Author's Notes:

A bit of inane fun just because.

Hope you enjoy!

PS If anyone finds any redeeming qualities in this...umm, I have a checkbook that needs balancing. :-)



D.L. Witherspoon

(Posted 09-30-01)

Once upon a time there lived a Sentinel and Guide. Most of the time they were very happy together.

"Morning, Chief. Sleep well?"

"Great night, Jim. Let's go kick some criminal butt."

But then sometimes they fought.

"What the hell did you put down this sink, Sandburg?"

"Jesus Christ, why don't you ever listen to me, Jim!"

Sometimes they fought a lot.

"Damn kid never thinks of anyone but himself."

"Yeah, someone should put a big 'S' on the jerk's shirt--'S' for stupid."

One day Jim got tired of the fighting. He knew someone had to go. And he knew that person had to be him. Because see, once before they had fought--well, not really fought. It was more like Jim didn't want Blair around. So he packed up Blair's stuff and kicked Blair out. A mean sentinel named Alex found Blair and killed him. Jim had to listen to his spirit guide to bring Blair back from the dead. Jim didn't want to ever have to do that again (because he thought spirit guides were icky), so Jim made a new house rule (#1857). It stated that "Blair Sandburg would always live at 852 Prospect Ave, Apt. #7, unless moving somewhere else with Jim Ellison." It just wasn't safe to let Blair run about on his own.

Citing Rule #1857 in his goodbye letter, Jim packed a small bag and left. He didn't know where he was going. He just wanted some peace. He got in his battered blue pickup and drove toward the mountains. Along the way, he stopped for some buttermilk doughnuts. They were his favorite and Blair didn't let him have them. He bought a dozen.

As he was debating what kind of coffee went best with the doughnuts, two men came in to rob the store. Jim pulled his gun, but as it was wont, it fell out of his hand and made a loud noise. The thieves quickly got the gun and held it on Jim.

In the meantime, the clerk used the distraction to hit the silent alarm button. As the thieves waited for the clerk to empty the register, they heard the wail of approaching police cars. They looked at Jim and thought he would make a fine hostage.

As Jim was shoved into the criminals' van, he thought to himself. "This is not me. This should be Sandburg. Fate is indeed a bitch."

That was his last thought, because the thieves thought he was stalling for time and hit him over the head with his gun.


Blair read the note Jim had thoughtfully left behind. Then he balled it up and threw it in the trash. When Simon called looking for Jim, he explained to the captain that Jim had run away.

"What the hell are you talking about, Sandburg? Jim left his own apartment?"

Blair told Simon about Rule #1857. Simon figured it was a good rule. He remembered Blair dying. He didn't want to go through that again. The algae in the stagnant water had ruined his favorite suit.

"You two need to grow up," Simon said.

"Yes, sir," Blair patiently replied, zapping aliens on his laptop while his feet rested on the dining room table. The towel with which he had dried his hair lay on the floor beside him. The stereo blared the latest masterpiece from the top techno-band. He picked up his sandwich and smiled as the jelly slid onto the tabletop. "Bye, Simon."

Blair got up, stripped nude, and danced his way across the loft.


Blair opened his eyes and cussed. He'd slept through his eight o'clock class because Jim hadn't been there to wake him. He stumbled into the kitchen and cussed again because no freshly prepared algae shake awaited him. He cussed a third time when he tripped over a soggy towel as he made his way to the toilet.

He cussed a fourth time when he realized how much he missed Jim.


Jim had regained consciousness in the middle of the night. The inside of the van was dark but he could see quite clearly. They were parked on the side of the road, the two thieves/kidnappers asleep in the front seats.

Jim moved his arms and found them tied behind him. His feet were also tied. As quietly as he could, he twisted his body until his tied hands were in front of him. He untied his feet and opened the van door. Like a mouse he slipped silently out of the van and moved stealthily into the woods. He grinned as he thought about it. He moved as quietly as a rat, as surely as a cat, and could see at night like a bat. He was his own personal zoo.

That was his last thought as he stepped into an illegal bear trap and fell, hitting his head on a rock.


"Sandburg, you better get down to the station."

Blair threw his cell phone into his backpack and ran out of the room. The student he had been tutoring received a "if you fail the test, blame me," and a quick wave.

"Where is Jim?" Blair asked when he reached the Major Crime bullpen.

"He was taken hostage in a fast food mart," Simon answered.

"What was he buying?"

"Buttermilk doughnuts."

"I told him the damn things would kill him. Well, what are we waiting for?" Blair asked impatiently.

"They found the people who took him hostage. Jim wasn't with them. They won't tell us where he is."

Blair blinked. "Where are they?"

Simon drove Blair to the county facility where the thieves were. Blair stomped into the interrogation room. "Where is my partner?" he asked.

No one answered. Then Blair began describing a Mayan ritual wherein certain male parts were scraped raw and dipped in salt. The thieves told Blair where Jim had escaped.

Simon drove Blair to the spot. "Why are we here, Sandburg? We should call some expert trackers."

Blair ignored him and yelled, "Jim, where the hell are you?"

Simon didn't hear anything, but Blair set off in a specific direction and Simon, always out of the loop and proud of it, followed.

They found Jim on the ground, his ankle swollen and bleeding. He was pale and his eyes had trouble focusing on them.

"Hey, shithead," Blair said fondly.

"Kiss my ass," Jim said hoarsely, the corners of his lips inching up in a small smile.

Blair looked at Simon. "The head trauma doesn't seem to be too bad. Let's get this thing off his leg."

They freed Jim, then got him to his feet. Draped between his two best friends, Jim limped toward the highway.

"Amendment to Rule #1857?" he asked.

"Agreed," Blair said. "Nobody leaves. Even if we have to draw a line down the middle of the loft."

Jim nodded. "Hey, you guys don't happen to know what happened to my doughnuts, do you?"

"They were evidence, Jim," Simon said.

Jim glared at him. "You ate them, didn't you?"

"Shut up, Jim, or I'm going to tell the hospital you love green Jello," Blair threatened.


"Hospital," Blair said firmly, hoping they held Jim long enough for him to clean the loft.

Jim was settled into the backseat of Simon's car, his upper body held firmly in place by Blair.

Jim felt his guide's heartbeat next to his ear and sighed. "I missed you, Chief."

Blair dropped a contented kiss on the top of Jim's head. "Missed you, too."

And so Sentinel and Guide lived happily ever after at 852 Prospect until Blair accidentally forgot to use dustless chalk when marking his half of the loft. Five days and ten injections later, Jim finally stopped sneezing.

The next time Blair used duct tape.


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