Ok guys. This is ANOTHER 'Sentinel Too' type thingie. Yeeesh. They'd better hurry up and put the show back on before I fill up my allotted web space This one occurred to me when I was looking to finish up a Due South story. I have my notebooks tied together with a rubber band, and it sorta snowballed from there... DISCLIAMER: Don't own 'em, just playing with 'em...smarming, thinking rude lecherous thoughts concerning blue eyed anthropologists... 'Sentinel Too' spoilers. (and hopefully season four!) 'Reflections' By Taleya Blair had died. The moment still sent a cold shock through him. The glimpse of the windbreaker floating in the water. The horrible realisation. It still woke him late at night and early morning, shouting hoarsely, waiting for the thunder of footsteps on the stairs, that calm voice he knew so well... But they didn't come. Because Blair didn't live at the Loft any more. Which was why he was packing. One by one, his long, narrow hands slid the items into boxes. The delicate carved images, wrapped in tissue paper. The old notebooks, bound together in a stack with rubber bands. The jacket, flung casually over the chair. Jim paused, running his hands over the material. He remembered another jacket, three years ago. Five bullet holes. Lash. Yet another surprise a grad student anthropologist had no right encountering. But he had. And survived. He folded the jacket into the box and placed it by the door. It would be moved to the truck soon. *You know, I'm thinking of getting the Cascade PD insignia tattooed on my chest* *Above the nipple ring?* *You know about that?* Earrings, and nipple rings, and long unruly hair. Feet tapping, body bouncing, endlessly moving to the music of his own private radio station. Sandburg FM. Slack features, limp hands draining water onto the grass. Blair had died. He had died in a goddamn stupid ornamental fountain, chased down by a woman he had tried to help. A Sentinel. Like Jim. Jim leaned back on his heels, hands flat on the smooth floor of the office. "Blair..." It was a choked plea, a vocalisation of the need to see his friend, alive, whole once more. A plea to clean the fear, and the guilt, and the terrible image from his mind. "Jim? You ok?" The Sentinel turned and gave his partner a brilliant smile. Blair had died. *Had* died. But something had given Jim a fantastic, wonderous second chance, and he had taken it. "Whoa, didn't realise I had so much stuff. The truck's nearly full." Blair pushed his hair out of his face as he leaned against the doorframe. "I don't know how we're gonna get it all back in my room." Jim's smile grew even wider as he rose to feet and clapped his partner on the shoulder, revelling in the warm, *living* flesh under his hand. "Don't worry Chief. We did it before, we can do it again." The End Ok, feel free to throw things...I'm prepared, I have my spaghetti pot on my head...