New
Arrivals
Author-Sherrylou
Titles
Sheep Shape
by Sherrylou
September 1999
Summary: A case stumps Major Crimes. Warning: no action, no evil villains--except if you count those white, woolly mammals! Rated PG for language.
Note: Post-TSbyBS. This piece is total fluff with very little plot written for my listsibs at sentinelangst. Just something different that popped into my mind (With help from my sister. Thanks, Linda!). I extend heartfelt thanks to both Nickerbits and CJ for the fantastic job they did betaing this story. Your comments and suggestions were outstanding! All mistakes left are mine. I love feedback, so feel free to drop me a line.
Disclaimer: The characters of The Sentinel are owned by Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made.
"Oh, great. Just great." Blair muttered to himself as he hurriedly pressed the number 'seven' button and willed the elevator doors to close before someone else decided to get on. He did not need to be late--not today. Simon was already on his case about the botched arrest yesterday. Being late was not part of his game plan to instill the captain with confidence concerning his performance. Jim, his roommate and partner, had a court date this morning, so the older detective had left early, meeting with the DA to go over his testimony. Blair had opted to get a few extra minutes of sleep, which, unfortunately, turned into an hour. Of course, if there would be hell to pay for his tardiness, at least his body had benefited from the additional downtime of uninterrupted slumber. His hand absent-mindedly went up to his forehead, rubbing at the throbbing that had been bothering him for the past few days.
The elevator was crowded and stuffy, and the air thick and heavy. Tiny beads of perspiration sprouted across his forehead and Blair wiped a hand across his brow. *Man. It's hot in here.* He stole several sidelong glances at the other passengers who seemed oblivious to the oven-like conditions. Reaching a finger up to tug at his collar and loosening the shirt's chokehold around his neck, he breathed a little easier.
As the elevator settled, his stomach lurched and he swallowed down the queasiness the short ride had instilled. Waiting anxiously for the elevator doors to part, the detective tapped his foot impatiently and checked his watch for the umpteenth time. "Come on, come on," he mumbled under his breath. With the doors gliding open, Blair rushed from the small, confined space onto the seventh floor, his heels clicking a fast pace down the hallway to Major Crimes.
Entering the bullpen, the tardy detective noted that it was business as usual and nobody paid attention to him as he slipped quietly behind his desk. He surreptitiously looked around, making sure no one was lying in wait to spring any surprises. *So far, so good. Okay. Megan's on the phone. Joel's returning from the break room with a cup of coffee. Henri and Rafe seem engrossed in that file Brown's holding. Bet it's the Brinkman case. Everyone else appears busy--guess I'll join the working world and get my ass in gear.* Maybe he would finally be able to concentrate on finishing the paperwork that seemed to multiply itself every time his back was turned.
Smiling, Blair relaxed as he reached for the top folder in his bin. There were no little, fluffy stuffed animals greeting his arrival, no innocuous ovine tunes playing annoyingly from a well-placed boom box, and no small ruminant jokes or puns spilling from the lips of his co-workers. Amazing! Perhaps, the worst was over. If he had to listen to one more sheep joke, he would scream! No--bleat would be more like it if the men and women of Major Crimes had their way. Hell, he could take a joke with the best of them, but it had been going on for over a week with no end in sight.
Since he was the newest 'official' member of Major Crimes, it had been open season on Detective Blair Sandburg. And, the case two weeks ago had provided the fuel needed to instigate a round of hazing that would never likely be topped. Was it his fault that he ended up in the back of a truck hauling sheep? He didn't ask to be whacked on the head and then dumped in with a bunch of bleating animals. Waking up amid a flock of woolly mammals and coming face-to-face with Dolly and her long, sandpapery tongue wasn't exactly his idea of the perfect bust. He had been only too happy to get off the truck. And the smell! God, he thought he'd never get the smell off of him. Even after he had showered twice, Jim had sent him back into the bathroom to repeat the process all over again. Damn Sentinel! He felt like a prune by the time he had satisfied Jim and his persnickety, sensitive nose.
Two days had been spent recuperating at home before he returned to work. The first day back, Blair had expected a little good-natured hassling from the troops. And they didn't disappoint. By the end of the week, he had an overflowing box of poly-filled creatures and an assortment of nursery rhymes tapes and books--not to mention the lamb chops, which he'd put to good use.
Glad that his co-workers had finally declared a cease-fire, the relieved detective opened the case file. Flipping the power button on his computer, his eyes blinked owlishly. "What the..?" he mumbled as fluffy, white sheep romped across his screen, merrily leaping over fences and bushy, green hedges. Right-clicking the mouse to enter Desktop and remove the obnoxious wallpaper, he was greeted with a, "Baaa." The sound continued to assault his ears with each click.
A roar of laughter rumbled through the bullpen. Blair shook his head, feeling the intensity of his headache increase. Standing up, not amused with the clever modification, he surveyed his co-workers, wondering who possessed the knowledge to execute such an elaborate prank. Taking an Ellison-like stance with a mood to match, Sandburg let loose. "Not funny, guys! I expect my computer to be back to normal by the time I return!" Walking over to his partner's desk, the aggravated man rummaged around the middle drawer until his fingers grasped the bottle of aspirin. *Damn. This is really starting to grate on me.* He massaged his temples, trying to ease the nagging pain. His herbal remedies just weren't cutting it anymore. As he headed to the break room he heard someone yell, "Hey, Sandburg. Isn't it time for spring shearing?" A few more chuckles followed him down the hallway.
As the upset detective reached the break room, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. "What?!" Blair shouted, turning around and staring into the surprised face of Rafe.
"Uh...," Rafe hesitated, startled at the vehemence in Sandburg's voice.
"Look. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap," Blair apologized regretfully, his hand once again going up to stroke his forehead, easing the pressure building behind his eyes. Even the roots of his hair were hurting now.
"The Captain wants to see you in his office," Rafe announced softly.
"Tell him I'll be there in a minute." Blair walked over to the vending machine and put a buck in for the bottled water. Retrieving the plastic bottle and twisting off the cap, he swallowed two aspirins followed by a long swig of the cool liquid. *Man, I have GOT to get a hold of myself. Can't see Simon with this attitude. He'd chew me up, spit me out and then take the pleasure of doing it all over again.*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair re-entered the bullpen and cautiously approached the captain's office. Knocking on the door, he waited for Simon's gruff, "Come," before opening the door and crossing the threshold. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"
"Take a seat, Sandburg," Banks stated dispassionately, without looking up from his desk. He shuffled a few papers around and waited for the detective to get settled, then glowered forcefully at the young man in front of him. "Would you care to explain what happened yesterday?"
Looking down at his hands, Blair searched for some way to justify his actions. How was he going to tell Simon that he'd let the guy get away from him because his head and joints ached and he couldn't run one more step? No--that wouldn't do--not at all. "It's in the report, Sir."
"I've read your report," the captain barked. He looked at Sandburg, seeing the tiny lines of pain etched around the detective's eyes and a pallor he hadn't noticed before, and his demeanor changed. There was almost a fragileness about the young man and he noted that the clothes hung a little looser than usual. "Now I want the real version of what happened--and no obfuscation," Banks said, imparting the last sentence with a little more compassion and understanding.
Blair's head jerked up at the tone of Simon's voice. Oh, no! He wasn't going to fall into that trap. It was unnecessary for him to be coddled and indulged. No longer a police observer, he was perfectly capable of carrying his own weight as a detective. His eyes narrowed as he rationalized, "What does it really matter? Jim apprehended the guy."
"It matters because I want to know if my detectives are working at one-hundred percent or not," Banks ground out, moving back into his commanding presence. "Between your report and Ellison's, I can read between the lines. You were there--right by the suspect while your partner was interrogating a witness twenty feet away--and, yet, when the suspect took off--handcuffs and all--the chase continued another two blocks before Jim took him down. Where were you when all this happened?"
"I--uh--got a leg cramp," Blair hedged, quietly and unconvincingly.
"What?" Banks' eyes stared at the detective with a glare that clearly stated 'I'm not buying this load of bullshit.'
"I said I..." Damn. Simon deserved to know the truth. He unconsciously began to rub at his forehead. Weariness consumed his body and right now the floor was extending an invitation to 'Come on down.' Blair shook his head, aggravating his headache in the process, but successfully chasing away the malaise that was attempting to invade his body. "You're right. The last two days I haven't exactly felt the greatest, but I don't really have any sick time accrued yet. I have those student loans I need to pay back and I can't afford the time off from work. I thought I could work through it, that it wouldn't affect my performance. I'm sorry."
"Blair, I need my detectives at their best. I can't have you out on the streets unable to handle your duties. It's not fair to the department and it's not fair to your partner. What does Jim have to say about this?"
"He doesn't know."
Simon raised an eyebrow at that remark. "I find that hard to believe."
"No--no. He bought the leg cramp bit. At least he said nothing, although he did give me a rather dubious look. Jim's been too preoccupied with this case he's testifying at today to pay much notice. Though, I think once he's through testifying, it's going to be hard to slip this by him." As a wave of lightheadedness assailed him, Blair, with a groan, lowered his head to his knees, hoping to repel the encroaching darkness. *Oh, man. Can this be any more embarrassing? More fuel for the fire. I can hear it now. While getting royally reamed by the captain, the newest detective of Major Crimes attempts a double-twist with a half-gainer from the precarious height of two feet.*
"Sandburg!"
"I'm all right--or I will be in a minute," the ailing detective said shakily, holding up a hand in hope of staving off the captain's approach. Taking several deep breaths, his bleary eyes refocused on a pair of brown leather dress shoes. Shit! With the dizziness fading, he raised his head slowly and gazed up into the anxious face of his captain.
Worried, Simon had moved in front of Sandburg and was now staring down at the detective, lending a supporting hand on the teetering man's shoulder. The concern in his voice belied his harsh reproach. "In a pig's eye. I don't have to be a sentinel to feel the heat radiating off of you. You're done for the day--and probably the rest of this week. Rafe can drive you home. I don't want to see your sorry ass back here until you can walk a straight line without falling over. Do you understand me?"
Blair lowered his head back down and mumbled quietly, "Yes, Sir."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You sure you're going to be okay, Sandburg?" Rafe asked as he guided the unsteady man into the loft.
"Yeah, fine, man. Depart in peace. Go. Live long and prosper." Shoulders hunched and arms pressed tightly against his body, Sandburg looked forward to nothing more than suffering in solitude. *Who was the nut that said misery loves company? Obviously, he was a sadist who reveled in others' discomforts.* A chill possessed his body and tiny shivers coursed up and down his limbs.
Rafe looked unsure at leaving his trembling colleague, but needed to get back to work. The captain hadn't said anything about staying, and being Florence Nightingale was not exactly within his realm of expertise. He was sure Blair would be all right until Jim got home. Tapping his ill friend on the shoulder, he offered, "Well, call if you need anything."
Blair nodded in response as he watched his designated chauffeur leave, closing the door with a soft, little 'click.' His glazed eyes surveyed the silent loft as he forced his body into motion.
"Coldcoldcoldcoldcold," he muttered to himself as he stumbled his way to the thermostat. *Sixty-two degrees! Well, what Jim doesn't know won't hurt him.* Inching the dial up to eighty, a small, satisfied smile crossed his lips at the sound of the heater rumbling on. He shuffled over to the couch and picked up the colorful afghan, wrapping the blanket around his shivering body. *Still cold. Fire. Yeah--a fire might be nice.*
Within minutes, Blair managed to get a roaring fire going and sat by the flames, basking in the warmth. The heat of the fire soothed the achiness in his joints and lulled him into a partial dream-like state. Shaking himself from his stupor, he decided that he either needed to move his body into bed or onto the couch. The floor was uncompromising and hard on his backside. First, though, a nice, soothing cup of tea. Something to help alleviate this unrelenting headache. Pushing himself up from the floor, blanket snugged tightly over his shoulders, he shambled into the kitchen.
Searching the cupboards, Blair found several tins containing different blends of tea. Unable to focus his bleary eyes onto the small labels, he popped off the lids and smelled the assorted blends. Sniffing the last one, he detected an aroma of basil. Wasn't that supposed to be good for headaches? He recalled other folk medicines he had read about during his years of searching for natural remedies. The Russians believed that tying cabbage leaves to the head would relieve the pain. Others swore by the act of massaging a lime to the forehead or applying beet juice to the ear. He chuckled lightly as he imagined Jim walking in and finding him adorned with assorted fruits and vegetables. "Sandburg, you smell like a damn salad bar," he could imagine his roommate saying.
Once the tea was made, Blair gathered other items deemed necessary for his survival of this vile ailment and made a little nest in the corner of the couch. He was soon cocooned in blankets, warm and cozy, with all the necessities of life close at hand--phone on the end table, remote control, the book he had started to read last Christmas but somehow had forgotten to finish, his glasses and a warm mug of tea.
Taking a sip of the dark liquid, Sandburg turned on the television. Even on its lowest volume, the noise attacked his ears, escalating the pounding in his temples, and the glare from the screen burned his eyes. He clicked it off and, putting on his glasses, picked up the book. After a few minutes, Blair realized that he was still on the same page. He stared down at the page and saw all the words blur into one large, gray blob. *So much for this mystery. Did I really want to find out the butler did it?* Setting the book and his glasses aside, he recognized that he wasn't in much shape to do anything but sleep and nestled deeper into his make-shift den. The increased warmth of the loft soon encompassed his weary body and lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few hours later, the ringing of the phone jerked Blair awake. "Huh? Wha...?" he mumbled, then fumbled to pick up the contraption that was making the annoying sound. "...'lo," he croaked softly, his sleep-addled brain still trying to make sense of his actions.
"Sandburg--is that you?"
"...J-jim?" he asked, now more fully awake.
"Gee--you sound like crap."
"Feel like it, too. And before you start, Simon already read me the riot act--parts one and two--on my failure to get a flu shot when they were offered free at the station."
"Care to enlighten me on this oversight?"
"No. Let's save that discussion for a day when my brain is fully functional. My warp drive is out of commission." Blair shifted his body up into a sitting position and readjusted his blankets. "How'd it go at the courthouse?"
"Fine. Got the conviction. Look, things are pretty slow--I'm thinking of cutting out early. Anything you need me to pick up?"
"No. I'm settled in for the duration. Got all the comforts of home. Just spending my time sleeping. Look, man, you don't need to come home and baby-sit me. A day or two of rest, and I'll be fine."
"I'm not. Since you're down for the count, Simon assigned me to assist Brown and Rafe on the Brinkman case. I'm bringing the paperwork home this afternoon to review and get caught up to speed."
*Uh-huh, Jim. I may be sick, but it doesn't mean I'm stupid. You could have just as easily reviewed the case at the station.* "I've read the report. It's like the third house that's been robbed in Cascade Estates. No forced entry and no suspects. Maybe--maybe there's something that's been overlooked. I can help you focus--"
"No way, Chief. You're doing nothing but focusing on getting better. I think we can manage to handle one case without the intuitive abilities of Detective Sandburg. See you soon."
"Yeah, Jim. Bye." Blair hit the power button and set the cordless phone down on the end table. Now awake, his eyes were drawn to the fireplace and he watched as the flames dance and twirl hypnotically, leaping among the logs in a vague rendition of a free-form ballet. Sweat coated his skin and soon streams of perspiration were rolling down his face. Suddenly, the surrounding air became dense, thick, and hot--too hot to breathe. Tossing off the afghan and the other acquired blankets, Blair stumbled off the couch and flung the balcony door open, breathing in the cool and crisp fall air. *Man, make up your mind, Sandburg. Hot or cold?*
Walking out onto the balcony, Sandburg relished the gentle breeze skirting around his body. A light drizzle was falling and each drop felt as if it sizzled against his hot skin. Sitting down on the cold decking and leaning against the hard bricks, Blair brought his knees close to his body and rested his head on the bent knees. *Only for a minute. That's all. I'll stay out here for a minute to cool off.* Heavy eyelids drooped over baby blue eyes and then, after a brief flutter, closed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim balanced his package and the case file carefully with one arm as he worked the key into the lock. The smell of the food tickled his nose and he looked forward to sinking his teeth into one of Minelli's infamous, monster sandwiches. Inside the bag were their dinners, one overstuffed pastrami on rye for him and, for his ailing roommate, a quart of Mama Minelli's homemade chicken noodle soup. Opening the door, waves of stifling, intense heat rolled out of the loft and the hot, dry air wafted over his body. "What the hell? Sandburg?" *Feels like the damn Sahara.* "Sandburg!" he called again, more urgently, as he walked into the loft, placing the bag and folder onto the kitchen counter.
Searching for Blair, Jim made a beeline for his roommate's room. As he passed the thermostat, he lowered the temperature deliberately, shocked at the level of comfort his partner had chosen, and then continued on the hunt. Peering inside the bedroom, Ellison was surprised to find it empty--no bundled-up friend huddled in bed and suffering the woes of illness. Cocking his head, the Sentinel listened intently for his missing Guide. Strange. The heartbeat was muffled, sounding like it was buffered by water or--glass? He shook his head and again focused his hearing, tuning into the distant beat. One thing for certain, Blair was definitely not inside the loft. Jim allowed the rhythmic pulse to lead him through the loft and deliver him to the balcony door. "Sandburg!" he exclaimed, as he saw his partner's crumpled form stretched across the wooden decking of the balcony.
Opening the door, Jim knelt beside his roommate and lightly tapped his face. "Chief. Come on. You with me?"
"...J-jim?" Blair's eyelids fluttered open and, with dull, lifeless eyes, he gazed up at his partner.
"Come on, buddy, let's get you inside and dried off." Ellison frowned as he felt the heat emanating from his roommate. Brushing a hand across Blair's fevered brow, he decided that the first order of business was dry clothes, followed by bed and aspirin.
"What were you doing outside?" Jim asked, as he hoisted his friend from the floor.
"W-was hot," Blair answered, looking around, dazed, as he became more aware of his surroundings and how chilled and wet he now felt.
"No wonder. You transformed the loft into a sauna. So, you just decided to take a nap outside? It's raining out here, if you haven't noticed." Ellison guided his shivering friend back into the loft, heading in the direction of Blair's bedroom.
"S-s-seemed like a g-good idea at the t-time." Blair clung to his friend for support; his feet moved sluggishly, barely keeping up with the Sentinel's long strides.
As Jim passed the bathroom with his load tucked closely by his side, he grabbed a couple of towels and, entering the bedroom, placed one across the bed. Settling Blair on top, he quickly stripped off the wet clothing, tossing them to one side of the room. With another towel, he gently patted the moisture from his partner's skin and then moved to dry the wet mop of hair.
Sandburg slumped away from the ministrations, toward the warm temptation of his bed. "Don't lie down yet, Chief. You need to get some clothes on," Jim chided fondly.
"...tired...cold," Blair whined, his words sentinel-soft to Jim's ears.
Carefully, Ellison rested his partner back against a few of the pillows that bordered the wall, then crossed to the dresser, pulling out boxers, a tee-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "I know, buddy, I know. Hold on for a few more minutes, okay?"
"...'kay," the ailing man mumbled.
Jim returned with the clothes and gently eased on the boxers and sweatpants. "Okay, Chief. Just the tee-shirt and then you can lie down."
"...mmmm." Blair fell forward limply, leaning into his human support, as Jim struggled to pull the tee shirt over the wild mane of hair.
"You sure don't make this easy," Ellison complained good-naturedly. *Boy, he's really out of it,* he observed, as he managed to get the last floppy arm through the shirt's sleeve.
With his roommate finally dressed, Jim lifted him up just enough to turn back the covers and then lowered him onto the bed, tucking the blankets gently around his friend. Concerned, his eyes scanned over Blair's wan appearance and his ears listened to the soft breathing sounds that emitted from the sick man's body. Satisfied that his roommate was resting comfortably, Ellison determined that the next step was to get some fluids and medicine into his ill partner.
"Hey, Chief. How about some soup?" Jim offered.
"No...tired. Just want to sleep," Blair responded petulantly. He rolled over onto his side, scrunching up his knees and pulling the blankets up to his nose.
"Okay," Jim relented, figuring sleep right now would be the best medicine for his roommate. *Far be it for me to fight with a grumpy Guide--no, correction--make that a grumpy and sick Guide.* "I'll be back in a minute with some juice and aspirin--and no arguments."
Jim returned shortly from the kitchen with the items in hand. Shaking the blanket-covered body, he roused Blair from his slumber. "Come on, buddy. I need you to sit up. This will be the last time I'll bother you for awhile."
"Promise?" A low, muffled voice moaned from underneath the pile of blankets.
"Yeah." Ellison helped his friend into a sitting position and handed Blair the glass of juice along with the medicine.
With trembling hands, Blair quickly downed the pills and drained the glass. "Thanks," he said, handing the glass back to his partner. Stretching back down into his bed, he snuggled under the covers and closed his eyes.
"Anytime, Chief," Jim pledged softly, as he turned the light off and left the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Having settled Blair in for the night, Jim put the uneaten soup away in the refrigerator and pulled out a beer to accompany his sandwich. He turned the dining table into a little work area, spreading the Brinkman file across its surface. As he read through the reports while munching on the pastrami sandwich, he was amazed at how clean the crime scene was. Nothing. There was nothing he could find that Brown and Rafe hadn't already considered. All the clues, what few there were, led to a dead end. Impossible. There had to be something--anything. No one could be that good--hit three homes--and not leave a trace.
The detective reviewed the reports again and, finding nothing new, tossed the pencil he was holding down onto the table in frustration. *Good going, Ellison. Cop of the Year. Sentinel of the Great City. Some help you are.* He wiped a hand across his wearied face as he considered other options: re-interview the homeowner and staff, examine the paltry physical evidence collected by Forensics, walk through the crime scene with the hope that maybe, just maybe, on an outside chance, something was overlooked. Of course, by now, it was a good bet that Manny, Moe and Jack along with the Three Stooges and other assorted characters had trampled through the Brinkman's home and grounds, probably destroying whatever little physical evidence remained.
Ellison flipped the file closed with a sigh of resignation and looked around the loft. Blankets littered the floor near the couch and a few of Sandburg's personal items rested on top of the end table. Pushing himself up from the table, he walked over into the living area and began to straighten the mess. He neatly folded the blankets and put them away, then picked up the glasses, book and mug. Depositing the mug in the kitchen, he carried the book and glasses into Blair's room. With a glance toward the tightly-scrunched body nestled in bed, Jim stopped suddenly when he saw two dull eyes staring up at him before lowering their gaze to the book he held in his hand.
"Shhh. Go back to sleep." Jim whispered softly. Leaning over to straighten the blanket that had fallen partially off the bed, the older detective jerked when he felt a hand grasp his arm.
With a tight grip, Blair pulled down the arm that held the book, bringing Jim closer to the young man's fevered face, and stared deeply into his partner's startled, blue eyes. Sandburg's unruly hair and his unfocused eyes gave him a wild, frenzied look. "The butler did it," he hissed with a fierce conviction. His hot breath skirted across Jim's face and his fingers dug into the arm he clutched.
The ferocity of Blair's statement unnerved the detective momentarily. *Crazy kid. Must be the fever. He doesn't know what he's saying.* Ellison relaxed and patted his partner's hand gently. "Sure thing, Chief," he agreed, appeasing his ill friend. "The butler did it."
Blair visibly calmed down with Jim's pronouncement. "The butler did it," he repeated again, as his eyelids grew heavy with sleep and his grasp loosened.
Freeing his captured hand and shaking his head, Jim looked at the mystery book he held in his hand, chuckling lightly. *The butler did it? No butler in this book, Chief. Just one hot redhead who plays the men for fools and then takes off with their money.* Setting the book along with Sandburg's glasses on the desk, he turned back around, pleased to find that his partner had fallen fast sleep.
Jim allowed one hand to reach out and push aside a stray lock of Blair's hair and then rested that cool hand on his roommate's warm forehead. "Sleep well, Chief." *And get well,* he silently added.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ellison, wide-awake, sighed as he stared at the ceiling. His body craved sleep, but his mind refused to cooperate. His object of concern was right below him, tossing and turning and making worrisome bodily noises. Jim shifted in bed again, then turned toward the clock to check the time. *Three a.m.! So much for a good night's rest.* Settling back in bed, he had just gotten himself comfortable when there it was again--loud and obnoxious--echoing through the night like the sound of screeching fingernails on a chalkboard. "No," he groaned, putting the pillow over his head.
*~Cough~*
He rolled over and punched his pillow, trying to ignore the hacking sound.
*~Cough~Cough~*
Enough was enough! Getting out of bed, Jim, in slippered feet, padded softly down the steps and headed into the kitchen with one mission in mind. "You'd better appreciate this, Sandburg," he mumbled. "Count yourself among the few and privileged." Filling the tea kettle with water, he turned on the stove to let the water heat and then searched the cupboards for the other necessary items. With the found ingredients neatly placed on the kitchen counter, he mixed honey, cinnamon, a lemon peel, and a shot of brandy in a mug. Adding the boiling water to his concoction, he inhaled the delightful aroma. *Ahhh! Nothing like a hot toddy for what ails you.* Carrying the hot drink into Blair's room, he urged his friend to sit up and drink.
"...wha's it?" Blair rasped, as another round of coughing began anew.
"Ellison's secret family recipe. Guaranteed to cure coughs and colds, snake bites, and grow hair on your chest."
"Wha' 'bout head?" Sandburg weakly retorted. A half-smile graced his lips as he glanced up at the receding hairline of his friend. Accepting the mug, his shaky hands wrapped around the warm ceramic and raised it up to his lips for a taste.
"Drink up, smart ass." Jim grinned, pleased that his ailing friend was still making an attempt at executing his Sandburgian wit.
Blair took another sip. He tasted the sweetness of the honey as it traveled down his throat, then there was something else--a warm sensation that followed the honey to the pit of his stomach. "Whoa!" A hoarse exclamation escaped his lips.
"Got a little kick, huh?"
With a nod of the head, Sandburg managed a few more sips before his eyelids sagged heavy with sleep, slowly losing their struggle to stay open. The intense hacking had eased to a few, soft coughs. "...'nough, Jim," Blair uttered drowsily, as he handed the mug back to his self-appointed caregiver.
Jim watched as his friend got situated back under the covers, relieved that the harsh coughing had abated and the fever had not risen any higher. Leaving the bedroom, he detoured into the kitchen to rinse out the mug and then wearily climbed back up the stairs to bed. The mattress welcomed his tired body and the sheets wrapped comfortably around his limbs. He listened to the heartbeat below that thumped in a soothing rhythm with his and to the soft breathing gently evening out. Before drifting off, a soft voice floated up, sheathing him with a blanket of satisfying contentment.
"...night, Jim."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Golden sunlight filtered into the loft, casting away the gloom of the night and heralding the start of a new day. Jim blinked several times, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the morning. Yawning, he rolled over in bed and stretched his weary muscles that were tight from the night's inactivity. Burying his face into the pillow, he knew without looking at the clock that he had overslept. *Simon's going to kill me.* Sitting up slowly, the detective lamented his situation as the captain's stern face and deep, booming voice loomed in his mind. *And you were late, WHY? Play nursemaid on your own time, Ellison.*
With thoughts of his ill roommate, Jim locked his hearing onto the room below. A cold feeling clenched his stomach as he heard the quick rhythm of Sandburg's heartbeat--too fast--it was beating too fast. Something was wrong--terribly wrong! Forgetting about the time and Simon and everything else, he hurried toward the stairs. Steps were taken two at a time as Ellison frantically made his way to the lower level. Upon entering the bedroom, he skidded to a halt at the heart-wrenching sight.
Jim was shocked to find Blair lying so still--so silent--face dusted with a deathly pallor and eyes glazed over with both pain and fear. The young Guide's breathing was shallow and rapid as he struggled with each agonizing inhalation, and the heat from his body drifted across the room, searing the skin of the Sentinel.
*Got to be at least 104,* Ellison estimated, as he approached his friend. "B-blair?" he asked haltingly.
"...ches'....hurts...can't....b-breathe," the ailing man puffed out in short, little gasps.
Jim sat on the side of the bed, running his hands soothingly along both sides of Blair's shoulders. With his fingertips, he could feel the tiny tremors surging through Sandburg's body. "Relax, Chief. It'll be okay. Try taking slower breaths, not so deep. That's it," he coaxed.
Blair calmed his breathing with the encouragement of his friend's comforting words, easing the pain in his chest, and the panic that was enveloping his body faded away. As the strain for air diminished slightly, he felt a cool hand move across his temples to the side of his face and leaned into the refreshing touch that offered brief relief to his burning flesh. With heavy-lidded eyes, Sandburg blearily glanced up into laser blues filled with apprehension and concern. Seeing Jim's true feelings revealed so expressively, he gathered up the last of his reserves to voice reassurance to his friend.
"...'kay...m'okay," Blair whispered hoarsely, closing his eyes away from the consternated look of his partner and allowing himself to drift off into an uneasy slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ellison fumed and clenched his jaw as he bit back another retort intended for the irritating resident. He did not appreciate the cavalier manner the young doctor exhibited toward his partner. After what he considered to be an inordinate stay in the emergency room's waiting area, resulting in a counter-thumping display for attention, Jim was coming to the end of his patience.
"I've seen a large number of flu cases this week," the resident informed the detective brusquely, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "Your partner just has a bad one. You know the drill, bed rest, plenty of fluids and aspirin or acetaminophen should do the trick."
Jim looked at Blair, huddled on the examination table and curled on his side with arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Another series of choking coughs besieged the young man, leaving him trembling and gasping for breath.
"Doctor," Ellison paused long enough to read the name badge. "Nolan. Not to argue a point, but it's more than just the flu," he contended, exasperated. "Take another listen. Run some tests. Do something!"
"Look, Detective, I don't tell you how to solve crimes. So, don't tell me how I should treat my patients," the young doctor responded curtly, raising his voice on the last few words.
"Is there a problem here?" An authoritative woman, wearing a white lab coat, entered the cubicle and looked at the resident inquiringly.
"No." "Yes," came the two different responses. The resident glared at the detective with angry eyes. Ellison, undaunted, returned the look with an equally deadly stare.
"Let's see what we have," she stated calmly, removing the chart from Dr. Nolan's hand. The resident stepped aside, obviously intimidated by his superior's arrival. The attractive woman flipped her long, brunette braid back over her shoulder and glanced at the chart, then lifted her face in the direction of the detective and smiled. "I'm Dr. Randi Wilson." The smile held real warmth and compassion that traveled up to her soft, green eyes.
"Detective Jim Ellison. This is my partner, Detective Blair Sandburg." He looked at her hopefully and returned the smile. Dr. Wilson studied the very sick-looking man lying on the examination table. She didn't like his color and the fact that he was having trouble breathing. The doctor pulled back the light blanket and placed the stethoscope on the ill man's chest, listening intently, and then moved the instrument around to his back.
"Blair, do you know where you are?" Dr. Wilson questioned. She listened to Sandburg's quiet muttering without understanding.
Gently, she returned the cover, tucking it over the shoulder of the shivering young man before making a few notations on the chart. "Let's get a chest x-ray and complete bloodwork for Detective Sandburg," the doctor instructed a nurse who had discreetly remained in the background during the earlier exchange.
"Detective, did you understand what he was saying?" Dr. Wilson inquired.
"Uh...not all of it," Jim paused, slightly embarrassed by his partner's rambling. "Something about the butler did it. He hasn't been making too much sense lately." *Damn! What is it with his fixation on the butler?*
Dr. Wilson shook her head at the statement. "Apparently, there's some confusion, possibly caused by the fever. We're going to be keeping your friend busy for awhile. Why not get yourself a cup of coffee? I'll be out to talk to you when we have a more definitive answer to your partner's illness."
Jim nodded, then walked over to where Blair lay. Lightly touching his friend's shoulder, he softly spoke, "Don't you be giving this nice doctor a hard time. I'll catch you later, Chief." With one last look, he left the cubicle knowing his sick friend's care was now in capable and competent hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"How's Sandy?" A soft voice questioned.
"Not sure. They're running some tests right now," Ellison responded. Looking up from his seat, he hid his surprise at seeing the Australian inspector. "Just waiting for the doctor to return and let me know how he's doing. So--what are you doing here, Connor?"
"Just playing messenger girl. The captain got your call earlier, but hadn't heard from you for awhile so he sent me to check up on Sandy and to fill you in on the latest." Megan sat down next to the worried detective before continuing her report. "There was another robbery in Cascade Estates--the Fredericks' house. They live two doors up from the Brinkman's. Brown and Rafe are there now. The captain is hoping that you could meet up with them at the crime scene when they question the staff this afternoon--that is--if Sandy's not too ill."
"I don't know. Let me see how Sandburg's doing first." His attention switched from the inspector to the adjacent corridor when he heard the approaching clicking of heels, and then saw the appearance of Blair's attending physician.
"Detective Ellison."
Jim stood and acknowledged the doctor's arrival, then gestured toward his friend. "Dr. Wilson, this is Inspector Megan Connor. She's also with the Cascade PD." Through with making the introductions, he looked expectantly at the doctor.
Dr. Wilson nodded in the young woman's direction before returning her gaze back to the tall detective. "Your partner has atypical pneumonia."
*Just like Blair not to do anything normal.* "What exactly does that mean?"
"Let's sit and I'll go over what I know so far."
Jim returned to his seat while Dr. Wilson made herself comfortable in the seat beside him. The physician explained the illness to the two concerned friends and how she was, at this time, treating the pneumonia while looking into the underlying cause. She finished by expounding further on Blair's symptoms and the possible disorders.
Megan sat back in her chair, mulling over the information. Something about this sounded familiar--reminded her of a time back home when she had visited a friend who operated a large sheep farm--there had been an outbreak due to improper disinfecting procedures. What was it called? A look of revelation crossed her face upon recollection.
"Excuse me, Dr. Wilson, but could it possibly be Q fever?"
"Connor?" Jim questioned abruptly, wondering what had triggered her interruption.
"Wait a minute, Detective, she might have something there. Strange you mentioned it. We had two cases several weeks ago, workers from the Holly Hills Farm. I only know about it because I treated the workers. Q fever isn't reportable here, like it is in most countries. But considering Detective Sandburg's profession--"
"Jim, wasn't that a Holly Hills' truck we found Sandy on?"
Ellison thought back to the incident that had involved the younger detective. "Yes! You're right, Connor." The detective went on to relay to the doctor that day's events, which had occurred over two weeks ago, and how his partner had eventually ended up at Holly Hills Farm.
"Well, that could possibly explain his illness. While waiting for confirmation from the lab, I can begin the antimicrobial treatment most effective for that infecting agent. Detective Sandburg's quite sick right now, but it's rare to lose a patient to Q fever. He should show significant signs of improvement by tomorrow morning and be able to go home in a day or two. Once home, it'll be important that he finishes his antibiotics regimen; I wouldn't want to see a reoccurrence.
With the mentioning of the word, 'home,' relief flooded the detective's tightly-wound body. Home. In a few days he could bring his Guide home. Switching his focus to the unknown illness, Jim asked, "Is it contagious?"
"No, it's transmitted by inhalation of contaminated dust generated by animals--most notably cattle and sheep. The infected animals cast off the organism in their urine, feces and birth products. It's often mistaken for a viral illness and one can recover quickly if no complications occur. So, there's no need to worry about anyone in the police department contracting Q fever from Detective Sandburg."
"When can Sandy have visitors?" Megan inquired, jumping the gun before Ellison asked.
"He's being settled into room 304. You can go up to visit now, however, with the medication and the weakened state he's in, he'll probably sleep most of the day away."
Jim thanked the doctor for her time and the care she had given Blair. Anxious to see his ailing partner, he led Connor over to the bank of elevators and pushed the little 'up' button.
Getting on the elevator, Megan studied the man who stood beside her, contrasting his tough-as-nails appearance with his compassionate, more-humane side. She saw the concern written across his face for one slightly over-exuberant police observer-turned-detective. A hand reached over to touch his arm. "Sandy's going to be fine. You heard the doctor. In a few days he'll be back home."
Their eyes met and Jim accepted her heartening words, patting her hand that still rested on his arm. "Yeah, I know."
Connor marveled at the depth of the commitment the two men had for one another. *How did you do it, Sandy? How did you become such an integral part of this complex man?*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After visiting his partner and seeing for himself that Blair, though sleeping, was indeed doing much better than earlier, Jim contacted the captain to let him know that Megan was on her way back to the station with good news about Sandburg and that he was leaving to meet Brown and Rafe at the crime scene. The tree-lined streets and lush landscaped lawns captured his attention as he entered the exclusive gated community. The drive into Cascade Estates was a reminder of what his father had striven for, but never really accomplished. These were homes of the upper, upper class. Magnificent, million-dollar estates that sat in testament to the obscene wealth, with each home in competition for the grandest or most opulent. His breath caught as he pulled up to the Fredericks' mansion, which was probably five times the size of his father's house.
Entering the impressive home, Ellison was led back into a large library where the other two detectives waited. "What you got, H?"
"Same MO. No apparent forced entry."
"The perpetrators must have known the codes to the alarm system and safe. Also, they knew when the owners would be away. And look at this," Rafe said, pointing to the display cabinet. "They knew what to take. Left the items that were fake--just for show--and made off with the real pieces."
"You thinking it's an inside job?" Jim asked.
"Yeah--and more than one person, with all the stuff taken." Brown answered, and then questioned the feasibility. "But, for all four homes? We can't find anything that connects them together. Different pool services, groundskeeping and maintenance. Nothing!"
The two detectives went over the information with Ellison and showed him which rooms had been specifically burglarized. Setting up a small, non-threatening questioning area in the library, Brown and Rafe talked to the staff one at a time while Jim stayed quietly in the background and monitored the personnel's reactions to the questions. When the last one finished, he sighed, shaking his head in defeat. All appeared to be telling the truth. This was getting them nowhere.
"Is that everyone?"
"Everyone except the butler, Charles Tate. Today's his day off. Went to visit a sick mother or something." Rafe informed Ellison. The three detectives exited the library and entered the foyer.
"We did speak briefly to him this morning before he left," Brown continued. "Said he'd be back tonight and would come down to the station or we could come back here to question him."
Jim paused, contemplating that small piece of information. "Let me know when you do."
"Will do. Well, we're finished here. Henri and I are heading back to the station. What about you?" Rafe asked, as the three detectives walked down the front steps of the Fredericks' estate and made their way to their respective vehicles.
"No. I'm going back to the hospital to check on Sandburg--see how he's doing." Ellison called to them, opening his truck's door.
"Hey, give Hairboy our best. Tell him we miss him at the station," Brown offered sincerely.
"Yeah. Who else is going to fall for one of Henri's pranks." Rafe fondly tapped his partner on the arm and chuckled.
"What can I say?" Brown snickered, with arms outspread. "He's an easy mark."
With a goodbye wave, Jim told them that he'd pass on their 'get well' wishes to Sandburg. Getting into his truck, he put the case behind him. Now he had just one concern--the well-being of his partner. The cab of his truck was quiet, leaving him to his own thoughts, and he missed Sandburg's ceaseless chattering. There was no prattling Guide sitting beside him and expounding upon his philosophies on life, the universe, and love. Ellison made the lonely drive back to the hospital in a thick blanket of silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Making himself as comfortable as one could hope when spending more than ten minutes in an unusually hard hospital chair, Jim wiggled again in his seat, bringing back some sensation to his numb butt. His head jerked up from the magazine he was reading when he heard the door open. Squinting as the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights filtered in from the hallway, he saw a tall form enter the hospital room.
"Hey," Jim greeted Simon, as the captain approached the bedside.
"How's he doing?"
"Better. The fever's down a bit. Haven't seen those baby blues of his since I've been here."
As if on cue, Blair's eyes flickered open and he blinked several times. His eyes held a confused and disoriented look. *Hospital,* he thought fuzzily. *Man, being sick sucks.* Emitting a few raspy coughs, he moaned from the residual pain of that activity. His chest ached and his throat burned. "...water," he requested, his demand no more than a tiny whisper,
Jim smiled and his eyes shone with genuine relief at seeing his roommate awake. "Hey there, Rip. Have a nice nap?" Reaching for the pitcher of water, he poured a small amount in a cup, then placed a straw in it. Holding the straw up to Blair's lips, he encouraged, "Slow and easy, Chief."
The few sips Sandburg managed soothed the fire in his throat. Having had enough to drink, he pushed the cup away. Shifting his gaze from his partner, he realized that someone else was in the room and focused his bleary eyes on the tall, dark captain. "...S-simon..."
"Shhh. You rest now, Sandburg."
"...n-no...need...to...tell..."
Simon leaned over the bed, curious. "What is it?"
"...closer..."
The captain bent lower and listened to the soft, disjointed words of his ill detective. Having delivered his message, Blair, exhausted from the effort to speak, closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
Straightening himself up, Simon turned toward Jim with a look of bewilderment. "Jim? Did you catch what he said? I couldn't quite make it out."
"Yeah. He said 'the butler did it.' He was reading a mystery book before all this happened. He's been telling everyone the same thing, like it's this great revelation. I don't understand why it's so important to him. The doctor attributes it to his fever."
Simon nodded in silent understanding. "By the way, before I leave--how'd it go at the Fredericks' estate? Any progress?"
"No. All the staff were questioned except for the butler. Was his day off and..." Jim paused and shook his head in disbelief at the thought that was forming in his mind. "Nah. Can't be--can it?" His questioning eyes looked first at his sleeping Guide, then up into the deep, brown eyes of his captain.
"You don't think...?" Simon asked, grasping at what Jim was alluding to, as the same realization hit him.
"It could be possible."
"One way to find out."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, Blair woke up feeling much better than he had for quite awhile. The pain had eased in his chest and his head didn't feel so cottony; he actually felt like he could form a coherent thought. A firm, but gentle pressure rested on his one hand and he opened his eyes to find his partner smiling down at him.
"'Bout time you're awake," Jim commented, patting his friend's hand before removing his hand from Blair's. "How do you feel?"
"Oh, man. Like I've been put through the spin cycle one time too many." Blair found the controls for his bed and raised the head up a little, bringing him slightly more upright.
"You know, you broke the Brinkman case along with solving the cases for the other three homes that had been burglarized."
"No fooling! I did?" Sandburg reflected over the past few days, things were still a little hazy, and then remembered the supposition he had been contemplating. "I did--don't tell me--"
"The butler did it--or should I say, butlers. Actually, it was a group of disgruntled menservants who felt they deserved raises and went about accomplishing that purpose in their own way. They had everything planned out and would have escaped our notice, if it hadn't been for you. How'd you come up with the theory?"
"One never reveals his secrets, man." Blair spread his hands out, smoothing the blanket that was covering him. Looking back up at Jim, he asked, "Hey, when do I get sprung? I am so ready to get out of here." Pleasant thoughts of the loft, his own bed, warm sweats and a cup of hot tea--maybe chamomile--all jumbled through his mind.
"Not so fast, there. You'll probably get to come home tomorrow, but only if you promise to follow doctor's orders. That means taking your medication and bed rest--no new age herbalistic stuff. I'm not hiking your butt off the balcony again."
There was a quiet knock at the door, then Megan stuck her head in. "Is Sandy up for visitors?"
"Sure, Connor. Sugar Ray, here, feels ready to take on the world."
Megan entered and joined Jim by Blair's bedside. "Oh, I see. Especially with a major bust under his belt." She toyed with an envelope, then handed it to Sandburg. "A little something to express our sentiments from everyone at Major Crimes."
"Thanks." Blair accepted the envelope from Megan's hand and, with trembling fingers weak from the illness, tore it open. A small groan escaped his lips.
"Chief, you okay?" Jim asked, worried for a moment that this visit was wearing his friend out.
"Yeah, yeah." Blair stared at the front of the card and then stole a sidelong glance at the inspector. "Cute, real cute."
On the front of the card was a muscular ram standing on two hooves and doing arm curls with a pair of barbells while spouting out, "Heard you were feeling baaa-d." Across the ram's body was scrawled the name 'Jim.' Behind the ram, frolicking in the field, were several other sheep all bearing the names of his good friends from Major Crimes.
"Go on. Read it," Megan urged, smiling.
Blair flipped open the card and grumbled a soft, "I'll get you for this," before reading the get-well message out-loud. "Hope you're 'sheep' shape real soon!"
THE END