Here We Go Again

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Jim Ellison tilted his head, then moved to the loft door, opening it just as his captain raised a hand to knock.

"Damn it, Jim, I wish you wouldn't do that!" The scowl on Simon's face was as familiar as the words he spoke.

"I can't help it, Simon," Jim sighed. "The writers enjoy it too much." At his words, an odd expression flashed across Simon's face. Instantly, Jim tensed, every nerve braced for what was coming. "What, Simon? What have they done now?"

It was Simon's turn to sigh. Jim recognized the sound. "Oh, Lord. It's Blair. Why can't they leave him alone?" A chilling thought went through him. "It's not another death story, is it?" The big detective sat heavily on the couch. "I don't think I could handle another death story this week." He looked up, his face white. "Please tell me it's not another death story."

Simon took a deep breath. "Jim, you know how it works. I don't know if it's a death story until we find the body. Hell, I don't even know what I'm going to say until it's written!"

The Sentinel stared at Simon for another minute, inhaled audibly, and stood up. "You're right. So talk to me, Simon. What's going on?"

Simon opened his mouth, blinked, and with a startled look said, "Oh, that's not right...."

Jim waited for a few seconds before his impatience demanded answers. "What is it, Simon? What's not right?"

"Lash? Simon, Lash is dead. I shot him in the chest five times. His heart wasn't beating."

Jim was vaguely aware of his jaw clenching. He hadn't intended to clench it -- his dentist bill was already outrageous. Apparently, the author had other ideas. "That's ridiculous, Simon!"

Early the next morning, the loft door opened. Jim Ellison stepped inside, carefully cradling the unconscious form of his best friend. Blair had once more fallen asleep on the way home from the hospital. Without a word, Jim carried his partner into the bedroom on the lower level. Laying the younger man on the bed, the former Army Ranger removed the grad student's shoes and covered him. Moving back into the living room, Jim closed the French doors behind him.

Simon was already seated on the couch, beer in hand. Another bottle sat on the coffee table, waiting for Jim. The detective sank exhaustedly onto the couch, leaning his head back.

"Why, Simon? Why do the writers always seem to go after Sandburg?" He leaned forward and picked up the beer, just holding it. "This is the third time he's been kidnapped this week, the fifth concussion, the second time he's been drugged...."

"At least it wasn't a death story this time." Simon stared at the wall as if searching it for answers. "There were...how many of those?"

"Four." Jim closed his eyes, trying not to remember the various ways his partner had died. "Why can't they give him some time off? There used to be more balance -- I'd get my fair share of the pain, too. Lately, though, it seems like...." His voice trailed off as a small sound from the bedroom caught his attention.

"What else? Christ, Simon, they can't even let him sleep!" The Sentinel set down his untouched beer and moved toward his Guide's bedroom, throwing a frustrated glare at the ceiling. "Damn it, hurt me for a change!"

A wicked grin spread over the face of a young woman seated at a computer. "Oh, that gives me a great idea," she murmured, beginning to type.

So, what do you think? If you want a sequel, you'll have to write it. I have absolutely NO ideas for one!