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A Noble Mind O'erthrown

by Zelempa

Written for TS Secret Santa 2008. My prompt: "Angsty first-time and/or jealousy and/or J/B outed and/or overly-possessive/dominant Jim." (The present tense and title from Hamlet complete with iamb-preserving apostrophe may be seen as attempts to disguise my usual style, but I think I might just be pretentious.) See if you can identify the thinly-veiled literary and/or historical basis of the minor characters!

Set immediately after 1x5 Cypher, because everyone needs to write at least one post-Lash fic (it is, I believe, a rule). Thanks once again to inimitable beta Yolsaffbridge.

*

Jim lies in bed with his eyes open, examining the microscopic patterns in the rusty pipes, feeling the warmth of his quick breath over his lips, listening to the usual low cacophony of whining electronics, rumbling refrigerator, Blair breathing steadily in the room below.

It's comforting to be so aware of Blair's presence, to be sure he's safe. When he closes his eyes, Jim can still see him lying on the concrete with his arms and legs chained, the yellow scarf tight in his bruised mouth.

He knows this is mostly imagination, pieced together from what Blair described at the station, but the image still chills him. Even the way Jim found him--tied to the chair, gag around his neck, Lash leaning over him doing God knows what--he'd looked so different, so unlike himself. When Jim had come to free him, Blair was terrified, exhausted, letting his head loll again Jim's chest, choking back tears. Someone so bright and full of life should never be seen like that, broken and bound, like a wounded animal.

But everything had been through the looking glass tonight. Jim had been in full tracking mode and he couldn't remember his senses ever being so acute. Smells were so vivid he could practically see them. He saw colors he didn't know the names for and couldn't completely remember now. Thought and reason had been pushed aside. When he came back for Blair he didn't try to talk to him, didn't stop and think about comforting him, freeing him, just went to him and grabbed him and held him tight. When he saw Lash he didn't try to talk to him, didn't stop and think about arresting him, bringing him to justice; just went for him, went for the jugular.

Even now, he's still on edge. Forget sleeping. Adrenaline. His skin tingles. He can see air. He can smell light. He can hear Blair's eyelashes flutter against the pillow.

Hearing him isn't enough.

It's warm and dark in Blair's room. He's fine, he's good. He's flushed and red-lipped and his heart is beating and his skin is hot to the touch.

"Jim? What..."

At the sound of Blair's voice, the real world comes slamming back. Jim realizes he is kneeling over Blair, poised, ready to strike. Strike?

Blair easily rolls out of Jim's now-weak grasp. "You don't have to watch over me. I'm fine, really."

What is this, some kind of hidden aggression? Sure, Blair gets on his nerves from time to time, sure, but he doesn't want to hurt him--doesn't think he does. Poor guy, just getting attacked on all sides.

Suddenly he's got an image in his mind. Blair's, still tied to the chair, lifts his teary eyes and sees Jim and smiles. Jim falls to his knees, touches him, makes sure he's safe, touches his face, pets his hair, presses his lips to Blair's. He's hot, soft. Tastes faintly of blood, but mostly of himself. Blair is kissing him back urgently, desperately. Jim tightens his arms around him. Never going to let him go.

And Jim knows he never wanted to hurt him.

"Go back to bed," says Blair.

"Yeah, okay," Jim mutters, backing to the door. "Sorry."

*

Sleep comes quickly after that, sparing him from having to think. He's awakened to the smell of bacon and eggs and coffee. Downstairs he finds Blair setting the table, poorly, while reading a book that's open on the table. He looks up and smiles cheerfully. "Morning! Hungry?"

"What are you doing?" asks Jim. "Sit down. I should be making you breakfast."

Blair hands him a plate of toast. "Just think of it as a thank-you."

"Don't," says Jim urgently. "You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah, yeah. It's the least I can do. Breakfast hardly compares to, you know, my life. I'll be paying you back forever."

It's not what Jim meant. He just doesn't think Blair would be so grateful if he knew.

"Maybe I can save your life sometime," Blair continues.

What had he been thinking? The memory is hazy. He can't remember thinking anything at all, not specifically, not in actual thoughts. It had just been sense and image and impulse. No thinking ahead, no cause and effect. No inhibition.

"I guess I already have if you count the truck thing..."

Was his uninhibited caveman self trying to tell him something, or was Blair just at the wrong place in the wrong time--would he have gone after any warm body? Not that it matters. Forget why and wherefore--it's disturbing enough that it is. That he can't control himself. Can't trust himself.

"...but I mean that hardly counts compared to this."

God. Is this another Sentinel side effect? This is the kind of thing he'd typically ask Blair about, but he doesn't want to bring it up. He doesn't know if Blair knows already. He's so mixed up he doesn't know if that mental image of kissing Blair in the heat of rescue is a real memory or a crazy daydream. If Blair doesn't know, Jim's sure as hell not going to tell him.

"Maybe we can just have an agreement: mutual rescuing where appropriate."

For the moment, he has no trouble giving Blair respectful distance. He has pushed his chair as far from Blair's as it can go without inviting comment, and he is carefully waiting for him to finish with each serving dish before he takes his turn. But it doesn't matter now. Now, he's thinking clearly. It wasn't like that last night. It won't be like that next time he gets wrapped up in tracking some criminal or doing one of Blair's weird sensory meditation experiments and loses his grip on rational decision-making.

"I got a feeling it's going to come up again."

The right thing to do would be to warn him. He deserves to know. To protect himself. But Jim can't find the words. "Oh, ah, before I forget, you should watch your back when you're alone with me, because occasionally I feel like I might want to pounce on you and mount you. Fair warning!" There's no Hallmark card for that.

"I still kind of feel like I should be doing something for you, though."

He's just got to say it, but he can't bring himself to begin. The words "Hey, Sandburg" freeze on his lips.

"Buffing your shoes or giving you a back massage or something."

"Stop," Jim shakes his head. "I don't want anything."

"You sure?" Blair shrugs and pours out the last of the orange juice. "You let me know if you change your mind."

"I like what you said," says Jim, "about not keeping score."

Blair grins. "I didn't think you were listening."

Jim waves a hand in front of his ear and makes an apologetic face. "Can't help it."

Blair isn't so set on paying Jim back that he lifts a finger to clean up or anything, and that sets Jim at ease a little. While he's finishing up the dishes Blair comes out of his room and starts gathering books into his backpack. Jim turns off the water and wipes his hands. "What are you doing?"

"Got to get down to campus. Lang said I could use his lab while he was at the psychobio conference, but he comes back soon and I've hardly gotten anything done."

"Don't," says Jim. He doesn't understand why Blair wants to go out there. Can't he smell the people out there--anger, blood, steel, smoke, danger around every corner?

"Hm?"

"Blow it off," says Jim firmly, loudly, to be heard over city cacophony outside, the blood pounding in his head. "Don't go."

"That's the funny thing. If you'd have asked me last night I'd have said, yeah, I'll definitely be taking tomorrow as post-traumatic personal day, I mean, if I get out of this alive, right? But now I'm like, okay, what's next? Weird, huh? I think I'm high on life."

As he's speaking, he's putting on his coat and backpack. A burst of cool, musty air from the hallway floods the entryway as he breaks the seal of the door. Jim grabs him roughly by the shoulders, throws him back into the brick. The end table crashes to the ground, sending keys skittering across the floor. Blair loses his footing but catches himself against the wall.

"What the hell!"

"Don't go!" Jim commands.

Blair walks right up into his face, until Jim's sight and smell are flooded with him, and snaps his fingers. Jim winces and lifts a hand to his too-sensitive ear.

"Snap out of it!" says Blair.

And Jim does, even as Blair speaks. The need to prevent him from leaving--which just a moment ago seemed life-or-death intense--ebbs away all at once, and Jim knows he's being ridiculous. Obviously he can't keep Blair in the loft forever. He's not even going to stay home himself; he's got to go to work.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blessed protector slash biological territorial imperative, I get it," Blair's saying, and even though he sounds impatient he's more forgiving than Jim would be, in his place. "But you can't be doing this. Is this about last night?"

Jim tenses, and there's a quick flash of color before his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Look, just because I was in danger... I mean, that's going to happen. You can't obsess about what might have happened or what might happen in the future because, I don't care how good your senses are, you can't know. You should be glad I'm going to school. Lash trailed me there, okay, but it's usually very safe and boring. More than your job, anyway."

Jim nods. "I know. I wasn't thinking. Lately I feel..."

That's the way to get Blair interested. He leans forward. "Feel what?"

Jim tries to explain. "It's like there's the real me, and there's that other guy. The caveman. The Sentinel. That I can't always explain... or control."

"Really? Like a disassociative fugue state or something?"

Jim shakes his head. He doesn't know what that is exactly, but he doesn't like the sound of it. It makes him sound certifiable. "Forget it," he says. "It's no big deal. Just a passing feeling."

"No, yeah, no," says Blair. "I get it, I think."

"It's nothing," says Jim, opening the door for him. "Go on. Get out of here."

*

As it turns out, Blair's day on campus is far less boring than Jim's at the station. Jim is about to go out of his mind pushing papers when his phone rings.

"Hey, man, how's it going," says Blair distractedly, obviously not looking for a response. "Uhh... is this a bad time?"

There's fear in his voice. Jim stiffens. "What is it?"

"Can you get down here? And maybe bring like... a coroner?"

Relax, Jim tells himself: dead people don't make phone calls. "What's going on?"

"Not too much. Found a body," says Blair, and his voice is oddly cheery. "You know, the usual."

*

"Dr. Karada. Biology. I didn't know him well. He retired a couple years ago. He was supposed to be some kind of genius. Made some discoveries about cell growth or something. Not really my field, but supposedly really interesting."

The office is small and cluttered with stacks of books and binders and the occasional weird microscope/eye exam/torture device-looking thing. The body sprawled on the floor takes up almost all available space. Jim steps over an arm and crouches by the head. The eyes are closed. The mouth is open. There is a bump on his head where he hit the ground, but no blood.

"So what's he doing here?" Detective Scott asks Blair.

"You got me. Dr. Lang used to be one of his students. Maybe he came back for a visit."

"And then what--he just keeled over?"

"I guess so. He's pretty old."

Jim frowns. Not that old.

A moment later, Jim feels Blair's heat beside him.

"Sorry I bothered you," Blair says. "I just--it was my first reaction. But I guess I should have used the proper channels. I mean, it's probably not murder or anything, huh?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," says Jim.

"What do you mean?" Blair glances around and then speaks softly. "You sense something?"

"Blair?"

Blair stands up abruptly. Breath catches in his throat. He's tense. Nervous.

A woman stands in the door. She's looking down at some papers. She is about thirty, dark-haired, wearing a high-necked but tight-fitting sweater. She smells like Chinese perfume, foxglove and jasmine, cashmere and sweat. And something else. A strange, desperate scent.

"I think these are your photocopies." Her voice is low and husky and European accented. She looks up and freezes. Confused by the strangers. "What is..." Then she sees the body.

"Oh," she murmurs, turning white.

"Can you identify this man, Miss?" asks Scott.

She opens and closes her mouth.

"I told you, it's Dr. Karada," says Blair.

"Karada," she repeats.

"Did you know him?" asks Scott.

"I--Everyone knows him," she murmurs. "He is very well known."

"Personally? Have you spoken to him?"

"No... not recently. I only came back yesterday."

"That's right! You were on the Conover internship, huh?" Blair asks cheerfully.

The woman nods. Conover--the mental institution. Of course. She reeks of disorder, of insanity. Not to be trusted.

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

She shakes her head. "A reception, I think... maybe eight months ago. I tried to speak to him. He could not speak, not... sensibly. He was not well."

"What was wrong with him?"

"Alzheimer's, right?" asks Blair softly.

"Yes. I think..." She starts to say something, her brow knit; but instead she sways and crumples to floor. Blair jumps to her just in time to catch her in his arms.

"Miss Yadova! Alina!" Blair looks up. "Give me that water!"

"It's evidence," says Jim.

*

Jim can't find anything particularly unusual or telling about the body, and he's lost whatever train of thought he once had, so he goes down the hall to find Blair and the girl and see what they know.

Blair has brought Alina to the office of a botany professor. It's full of plants and flowers and probably romantic as hell. Jim pauses outside the closed door to let himself get used to the scents before he immerses himself.

"I'm fine, really. I was just... startled..." he can hear Alina explaining, clearly embarrassed. Through the narrow window Jim can see that she is sitting stiffly in a chair, closing her jacket tightly around herself. Blair, kneeling beside her, places a hand on her knee.

"It's okay. Anyone would be. I'm not a big fan of crime scenes either."

"Crime?" Alina repeats, startled.

"Oh--well, not necessarily a crime," Blair amends. "It could be natural, but you never know. We'll have to investigate."

"'We'?"

"Yuh-huh. I'm kind of with the police these days."

"Really?" She seems interested now, but there is something false, sinister about her interest.

Blair shrugs modestly. "They consult me when they need help."

"That's..." Alina looks down at Blair's hand on her knee. Then she tentatively reaches out and touches it. A gentle whispering touch that Jim can almost feel himself. He tenses, nails digging into his palms. What does she think she's doing?

Blair turns his hand and closes it over hers. She runs her thumb back and forth over the back of his hand, and he smiles up at her, his face bright and innocent. She wants him, the slut, the predator, she wants to fuck him. She wants to take him. She doesn't care that he belongs to someone else.

"That makes me feel safe. I'm glad--"

Jim throws the door open and bursts into the room, heading for her. She wants a fight, she can have one. She looks up. Blair jumps up to a standing position. Yeah, they better look scared. He'll take her down. He'll rip her throat out. He stalks toward her, yanks her up by the collars. "You--!"

All of a sudden he's hit with a wall of scents. All different, all confusing. Flowers--humans--leaves--sweat--roots--perfume--dirt--life. He sways, woozy.

Next thing he knows Blair's hands are on him, holding him up. "Hey, hey, now. Um, excuse us for a minute, will you, Alina? We have to, um, consult."

Jim leans on Blair gratefully, letting himself be led down the hall, letting Blair's body heat warm him through their clothes, letting his scent fill his lungs. Over his shoulder he shoots Alina a quick smug smile. See? He's mine.

*

"Sorry about that. I didn't think, all the flowers. You okay?"

Jim looks down at his own hand. It's squeezing Blair's shoulder, massaging, like it's got a mind of its own. He pulls back abruptly. "Fine."

What the hell is he doing? Jumping on a girl just because she wants Blair? There's no blaming her for that. Who doesn't? The sensory, animalistic side of him is getting greedy. Now not only does it want Blair for itself, but it won't let anyone else have him, either? Between Jim making sure it never gets him, and it making sure Blair never gets anyone else, Blair's never going to come again. Certainly he didn't sign on for this.

He has to get a grip. He's losing it. He's attacking Blair. He's attacking random innocents. The senses are not worth this shit.

"Are you okay? What was that all about?"

"Nothing." He can't excuse his behavior, even to himself. But he's got to say something, so he just scolds gruffly, "You shouldn't be giving away insider tips to the suspects." He pushes away from the wall, shoving Blair aside, and starts down the hall.

"Who, you mean Alina?" Blair cries, following at his heels.

"Sorry." Jim shakes his head. What's wrong with him? "Witnesses."

"I don't think she even saw anything. You saw her; she saw the body and she freaked out. I was just comforting her."

"Yeah?" says Jim. "'Comforting' looks a lot like 'taking advantage.'"

"Just giving her an option."

"Whatever happened to Christine?" Jim asks, somehow pulling out of air the name of Blair's most recent girlfriend (he hopes).

"Her? She's still around."

Jim inhales sharply through his nostrils. Surely he can't be angry about that, too.

"I mean, she's still alive," Blair clarifies as they duck under the caution tape and back into the office where Scott is taking notes. "I think she's kind of done with me. Anyway, I didn't think Alina would, you know, respond. You should have seen her before she went away on her study. The most buttoned-up, closed-off woman you ever met. Forget trying to talk to her. She'd barely let you look directly at her."

"Disaster brings out the worst in everyone," Jim theorizes.

"I'll say. She never would have wasted her time with a lowlife research assistant like me before. I should write the murderer a personal thank-you," he jokes. Glancing sidelong at Detective Scott, he sidles close and whispers, "So? Was it murder?"

"How should I know?"

"How do you ever know? Senses!" Blair hisses. "Something you sensed earlier made you think it was murder. What was it?"

Jim pauses, thinking. He remembers saying something to that effect, but it all seems so hazy now. He can vaguely remember images, sounds, scents--but he stops himself before the memory gets too vivid. "I don't know."

"Detective," says Blair sweetly, turning to Scott, "Miss Yadova is in Dr. Leiber's office, 310, and I bet Dr. Leiber's back by now, too. You might want to question him. He was one of Dr. Karada's students, too."

Scott, who's still not used to Blair throwing around his imaginary weight, looks at Jim questioningly. Jim nods.

"Okay," says Blair, all business, once he's left. "Come on, Jim. Think back. We were examining the body. Did you see anything unusual?"

"I really don't remember."

"Well? We're here, we're alone, do what you got to do."

That's what Jim's afraid of. He shakes his head. "I think I'll just figure this one out the normal way."

"Why?" Blair demands. "What good is having super senses if you don't use them?"

"I'm using them all the time," says Jim, "whether I want to or not."

"You know what I mean. Really use them. To their fullest. You know like you were saying earlier, how there's like the normal you and the Sentinel you? Well, be the Sentinel you!"

"Yeah," says Jim. "I won't be doing that."

"Give me one good reason why not," Blair challenges.

Jim pauses, then struggles to explain. "I kind of... lose track of... rational thought when I'm..."

Blair laughs. "Oh yeah, you do."

Jim stiffens. What's that supposed to mean?

"Hey, you know, I was there last night."

"Oh," says Jim hoarsely.

"When you burst in on Lash all jungle justice? You were amazing. You need to tap into that!"

Oh. Just that. Jim sighs deeply, and then shakes his head. "No. I can't control it."

"I know. That's the point. Look, it's a give and take. You have give up some control to get what your senses are trying to tell you. You got to learn to let go. Just relax and let your primal instincts take over."

"You don't know what you're asking," says Jim. "If I did that, I..." Jim doesn't know what would happen if he let go--what he would do to Blair--but he doesn't want to find out.

Maybe he does know.

There's that image again, Blair helpless, bound.

Jim didn't do that to him, of course--Lash did--but if anyone had learned to let go, to lose control, it was Lash. Is that where Jim is headed?

"You wouldn't like it," says Jim.

Blair fixes him with an incredulous look. "Try me," he says.

"No. Forget it," says Jim. "I'm supposed to be a detective, remember?"

"Right, exactly! You're supposed to notice things."

"I'm supposed to figure things out," Jim corrects. "With reason. Logic. I don't--when I'm all--primal--I can feel those things slipping away. I don't like it." Jim nods at the body on the floor. "I don't want to end up like him."

"That's not at all the same thing!" Blair argues. "Look, I understand what you're feeling, I do, and I know it's scary. But comparing it to a degenerative disease, I mean, that's totally unfair. For him, it was subtractive. He was losing a part of himself. For you it's additive. You gain something!"

"Thanks. Thanks a lot," says Jim, affecting offense.

"Seriously! You could be the best sensory power in the world. Maybe in history. Why wouldn't you want to maximize the skill where you're better than anybody, instead of the skill where you're like," he waves his hand, "just okay?"

Okay, now he's maybe getting a little offended. "Good to know you think I'm 'just okay' at thinking," Jim says. "That's very flattering."

"You know what I mean."

"You know, I had a damn good record before you ever came on the scene," Jim points out. "Before I had these damn senses."

"And the senses could make you unstoppable!" Blair insists. "But you got to stop pushing them down and pretending they don't exist!"

"Forget it," says Jim. "I'm not going to perform for you. I'm not your monkey. I'm not your bloodhound."

"So, what--you're saying you're not going to use your senses anymore? Because it's slightly unpleasant?"

Jim wonders if Blair would be so quick to scoff if he knew which one of them was likely to bear most of the unpleasantness if Jim lost control. Wonders if he'd want to take the risk.

Probably. He's that kind of guy. That's why Jim can't tell him. Jim has to make the right choice on his behalf.

He says, "I'm saying we're done."

He leaves Blair standing before the body, mouth hanging open.

*

Jim is somewhat relieved to find Blair absent when he gets back to the loft that evening. He's exhausted and goes right to bed.

Even though he's only asleep a few hours, he wakes up feeling miraculously refreshed, even cheerful. He rolls out of bed, ties on his robe, and heads downstairs to make himself a cup of coffee. It's nice waking up early on a winter morning; everything is dark and still. This, he supposes, (though already he can hardly remember,) is what it was like before Blair. Quiet. No annoying blather or weird bongos or too-loud TV with its high whine, even when it was off...

Well, that last wasn't Blair's fault. It was Jim's set. He pauses now, listening, but he can't hear it.

Maybe the power's out. That would explain a lot. He goes right up to the TV. Nothing. Huh. He tries turning it on, bracing himself for a blast of noise. The TV comes on all right, but it's at a surprisingly reasonable volume, even though it's on PBS, which only Blair watches. He turns it up, and is surprised to find the volume bar halfway full. He turns it off again and wanders back to the kitchen. The fridge is surprisingly quiet, too, though the light comes on when he opens it. He lets the door fall closed, but snatches it open again. He hadn't smelled any of Blair's organic sprouts and root vegetables and for a moment he is convinced that Blair must have come in while he was asleep and cleared out. But no, there are his little containers. He inhales deeply. The smells are there, but faint.

Mostly, he smells coffee. He turns away from the fridge, pours himself a cup, and takes an experimental sip.

A door clicks shuts, and Jim jumps, startled. Blair's coming out of his room. Jim had assumed he was alone. He hadn't heard motion, footsteps.

"Morning," says Blair.

"There's something wrong," Jim responds.

"What's up?"

"I think..." Jim shakes his head. "I've lost my senses."

Blair's eyes widen. He steps right up and waves a hand an inch from Jim's face.

Jim swats it away. "I don't mean completely."

"Sorry," says Blair. "You'll have to be more specific."

"I think," says Jim. "I'm normal."

*

"Okay. Sit down. Here. Close your eyes. Where am I standing?"

Jim points. "I think normal people can do that."

"You're right. What am I thinking?"

"I could never do that."

"Okay, let's see. Let me get the..."

He doesn't finish his thought. Jim opens his eyes. He's alone. A moment later Blair emerges from his room. "I can't find the hearing test tape."

"Thank God," says Jim.

"What happened? Did you eat anything weird?"

"No. I just woke up."

"You were fine before you went to sleep?"

"I'm not sure." Jim rubs his head and tries to remember. "Maybe it was already happening on the drive home. I don't remember if I saw or heard anything a normal person wouldn't. I was distracted."

"This is bad, Jim."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure you can't--if you try?"

"I'm trying." Jim nods at Blair's bag, lying across the room with books spilling out. "Yesterday I could have read that book from across the room."

"Now?"

"Can't make out the title."

"Oh man. This is bad." Blair paces for about half a second and then asks "Distracted why?"

"Hm?"

"Driving home. What were you thinking about? Maybe it will give us a clue. Was it our fight? You did want me to forget the senses, to take your intellect more seriously," Blair points out.

"What--you think I'm trying to prove a point?" Jim can't believe it. Here he is with a problem and he's being accused of--what, using his senses as a pawn in a petty bickering match? Maybe he's cursed his powers once or twice, but can't Blair see that it's still scary to lose them--almost as scary as losing his mind?

"Not on purpose," Blair soothes hastily. "Subconsciously, maybe. Maybe," he adds, standing behind the chair, studiously examining the weave of the upholstery, "maybe subconsciously you want to get rid of the reason for a certain person to live with you."

Jim swallows. He hadn't yet considered that--that if they don't fix this, Blair will have to go away. What other choice will he have? As much trouble as this is, as scary as his recent weird impulses and visions have been, he doesn't want that. He stares, trying very hard to delineate individual hairs in Blair's curls from across the room.

"What are you doing?"

He ceases his efforts, and grunts derisively. "I don't buy it. Not everything is about you."

"Okay, okay. It's got to be an emotional thing," Blair thinks out loud. "We know your emotions can affect your senses; it's happened before."

Jim nods. Reasonable.

"So all we have to do is find out what's bothering you emotionally and fix it."

He makes it sound so easy. "How?"

Blair shrugs. "See a shrink?"

Jim's knuckles clench hard around a throw pillow. Even Blair, the eccentric, thinks he's crossing the line. Next stop, Conover. Lash. "I'm not crazy."

"Hey," says Blair. "Plenty of perfectly sane people go to therapy." He raises his hand like he's in class.

Jim sighs and closes his eyes.

"I think the world would be a better place if we all saw a therapist every now and again," says Blair. "Everyone deserves someone to talk to."

"That's great. That's a great idea," says Jim. "What am I supposed to tell this therapist--I'm upset because I've lost my superpowers?"

Blair shrugs. "Why not? It wouldn't leave the room. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"They'd throw me in the nuthouse, that's why not. Hey," he interrupts himself. "You don't talk about me in your therapy sessions, do you?"

"You? No. I've got more than enough other problems to fill the fifty minutes, thanks."

Jim nods. He almost feels hurt. He thought he was at the top of the list of Blair's problems.

"Okay," says Blair, stepping forward. "I've got it. Lie down."

Jim's heart skips a beat. What? "What?"

"Lie down," Blair repeats, sitting down in the armchair, "and tell me all your problems."

"You want to psychoanalyze me?"

"Well, someone's got to do it," says Blair pragmatically. He reaches over and pushes Jim's shoulder. Jim obeys and lies down on the couch unprotestingly, if only to get Blair's hands off him.

"Okay, lay it on me," says Blair, rubbing his hands together. "Is anything wrong lately? Emotionally?"

Nothing except for a few vivid violent and/or sexual impulses. Junior Dr. Freud would have a field day with that. "Not really," says Jim. "Same old, same old."

"How do you feel about your mother?"

"Great, fine."

"Really great, or are you just saying great?"

Jim raises himself up on an elbow. "Is this really necessary?"

"Do you want to get to the bottom of this or not?"

"I don't think this is about my mother," says Jim.

"Okay, so what do you think it's about?"

Jim shrugs uncomfortably. "You're the therapist, you tell me."

"I'll do my best, but you got to work with me. We'll skip ahead to the present day, okay? How's work?"

"You know how it is. You work with me."

"But I want to hear you talk about it."

"All right, fine. It's good. Got a case to solve, but that's not out of the ordinary."

"How about your social life? Are you seeing anyone?"

"You know I--" Jim turns to argue again, but Blair sends him a look, and Jim sighs, and settles back down. "No."

"Would you like to be?"

Jim stiffens. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A legitimate one! Look, man, sex is an important part of the human experience. Does it bother you that you're functionally celibate?"

"This interview is over," says Jim, sitting up.

"Wait! I haven't asked if you have any repressed memories."

"Yeah, one or two I forgot to tell you about," says Jim. "Do you have a diagnosis or what?"

"Yeah," says Blair. "I diagnose you as resistant to therapy."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Beautiful."

"Also, you need to get laid."

"F..." Jim stops himself. "Shut up," he mutters, burying his burning face in his hands.

This is getting bad. It's not so much that he actively wants Blair--he sort of hates him a little, right now--but he keeps thinking Blair must know.

In some ways it would be easier if he did. Jim doesn't like to keep secrets from him, especially when he's trying to help. But he has a feeling this is one sensory side effect not even Blair can be cool and nonjudgmental about. Nor should he be. It's fucked up. If he knew, he'd leave. He'd have to.

Maybe Blair's right. Maybe he has to resolve this before he can get his senses back.

Maybe Blair's right that he doesn't want to. No senses, no sensory side effects.

Something touches his hand unexpectedly and Blair's voice, soft and way too near, murmurs, "Heya, Jim." Jim jumps. How long has he been there?

"Easy!"

"Sorry," says Jim. "Not used to this yet."

"Well, hopefully you won't have to get used to it. We'll solve it. Don't worry."

"Please don't tell me you want to keep analyzing me."

"Nah. We're not getting anywhere. I guess I need bone up on my psychology." Blair stands up, stretches, and heads to his room, peeling his T-shirt off as he goes. "Who knows? Maybe later you'll feel like opening up to me."

Jim turns and plants his head in a pillow. He needs to get his mind out of the gutter.

Blair emerges in the silver shirt Jim hates. It no longer gives him an instant headache--one advantage of sensory problems--but it is still damn ugly. Blair persists in the delusion that he looks good in it.

"Big date tonight?" Jim asks lightly. He's going for lightly, anyway. It's hard not to recall yesterday's various freak-outs. Yelling at a girl for no ostensible reason. Knocking Blair around when he tried to leave the house. He knows Blair's thinking about them, too, because he looks cautious, hesitant, like he's afraid he'll set Jim off again.

God, he really is a crazy person.

"Just meeting someone after class." Blair pauses. "Alina, actually."

Jim nods. He is pleased that the news elicits no unpleasant gut reaction. There are definite benefits to this numbness.

"I know you don't like her, but, it turns out she's really nice. Kind of strange, but sweet." Blair puts on his coat and picks up his bag, and then hovers in the doorway for a moment. "So, uh, yeah. Anything, uh, you want to say to me?"

Jim thinks. "No," he says. "Have fun."

*

"Don't mistake me. There are many people in the world who are considered intelligent. I will not insult Dr. Karada by saying that he was merely 'intelligent,'" Dr. Leiber says scornfully, peering at Jim through thick round glasses. Scott had not been able to locate the botanist on campus, but he had readily agreed to visit the station and discuss his favorite subject. "Let me say no less than that he was one of the most revolutionary minds of the age."

"I see," says Jim. "I understand you were one of his students."

"Disciples," Leiber corrects.

"Did he have any enemies?"

Dr. Leiber laughed. "Everyone whose wrongheaded theories he skewered. Every small-minded bureaucrat posing as a scholar whose understanding of the world he shattered. Every religious fanatic or liberal moralist who considered the truth he exposed 'controversial.'"

Jim nods. "I read his paper on cell regeneration."

Dr. Leiber raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't understand it all, of course," Jim admits.

"I would not expect you to, Officer," says Dr. Leiber consolingly.

"But it seems to me he was proposing that some people could be used a human incubators to grow cells and cure others."

"Very good, officer! A layman's reading at best, but more than I would have credited to you," says Dr. Leiber, and Jim decides to take it as a compliment. "Note, of course, that he proposed that it was could be done, not that it should. It is that common misunderstanding that led to so much... annoying correspondence."

"Death threats?"

"Certainly. But none were acted upon, of course, and to my knowledge he has not received one in at least ten years. He hasn't published so much as a magazine article since that trifling little piece about potato plants in 1991."

"The disease?"

Leiber nods slowly, his face taking on a tragic expression. "The greatest tragedy of our age. Brilliance reduced to a driveling idiocy. A fate worse than death, for such a great man and independent mind. It has been devastating to witness."

"Were you close to Dr. Karada?"

"Once, I would have been proud to say so. After the diagnosis," Dr. Leiber shudders, "I tried to avoid him."

"I read your paper, too," says Jim, taking a different tack.

A smile quirks at the edge of Dr. Leiber's mouth. "Which one?"

"The one you co-wrote with Dr. Lang. You two took the theory a step further. You said, if I interpreted it correctly, that some people should be sacrificed for the good of society."

"We were both students at the time, you will note," says Dr. Leiber, smiling ruefully. "Not that I wish in any way to denigrate my prior work. Had I written it today, I might perhaps have employed a more subtle hyperbolic metaphor; but I stand by the larger point."

"You believe that murder is moral?"

"I don't believe that's relevant."

"I think it is."

Dr. Leiber sighs, obviously bored. "I did not murder Dr. Karada. It would be pointless, for one thing; he was already on his way out. May I go?"

Jim lets him go. He can't read this guy. Normally he gets a gut reaction--not necessarily a quick and easy guilty or innocent, but something to work with. Now, he's second- and third-guessing himself. Was this really what it was like before the senses?

"Any luck?" Scott asks, coming by his desk.

Jim shrugs. "He's creepy, sure, but I don't know if that means anything. He seems sincere." But Jim even doubts that.

His instincts are gone.

"We'd better interview Lang when he comes back, too."

Scott nods, making a note. "Also, uh--I know you're not going to want to hear this, but I don't think we should rule out Sandburg."

For an instant Jim feels like he's falling. "What?"

"I know he's your friend, but look at the facts. He's got as much motive as anyone else. You heard him say the guy's death helped him--"

He doesn't get any further, because Jim's thrown him against the wall. "Now you listen--"

"Jesus, what's your problem? Let me go!"

Scott wrenches an arm free. A sharp pain, and warm blood trickles from Jim's nose. Scott has hit him. Jim holds him fast.

"Hey, what's going on here? Jim!"

His mind is hazy, but Jim still recognizes when he's outranked. Simon is glaring at him. Jim backs off.

"He's innocent," he growls.

"Well, then, you've got nothing to worry about," says Scott, rubbing his arm.

"What's the problem here?" Simon demands.

"Nothing, sir," Jim and Scott chorus.

Jim's mind races. He's not being crazy, right? He's being normal. It's crazy to think that Blair would ever-- Jim has to figure this out, clear his name-- poor kid, doesn't even know he's suspected, off on his date with--

The woman. That woman.

The body. He remembers now.

Mixed with the smell of the victim and of death had been a subtle floral aroma. Foxglove. Digitalis.

She smelled like that, too. And she smelled strange. Wrong. Crazy.

His senses told him there was something wrong with her. The low voice. The concealing clothing. The stench of schizophrenia. He should have listened.

She's not Alina Yadova at all.

She's Lash.

Blair is with Lash.

Jim scrambles up off his knees and runs out the door.

Behind him, Scott calls, "It can wait till tomorrow!"

*

He heads toward campus, maybe because it makes sense, maybe because he's got Blair's scent already. He doesn't remember exactly when he picked it up but he's got it now. Stronger ever minute. He's safe so far, but nervous. Sweating.

He parks in the lot, opens the door, and trains his ears. It's late but there are a lot of people on campus. Club meetings, study groups. He ignores them and listens for Blair's familiar voice. And there it is--faint, dim, echoy, somewhere underground.

"...haven't really thought about it, I guess."

"But... enforce it." There's that strange low whisper.

"Well, I mean, I help."

"Of course... only the product of human minds."

"Sure. We're far from perfect, of course, but..."

Jim doesn't know what they're talking about and he doesn't care. Blair's tone says a thousand words. He likes her. He doesn't know. Jim breaks into a run across the green. He doesn't know exactly where they are, not at first, but he corrects his course as the sound and scent intensify. This building, this basement. They're still philosophizing--flirting--drinking dark-roast vanilla coffee.

Jim pushes the door, but it catches. Locked. To the right there's a pad for swiping an ID. He backs up and throws himself at the door with all his strength. The latch snaps, and he tumbles into the entryway. He jumps to his feet and races down the stairs.

He's outside the door where they are and Blair's pouring off his scent so hard it's got to be on purpose and Alina/Lash still smells like poison and insanity. Jim throws open the door. They're sitting close together in a corner, surrounded by stacks of books. The creature has got his slender hand on Blair's thigh and is leaning forward. Ready to pounce.

Jim leaps forward and in a flash he's standing over Lash, holding down his shoulder, whipping out the cuffs.

"Jim!" Blair cries. "What..."

He's still in danger as long as he's near the maniac. Jim yells, "Go!"

Beneath him Lash trembles and whimpers.

"Hey there," says Blair, bending down to look him in the eye. "It's okay. Look, um, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say... how does this go again? Dammit. Jim, can I see you a minute?"

He steps back, beckoning, and the enemy is subdued for the moment, so Jim lets himself follow the inviting trail. Out in the hall Blair pulls him close to whisper something very urgent and important but Jim can't pay attention to what he's saying because he's too busy taking him in. Looking. Smelling. Running a hand down his warm flannel sleeve. He can't hold back any longer. Tasting now, lips, tongue. Holding him, pushing him back, feeling his body, pressed firm and tight between Jim and the wall.

"Mmm... Okay... This is a hell of a time to..."

Jim's body is tensed, tingling, receptive. He presses his hard cock into Blair's thigh. Warm.

"Oh, man, finally..."

Blair's hands clasp his back. Jim gasps. Growls. Purrs. Kisses his ear. Nibbles his mouth. Slips a hand under his own waistband. Strokes himself--feels something else--pressure--

"Let me..."

Zip. Hot. Hand. Tight. A strangled cry. Heartbeats, gasping, stroking, come.

And just like that, it's over. The moment is shattered. Jim releases Blair, takes two large steps back, horrified. A cool breeze accentuates the utter wrongness of his open fly, and he hastily zips up. There's no denying what just happened, not with the evidence of it on his abs, the edge of his waistband, Blair's shirt. Shamed, he wipes his stomach with his hand, and then with irrationally greater disgust, furiously wipes his hand on his pants.

Blair does nothing, just watches him, wide-eyed. Waiting to see what happens next. Maybe he's afraid to move. It would certainly be understandable.

"Sorry," Jim mumbles, and that doesn't seem to be enough.

Then he remembers Alina.

Shit. Obviously she's not Lash. That's crazy. Lash is dead. Jim shot him in the head. He saw the shots. Saw his dead face. Not even Lash is that good at disguises. Alina is just a woman--just a woman whose only crime is wanting what Jim wants.

"Fuck," he says.

He runs back into the room. The poor girl is still there, of course, sitting on the floor, hands cuffed behind her, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry," she sobs.

"No," Jim begins. "No, I--"

But Alina has more to say. "I thought nobody would miss him. I thought he'd be better off dead! I just wanted to see if I could do it."

Jim freezes.

"Whoa," says Blair from behind him.

*

The wrap-up is unbearable. Scott apologizes and says he guesses Jim knew best all along. Blair's unaccountably bouncy, the excitement of the night apparently canceling out the trauma of finding out that the object of his affection is a murderer. Oh yeah, and his best friend and partner has marked him as the object of some kind of sick primal sexual obsession. Somehow he seems to take this in stride. Maybe he's still in shock. Maybe he's repressing.

Jim does his best to stretch out his work and put off the moment when they'll need to Talk About This. He doesn't know how to apologize for what he's done; there's no excuse. He sets up his paperwork in Video Conference Room 3 and hopes Blair will get bored and get a ride home from someone else.

To his dismay, Simon calls them both to his office. He wants to know how the case was solved--really.

"Jim had a gut feeling!" Blair explains happily. "He sensed it!"

Simon rubs his head. "That's great. Just great. What are you going to put in the report?"

"We'll figure something out, right pal?" Blair claps Jim on the back.

Jim jumps.

Simon looks at him over his glasses. "You're a wreck."

"I'm fine," says Jim miserably.

"Go home and get some rest. Don't bother arguing. That's an order."

Blair's still bouncing as they climb into the truck.

"This is great! I'm glad you got your senses back. I was getting kind of worried. What happened? How'd you do it? How did you know it was her?"

"I didn't," says Jim.

"Of course you did. You arrested her, she confessed. Don't tell me you reasoned it out with your frontal lobe, because I was there and you were all lizard-brain tonight, baby!"

"Don't remind me." Jim sighs, pained. "It was a fluke, all right? I had nothing. She could easily have been innocent."

"No way. Obviously you had something, even if you don't remember..."

"Nothing," Jim insists. "I had nothing. I had a theory, sort of; but it was stupid and wrong. I only arrested her because I hated her, and I only hated her because." He stops short, out of habit, but there's no point hiding it now. Why Blair isn't filing a restraining order right now, he doesn't know. "Because you liked her."

"No! Really?" Blair considers this. "Do you get the urge to arrest all the girls I date?"

"Only lately."

Blair laughs. Jim can't tell if it's genuinely amused or anxious; maybe a little of both. "I can't believe this. This is nuts! Man, that was a close one!"

"Too close," says Jim grimly.

"Man oh man, Jim." He shakes his head, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, serious. "I'm sorry. I can't even begin. Can you ever forgive me?"

That's the last thing Jim expected to hear out of Blair's mouth, and he turns away from the road for a moment to throw him a look of surprise. "You're sorry? I--I assaulted you and you're sorry?"

"Assaulted me, what! Oh, that. Hey, if you'll recall, jackass, I wasn't exactly an unwilling participant."

Jim knits his brow.

"Are you really worried about that? Listen, you didn't make me do anything I didn't already want to do. I mean, really want to." Blair leans against the window with a sheepish smile. "Are you going to make me spell it out for you? I've been studying you, you know. I knew there was a correlation between your sense use and your touchy-feeliness. I mean, I definitely had my ulterior motives for pressuring you to 'let go of your control' and 'let out the primal Sentinel.' I guess I thought you were, like, repressing. You know, your deep-seated homosexuality."

"Oh," says Jim, his face hot. He hasn't thought of it like that. "I, uh... I didn't think I was..."

"And maybe you're not. I mean, the real you isn't. And I'm not..." Blair shrugs and shakes his head. "I'm not a psychiatrist. I thought I was helping, but I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean to make you do things you'd regret. I'm really, really sorry. I hope you don't... I mean, if you want me to..."

"We both made mistakes," Jim interrupts. "Let's just--clean slate."

"Yeah, all right," says Blair gratefully. "And I concede your point. Clearly, civilized, evolved reason and logic do have their place in detective work. I know, genius conclusion, right? But, I mean, the hunting and tracking and seeing things nobody else sees--I'd hate to see you throw those out with the bathwater. You just got to figure out how to use them together." He illustrates this by clasping his hands, then shrugs. "Well, we'll figure it out."

"Yeah," says Jim, smiling. "We will." It's going to be all right. It's all going to go back to normal.

They reach home and ride the elevator up to the third floor in comfortable silence. In the loft Blair picks up for once in his life while Jim brushes his teeth. As he passes through the living room again Blair bids him good night. "Tomorrow we can wake up and pretend today never happened."

"Can't wait," says Jim.

He climbs the stairs. Back to normal. That will be good. He undresses, lies down, and stares at the ceiling.

*

Blair squints into the moonlight flooding in from the doorway. "Jim?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," says Blair.

"I know," says Jim.

He pauses. Blair puts on his glasses and blinks at him.

Jim just stands awkwardly in the doorframe. He's not sure why he got out of bed to come down here, except that he was listening to Blair toss and turn, and he didn't think there was any use in both of them just lying there, separately, not talking, because they're supposed to be asleep, even though they're not. Now that he's here, though, he doesn't know what to say.

He shouldn't have come.

Blair shifts over and pats the bed beside him.

Jim steps into the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. He smiles courteously. Blair smiles back.

He was here the night before last, unconscious of his actions, driven by an irresistible attraction. Blair had filled his mind. He was in awe of the sight of him, driven wild by the heady scent of him. Right now, he looks and smells... well, like Blair. Normal. Jim begins to feel silly.

"Did you want something?" Blair asks. "Not that your company isn't appreciated at any hour."

"I can go," says Jim, beginning to stand.

"No, no. No fair." Blair drags him back down by the arm. Jim re-settles himself on the bed. Blair studies him, smiling slightly, as if he's a particularly engrossing ancient artifact article.

It would be so easy to lean over and kiss him. His lips are wet and slightly parted, like he's expecting it. He wouldn't resist.

Maybe he should.

"You... you really wanted to... do all that stuff?" Jim asks. "Earlier?" he clarifies helpfully.

"You mean the sex?" asks Blair pointedly, and watches Jim flinch. His voice softens, though, when he answers, "Yeah. Kind of a lot, actually." He shrugs casually against his propped-up pillow. "You?"

"No," says Jim immediately, and Blair's face falls. Jim amends, "Well--maybe. I didn't think so. But... I just..." He sighs. "It wasn't me. I couldn't control it."

"Oh," says Blair.

"I'm just--I got lucky." Blair starts to grin, and Jim hurries on before he can crack a joke, "That you wanted it, I mean. Because if you hadn't, I... I still would have..."

"No," Blair interrupts, and now he's serious, firm. "You wouldn't have."

"How do you know?"

"Because," says Blair, "it's you, and it's me. You wouldn't let anything happen to me."

Jim looks away. "What about Lash?"

"Right. What about him? You were hopped up on Sentinel senses that night in the warehouse, right? But you did everything right. You took him out; you saved me. You didn't get confused. Killed him, kissed me."

Jim doesn't answer, just stares at his hands in his lap. He guesses he should be ashamed--and he is, a little. It's probably bad form to kiss someone for the first time while they're tied up. But he remembers it clearly now, and it wasn't like that. It was gentle. Friendly. Chaste, even. Not the sort of thing a sex-crazed caveman would have done--but not the sort of thing Jim would have let himself do.

"I am the Sentinel," says Jim.

Blair nods, unfazed by this rather late-in-the-game realization. "You and me, we have a deal, right?" he says. "We look out for each other."

"Right," says Jim.

"Well, don't forget that goes both ways."

Jim looks at Blair.

He's grinning, eyebrows raised. "Do you trust me?"

Jim's heart begins to pound. "Yeah," he says.

"Good." Blair places a hand on Jim's back, leans in, and whispers, "Let go."

 

The End