"You finished with that report yet, Chief?" Jim asked, turning away from his computer to glance at his partner. He'd been staring at the damn screen for hours, and his eyes were about to pop out of his head. It was definitely time for a break.

Blair looked up from the report and nodded. "Yeah. Just about."

"Blair?" a female voice interrupted.

Blair's head shot up, and his eyes widened when he spotted the tall brunette a few feet away.

"Helen?" He rose from his chair, his jaw slack with surprise. "How are you?"

She beamed, launching herself toward him. "Cous!" She wrapped her arms around him in a firm hug. "I'm fine! How are you? What are you doing here? In a police station?" She pulled back, her eyes narrowing. "Man, don't tell me you got busted for some protest thing again."

Blair chuckled, glancing nervously at Jim. "No, no. Nothing like that, Helen. I... uh... I sort of work here."

"Get out!" she slapped him on the shoulder. "No way! You're working with the police?"

Blair looked around, noticing the curious stares focused his way. Rafe and Brown had stopped whatever they'd been doing to inspect the newcomer, and Megan sat at her desk shamelessly staring at Helen.

"Uh, why don't we go to the break room and catch up?" he said, throwing meaningful glares at the ogglers.

From behind, Jim cleared his throat, and Blair turned to see the Sentinel standing next to the desk, an amused expression on his face.

"Oh right." A hint of red colored Blair's cheeks. "Jim this is Helen, my cousin." Then he looked back at Helen and smiled. "And this, Helen, is Jim, my roommate and partner."

Helen's smile brightened, something Jim would have thought impossible, and she extended her hand, her bright green eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise. "What a pleasure to meet you, Jim."

Jim shook her hand, returning the smile. "The pleasure's mine, ma'am."

"Shall we?" Blair gestured toward the doorway.

"Sure thing, sweetie," she said, and took off toward the hall.

Blair steered her into the deserted break room and closed the door behind him. Helen leaned against the table, smiling brightly. Her eyes swept over him, twinkling with merriment.

"Wow, Blair, you've changed. The dockers. The hair all pulled back. The shirt. You look almost respectable," she teased.

"Ha. Ha." A tiny smile touched his lips. "So what brings you here, Helen?"

"Actually, I was checking out Rainier. I'm thinking about getting an English degree."

"That's great!" he replied, "but what I really meant was what brings you here, to the police station."

"Oh!" she chuckled briefly. "I saw a purse snatching down near the university. I just finished giving my statement and making an ID of the guy. That's all. I was passing in the hall and saw you sitting at the desk. Nearly couldn't believe my eyes! Imagine! You working with the police?" she laughed again, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "You haven't told them about all your protest antics, have you? Your tree hugging days? When we --"

"Not really," he said quickly, "but I'm sure it wouldn't come as a surprise to them."

Her smile faded, her eyes studying him. "Are you okay, Blair?"

"Huh?" He was taken aback by the directness of her question and the sudden concern in her eyes. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

A subtle crease touched her brow. "You seem different. At first I just thought 'more mature,' but it's more than that Blair. You're almost... I don't know... melancholy. Sad. Did I catch you at a bad time? Are things going okay for you?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but plastered a smile on his face. "No. No. I'm fine. No you didn't catch me at a bad time." Good one, Blair. You haven't seen her in years and you're not even acting happy. Way to hurt her feelings. Amending his oversight, he leaned forward and pulled her into a quick hug. "I'm fine, really, and I'm very happy to see you. Ecstatic, actually." He pulled back, looking into her eyes. "Don't mind me, I'm just a bit tired. You know, the life of a grad stud -- I, uh, mean, a police consultant and all. You hungry? Wanna get some dinner?"

She brightened, nodding vigorously. "Absolutely. I'm starved."

"Great! Mind if I ask Jim along? You two can get to know one another -- but no embarrassing stories about me, okay?"

She laughed. "So you mean I can't talk about you at all, then?"

"Ha. Ha." He tugged on a strand of her hair. "You're a riot, Hel."

"Ooooh." She growled playfully. "You are so dead! You know I hate that name!"

He laughed and ducked out of the bullpen as she chased after him.

"Helen is Naomi's brother's daughter." Sandburg explained. "My cousin, like I said."

"Yep! Those good ol' Sandburg genes," she chuckled, looking at Blair. "So explain to me what you do with the police." She shook her head, a look of disbelief on her face. "Man, Blair, talk about weird! I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone. You? With the police?" Her smile faded, and she looked quickly to Jim. "Uh... No offense intended."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "I hear that."

Helen's smile returned. "Aha! Blair's been rubbing off on you, I see." She looked back at her cousin. "So? Fess up!"

Blair looked back and forth between Helen and Jim, feeling like a bug under a microscope. He fidgeted in his seat, idly fingering the edge of his menu. "Well, uh, I started as an observer with the department for my thesis project." He lowered his gaze, studying the menu. "That didn't really work out... The thesis, thing, I mean, so I got offered a paid position with the department. That's pretty much all there is to tell."

Dead silence met his explanation, and, after several unbelievably long seconds, he looked up to see a pair of green eyes staring at him. "What do you mean your thesis thing didn't work out? Naomi told me you were close to finishing."

Blair swallowed. He could feel Jim's eyes on him, but he didn't dare look at the older man. "Uh, well, I... uh... made some choices. Now I work with the PD. No big deal."

Her usually bright eyes dimmed, narrowed with concern. She's not buying it, Blair thought, looking quickly back at his menu. She always could see right through me, damnit.

"Are you a cop now?" she asked, her voice suspiciously subdued.

"I haven't gone to the academy yet," he explained. "Right now I'm like a paid consultant."

"Yet? So you are going to be a cop? With a gun and a badge and all?"

He shrugged, studying the dinner items on the menu. Chicken-Fried Steak. Fetuccini. Caesar Salad.

"Blair? Huh? You going to be carrying a gun, or what?" she repeated.

He finally pulled his gaze away from the menu. "Maybe. I don't know." Dropping his menu back to the table, he stood suddenly, his appetite shot to hell. "Look, Jim, Helen," he began. "I'm kinda feeling a bit under the weather right now, so why don't you two continue with dinner? I'll take a cab back home. See you later, Helen. Come by the loft after you're done dinner and we can catch up some more. Okay?"  Yeah, right. God, why'd she have to show up NOW?

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed quickly for the doors. He'd just made it to the sidewalk when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Blair, wait."

He turned around to see Helen peering at him, her face a mask of concern. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying to me, Blair. Come on, tell me the truth. If you don't, I'll just call Naomi and she'll --"

He put a hand on her elbow. "Okay. Look." Oh man, he did not want to go through this right now. "Helen, I... Well, about a year ago I met this woman." He shook his head, trying to organize the whirlwind of thoughts rushing through his brain. "To make a long story short, she was a criminal. I knew something she didn't want me to, and she killed me. Drowned me in the fountain at Rainier."

"Oh my God, Blair..."

He continued on, quickly. "Jim brought me back, but, yeah, I guess that experience affected me. You know, near-death-experience and all. I just... Well... I just figured out what was really important in my life. Did some re-evaluating. That's all."

She gazed at him for several quiet seconds before speaking. "So why are you so sad now?"

His throat tightened. "I'm not! I mean... I'm where I want to be. I like working with Jim, and I like the police department."

"What about anthropology? It's been your love for as long as I can remember."

Blair stiffened involuntarily. "People change."

She pursed her lips, her eyes scanning his face. Finally, she said, "You sure have, Blair. I don't know all of what's happened during the past five years to mess you up like this, but it's obvious you're not happy. You used to be like a little kid in a candy store all the time. You used to smile. Hell, you used to bounce! But now..." She shook her head, a flicker of sadness washing over her face. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. "You're not a happy person, Blair. Anybody looking at you can tell. You need to find yourself again, because I know Blair Sandburg pretty darn well, and the person standing in front of me is not Blair Sandburg."

Words. She was going to have words with the buzz-cut cop that Blair called "partner." Ducking through the doors, she spotted him watching her, tracking her approach, his eyes cool and his jaw tight.

Military, she immediately thought. It was obvious. Army? Marines? She stopped and sank back into her seat, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward, her eyes pinning the man in front of her.

"What have you done to Blair?" she asked pointedly.

He pulled back, his eyes widening. "What the hell are you talking about?"

What the...? Ooooh! God, what an asshole! Man, some friend. Don't sit there and tell me you don't see anything wrong. She took several deep, calming breaths. No use jumping down the man's throat until she found out more about him.

"How long have you known my cousin?" she asked.

"About four years."

"I've known him my entire life," Helen told him. "I grew up with him. Granted, he and Naomi moved around a lot... So did I, actually... But we always hooked up whenever we could. We had fun together. I know him very well. The man I just saw is not Blair Sandburg. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because, if you don't, then you're not his friend. You've known him four years, so you must remember what he was like back then. The spark in his eye. The bounce in his step. His infectious smile. His constant energy. Any of this sound familiar?"

"It's been four years. He's matured."

"Bullshit. He didn't mature. He died." She almost spat the word, but it seemed to have no affect on the stoic man, which only infuriated her. "He told me about that, how he almost died and how you saved him. But that's all he told me. Now he's some kind of cop. Do you have any idea how un-Blair like that is? I mean, we used to go to environmental protests. Chain ourselves to trees. Fight to save the whales. We used to fly in the face of authority. Work for peace. Blair, well, he's got a kind soul. I just can't see him packing lead, if you know what I mean," she finished bitterly.

Jim stared at her for a moment, then slowly rose from the table. "I don't know about you, but I'm not really hungry, anymore. You got someplace you want me to drive you?"

She bit the inside of her cheek. "No. I'm fine here. Thanks, anyway," she said flatly.

"Nice meeting you," Jim huffed, spinning on his heels and making a hasty retreat.

That's how I feel. Old and tired. Worn out and Used up.

The man in the mirror gazed back at him, the eyes dark and accusing. Who are you?

"I don't know anymore," Blair answered.

Who am I now?

His heart skipped a beat, and he shifted, sinking onto the closed toilet lid. He remembered when he'd seen those words written in red on a different mirror years ago. That was when Lash had slipped through Jim's fingers, taunting him with the cryptic message. Only the message hadn't remained cryptic for long. Lash had already chosen his next victim. A shiver snaked down Blair spine, and he closed his eyes. Oh man, get a grip.

Lash had wanted to become Blair, even donning a wig to make himself look similar. Then the psycho had kidnapped him, almost killing him before Jim crashed in with his last-minute rescue.

Blair trembled again. What if he had? What if he'd killed me then and tried to become me? He lowered his forehead onto the cool porcelain. Good luck, Lash. You couldn't have been me. I'm not even me. I don't even remember who I was, or how to be that person. Helen's right. I used to be happy. I used to laugh at little things, smile for no reason. You liked that about me, Lash, didn't you? I remember. You liked that I was full of life. You wanted that. That zeal. That spark. Well, look at me now, man. I doubt you'd even give me a second look, which is fine by me, believe me. But I WAS different back then, wasn't I? I can remember that much, but, for the life of me, I can't remember HOW. What made me laugh? Why did I smile? Now... Well, now I just can't find that feeling.

He raised his head, glancing at the door. It was time for him to do something, time to find whatever it was that he had lost.

He shook his head. Blair's cousin. Figures.. The nerve of some people. Where did this Helen lady get off? She'd known him for all of one hour and decided she knew everything there was to know about him. Typical Sandburg: mouth off first, think later.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the loft door, totally unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Jaw slack, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him and tossing his keys in the basket. His eyes scanned the mess, drifting over the papers, books, boxes, and photos that littered the living room area. Half-emptied boxes rested on the floor near the couch, and papers and photo albums littered the coffee table and sofa. Hell, the place almost looked like it had been ransacked.

"Sandburg." His voice was low, controlled, and he stepped further into the loft.

No answer. Frowning, he listened to the grating sounds coming from Blair's bedroom and decided to go see for himself what his roommate was up to.

"Sandburg, what's going on?" He walked through the French doors to see Blair kneeling in the center of his room in front of an open box, rifling frantically through the contents. The young man seemed oblivious to his approach. "Sandburg!" he yelled over the music, but Blair didn't turn around.

Teeth on edge, he stormed over to the small CD player and turned off the power, stopping the music cold and filling the room with a sudden, thick silence. Blair startled, looking up from the box, his face flushed.

"Jim?"

"Yeah. I live here, remember. What the hell are you doing?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of something dark touch Blair's face before he lowered his head and resumed his search. "Looking."

Jim sighed. It was promising to be a long night, and his headache threatened to gain momentum. "For what?"

"Stuff."

"Care to be a tad more specific, Sandburg?"

"No."

Jim sighed. Great. Just Great. "Does this have something to do with what Helen said today?"

No answer. He waited several more seconds, but Blair didn't seem inclined to acknowledge the question. Fine! he thought. I definitely don't need this right now. He doesn't want to talk, that's fine with me. "Just clean up the mess when you're done, Chief. Okay?"

"Fine," Blair answered tersely.

"Goodnight."

"'Night."

He'd found all sorts of other things, but none of them, either solely or collectively, had been what he'd wanted to find. Photos. Books. Letters. Journals. He's searched through them all, but he still hadn't found the answer.

Evidence. That's what he was looking for. Evidence of who he had been not-so-long ago. Evidence of why and how he had changed, and who this new person was that he'd become. Helen's words had struck a chord with him -- exposed a raw, naked part of his soul that he'd done a good job of ignoring until she pointed it out.

He looked at the mess strewn about his room. A photo album lay open on the floor, pictures of his fishing trip with Jim of two years ago plastered on the pages. He was smiling. Jim was laughing. The water and the sky surrounded them, blue and bright.

Tears stung Blair's eyes, and he looked away from the pictures. What the hell happened? Even as he asked the question, part of the answer sprung to mind. Alex.

True, things had started to change between him and Jim even before her arrival, but she'd managed to do a whole lot of damage all on her own. Hell, she had the distinct honor of being the one and only person to technically kill him. Jim had brought him back to life...

Or had he?

He swallowed. Some time after he and Jim had returned from Sierra Verde, the Sentinel had told him about The Dream. Jim had been running through the jungle. He saw a wolf, took aim with his bow and arrow, and shot the creature through the heart. The wolf fell, whimpered, then morphed into Blair. Dead.

Blair shivered. At first, he'd thought the meaning of the dream obvious. Jim had pushed Blair out of the loft and out of his life, and Alex had gotten to him -- killed him.

But what if the dream hadn't been a foreshadowing of Blair's murder at the hands of the evil Sentinel? What if it had been a warning of a different type? Or perhaps a revelation? A message that he, Blair Sandburg, had already changed?

Jim had aimed the arrow, driven it into Blair's heart, and killed him. Later, at the fountain, when his heart was stopped, he remembered the vision of the wolf and the jaguar. He was running through the jungle toward the black cat. He leaped into the air at the same time as the jaguar, and they collided. He and Jim. First two, then one.

The truth hit him so suddenly that it stole his breath. The dream. The vision. It all made sense. Blair Sandburg had died, and Jim had killed him, and that day at the fountain had resurrected someone else. The jaguar and the wolf had become one. The wolf had been consumed. Changed. Brought back by the jaguar -- but brought back as someone not quite the same.

And it did make sense. Jim Ellison had changed him. The Blair Sandburg of four years ago had been a very different person. He'd been free and independent, happy and alive. Now all he did was follow Jim around like a puppy dog. He'd given up his career for Jim, changed his life, done things he'd never thought he'd ever do. He'd held a gun, not once, but several times. Even fired it at people. He'd sacrificed his thesis, given up a career in anthropology -- his love -- to ensure Jim's well-being and to protect his privacy. Privacy he'd never really dealt for in the beginning. The deal had been simple. He would help Jim with his senses in return for using him as the subject of his thesis. Black and White. Simple. Only it hadn't been simple, and Jim had decided he didn't want to be known, which really meant no thesis.

And Blair had gone along with it because, somewhere along the way, he'd grown to love James Ellison. Only now he wondered if he belonged in Jim's life.

What has happened to me?

Taking stock, he started to dislike what he saw. First, Borneo. He'd given up an incredible opportunity to stay with Jim, because the friendship was more important to him than his career. Then, when Jim had read his thesis and blown up, he'd offered to tear it up. And he would have, too, because he'd meant what he'd said. He valued Jim's friendship more than his career. But was it really a friendship? That night, after the Sentinel had snuck into his thesis and read it, Jim had gone off about betrayal. "I gave you a job. A place to live."

Blair's face grew hot. Bullshit, Jim. What job? One that doesn't pay? It's not a job. It was never a job. It was a partnership. I thought you knew that. I thought you knew that I was helping you because I wanted to, because you were my friend.

Then later, when he'd confessed to helping Alex, even though he hadn't known who she really was at the time, Jim had accused him again of betrayal. Blair hadn't known that she was a criminal. He'd only known that she was a Sentinel and that she needed his help. Just like Jim had needed his help that day he'd walked in front of the garbage truck. All Blair had done was try to help her with her senses, to help her control the pain and, hopefully, get some more material for his thesis... especially since Jim hadn't seemed inclined to allow him to publish the Sentinel thesis. No thesis, no doctorate. It was a fact that Jim didn't seem to comprehend.

So Jim had thrown him out of the loft and told him to find "another subject." That had stung. Big time. It had actually hurt him worse than when Alex had hit him over the head and thrown him into the fountain.

But he'd come back from that, moved back into the loft, and resumed his work with Jim. Then came the clincher. Naomi had found his Sentinel thesis and turned it in. Jim's secret had gotten out, and, of course, the first person to get the blame had been him -- Blair Sandburg, the punching bag. Okay, so he hadn't been entirely blameless. He should have kept the thesis more secure, he could admit that much blame. But, still, it had hurt again when Jim accused him of betrayal. Jim hadn't even given him a real chance to explain. Later he'd found out that Naomi had turned it in, but that hadn't changed much for Jim. He'd still told Simon that he wanted to end the partnership. "His ride is over." That's what Jim had told the Captain, and those words still stung. Jim didn't know that Blair had found out what he'd said, and he'd never tell the Sentinel. But the words hurt hard, even now, and just thinking about them brought tears to his eyes.

He made a decision. Rising to his feet, he walked to his bureau and retrieved the leather journal from the top drawer. He'd started this particular diary after his near-death experience at the fountain, and he'd used up almost all the pages since then. The journal helped him, allowing him to give voice to the turmoil that raged inside him. First, he'd write it all out, get his feelings out in the open. Then he'd do what he should have done months ago...

Jim awoke to the odd sound of singing. Mumbled, rhythmic words drifted upward, and he identified the voice as Blair's. His brow ridged with curiosity, he slid out of bed and trotted down the stairs. The French doors were closed, and he cocked his head, listening. He couldn't make out the words. Actually, he wasn't even sure if they were English.

"Blair?" he inquired, loud enough for the young man to hear.

He got no response, and shuffled over to the doors. Trying the knob, it turned easily, and he peeked his head inside. "Sandburg? What are you doing?"

He spotted the young man on the bed, buried up to his chin beneath a mound of covers. His eyes were closed, and he lay on his back, his brow beaded with sweat. His lips moved, chanting the strange song.

"Blair." Jim sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed Blair's shoulder, giving his partner a firm shake. "Wake up, Sandburg. Come on."

Blair remained oblivious, trapped in whatever dream ailed him. He continued to sing the unfamiliar melody. The song was hum-like in quality, the words strung out so that, even if they were in English, Jim couldn't decipher one from the next.

"Chief, come on, buddy, wake up."

The song picked up speed, the pitch rising in intensity. Blair turned his head away from Jim, curling toward the wall as he continued the chant. Jim chewed the inside of his cheek, a pang of fear growing in his chest. This was becoming downright eerie. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the song sounded vaguely like some that Incacha had sung during Jim's time with the tribe, but he couldn't be sure if the words were Chopec, English, or another language entirely.

The song faded, and Blair shifted deeper beneath the covers. Jim listened to his friend's breathing and heartbeat. Both were extremely slow, almost too slow for sleep. He frowned, shaking Blair's shoulder in another attempt to wake him.

"Come on, Sandburg," he said more harshly. "I'm not fooling around here. Wake up!"

Blair mumbled, turning his head and cracking an eyelid open to peer at him. "Jim?"

"Yes, it's me." He nearly breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you okay?"

Blair turned back to the wall, waving him off. "Fine," he slurred, his voice heavy. "Go'way. Leave me'lone. Tired."

"What were you singing?" Jim asked.

"What're you talkin'bout?"

"Just now. You were singing."

"Sorry," Blair mumbled. "Go back t'sleep, Jimmmm."

Jim sat for a moment longer, his jaw clenched. Finally, he decided he'd get nowhere with Blair and rose to his feet, making a quiet exit.

He slid the key in the lock, knowing even before he opened the door that Blair wasn't home by the conspicuous lack of a heartbeat. What he didn't expect was the sight that greeted him. Yesterday, he'd opened the door to chaos. Today, he opened the door to emptiness.

The loft was neat. Too neat. His eyes floated over the apartment, noticing the bare spots on the walls that had just that morning been covered by Blair's things - a mask, a poster. He looked at the coffee table. No papers cluttered its surface. The whole living room and kitchen looked spic and span, spotless even to Sentinel eyes.

Slowly, he made his way to Blair's bedroom, opening the French doors. A lump formed in his throat when he realized just what had happened.

Empty. It's all empty. The walls were bare. The futon mattress naked, the sheets and covers folded neatly at the foot of the bed. No books rested in the bookshelf, nor on the desk. The closet door hung open, the rack empty.

He's gone.

His stomach felt like a block of concrete, and he staggered backward out of the room. A piece of white paper caught his eyes, and he walked over to the refrigerator, staring at his name scrawled on the folded binder paper. How had he missed the note before?

Quickly, he snatched the note from its magnet and opened it, reading the cursive that he knew to be Blair's handwriting:

'Jim. I don't know how to start this letter, but I'll try my best to make you understand. I have to leave. I left you next month's rent money on your dresser. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, so I put my stuff in storage at a friend's place. You have every right to be mad, and I'm sorry to do it this way. I just couldn't tell you in person. I knew what I'd see in your eyes and, I'm sorry, but right now I'm just not that strong.  I don't know if I'll be back, but I'll try. I have to sort some things out in my head first. If I'm not back by the first of next month, well, do what you want with the room. Actually, I guess you can do what you want with it, now. It's your place. It always has been. Tell Simon I'm sorry for leaving like this. Helen's right. I'm not made to be a cop. I loved working with you, Jim. I loved the thrill, and I loved helping people and making a difference, but I loved being an anthropologist, too, and I realize that I miss that part of my life. If I come back, I hope I'll still have your friendship, but I'll understand if you never want to see or talk to me again. I know what you're thinking. I hate to leave like this, so I left you my journal. It's on your dresser with the money. I hope you'll read it. I hope the words make sense to you, and that you understand. It's the only way I could think of to tell you what I'm feeling. I can't talk to you. You know that. We both know that. You clam up whenever I even mention my feelings, especially when I talk about dying. Sorry, Jim, I'm not as strong as you. I can't keep it all bottled up. I tried, and it didn't work. It just made me a mess, and now I'm trying to clean up some of that mess. I wouldn't be any good to you there, anyway. Not until I find myself - and yes, I know how "new age" that sounds. But it's true. Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I really did die that day at the fountain. I just hope it's not too late. Take care, buddy. Please be careful. I'll miss you.'

Jim's hand closed, the paper crumpling in his fist. He'd never felt the kind of pain that he did now... except when he'd found Blair floating face-down in Rainier's fountain. It was a pain of loss, like his heart had just been ripped out of his chest. He'd felt it the first time he'd thought he'd lost Blair, and he felt it now. He didn't know where Blair had gone, or even really why he had left, but he knew one thing: he couldn't stand the God-awful feeling in his chest a moment longer.

Swinging his school back-pack over his shoulders, he took off toward the monastery. He'd packed one change of clothes and some toiletry items. He knew Brother Marcus would let him use some of the old goodwill clothes they kept for just such occasions. The monastery was a place of retreat and reflection, an open door for those with tired, wounded souls. He hoped it would be just what he needed.

Some time later, as dusk fell, he reached the perimeter of the monastery. The cool evening wind tousled his hair, and he jammed his hands in his jacket pockets to ward off the chill. A serene quiet flowed over the land, a quiet that had been his companion since he'd left the Volvo and begun the hike. It was the kind of quiet that left a person with no choice but to listen to his thoughts, thoughts that Blair would rather drown out with loud music.

Still, it was a peaceful quiet, and he tilted his head back a fraction, looking up at the fading blue sky. A few stars were already visible, most notably Venus on the horizon. Okay, so Venus wasn't a star, but it was bright nevertheless. He remembered reading that President Ford had mistaken the planet for a UFO once. He wasn't too sure if it was a true story, because, as he gazed at the bright planet hanging low in the evening sky, he couldn't for the life of him figure out how Venus could be confused with a "flying saucer."

He looked around, but the place seemed deserted. Quiet. Dinner time, he figured. He shouldn't have arrived so late. It just wasn't polite to interrupt their meal, but, unfortunately, he hadn't been entirely sure how long it would take him to hike the distance.

Walking up the steps, he pushed on the front doors, and the right one swung open easily. They are such a trusting bunch. Even still, after the bloodshed last time...

The last time he had visited the monastery with Jim. The Sentinel hadn't been too happy when he'd found out his vacation time was going to be spent at a monastery rather than a luxurious resort, but the place had grown on him. He'd even found himself having fun, but then the killings had started, turning their vacation into a nightmare. Typical. Trouble seemed to follow him and Jim wherever they went. He just hoped his visit this time would be more uneventful. Relaxing. He didn't think he was up to handling another crisis. Not this time. He'd reached the end of his rope, dangling by a tenuous thread above the Black Pit.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole...

Invictus, one of his favorite poems because it exalted the unconquerable human spirit -- only his spirit wasn't feeling all that unconquerable as of late. He swallowed, stepping into the building and closing the door behind him. He figured the most likely place to find Brother Marcus was at the dining table, so he headed toward the kitchen area. Moments later, he heard the soft hum of voices, and, taking a deep breath, pushed through the door and entered the dining room.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as the table full of men looked up at him. He blushed, ducking his head, resisting the urge to back right out and run for the hills.

"Blair?" Brother Jeremy rose from the table.

Brother Marcus stood also, smiling brightly. "What are you doing here? Did you write? I didn't get any letter? Did you walk all the way here, Blair? I'm so sorry, if I'd have known -"

Blair raised his hands, smiling. "No. I'm sorry, Brother Marcus, I didn't write. I, uh, didn't exactly have time. I hope you don't mind." He glanced at Brother Jeremy. "I hope it's okay that I just barged in like this. I don't mean to interrupt your dinner. You guys eat up, I'll just wait -"

"Oh don't be absurd," Brother Jeremy replied, walking up to him and taking the backpack. "Come to the dinner table, Blair. We'll make you up a plate." He set the backpack on the floor next to the door and guided Blair over to one of the empty chairs. "You must be starved after that long hike. After dinner, we'll get you settled in a room. Okay?"

Blair's eyes stung, and an unexpected warmth filled his chest as Brother Jeremy pushed him gently into the vacant chair. This was what it felt like to be welcome. He could see it in the eyes of his two friends, Brother Jeremy and Brother Marcus. Especially Brother Marcus, his old friend - the father he'd never had. The older man smiled at him, his eyes twinkling, and he winked. Blair couldn't help the smile that brightened his face, and he settled in the chair, so very certain that he'd made the right decision by coming here.

"I'll go get you a plate, Blair," Brother Marcus said, moving from the table.

"Thank you," Blair muttered shyly, somewhat nervous by all the eyes focused on him.

Moments later, Brother Marcus returned carrying a bowl, a plate, and a cup of water, doing an impressive balancing act. He set the items down in front of Blair, offering a warm smile, then patted him on the shoulder and took his seat.

"So what brings you here, Blair?" Brother Marcus asked.

Blair dipped his spoon into the steaming soup. "Uh." He didn't want to lie to Brother Marcus, but he didn't want to tell the truth either. First, he doubted he could even explain the truth, because he didn't exactly know it himself. Second, he didn't want to spill his guts in front of an audience. "I kind of need some downtime." He looked up from his soup bowl and flashed a shaky smile. "You know. Get away from the big city for awhile." There must have been a hint of pain in his voice or in his eyes because Brother Marcus' smile dropped just a fraction, and his eyes mellowed, taking on a fatherly glint.

"Well you have all the time you need, here, my son," Brother Marcus said. "You and I can talk later, catch up on things, and you can tell this old man all about your adventures in the real world." He chuckled lightly at that comment, and Blair felt like a small weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

With his own bashful smile, Blair dug into his soup, letting the rich aroma and delicate taste lull him into contentment.

This is all that's remains of him. All I have left. He couldn't talk to me, so he left. Just like Carolyn. Just like everyone else. I pushed him away. He needed me, and I wasn't there for him, and now all I have of him is this journal. He tells me to read it, but he doesn't stick around to give me a chance to make things right. So what am I supposed to do with this? Read it and know that, no matter what it says, there's nothing I can do because he hasn't told me where he went and he doesn't even think he's coming back? Is that what I'm supposed to do, Chief?

The anger started to rise, but he pushed it back down quickly. Anger had never gotten him anywhere except right where he was now -- alone in an empty loft. He'd gotten angry at Blair after reading the thesis, and his anger had pushed Blair a little further away. Then he'd gotten angry at Blair for Alex, and that had nearly killed the young man. Then, again, he'd gotten angry when he'd found out the Sentinel secret was out, and he'd hurt Blair again, accusing him of betrayal. Then Blair had discredited his research to save Jim's reputation, and they had patched things up once more. Only he was wrong. Blair had never healed after Alex. He'd just put on this mask and gone on with his life, because that's what he did. He was a survivor. And I was blind.

Gabriel, the self-proclaimed angel who Blair had taken a liking to, had said it all. "What good is it for a man to have ears that can hear for a thousand miles, if he does not listen to the hearts of others." No good. No good at all.

God, Blair, I'm sorry. Why couldn't you just have talked to me? Sat me down and made me listen. If I'd known it was hurting you this much, I would have listened. I would have tried to help you.

Finally, he mustered the courage to open the journal. Blair's writing, neat and compact, filled the page. Usually, Blair's handwriting was large and free-flowing, but these words were written in small, delicate type, as though Blair had taken his time writing each word.

May 25th, 1998

I died yesterday. I figure that merits my starting a new journal. You know -- new beginning, new journal, new life. Things were looking pretty bad there for awhile. Jim threw me out, just like that. No warning. Nothing. I just walked into the loft and there were these boxes everywhere. Boxes with MY stuff. He was leaving and he told me he wanted me out by the time he got back. I couldn't believe it. Sometimes there just aren't words, and right now I just don't have the words to describe what I was feeling.

Anyway, so I went to a hotel and I didn't get much sleep. Next day I met with Alex to help her with her senses. Jim's right, I guess. I have lousy instincts when it comes to women. I just wanted to help her, really. Plus I was really happy to find another Sentinel, especially since things weren't looking to stable with Jim. I told Jim once that I'd rather just be friends, and I meant it. The Sentinel stuff kept getting in the way. Like that time when I was sitting in the truck and we were looking for Incacha, he told me he didn't want the Sentinel senses, and I had to open my big mouth. I told him that that would mean the end of our partnership. I mean, it's not like he has much use for me other than for this Sentinel business. He barely looked at me. Just asked if I was "worried about" my dissertation.

It's my fault, I guess. I kept making those cracks about "book rights" and "movie rights". Yeah, okay, so I was excited to find a Sentinel, but that was just supposed to be a "business" thing. I never expected to become his friend. God, I mean, I threw myself in front of a garbage truck the first time he came to see me. Part of me was just reacting because I didn't want to see the one and only known living Sentinel bite the dust. But, it was like, even then, there was a part of me that just reacted because... well... it's weird, but I can't explain it. It was like, I saw this garbage truck and something took over and, the next thing I know, the truck's running over us and I'm thinking, "Holy fucking shit, what the hell did I just do, and oh-man I'm still alive!" It's kind of funny, now that I think about it. I nearly messed my boxers.

So, anyway, turns out Alex is a criminal. Like Iris. I can really pick them, can't I? I'm such an idiot! I just want to go crawl in a hole and never come out. I mean, look at this. Look at my life right now. It's just not at all like I pictured it, and I keep screwing things up. I don't know how NOT to screw things up. I mean, I think I'm doing the right thing at the time, and then it turns out to be the wrong thing, and I end up feeling like an ass because, well, let's face it, I'm a liability a lot of the times.

She tried to kill me. She DID kill me, actually. So, time for the big question. What was death like? Did I see a light? Man, it's so weird. I sort of remember bits and pieces of things, when she knocked me over the head. It's kind of blurry, but I do remember hitting the water. I don't remember much after that, except that there was this incredible pain in my chest, and I don't think it was just from the water rushing into my lungs. I remember thinking that I shouldn't have left Jim like that. Naomi always taught me to "depart with love," but that time I didn't. Jim thought I'd betrayed him, and all I could think about while my body was dying was that I couldn't tell him I was sorry, and I couldn't try to make things better, and I would die with those words hanging between us. That was the worst thing about it. God. That was worst than anything.

But Jim brought me back. I remember running through the jungle, and there was this jaguar heading toward me. We both jumped in the air at the same time (I think I was a wolf) and then we collided and there was this burst of light. Next thing I know, I'm coughing up water and there are all these people standing around me, and, of course, my chest hurt like hell.  I sort of opened my eyes, and I could have sworn I heard Jim's voice. Only he wasn't there and all I could see were these guys in blue and they put this thing over my face -- an oxygen mask, I know now. I think I was on my side, just trying to breath in and out. It hurt a lot, but all I wanted was to see Jim and tell him that I was sorry and would he please give me another chance. But he wasn't there, and I that's when I knew he had meant it. End of partnership. I could almost hear him say, "This is the last time I'm gonna pull your butt out of the fire, Chief. No more holding your hand. No more baby-sitting. You're on your own." Of course, I wasn't in my most rational mind at the time, so I know my emotions and everything were sort of raw. I was scared and I had no idea what was happening. I mean, now that I think about it, I can put it in a semi-logical order, and I can distance myself a bit.

But... God, God, God. I would never, ever say this aloud, but God, waking up was real bad. Not as bad as dying, but bad. I hurt so much, all over, deep down inside, too. There was this weird buzzing in my head, and all I wanted was for someone to hold me and rock me and tell me everything was going to be all right. A big baby, I know, and I'll never admit that out loud, but, God, it's a terrible feeling... that kind of aloneness.

Jim's vision blurred, and he closed his eyes, pushing the budding tears onto his cheeks. The journal was hell to read, tearing through his chest like a knife, each word killing him slowly. He took several moments to quell the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm his senses, and finally opened his eyes to continue. The handwriting, at least, was starting looking more like Blair's usual style, with long, hurried strokes.

I don't remember the ride to the hospital very well. Anyway, the doctors checked me over, left me alone, then Jim came and it was like things were back to normal. He's joking about me getting the nurses' phone numbers, and how I owe him last month's rent. Good thing, too, because if he hadn't joked, I'd have probably just broken down, melted into a bluthering idiot, and that would have been horrible. Jim already thinks of me like a kid, some little, stupid kid who needs to be kept out of trouble and looked after. That would have just solidified the image.

Anyway, the meds are starting to take over, so I guess I'd better go.

Jim turned the page quickly, needing to read on, to find out why his partner felt he had to leave.

June 10th, 1998

It's been a while since my last entry. A lot of stuff has happened, and I'm too tired to go into it all. Weird stuff, at any rate. Jim and I went to Sierra Verde after Alex. Okay, well, Jim and Simon went after Alex and then I went after them, the tag-along. It's what I do. Megan came with me. She's been pretty great. She found out about Jim's Sentinel senses during the trip and, well, she's acted pretty cool about it all.

Anyway, I can't go into everything here. It would take a book, and I just don't have the kind of energy for that at the moment. A quick summary will have to do. Jim was weird. It was like he was really being affected by Alex. I'm thinking it had to do with some genetic pull. You know, how salmon return to their spawning ground. Jim would probably break my neck if I explained it to him in those terms, but that's the best analogy I can think up at the moment. Pure instinct. Sentinel genes need to proliferate, so it makes sense that there'd be a strong reproductive drive between two Sentinels who are on neutral territory.

That's what my mind's saying. My heart, though, is saying something entirely different. It was a shock, to say the least, when I left the church to go after Jim. There he was on the beach with Alex, his tongue down her throat. In one second, my whole world came crashing down. There was the woman who had KILLED me, the woman who had a canister of gas and could care less how many people it killed, and Jim was just about to fuck her. She saw me then. She grabbed Jim's gun from his holster and pointed it at me. But what really got to me was that Jim didn't react. Not at first. I raised my hands thinking I just might die for real this time, and I was devastated. Come on, Jim. Anytime, man. I mean, it takes, like, less than half a second to pull a trigger and she's already had way more time than that.

So finally, bless his soul, he raises his hand to hers, lowers the gun, and says, "No. Don't" or something like that. I was so touched. Really, Jim, try to show a bit more enthusiasm, big guy.

And here I am crying like a child. I'm being selfish, I know. Selfish and petty. But, damnit, it hurts. It really hurts to know that he was so focused on the woman who had killed me. I mean, I thought I meant more to him than that. Arrogant, I know, but I really thought that we had this bond and that, after the vision with the wolf and the panther, we had connected somehow. Instead, he seemed way more connected to her. God, the way he was with her... so gentle and caring. It turned my stomach. That was the hardest thing I'd ever had to watch. I was jealous. There - I said it. God, I was so damn jealous! It hurt me so much, and it still hurts. I haven't talked to him about it, because I know what he'd say. Just what he said on the beach when I asked him what was going on. He doesn't know. He wasn't in control of himself. I know that. In my head, I can rationalize it. In my heart, well, it hurts like hell.

The phone rang, thrashing Jim's concentration. He leaned back into the couch, tilting his head up to the ceiling, but he made no move to answer the phone. Then, on the third ring, the thought occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, it was Blair calling, and he was off the couch in less than a heartbeat.

"Ellison." he barked quickly into the receiver, holding his breath.

"Jim, is Sandburg there?" Simon's voice inquired.

Jim closed his eyes, dropping back to the couch. "No, sir. He's gone."

"Gone?" A brief pause. "As in gone for good?"

He clenched his eyes closed. "Yes, sir."

"Damn."

"Sir?" Jim's head shot up. The Captain didn't sound particularly surprised.

"He left a box for me, full of his Sentinel research. There's also a letter of resignation," Simon informed him.

Jim swallowed. "He told me to tell you that he's sorry he left like this. I guess he figured you'd be mad."

"Mad? Hell, yes I'm mad. I mean, he just up and leaves. Yeah, I'm mad, but more than that I'm worried. He's stuck it out through a whole lot of shit. So why now? What's going on here, Jim? Why'd he leave? Did you two have a fight?"

"Not exactly," he replied tiredly. He didn't have the energy to explain it to the Captain. Hell, he wasn't entirely clear on the matter himself.

A sigh, then: "I'll be there in twenty minutes, Jim."

Jim opened his mouth to protest, but the connection ended abruptly.

Blair dropped his backpack next to the bed and turned around as the older man closed the door.

"Thank you, Brother Marcus. I appreciate your taking me in like this on such short notice," Blair said.

Brother Marcus gazed at him, a silent inquiry in his eyes. "Blair, my boy, what's wrong?"

Blair swallowed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Am I that transparent?"

"You always have been." When Blair looked up, Brother Marcus continued. "It's something I've always liked about you. You have an honest face, one that does not hide behind the mask of apathy like so many others."

He felt the hot tears well in his eyes, and, in the next moment, found himself in Brother Marcus' arms, wrapped in a firm embrace. It felt so good to be comforted, just to be hugged, that the floodgates opened, releasing the pain he'd kept pent up for so long.

Jim expected the knock. He'd heard the car pull up front, the footsteps enter the building, then the ding and whoosh of the elevator. The residual odor of cigar tickled his nose, and he rose from the couch, opening the door on the third knock.

"Captain." He nodded curtly.

Simon dropped his hand to his side, eyeing Jim critically. "You look like hell."

"Thank you, sir." He stepped aside, allowing the Captain entry.

"You going to tell me what happened now?" Simon asked, taking a seat in one of the armchairs.

Jim sighed, sinking back onto the couch, the leather journal resting on the cushion next to him. "He ran into his cousin yesterday, Helen. She said some things... Things that got to him. Talked about how he'd changed so much, all that. I don't know, Simon." He raised one hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. "It got to him, I guess. I thought we were okay, but he seemed really shaken up by what she'd said. I came home, he was rifling through boxes. Said he was looking for something, but he wouldn't tell me what. I had a killer headache, and I snapped at him, I guess. Then I went upstairs. I went to work the next morning, but he said he was sick so I let him be. When I came home, he was gone. He left me a note, next month's rent, and his journal. He said he wasn't sure if he'd be back, but he'd try. Told me to rent out his room if he wasn't back by the first of next month." He buried his face in his hands, feeling suddenly very tired. "God, Simon, I really don't think he's coming back."

Simon remained silent for several seconds, and Jim finally looked up, wondering what his Captain was thinking. Simon sat slouched in the chair, his eyes on the journal. "Do you have any idea where he went?"

Jim shook his head. "None, sir."

"His car?"

"Gone. I guess he took it."

"We can put out an A.P.B. on it," Simon said.

"That's only good in our area. I doubt he'd stay local. He's probably long gone by now, sir," Jim countered.

"We can send it out to other jurisdictions."

Jim shook his head. "No. It's too dangerous that way. I don't want him hurt or taken into custody. Besides, if we do that, and he finds out, it'll just push him farther away from me. I'd rather he come back on his own, then I can talk to him. Maybe figure out what's really eating at him."

"You honestly don't know, Jim?"

He shook his head. "Sort of. I mean, I know... Well, I know he's been different since... the fountain, and I know losing his job at the university hit him hard. I just don't know why he felt he had to leave all of a sudden. He didn't even talk to me, didn't say a word, just packed up and took off."

"He's hurting, Jim. Anyone who looks at him can tell. Even Joel's mentioned it to me, asked about him. Megan, too."

Jim looked up, his eyes tinged with red. "I know, Simon, but I don't know how to help him. Even if I could find him, I still wouldn't know what to do."

Brother Marcus sat on the empty bed -- the same bed that Jim Ellison had occupied last time he and Blair had come to visit. They had stayed in this very room. Blair had seemed a lot happier back then, well, before the killings had started. Even then, although serious and subdued, his passion and love for life still shone through. Now, looking at the young man curled on top of the covers on the other bed, Brother Marcus couldn't help but wonder what had happened to turn the once vibrant young man so melancholy.

Blair had cried himself to sleep in Marcus' arms, obviously exhausted from his long hike. Probably hasn't been sleeping very well, either, by the way he looks. The dark circles beneath Blair's eyes and the noticeable lines in his face told Marcus that Blair's troubles, whatever they may be, had kept him awake many nights.

He sighed, shifting on the bed, and continued to study his young friend. Blair hadn't told him much about what had brought him to the monastery. He'd just cried -- cried so hard that he couldn't talk. It had been heartbreaking to listen to such overwhelming sounds of grief and pain. Later, he'd have to try to get Blair to open up, to talk about what ailed him. For now, though, the young man needed sleep. Marcus stood from the bed, pulled the covers off, and draped them gently over Blair. Ever so quietly, he tip-toed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Jim woke up suddenly, feeling a warm wetness on his cheeks. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, he realized, and pushed himself into a sitting position. He raised one hand and felt his cheek.

Tears. He'd been crying, apparently, but he didn't remember dreaming. Brushing the tears away quickly, he looked at the journal that had fallen to the floor. He'd read much of it after Simon had left, but he'd apparently fallen asleep before finishing. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 3 a.m.

Where are you right now, Blair? What are you doing? He leaned his head back against the cushions and gazed blankly up at the ceiling. He knew that Blair had hit the rode, alone and with very little money since he had paid next month's rent in advance. With the Volvo's dubious history and Blair's penchant for trouble, Jim couldn't help but worry. Just be okay, Chief. Please, just be okay.

He looked back down at the journal, then leaned forward and picked it up off the floor. Quickly, he flipped through the pages, finding the spot at which he'd left off.

July 28, 1999

'Who am I now?'

Jim stopped breathing, stunned by words he'd never expected to read again, much less in Blair's handwriting. Blair hadn't spoken much about Lash after that first night, but Jim had heard the nightmares -- nightmares that still occasionally afflicted his partner. Unfortunately, the nightmares about Lash had been replaced with a whole new set of nightmares.

Taking a slow breath, he continued to read.

That's what Lash wrote on the mirror. Today, I got it. I mean, I really got it. I think that, more than anything, freaks me out. I found myself thinking about how I've changed over the past few years. I remember what I was like back when Lash chose me as his next victim. Scary, but I now know why. I was younger, much younger, maybe not physically, but certainly emotionally. I was bouncy and lively and just generally happy. I mean, I had this ENERGY! I was so incredibly optimistic, and, yeah, I thought a little too highly of myself. So when I screwed up that time in the church, man, it hit me hard. All of a sudden, I was out of my element. I'd just been trying to help, but I was just so STUPID, and Lash had gotten away. Ironic, because maybe if I hadn't tipped Lash off in the church, he'd have been caught right then and there... and then he'd have never gotten to me.

So, back to what I was saying. I know why Lash focused on me: he wanted my passion. All he'd known, his whole life, was misery. Granted, he was messed up even as a kid, probably a chemical imbalance, I'm sure. But he'd only seen the dark side of life, and me, well, at that time, I really hadn't seen all that much misery and death. Sure, I traveled a lot, and I had quite a lot of experience that way under my belt, but I tended to view the world through rose-colored glasses, as they say. I thought of people as inherently good. I loved life. Little things made me happy. I'd dance to a tune in my head all of a sudden, for no reason, whether in my office, at the grocery store, or standing in line. I got a lot of weird looks, though. At the time, I didn't give it much thought, but now I do. Now I look back and I think: what happened? Where did that guy go? Who am I now?

It gives me the shivers, makes me sick. If Lash were here today, he wouldn't even give me a second look. I'm worn-out. Used up. Tired. I looked in the mirror today, and it just CLICKED. It's what some would call an epiphany, I guess, when all of a sudden, your perceptions change. Things that were always familiar seem suddenly new and strange. Things that seem normal suddenly appear absurd. Life itself seems like nothing but a dream. This time it was my own reflection -- the person looking back at me -- that seemed strange. A stranger. I could tell. I hadn't really noticed it before, but today I saw it, and it scared the hell out of me. It SCARES the hell out of me.

I don't even recognize myself anymore. There's this huge, empty, aching whole in my chest, and, God, but I don't know how to fill it up -- how to make it go away. It hurts so much, I don't know how I ever ignored it, but it has been there ever since... well... I'm not sure. Maybe about the time Jim read my thesis after I told him not to. Maybe when he kicked me out. I think it started way back then, but it's grown. Now its all I know. I try. I really do. I try to put on a good face and go about my life, but each day just gets worse. I thought eventually it would go away, that I'd get past it, but I haven't, and it shows no signs of letting up. There's no one I can talk to. No one. Not Jim. Definitely not Simon. Not even a shrink because I couldn't mention the Sentinel stuff, which is a big part of it. Naomi's not really around, and, even if I did talk to her, she'd probably just tell me it had to do with the police work. My being exposed to all the darker elements. Hell, she's probably right. I miss anthropology. I miss immersing myself in another culture, going on expeditions, learning new things. With anthropology, I got to see a lot of the good in people. Mine is a study of people. Of humanity. The differences and similarities. The common threads and the spectrum of colors. But that's something I can never do again. No grant money. No expeditions.

You know, I think I could even live with that. Just because I'm not getting my Ph.D. doesn't mean I'm not an anthropologist. One doesn't need a license to study human nature, and it's what I do. It just comes naturally. It excites me, you know, when I see connections between two vastly different cultures. It reinforces that we really are all just human, forged from a common origin, and, despite our differences in religion, color, beliefs, and tradition, at the core we're all the same.

I really think I can be okay without my Ph.D., if I could just find a way to fill this big hole in my chest. Maybe the whole anthropology thing is part of why that hole is there, but I think it's more than that. I just don't know what it is, exactly. I don't know what I need. That's frightening -- knowing something's so very wrong, but not having a clue as to how to fix it.

I've gotten off-track, which is fine, I suppose, since this is MY journal. If only I knew what I was trying to say, maybe I could get to the point, but I don't know what I want to say. I don't know how to describe what I feel. Things just aren't right. In fact, they're all wrong. Like in a sci-fi when history is changed or there's some alternate dimension and things are just all WRONG, so horribly, horribly wrong. That's how I feel. Like this isn't supposed to be the way things are. I'm not supposed to be like this. I'm not supposed to be carrying a badge and planning on going to the academy. I'm not supposed to be this sad all the time. I've lost myself, and this feeling just won't go away until I fix that... If I can fix that. Maybe that person is gone for good. Maybe too much has happened for me to ever go back to being that happy kid who dances to music in his head. But right now I'd just settle for smiling. You know, one real, genuine, heart-warming smile. The kind you feel down to your toes. I can't remember when the last time was that I smiled like that. It's like whatever part of the psyche that's needed for that is just broken inside me. I smile. I laugh even, sometimes, but it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel real, and I don't know if Jim can tell, but he doesn't seem to pay much attention. He listens to me a bit more, most of the time. That's better, at least. He doesn't scoff as much when I start talking about the mystical stuff, but that's only because of his experiences at the fountain and when we went after Alex. He's seen that side of reality, so he can't keep denying that it exists.

I just don't know what to do.

Helen visited me today. That's what set a lot of this off. I mean, yeah, I was feeling it before, but she really pushed me into taking a good, hard look at myself. She told me that I wasn't the same person. That I looked sad. The more she talked, the worse I felt. Till I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't look at it, it hurt too much. I ran. I got the hell out of there. I came back here, looked in the mirror, and the walls came tumblin' down.

Blair Sandburg died that day at the fountain, and something else got resurrected. Something dark and ugly. I'm not saying I'm some kind of a monster, but I'm not a good person on the inside anymore. I'm not bad, or anything like that, but I'm not good. I'm not happy like I used to be. I'm sad. Really, really sad almost all the time. I've lost whatever it was that made me WHO I was.

When Kincaid took over the stadium, after Jim rescued us, I took a gun and started firing it at people. I've done that before, when we went to visit Jim's cousin, but, God, that was like a major life-and-death thing and I didn't WANT to take the gun. I tried to say NO at first, but Jim just shoved it in my hand. I tried very hard not to hit anybody. I don't know what I would have done had I killed someone. This time, though, I just took the gun like it was the most natural thing in the world and started firing.

Who the hell am I? What's next. I go to the academy, start packing, and then, one day, pull out my gun and shoot someone? That's a line I don't want to cross. God help me, but I don't ever want to know what it's like to take a human life. What will happen to me if I have to kill? One of two things: I'll either get over it, or I won't. I don't like either prospect all that well. I mean, if I get over it, what does that say? Next time it gets easier, right? Just a little bit. I'll learn to justify it, to accept it. I'm not saying that I'll learn to LIKE it, but just that I'll learn to deal with it... and that's when Blair Sandburg will be forever gone.

And what if I don't get over it? Same difference. Padded white room and a straight jacket. Talk about a rock and hard place.

So what now? I try to look at the future, but all I see is this big blackness. I just wish someone could tell me what I need to do. What will happen to me now?

But no one can tell me. No one can help. I have to do something, or else I'm going to go insane. I'm not sure what it is that I need to do, but it's something different.

July 29, 1999

I'm all packed, and I feel like I'm going to die all over again. This is it. This is really it. I'm leaving. I didn't think it would hurt this much, but God, it does. I'm scared. I don't know what will happen now. There's a huge part of me that doesn't want to leave, that just wants to crawl back into my bed and bury under the covers and wait till Jim comes home. But I can't do that. If he comes home, I won't be able to do this... and I have to do this. I have to leave. I have to get away from all this and take my OWN time to sort things out. To think. To try to find Blair Sandburg.

Please forgive me, Jim. If I find what I'm looking for, I'll come back. I don't expect that you'll want to have anything to do with me after this, but please know that I haven't done this to hurt you. I love you like a brother, but this is something I have to do for myself. I hope you can understand. I hope you can forgive me. If not, that's okay. It's not your fault, it's mine. I'll miss you. Always. Good-bye for now, my friend.