. "Mmmmm." Seeing Henri watching him, he held out the box and asked, "Hey, you want a piece?"
Brown waved him off. "And incur the wrath of Ellison? No thanks! It's your funeral."
"Yeah, man. And what a sweet one it'll be," Blair shot back, smiling. This time, slicing off a thick chunk of fudge, he bit into half of the sweet confection and rolled his eyes. "I'm in heaven."
"More like the fiery pit of hell if Ellison sees the dent you put in his candy."
Ignoring Brown's comment, Blair finished off the remainder and then sliced off two more generous pieces.
*****
Sitting in the captain's office, Jim glanced through the opened blinds into the bullpen and chuckled as he watched Blair attack his fudge. "Thanks again for your gift, Simon. I think Sandburg appreciates it, too."
Appearing slightly puzzled, the captain leaned back in his chair. "Well, you're most welcome, but I haven't given it to you yet."
"Huh?"
"No." Reaching down into his bottom drawer, Simon pulled out a small wrapped package and placed it on his desk. "I had that call from the Commissioner during the office party and gift exchange. Here," he said, pushing the gift toward the detective. "Merry Christmas, Jim."
Jim picked up the present. "But if this is your gift to me, then who gave me --"
The ringing of the phone interrupted the detective's question as the captain answered the call. "Banks." Briefly listening for a moment, Simon said, "One moment," and then extended the receiver toward the detective. "It's for you."
Surprised, Jim accepted the phone. "Ellison."
*"Merry Christmas. Did you enjoy your present?"*
Jim heard a woman's voice, soft and wavering, with an eerie quality that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and he shivered suddenly. "Who is this?" he asked as he made eye contact with his captain, silently getting Simon's attention.
With an understanding developed from years of police work, Simon rose from his desk and whispered, "What you got?" But Jim held up one finger, signaling his captain to wait, as the woman spoke again.
*"How soon one forgets. But I haven't forgotten. You're still here while the others are gone -- all gone."*
Gripping the receiver tightly, Jim lowered his voice and growled, "Listen, lady, I don't know what kind of game you're playing --"
Simon was now at his door waving Brown over, and Jim heard him requesting a trace on the call.
*"Oh, no game at all. I'm through with games. Now, I'm serious -- deadly serious."*
The last words seemed to appear funny to the woman and her mad cackling carried over the phone. "Who are you," he asked again, more urgently. The laughter slowly died down, but there was no answer. Thinking quickly, he tried another line of questioning. "Present. You said something about a present?"
*"Yes, a sweet, sweet gift. A toxic explosion for the taste buds."*
Once more, insane tittering filled the line. Now impatient, Jim demanded, "What do you want? What are you after?"
*"Ready to join the others, Captain?"*
Captain? Captain? The voice. Something about it was familiar.
*"Time's running out. Tick. Tick. Tick."*
The line went dead. Jim glanced through the opened blinds toward his desk. There was Sandburg, taking a sip of coffee. As Jim watched, Blair caught his eye and, smiling, raised a piece of fudge in a mock salute before popping the confection into his mouth. Sweet gift? Toxic explosion? Time's running out? God, no!
The receiver fell from Jim's hand as he scrambled out of the captain's office.
*****
"What you got there, mate?" Megan asked as she passed by Jim's desk.
"Maple nut fudge from Sweet Connections. You want some?" At Megan's affirmative nod, Blair sliced off a chunk, placed it on a small napkin, and handed it to her. Seeing a couple of crumbly pieces in the box, he scooped up the tasty morsels and scoffed them down.
Licking his fingers, out of the corner of his eyes, Blair saw Jim barreling toward him and heard him yell, "Sandburg, stop!" All in one quick movement, Jim knocked the fudge out of Megan's hand as he wildly grabbed for his partner. Surprised and confused, Blair gasped as the strong arms wrapped around him.
"Hey, Jim? What's going on? If you didn't want -- "
His words were cut off as Blair felt two fingers swipe the inside of his mouth, removing any remaining bits of fudge, and then the fingers were back again as they were forcibly shoved down his throat. Struggling briefly, shocked by what was happening, inane thoughts of territorial sentinels and gourmet fudge whirled through his mind.
The bullpen was in an uproar. Blair heard the clattering of chairs, excited murmurings, and a booming voice call out, "Ellison!" But the noises faded into the background as his throat spasmed around the two fingers.
Choking and gagging, his sinuses burned and his eyes watered. The rising bile felt like acid in his throat, and then he was heaving, retching. The invading fingers quickly disappeared, and Blair felt himself propelled over the nearest wastebasket and practically bent in half. A fist pressed firmly into his stomach, right beneath his diaphragm, brutally squeezing the air out of him, while at the same time a hand stroked his back soothingly.
Blair wanted to fight, his natural instinct was to resist the violation, but soft words floated by his ear. Jim's voice crooned, "Easy. That's it. Almost done," and he settled uneasily into the supporting arms. God, his head pounded and his vision blurred with stinging tears as he continued to spew the half-digested remains of his breakfast and party goodies.
As the vomiting eased up, Blair spat out the last of the nasty taste in his mouth. Then he stood up shakily, restraining hands having vanished, and wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. Now there was time to think about what had happened. Mad -- no more like outraged -- Blair turned to face his abuser. Coughing and sputtering, he managed to choke out angrily, "What the hell --?"
"Damn it, Chief. The fudge was poisoned."
"Poisoned?" Blair croaked out weakly, all anger receding. His trembling hand reached out toward the desk for support.
With Jim's blunt announcement, the chaos in the bullpen had quieted; and Simon stood in the center of the room, taking control of the situation. "Rafe, take that candy down to the lab for analysis." Gesturing toward the soiled bin, he added, "Uh, you might want to take the wastebasket, too." He then turned and looked toward Brown. "Anything on the trace?"
Brown shook his head no. "She didn't stay on the line long enough."
Glancing around at the shocked faces, the captain asked, "Did anyone else eat any of this fudge?" Hearing only negative responses, his posture relaxed slightly.
Blair felt an arm pulling him closer to Jim's side and he watched silently as his partner snagged both their jackets. Looking around, he noted that the earlier joyous atmosphere had vanished completely, replaced with a somber mood. A gentle nudge from Jim got him moving.
"Come on, Chief. You got a date with a stomach pump."
"I'll drive," Simon added, hurriedly following the two men.
Moaning softly, Blair wrapped one arm around his aching stomach and allowed himself to be led out of the bullpen. "Man, this really sucks," he grumbled, but leaned gratefully into Jim's support. When they reached the bank of elevators, he stumbled slightly, and then with eyes wide, looked up at his partner. "I ... I don't feel so good."
*****
Blair lay on the hospital bed, curled up on his side. God, he felt like crap. He felt like he had his stomach ripped right out of him. Tiny spasms and cramps rippled through his abused abdominal muscles. His throat burned and his head ached.
He heard the door open and then a low voice whispered, "How's he doing?"
Careful of the IV, Blair rolled over and, with red, puffy eyes, looked up at Simon. "*He's* right here and he's doing just shitty -- literally."
Taken aback by the remark, Simon turned toward Jim for an explanation.
The detective shifted uneasily in his seat. "Uh, besides having his stomach pumped, they also had him drink this nasty-looking shake made up of mostly activated charcoal. It’s supposed to absorb any poison that's left, but it also acted as a laxative."
"Oh." The captain nodded his understanding. "What did the doctor say?"
"Dr. Gerhart thinks that we got Sandburg here quick enough. Other than getting IV fluids, he just needs to be monitored for the next forty-eight hours, and they'll treat any symptoms as they appear. He said that Serena had called with the analysis. What was it?"
Simon pulled out a sheet of paper from his shirt's pocket and unfolded it. "She said Blair was poisoned with amitriptyline hydrochloride. It's found in the antidepressant, Elavil. And that he had ingested more than enough to kill him if not treated immediately. The fudge was loaded with it."
Hearing that, Blair paled even more. "God, Jim," he rasped out, his voice scratchy and rough. "With your senses, we don't know how your system would have handled the poison. Just a little bit could have killed you."
"But it didn't, and the good news is you'll be home in time for Christmas."
"Hooray," Blair moaned weakly and rolled back over, feeling way too poorly to pay any more attention to the conversation. With his mouth dry and gummy, one of the symptoms he was told to expect, he swallowed and then quickly realized his mistake as a fiery pain sped down his raw throat. Groaning softly, he was relieved as ice chips touched his lips and he opened his mouth gratefully, allowing the frozen chunks to cool the burning.
"You just rest, Chief," Jim whispered fondly. Setting down the cup and spoon, he motioned with his head toward the door in a silent request to continue their discussion in the hallway. Once outside the room, he turned toward Simon and hissed, "You tell me why we weren't informed of her escape. She's been missing for over two weeks."
"Apparently an oversight. It happens, Jim."
"One that almost got Sandburg killed." Jim wearily collapsed against the wall and rubbed his forehead. "Any leads?"
"Nothing. After Veronica Sarris escaped from the Washington State Psychiatric Hospital, there've been no sightings. She's just disappeared." Simon paused, moving beside his detective. "Uh, Jim, you should know that Dr. Burke, the treating psychiatrist, stated that he believes she's still a danger to others. And because she's still fixated on you, you're the most likely target."
Jim looked at his captain and snorted. "Like that's now a big surprise."
"Perhaps you should consider a safe house -- just for a few days. Give Brown and Rafe a chance to tackle the case and develop some leads."
Searing blue eyes stared back at Simon, clearly conveying in one look what Jim thought of the captain's idea. "Sarris is out there, Simon. And I know she's not going to stop. Not until she accomplishes her objective, and that's seeing me dead. I don't want innocent people hurt because of me. God, enough were injured the last time, and eight people were killed. Damn it, Simon! She almost killed Sandburg!" Allowing all his frustrations to come forth in the utterance of that one name, Jim said the name again as one fist thumped against the wall, "Sandburg!" He stopped, reining in his emotions, and finished his diatribe in a determined voice. "If I have to play her games, I will -- but I'm going to find her."
The discussion was over as far as Jim was concerned. He wasn't going to hide away, and he wasn't going to be kept off the case. As soon as he was sure Blair was out of danger, Sarris was as good as found.
He left Simon standing in the hospital corridor and returned to Blair's room. Walking over to Sandburg's bedside, Jim asked, "How're you doing, Chief?"
"... j-jim," Blair wheezed. His eyes were wide with terror as he struggled to take a breath. Arms and legs were rigid, fingers twitching, and his back arched painfully off the bed.
"Blair?" Jim reached out to his friend, shocked when his hand touched the spasming arm muscle. God, what was happening to Blair? Quickly he reached for the call button. "Relax, breathe slow and easy."
Blair's whole body was cramping, muscles alternately contracting, constricting his throat and restricting his airway. Sucking in air, he groaned tiny huffs of pain with each exhalation. One hand managed to move, reaching out, and clamped tightly onto Jim's forearm.
Feeling Blair's nails dig into his skin, Jim ignored the pain and looked over his shoulder toward the door. Damn it! Where was that doctor? The door opened, but instead of the expected nurse or doctor, Simon entered. Jim could see the confusion displayed clearly on his captain's face at the frightening view before him.
"Jim?"
"Get the doctor. Now!"
He watched as Simon disappeared from the doorway and then turned his attention back to Blair. His hand went to cup Blair's face gently, turning the head slightly in an attempt to make eye contact. "Look at me, Chief. Focus on me. You can do it. Breathe in ... and out. That's it. Nice and easy." He continued the calming words, his eyes never wavering from Blair's for what to him seemed like forever, until the doctor finally rushed into the room.
Reluctantly stepping aside, Jim watched as Dr. Gerhart quickly assessed his patient and then administered a drug to the IV port. As the doctor checked Blair's pulse, he spoke to the young man reassuringly, "You're going to be fine, Blair. Just relax and let the drug do its work."
Blair's breathing eased, and Jim could see the tightness fade away until the whole body relaxed. Soon, Blair's eyelids drooped, blinking slowly several times, until they remained closed.
Jim released a deep sigh, relieved at now seeing his partner sleeping peacefully. He then turned toward the doctor, arms crossed, glowering, as he looked for an explanation.
"This was not totally unexpected," Dr. Gerhart assured Jim as the detective continued to stare down the physician. Clearing his throat, the doctor continued, "Like I told you before, we'll have to treat one symptom at a time, but I really think that this incident will be the worst of it. Blair will probably sleep through the rest of the afternoon." With clipboard in hand, the doctor made a few notations. "Now that he's displaying some of the symptoms, I'll step up the nurses' check every fifteen minutes for the next couple of hours or so. I'll be making rounds this afternoon. If you need me, just have one of the nurses page me."
Somewhat mollified, Jim extended his thanks to Dr. Gerhart and watched as the doctor exited. The door opened shortly thereafter, and Simon entered the room, asking, "Everything okay?"
Nodding, Jim returned to the chair by Blair's bedside and sat down. "Had a little scare, but everything's fine now."
"I need to get back to the precinct. I've posted an officer by the door."
"I don't need a --"
Simon waved off the detective's protest. "You may not, but you're here -- with Sandburg." The captain had said the last two words slowly, with emphasis.
Jim nodded his understanding. Though he knew that Veronica was after him, he wasn't going to take any chances, especially where Blair was concerned.
*****
The softly falling snow held Blair entranced as he sat on the couch and looked out the loft's window. The powdery flakes coated the rooftops and dusted the streets, giving the city a Christmas card appearance. Sipping his tea, he glanced over at the opened packages spread beneath the Christmas tree and sighed. He received more than he ever expected. But more than just physical gifts, he treasured most the gift of good friends -- especially Jim.
Thinking of that person, Blair shifted on the couch and looked over toward the kitchen where Jim was drying the last of the breakfast dishes. Their eyes met, but before Jim could look away, Blair caught the guilt that resided there. "Stop it, Jim."
"Stop what?"
That innocent tone of voice didn't fool him. Blair knew what Jim was doing. He'd seen that look for the past couple of days. "You know what. You're not to blame. Veronica Sarris is the criminal here, not you."
"You almost died -- because of me."
"Almost. That's the key word, Jim. I'm fine. All fingers and toes and other pertinent body parts are securely intact."
Jim wiped his hands on the dishtowel and then set it down. Walking around the kitchen island, he made his way over to the couch. "Blair --"
"No, Jim. There's nothing you can say that will convince me that you hold any responsibility in what she did. Let it go. Let the guilt go."
Leaning back, Jim scrubbed both hands over his face. "I'm trying, Chief. It's just that it's..."
"I know. Hard," Blair finished.
"Yeah."
Together, they sat silently on the couch. What more was there to say? Blair knew that Jim was worried. There had been no break in the case. Veronica Sarris was still out there -- somewhere. Was she still in Cascade? Was she plotting her next move? Or had she given up and moved on. He didn't know. He only hoped that she'd be caught and put away for good. She had hurt Jim enough already.
*****
The streetlight shone harshly through the cracked, third-story window, giving the shabby room a ghostly glow. A tenement building located near the warehouse district and destined for the wrecking ball was now home for Veronica, and where she was now spending her Christmas day. Her Christmas presents had consisted of whatever she could scrounge from a church's donation box.
Her straggly, brunette hair had grown longer since her incarceration and it hung loosely around her head, hiding her face. She liked that. She liked the anonymity it provided. Huddling under a torn blanket, she pushed back a dirty strand of her shoulder-length hair as she gazed at the newspaper clipping.
She had been too eager to gloat and chastised herself for her impatience. Sighing, she rationalized that there was no fun in committing the act if the victim died unknowingly. Damn Jim Ellison! Damn him to hell! Picking up the newspaper clipping, Veronica crumpled it into a tiny ball.
Pulling the ill-fitting sweater over her knees, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth as she thought back on her life. Only a teenager when she had received the news of her father's death, Veronica found herself all alone. Shuffled off to a foster home, she soon learned what was expected of her to survive and grew up fast -- too fast. No one thought it was suspicious when her foster father died a year later.
Then six months after that, news came of one army ranger having survived the helicopter crash, but it was not her father. It had been Ellison. Captain James Joseph Ellison. He had survived while her father lay rotting beneath a steamy jungle's floor. Oh sure, her father's body had been brought home eventually and given a hero's funeral. But it had just been a symbolic gesture -- nothing changed. She was still all alone.
As soon as she was old enough, she escaped her life and joined the Navy. Not the army. No -- not the branch of service that had killed her father. The Navy had served her well, training her in demolitions, hand-to-hand combat, weapons, and other skills that she considered useful now. And the navy had given her a good life, until she had been discharged for mental instability. Crazy? They had thought her crazy? She stopped rocking and giggled at that notion. Was she crazy? She didn't think so. Her mind was clear and sharp and focused -- focused on one man.
Veronica smoothed out the crinkled paper and looked at the picture of the two men. Her finger traced the strong features of the one face and then wandered over to the other face. She remembered him from the bus; he had hit her -- hard. Absent-mindedly her hand touched her cheek, and she rubbed it lightly. Her index finger returned to the clipping and her nail dug into both faces viciously, over and over, faster and faster, shredding the paper.
Chortling at what she had done, Veronica carefully pulled from her satchel a treasured photograph. It was a picture of her father's unit. Tenderly, she kissed her fingertip and then placed the finger gently onto the image of her father's face. "I love you, Daddy," she whispered in a childlike voice. Digging back into her bag, she grabbed a marker and placed an "X" on the figure at the far end of the photograph. Satisfied, Veronica spoke once again, this time forebodingly, "Merry Christmas, Captain Ellison. Enjoy the New Year -- it'll be your last."
~*~THE END~*~