The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of Pet Fly Productions, UPN and Paramount. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit is being made. Well, the joy of creativity is probably some sort of a profit, but it's hardly something you can sue me for. This story is the property of the author. There actually is an explanation for this one. I've been pretty sick lately; in early October I suffered a bout of upper respitory infection that nearly became pneumonia followed by a minor case of stomach flu, and less than a week ago I was diagnosed with Fifth's Disease - which is dangerous only in so far as that it's completely annoying and frustrating, so please don't worry. I was feeling pretty miserable this morning, and there was no one I could talk to. In a particularly grumpy mood I watched Blind Man's Bluff and instantly decided that Jim wouldn't leave Blair's side while the younger man was hurt or sick. Even if it *was* a minor ailment. So: this story. It was a great way to let off steam. I was even in a good mood by the time my roommate came back (which is something of a miracle itself.) Not beta'd. Archive if you want to. Found on my homepage. ________ In Sickness and in Health Every muscle in his body ached, and every joint complained but Jim Ellison remained completely still, as he had for the last several hours. It had been dark when he'd begun, and now the first signs of dawn could be seen streaming into the living room through the glass doorway. He couldn't see the clock from where he sat, but he figured it had been at least eight hours. He tensed slightly, then slowly relaxed the muscles, easing off a little of the tension that came from sitting so still for so long. The small body curled against his chest shifted slightly at his movement, but was otherwise still. Jim rested a hand against the soft brown hair, relieved to feel that the heat was no longer pouring off his partner as it had been earlier. He absently stroked his hand through his friend's hair as he considered the pros and cons of moving. His leg really *was* starting to bother him, but this was the first real sleep Blair had gotten since this started, and Jim didn't want to disturb him. The younger man needed all the rest he could get. Flu season had hit Cascade viciously hard this year. Schools were all but closed, hospitals were overflowing with children and elderly patients. The precinct had been hit as hard as anywhere else, and the few cops who weren't flat on their backs in the hospital were working double shifts trying to keep the city from being overwhelmed. It seemed the criminal element was the only part of the city not affected by the spreading illness. Everyone else was affected though. Either you were sick, or someone you knew was. Simon had rushed Daryl to the emergency room late one night when the teenager's coughing had become so violent that he had begun to cough up blood. Taggert, in Bomb Squad, had been one of the first hit, and ended up under observation for a couple days. And Josh Guthrie, down in Vice... His wife, three months pregnant, had been hit especially hard. They were trying to save the baby. Blair shifted again, burrowing even closer against Jim's chest, his arms tucked around his own stomach. He mumbled something, still caught in the fever dreams that had plagued him for the last day. Jim tightened his hold around his partner's back and murmured something reassuring. It had been almost unavoidable that one of them get sick. Really, just leaving the loft brought them into contact with a dozen sick people at any time. Blair had probably been infected when that burglary suspect threw up on him. Jim smiled and smothered a chuckle at the memory. At the time, he'd been as annoyed as Blair, vaguely worried about infections - any infections - and more than a little disgusted. Blair had not been in the mood for jokes, though, so Jim had let it drop. Bad enough half of Major Crimes witnessed the event. And later, when Blair had succumbed to the same illness that had knocked out half the city, there hadn't been anything to joke about. But now, with Blair on the mend, Jim was willing to admit that the look on Sandburg's face had been priceless. It had hit suddenly. Blair had been fine one minute, half dead the next. Simon had called Jim into his office to discuss the particulars of a murder case, and when Jim came out, he'd found Blair half conscious and burning with fever. He'd walked Sandburg down to the truck, and by the time they reached the loft Blair had been totally out of it. Jim had given in and carried his Guide to the elevator - no way he was carrying Sandburg up two flights of stairs. Doctor Myers, probably the only doctor in Cascade Sandburg went to willingly, had listened to Jim's description and worries and calmly told him that there was nothing the hospitals could do. Too many sick people, not enough staff or supplies. Blair would probably be better off staying at home with Jim to take care of him that he would be laying in a hospital bed waiting for a doctor to manage to see him for a few seconds. Jim had taken his role as caretaker seriously, working to keep Sandburg cool and comfortable, even managing to get him to drink some water in his more lucid moments. But sometime late that evening the worst had hit. Blair had been burning with fever, and his dreams carried into his waking moments - moments that had gotten rarer and rarer as the night went on. One of the dreams had been particularly bad. From Blair's cries, Jim had known the younger man was flashing back to the delusions he'd suffered while high on Golden. Fire People had tormented his friend's dreams and after the third time he'd rushed into Sandburg's room to quiet the desperate shouts, Jim had given up on rest and stayed behind. His presence had seemed to comfort Blair somewhat, a fact Jim had noticed often in the past. It was the instinctual comfort of a Sentinel and his Guide, a cop and his partner, a man and his friend. Even asleep and ill Blair had recognized Jim, and known that he was safe. Playing on this, Jim had climbed into the small bed, and held his friend through the worst of the dreams. Some time around midnight, after a particularly bad nightmare, Blair had latched onto Jim and stubbornly refused to let go, no matter how much Jim coaxed. Finally, Jim had given up and the younger man had spent the rest of the night with his head pillowed on the detective's chest. Jim had stayed awake the entire night, Sentinel senses keeping a watch on Blair's heartbeat and breathing, occasionally brushing a hand across the younger man's forehead to check the temperature and he'd constantly been brushing long curls away from his Guide's face. But now that Blair appeared to be out of danger, Jim could feel his exhaustion catching up with him. With a resigned sigh he rolled his eyes at the ceiling, not nearly as uncomfortable with the situation as he pretended. Something about Sandburg cried out to be cared for and protected, and something in Jim always answered. He wriggled a bit until he was laying flat, his head resting on the pillow, and tightened his hold on his partner. Comforted by the heartbeat and breathing which had finally returned to normal, he drifted into sleep. *** His head hurt. God, did his head hurt. Blair had barely awoken when the pain in his head struck him. He clenched his eyes even further shut than they already were and buried his face in his pillow, hoping to fall back asleep until the pain stopped. Probably would have worked, except for one minor detail. That wasn't his pillow. Blair froze as he tried to figure out just what it was he was lying on. The soft sound of a heartbeat reached him, and he felt the slight rise and fall of breathing. 'Oh, man.' He risked opening his eyes, a little, and turned his head slowly, trying to see if his sudden embarrassment was justified. He'd fallen asleep on Jim. All right then. Let the mortification begin. He moaned softly, and just caught himself before he hid his face in Jim's chest again. Jim probably stayed up all night with him once he'd gotten sick, and how did Blair thank him? Jeez. Jim probably hadn't gotten any sleep at all. He braced himself and tried to sit up, but he felt far too weak and didn't quite make it. His arms felt like rubber and his stomach was doing unpleasant things. A hand on the back of his head stopped any further movement and eased him back down to Jim's chest. Blair gave up the effort and relaxed, hoping Jim hadn't minded the imposition too much. "Morning." "Morning," Jim replied. Good, he didn't sound too tired. "You feeling all right?" "Better," Blair admitted. "But considering the circumstances, that's not saying much." Jim chuckled and Blair could feel the rumble in his chest. "Well, at least you're coherent this morning." "Do I want to know what happened last night?" "If you're worried about your honor, fear not. I was a perfect gentleman." Blair snorted and smacked Jim's stomach lightly. "Wise guy. I meant, I hope I wasn't too much trouble." "Nope. No trouble." "Really?" "Really?" "Good." Blair yawned and curled in on himself; the loft was always cold in the morning. "Because I think I'm going to fall asleep on you again in a minute." A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him a little closer. "Sleep as long as you like. You were pretty much out of it yesterday. You're going to need a while before you're totally back on your feet." A second hand found its way into his hair, brushing the curls back from his face in a soothing pattern. Blair felt himself relax under the gentle touch. "Simon gave me the day off to take care of you, so just relax and go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up. I'll stay right here to make sure of it." Blair barely heard the words but managed to summon the strength to murmur one simple word. "Promise?" Before sleep completely took him he felt the hand still against his forehead and the movement beneath him as Jim leaned down to whisper softly. "I promise, my friend. Rest." He did. And there were no more nightmares. end