"You've got to get out," Blair panted, continuing to struggle against the hands holding him down. "There are... explosives-"

  "It's too late, Chief. It's too late!"

  The fight left Blair all at once. He sagged back against the hard, cold ground. His breath came in tortured gasps. It's too late. The words repeated themselves in his mind. And he knew what they meant. Quinn had already set off the explosives. But it didn't make sense. Jim should have known not to come into the mine. "Didn't you see them?" he managed between breaths. "Didn't you smell them, Jim?"

  The sentinel said nothing. But his silence spoke volumes to Blair. Jim had not sensed the C4 because he had been concentrating on him. On getting to him. And now they were trapped because of it. A strangled cry of frustration escaped his lips.

  The hand was on his face again, touching his cheek. "Blair, what is it? Did you hurt yourself moving?" Concern laced Jim's words.

  "My fault," he rasped out, his throat raw.

  "No, no, Blair. Nothing is your fault." Jim's hand moved over his hair, gently stroking through it. It felt good, comforting. He relaxed against the soothing gesture, letting his heart rate even out, his breathing soften.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Blair was able to open his eyes. He licked his lips as the darkness of the cave pressed in on him. He lay on his back, something soft under his head. There was a small circle of illumination from a flashlight resting just next to his left arm. But beyond the light, he could see nothing but thick blackness. Jim sat beside him, his face cast in shadows. But even in the dim lighting, Blair could see the concern in the lines around his partner's eyes and mouth. "Hey, Jim," he managed.

  "Good of you to join me, Chief. I was getting bored."

  "How long?"

  "How long have we been in here?"

  Blair nodded.

  "Just a few hours." Jim lifted a bottle of water. "Take another sip, okay?"

  The water was cool as it slid down Blair's throat. "Is there a way out?" He was sure Jim would have checked. If they had been trapped in here a few hours, Jim would have looked. Maybe even found a way out but wasn't able to leave because of him. "Tell me there's a way out."

  Jim recapped the water, his gaze shifting away from Blair. "We can talk about that later, Chief."

  "Oh man, there's not, is there?" He closed his eyes. Icy fingers of dread rippled down his back and settled in the pit of his stomach. "Jim, what are we going to do?"

  "We're going to survive," Jim said confidently. He reached out and took Blair's hand, holding tightly. "Just like we always do."

  Blair swallowed hard. Survive. He clung to the word. To the hope it brought to him. He could do this. Jim needed him to do this. He gave Jim's hand a hard squeeze then released it. "How do our supplies look?" He opened his eyes and glanced at the backpack beside Jim. His backpack, he realized. Why'd Jim bring my backpack instead of his own? His gaze shifted up to the sentinel just as he reached for the bag.

  Jim hesitated, his hand hovering over the straps. He darted a glance at Blair then back to the pack.

  And Blair knew--in those few seconds of looking into Jim's caring eyes, he knew. Jim had brought the backpack simply because it was his. Something tangible of Blair's that Jim could carry with him. Like he still had some part of me with him. A warm feeling washed through him at the thought.

  Jim continued to stare down at the pack, his hand moving slowly over the well-worn material. He's trying to think of something to say, to explain why he brought my pack. Blair didn't need the words.

  "Jim? How do our supplies look?" he asked again, helping his partner move past the moment.

  Jim pulled the bag into his lap and began an inventory of their supplies. "We have a bottle and a half of water. Six nutrition bars. Some trail mix. A box of matches."

  "Any bagels in there?" Blair asked lightly.

  "Sorry, Chief." Jim zipped the pack shut, grinning slightly. "I called room service, but they were all out of bagels." He set the bag aside again. "But even without them, I think we'll be okay."

  Blair touched the cuts on his face, his fingers brushing against the butterfly bandages Jim had applied. "How much water did you waste cleaning me up?"

  "None of it was wasted," Jim whispered.

  "Right." Blair stared at the gauze around his wrists. Both still ached dully, the left one more than the right. He shuddered at the memory of Quinn cuffing him to that beam, his feet barely touching the ground.

  He gasped as Quinn snapped the metal ring closed over his right wrist and stepped back. Hands on his hips, he stared at his handiwork. "Bet that hurts like hell," he muttered with more than a little satisfaction.

  Blair tried to keep his feet beneath him, take some of the pressure off his arms. But as his vision blurred in and out of focus, he knew he would soon lose consciousness. And the cuffs would be the only thing keeping him upright. "Please," he pushed the single word past his split lip but could say nothing more.

  Quinn stepped closer, until his face was only inches from Blair's. "Please what? Please let you go?" Reaching out, he ran a finger down the side of Blair's cheek, tracing the bruises he'd left. "You and I both know that's not going to happen." Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a single sheet of paper. "You know what this is, don't you?"

  Blair shook his head, denying the truth of that paper. Of the death sentence it bestowed upon him.

  Reaching into his pocket, Blair withdrew the paper Jim had not found. With shaking hands, he unfolded it and read the words: Boom! You're both dead! He closed his eyes, regret washing through him. If Jim had only found this, maybe he could have gotten out in time. Maybe he wouldn't be trapped in here. Maybe...

  "What do you have there, Chief?"

  Blair looked at Jim, the sentinel's soft voice drawing him away from his thoughts. "Quinn's last message to us." He handed his partner the single sheet of paper.

  Jim stared down at it, his eyes darkening with rage. "That sick bastard." But as he shifted his attention back to Blair, his gaze softened. "I'm sorry, Chief."

  Blair frowned, his brow creasing in confusion. "Sorry? For what?"

  Jim nodded toward his wrists, his jaw tight.

  "Jim, you didn't do this. In fact, you're the reason I'm still alive. If you hadn't found me--"

  "I shouldn't have had to find you!" Jim snapped, his harsh voice echoing in the small cave. He pushed up and paced away, keeping his back to Blair. "It should have never happened. I shouldn't have let it happen." Crumbling the paper into a tight ball, he tossed it away.

  "Jim, man, come on. This is not your fault. I told you that at the loft."

  Jim spun toward him. "And I told you I wouldn't let Quinn get to you."

  Jim stood less than two feet from him yet Blair felt as if his friend were a million miles away. He needed to reach him. To make him see the truth. Place the blame where it truly belonged. "Jim, I'm the one who hesitated on that roof. I'm the one who didn't jump. You said the only way Quinn could get to one of us is if we separated. I made that happen."

  "Quinn made that happen," Jim corrected. "Quinn made all this happen."

  "That's right," Blair shot back. "We're both victims here, Jim. You and me." He tried to sit up. His ribs protested the sudden movement, sending a shooting pain through him. He gasped and fell back.

  Jim was at his side in an instant, his hands gently moving over his ribs, checking for new damage. "Okay, Chief, no more moving around for you."

  Blair drew in a shallow breath, unable to drag air deeply into his lungs without causing more pain. "That sounds... like a plan."

  The sentinel's hand shifted from Blair's ribs to his shoulder. He squeezed gently. "Thank you, Blair."

  "You believe what I'm saying?" He searched in partner's eyes, trying to find the answer there.

  Jim smiled and Blair had his answer before his partner said the words. "I believe you."

  "Good." He shifted again. Pain ripped through his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a harsh breath, and tried not to move.

  "Chief? You okay?"

  "Not really," he managed around gritted teeth. His entire body hurt. Every movement, every breath caused his bruised muscles to seize up, his broken ribs to tear at his insides. He eyed his backpack again. "You got anything for pain in there?"

  Jim pulled out two capsules. "Just some Tylenol."

  "I am not picky. I'll take it."

  Jim sat him up slightly, just enough to swallow the two pills with a gulp of water. The small action exhausted Blair. He laid back, his eyes slipping closed. "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm tired."

  "Then go to sleep, Sandburg. You need the rest. Hell, we both do," Jim said wearily.

  Blair smiled. "Thanks, Jim," he muttered. "For everything."

  "You're welcome," Jim whispered. "Now go to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."

  Blair sighed softly, allowing himself to relax toward sleep. Seconds later, he felt Jim settle in beside him. Maneuvering slowly, his sentinel drew him against his side, lending him the warmth of his body. Then a strong arm fell lightly across Blair's chest, holding him in a cocoon of protectiveness.

  For the first time in two days, Blair felt safe. As he drifted into the comforting arms of sleep, he hoped that when he awoke again, the pain would be gone.

  /

  /

  The moldy dankness of the old mine pricked at the edge of Jim's consciousness, nudging him into wakefulness. He kept his eyes closed, concentrated on the internal dials he used to control his senses, and easily metered back his sense of smell until the moisture-laden air no longer had any affect on him.

  The dials. Sandburg had taught him about the dials--could it be?--almost four years ago now. Four years! Under normal circumstances those four years would have seemed like an eternity; after all, a lifetime of friendship lay ahead of the two men. But now, balanced against the fact that the two of them might not survive their current situation, the time they had spent together seemed much too brief, much too hurried.

  Jim shut out the disturbing thoughts. He lay quietly and concentrated instead on processing his surroundings, doing so in slow, deliberate stages. He didn't move, knowing that when he did his sore muscles and joints would immediately protest --an unpleasant prospect that he was more than willing to defer until later.

  He was aware of the soft weight of Blair's body where the young man lay curled against him, of the packed earth beneath his back and legs, of the monotonous dripping of water somewhere far back in the mine. He turned his head toward his partner, opening his vision until he was able to see the top of Sandburg's head where it rested beneath his chin, the softly rounded curve of the young man's shoulder, the arm that was draped across Jim's chest. Ellison was only marginally surprised to find that he still held Blair firmly within the protective circle of his arms; even sleep had not caused him to abandon his hold on his friend.

  But Blair's body was warm... too warm. Damn! He's running a fever. It was his left wrist. It had looked bad to Jim - red and puffy. He had suspected an infection yesterday when he bandaged it. Now as he felt the heat coming off his partner's body, he knew he'd been right.

  Instinctively, Jim tightened his sheltering hold, causing the young man to moan softly in his sleep and then shift slightly to press his face more firmly against Jim's shoulder.

  It wasn't just his fever that awakened me. Blair's breathing had become strained, shallow. He trembled against Jim, his weakened body shuddering in pain before going slack once again. Jim closed his eyes as the magnitude of the situation swept over him. Sometime during the night, as the two men slept, Blair's condition had worsened dramatically.

  Rekindled anger toward Quinn flamed in Jim's stomach and he breathed in and out slowly, forcing himself to push the rage aside... for now. Blair needed him. This was not the time for anger. Breathing in, then out, repeating the exercise his guide had taught him, Jim soon attained the level of control he was seeking. And as though to share the accomplishment with his sleeping partner, he bent his head and pressed his lips briefly against Blair's hair, allowing the tenderness he felt for the young man to eclipse--at least for the present--the hatred he held in his heart toward Dawson Quinn.

  Blair stirred against him, waking. The anthropologist lay quietly for several minutes, and then his body was racked by a deep, hoarse cough. Jim felt Blair's body tense, then convulse against him as the first cough was followed by another, then another. The coughing subsided then, and Blair relaxed back against him. Jim lifted his hand to Blair's face and rested his fingers lightly against Blair's temple, stroking at his sweat-dampened hair.

  "Jim?" Blair's voice came to him. It was drowsy, so soft it was almost inaudible, even to the sentinel.

  Jim continued to smooth his hair away from his face. "Shhhhh," he whispered, "I'm right here."

  Blair coughed again. "I... need... to sit up."

  Jim hesitated. "Chief, your ribs-"

  "Please, Jim. Can't...breathe this way. Hurts."

  Jim stiffened at the words. Oh God. His lungs! Jim concentrated on the sound of Blair's breathing, listening for and finding what he feared most. One of his lungs had partially collapsed. Jim knew it. Could hear it with every wheezing breath Blair released. Jim gritted his teeth against this new knowledge, knowing that in all likelihood, one of Blair's broken ribs had punctured his lung as they slept and now his guide was struggling for each breath.

  But it's only partial. If the whole lung had collapsed... Jim shoved that thought to the back of his mind. He knew what would happen if Blair lost complete use of one of his lungs.

  "Jim?" Blair said again, his voice edged with desperation. "Please."

  "Sorry, Blair," Jim whispered, chiding himself for adding to his partner's discomfort even for just a few seconds. "But let's take it nice and slow." Moving cautiously, gently, Jim lifted the young man from his chest. The detective levered himself up to a seated position, ignoring his own aches and pains. Never once did he completely let go of Blair, who was leaning heavily against him for support. Jim helped Blair sit up then he scooted back to lean against the rock wall of the old mine. Reaching out, he drew Blair to him, gently pulling him back in against his side, knowing it would be easier for his friend to breathe in a more elevated position.

  "How are you feeling?" Jim asked as Blair settled in next to him.

  Blair reached up to place his hand against Jim's chest, weakly grasping a handful of Ellison's flannel shirt in his hand, but he didn't answer. He was silent for so long that Jim began to wonder if the young man had even heard his question. But after a few minutes, Blair's voice came to him, soft, faint. "Not... doing so good here, Jim. Sorry."

  Jim bent his head down against Sandburg's. "Sorry?" he repeated quietly, "What are you sorry about?"

  Blair attempted a small chuckle. "Know... that wasn't what you wanted to hear..."

  "Shhhhh. It's okay, Chief. I need to know how you're doing," Jim whispered, not trusting his voice. "Do you want some water?"

  Blair shook his head, a small, barely noticeable movement against Jim's shoulder.

  "Don't argue with me, Sandburg," Ellison scolded good-naturedly, reaching beside him for the half-empty bottle of water. Flipping the cap open, he held it up against Blair's lips. "Just a little for me, all right?" he prompted.

  Sandburg lifted his head away from Jim's shoulder and allowed him to tip the bottle of water up until some of the cool liquid trickled into his mouth. He took a tentative swallow then shook his head, indicating he didn't want any more.

  "One more sip," Jim encouraged him.

  Blair did as Jim asked, forcing another swallow down his parched throat, then he reached up weakly and pushed the bottle away. "No more."

  "Okay, Chief. No more right now." Capping the water, Jim placed it on the ground beside him, then reached around and pulled Blair close to him again.

  Nestled against him, Blair sighed, then fell silent; just taking the sips of water seemed to have exhausted what little strength he had left. He was so still that Ellison had to listen carefully just to be able to hear his slow and shallow breathing. Jim lifted his hand and rested it against Blair's head, taking comfort in the pulse of life that beat--albeit weakly--beneath the soft skin at Blair's temple.

  Sandburg coughed from time to time, a small, painful sound. He tensed before each convulsion, curling into Jim as he fought to control the coughs in an attempt to spare his already abused body from additional pain. Each sound tore at Jim's heart, each tensing of Blair's muscles chipped away at what was left of his self-control. He was losing his friend, his foundation. Blair was slipping away from him in small, tortured degrees.

  After several minutes Blair's voice drifted up to him again, impossibly weaker than it had been only moments before. "Jim?"

  "Shhhhhh. Still here, Buddy."

  Blair coughed again, then forced a smile up into the darkness. "I want you to know... I looked for you... forever..." he whispered, his fingers toying absently at Jim's shirt. His voice had a tinge of finality about it, a tone of surrendered acceptance, as though he knew the words would be among his last. "Forever, man."

  A piece of Jim withered and then died beneath the surrender in Blair's tone, but he pushed his concern for Blair to the forefront, denying his own pain. He nodded his head as he remembered the story Blair had told him about discovering sentinels for the first time. "I know," he replied to Blair's whispered statement, blinking against the threat of tears, injecting warmth into his voice to mask the paralyzing fear that had snaked itself around his heart. "Ever since you read that Burton manuscript when you were eleven, right?"

  Blair laughed lightly, and lifted his fingers to slap them weakly against Jim's chest. "Not that, man," he admonished his friend as though Jim had missed an unbelievably obvious point. "I mean... I looked for you forever. You, Jim."

  Jim was confused. He lifted his head and looked down at Blair. "For me? I don't understand--"

  "Always wanted a brother," Blair interrupted him softly. It was almost as though Jim had not spoken, or that Blair hadn't heard him. "Lots of the other kids had big brothers, but I didn't," he rambled. "...Used to watch them... always knew I was missing out..."