Appearances
by Pho
Jim Ellison easily maneuvered his truck into a parking space that was two sizes too small. The killer traffic jam that had kept him tied up in traffic for three hours was fading into another bad memory, and Jim resolutely aimed his thoughts and senses toward Blair's promise of lasagna as he rested his head against the headrest. Real lasagna this time, with absolutely *no* healthy cheeses, lean meat or, Jim shuddered at the thought, vegetable pasta. Blair had promised and the younger man always kept his word, at least where food was concerned. So why couldn't he pick up the aroma of lasagna or the more potent scent of the requisite garlic bread? For that matter, why couldn't he pick up Blair's heartbeat? ... What the hell?
Leaping from the truck Jim bypassed the elevator, knowing that the stairs would get him to his destination much more quickly. The closer he got, the more concerned he became as the odor of blood became more pronounced with each passing step. The front door to the loft was locked and Jim fought down the urge to break it in even as he fumbled with his key.
The living area was completely trashed. From the overlarge Christmas tree lying with its upper limbs entwined with a fallen bookcase to the broken lamp near the sofa to the shattered ornaments glittering in the fluorescent light from the kitchen. A complete disaster. "SANDBURG?" Jim knew before he shouted that he'd get no reply. And the reddish liquid he'd prayed was tomato sauce on the side chair was actually blood. Too much blood, combined obscenely with the scent of 'Old Spice', an aftershave Blair never used. Not ecologically sound, the younger man always said. "God!"
Angrily jerking his cell phone from his pocket, Jim noted that the phone and answering machine were miraculously untouched, but the light indicating a message - his message angrily declaring his traffic situation - was no longer on. Fighting back his feelings of fear and self-loathing, Jim concentrated on the problem at hand. He dialed the too-familiar number and was quickly rewarded with a terse voice. "Banks. This better be good."
"Simon, the loft's been trashed, and Blair's missing." Jim swallowed back his fear and continued. "And there's blood on the chair."
"Shit! Have you called it in?"
"No." Jim shook his head, momentarily forgetting that his captain could not see his movements. "I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible until we know what we're dealing with. Blair's life may depend on it. I'd rather limit this to Major Crimes, sir."
Simon reluctantly acquiesced. "Okay, I'll pull in a favor from forensics - you *don't* want the team on call. I'll be there as soon as possible."
******
Three hours later, the off-duty forensics team had finished with Jim's living area and confirmed that the blood was Blair's type before breezing out of the apartment as quickly as they'd arrived. 'Well, duh' was the only thought that passed through the Sentinel's mind. Sinking into a kitchen chair, Jim turned to his captain. "Find anything?"
"Nothing yet," Simon replied reluctantly. "No one with a grudge against you has been released in the last six months."
"And before that..." Jim's voice trailed off as worry laced his tones.
"No one with violent tendencies, just a few white collar criminals who wouldn't know how to use a weapon if they tried. I've assigned Rafe and H the task of interviewing their snitches. We may get a lead there. And Joel's joined forces with Conner to search the dead case files."
"In other words, we've got nothing." Jim buried his head in his hands. "God, Simon, Blair really put up a struggle. I *don't* even want to know what he's going through now. The place hasn't looked this bad since...since..."
"Since Lash paid you a visit?" Simon asked gently.
"Yeah." The Sentinel angrily hurled a surviving ornament against the far wall, listening to the crunch of the hard plastic with satisfaction as the tiny Santa broke away from his sleigh. "Dammit ... If only the traffic hadn't been so rough. If only Blair had worked late. If only *I'd* left on time..."
"We'll find him, Jim." Simon laid a comforting hand on his detective's shoulder and found himself drowning in the depths of emotion in the other man's eyes.
"But will we find him in time?"
For once, Simon had no answer.
******
Two hours later Simon's eyes were beginning to cross and Jim was making what appeared to be his seven hundredth circuit around the room. The Sentinel wanted nothing more than to be pounding the pavement in lieu of someone's face, but, outside of the 'Old Spice', there was absolutely nothing to go on. Exhaustion played on the minds and hearts of both men who knew that each passing hour without a clue meant less of a chance that Sandburg would be found alive.
A noise at the door caught the attention of both men simultaneously, a fact not lost on the captain as he frowned at the normally too-observant detective. The observation was shoved angrily down in light of Jim's distress over the loss of his friend and both men drew their weapons with a uniformity of movement Hollywood choreographers could only dream about.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The bedraggled figure at the door quickly raised his hands at the sight of the drawn handguns. "Jim? Simon? What's going on?"
"Sandburg?"
"Chief?"
"*Where the hell have you been?*" The angry words issued forth in unison from both detectives, leaving the exhausted younger man at a momentary loss for words.
"Huh?" Blair responded tiredly.
Finally taking note of the bandages on his young roommate's head, Jim dropped his gun to the table, and moved toward his friend. "Are you all right? What happened, Blair? Who attacked you?"
"Old Tannenbaum." Blair replied quickly, rubbing his aching head in confusion.
"Who?" Simon asked, now as confused as the miraculously reappearing anthropologist.
"The tree? What tree?" Jim asked quickly.
"The Christmas tree, Jim." Blair motioned toward the fallen fir. "Can I sit down? It's been a long night. No concussion, but I did need six stitches and every nutcase in Cascade was in the emergency room tonight. And poor Mrs. Antonio..."
"The widow from 102?" Jim groaned, "The one that smells like 'Old Spice'?"
"That's her. She was so sweet to take me to the hospital and it wasn't even her fault..."
"What the hell happened, Sandburg?" Simon was out of patience.
"The tree fell, Simon." Blair replied in confusion. "Just like I wrote in my note."
Simon glared at Jim. "Note?"
"No, sir. There was no note."
"Yes there was, Jim. I wrote it myself when your cell phone didn't pick up. Mrs. Antonio left it on the door so you'd..." Blair broke off at the look on Jim's face then continued hesitantly. "No note?"
"No note." Jim replied irritably.
"I am *so* sorry, Jim, but..."
Simon interrupted. "Since the prodigal son has returned, *I'm* going home to get a couple of hours sleep before I have to return to the office. But first, I'm calling off the hounds. Ellison, Sandburg, I expect a complete write-up on this by eight am." Simon headed for the door then turned quickly. "Sandburg, you're certain you're okay?"
Blair started to nod, then thought better of it. "Yes, Simon. I've got a headache and I'm tired, but I'm fine."
Simon shot Jim a deadly look. "I'm glad. Some of us were *very* worried."
Not bothering to point out that the captain could fall into that territory, Jim watched the older man stalk from the apartment, then reached out to touch the bandage on Blair's head. Taking note of his friend's exhaustion, he guided him toward his bedroom. "How'd it happen, Chief?"
The younger man sighed and stumbled slightly as he walked. "Mrs. Antonio was teaching me the recipe for her tomato sauce, and the star on the top of the tree went out. I know it's about time to take the decorations down, but the star is soooo pretty..."
"And you decided to replace the light bulb." Jim mentally filled in the blanks as he imagined the smaller man balanced precariously on the edge of the side table, leaning forward on his tiptoes to pull the tree-topper toward him. Result - instant disaster.
"Well, yeah. It looked easy enough." Blair admitted sheepishly. "I'm sorry you were worried. I really thought Mrs. Antonio left the note."
Jim Ellison sighed, knowing that Simon would have some choice words for him in the morning. "Not your fault, Chief, I just looked at the loft and drew *all* the wrong conclusions."
"Hey, just goes to show ya, appearances can be deceiving, even to a Sentinel."
Jim didn't reply as he frowned at his friend, knowing that the night's events could have been much more serious, trying to shake off images of a bruised and battered Blair bleeding to death in an alley.
Blair sank tiredly onto his bed, yawning slightly as he spoke. "Looked so easy when you fixed the bulb, Jim." Finally focusing on the emotion in his friend's eyes, Blair added softly. "I'm really sorry you were worried, Jim."
"I wasn't the only one, Chief. *All* of Major Crimes has been working all night to find you."
"Oh, jeez, I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?" Blair moaned softly.
"Look at the bright side." Jim sighed, remembering all of his coworkers - No, *friends*, he corrected himself - who had been distressed by his frantic summons and would no doubt exact revenge. "Neither will I."
The End