The  Sentinel and all related characters are the property of 
UPN, Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright 
infringement is intended. No profit is being made.

This story is the property of the author.

I'm in an angsty-smarmy sort of mood right now. Not terribly 
original (again...) but sweet.
________

A Blessed Protector's Thoughts on Survival



I did *not* panic.

And why should I have? Just because the man I've come to 
consider my best friend -- the man who has risked his life time 
and again to help me, the man without whom I would have 
literally gone insane -- gets shot, is that any reason to panic?

yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, so I panicked.

But I didn't panic *much.*

So when I first saw  Blair go down, blood beginning to seep 
through the leg of his jeans, pain and surprise on his 
expressive face, right then I very much wanted to put my last 
bullet between Quinn's eyes, then take his gun and hunt down 
the son of a bitch who'd was shooting t us, who already *had* 
shot Blair. So for a second there my breath caught and my 
heart skipped a beat -- skipped several beats and didn't start 
beating again until I was sure he was alive. Under the 
circumstances, I think I handled the situation rather well.

Of course, the situation never should have occurred to begin 
with.

And *that* is why I'm still awake.

According to the clock on the VCR, it's almost two in the 
morning. I gave up on sleep almost an hour ago and came 
downstairs, hoping that some milk and a little moving around 
would help.  Well, I finished the milk a while ago and I've been 
pacing non-stop since I got up and I'm still wide awake, so I'd 
say my hopes were a little off the mark.

I don't need a minor in psych to realize what's bothering me. It's 
more than the shock of almost losing Blair. It's the guilt of 
knowing that I'm responsible.

Responsible because I let him get involved with a case like 
this. Responsible for letting him help me chase a cop killer 
through the mountains. Responsible because I didn't see the 
bullet coming and get him out of the line of fire in time.

Responsible for not taking the bullet myself to keep him safe.

Simon knows what I'm thinking. He made a point of telling me 
not to blame myself, not to let myself take the guilt over what 
the psycho with the semi-automatic did. I'd take his words to 
heart more if I hadn't seen him agonizing back when Kincaid 
had taken Daryl hostage. I gave him the same speech then that 
he gave me after they air-lifted Blair to the hospital. And I 
know that Simon probably still holds on to some of the guilt 
from that mess.

And even though I know that the only one to blame is the one 
who pulled the trigger, I can't help but think that Blair would 
have been safe if only I had made stay behind.

At least I'm not having nightmares. Of course, I haven't really 
slept since this all began, either. Maybe they're waiting for me 
to have a full night's sleep before rearing their ugly heads and 
startling me to wakefulness.

And then I can awaken in the middle of the night, to a dark 
room, my heart pounding and a scream, or a moan or a sob 
caught in my throat. Just like the first week after Lash. Just 
like when Blair was dosed with Golden. At least then he was 
having nightmares of his own and I could concentrate on him 
until the images of death and horror conjured up by my mind 
faded under the necessity of comforting Blair. But now he's 
sleeping peacefully in his room, heartbeat steady, breathing 
calm, showing no sign at all of having been traumatized by 
recent events. He's taking being shot rather well. I'm glad he 
feels that he's safe now, that this isn't haunting him, but it's 
leaving me with nothing to focus on but my thoughts and my 
guilt.

Before I even realize it, I'm standing at the door to his room. 
The doors are open slightly and with my eyesight it isn't any 
trouble to see him sleeping peacefully, curled beneath the thick 
comforter. His face is turned to the side and I can see the 
bruises he'd received from being pistol-whipped -- and from 
jumping over a waterfall. A strand of hair has curled over his 
face and I can see it move with each exhalation of his breath.

A smile tugs at my mouth and I willingly surrender to it. 
Crossing the room silently, I reach out and carefully brush the 
hair away. My fingers linger over the cut on his forehead and I 
find myself wishing I could take it away, all of it, and make 
sure that nothing, no one, ever hurts him again.

He stirs at my touch, blue eyes opening a bit, unseeing in the 
darkness. "Jim?"

"Hush. It's all right. Go back to sleep." I rest my fingers at his 
temple as his eyes drift shut and his breathing slows again.

The responsibility slams into me again. It's daunting and 
frightening being responsible for Blair; responsible as his 
friend, as his partner, as his Sentinel. His Blessed Protector. 
Daunting, yet somehow precious. A reason, maybe. Reason for 
what, I'm not sure. Getting up in the morning? Not drifting 
away in my sleep? Dodging a bullet before it blows my brains 
out? Whatever it is, it's something I cherish.

It's a responsibility I take seriously.

Blair would say it's genetic, my role as a Sentinel.

But genetics can't explain it. I've protected others. I've failed to 
protect others. I've never felt like this after failing them.

Nope. Not genetics. Blair. Friendship.

I've been told I'm a little possessive and more than a little 
protective when it comes to my friends. And I have *never* 
had someone who was as important to me as Blair is. The 
desire 
to protect him overrides everything else, including common 
sense and self-preservation.

And I failed him.

I hold back a sigh.

Blair murmurs something in his sleep and turns his head 
against my hand. I brush aside another strand of curls before I 
turn away.

It'll take a lot more than a week to fully come to terms with 
this, to get past it, and I know I'll never forget about it.

But Blair doesn't think I failed him.

And knowing that, I can deal with anything.





end