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TS fic: Jim and Blair’s Castle Adventure Part 1/10
By Sealie and LKY
Rating: PG (to be on the safe side)
Gen
A smidgen of H/C
Advisory:
■ Sealie’s responsible for any bad language and LKY disavows all responsibility.
■ Blatant abuse of geography but unless you’re a local (and statistically that is highly unlikely given that in fifteen years of Sentinel fandom I’ve only met one other person that kind of lives in the locality) you won’t notice.
■ British English spelling.
■ This is set more than a few years ago *g*
■ Apologies to Enid Blyton
Jim and Blair’s Castle Adventure
By Sealie and LKY
Jim paused at the door of the loft, trying to figure out the cadence of the physical signs that he was sensing. Excitement he understood. Well, the heavy breathing first made him think that the little goober was up to something else, but then he realized that the jumping up and down was entirely unrelated. The “Oh my god!” “Oh my god!” kind of sat in the general direction where he was first going but the scent told him something else.
Jim turned the key in the door and let himself into his home. Blair came to earth with a final bounce.
Ah, Jim, noted, National Geographic was on the television.
“Jim! Jim! Jim!” Blair pointed at the screen. “Look!”
Jim rolled his eyes heavenward, National Geographic – that explained everything.
“Jim, I think I might have found a new sentinel!”
“Sandburg –“
“No, wait a second, man. Listen to me. The stone image and the Eye. Why didn’t I see this before? My God! I’m an idiot.”
Jim closed the door with a soft snick and promptly tuned out Blair’s ramble. He was tired, dead tired. The sort of exhaustion that makes a man wonder why he ever went into law enforcement in the first place. Dealing with projectile vomiting, a toner explosion -- that was not his fault -- in Rhonda’s copy machine, an irate police commissioner and thirteen cub scouts on a surprise tour of the police station was too much for one man to handle.
Jim headed for the ‘keeper of the cold beer’ and opened the door. Twisting off the cap, he started nodding his head as if he were listening.
There was something soothing about the rhythm of Blair (as background noise) but actually having to listen to him burble after a long day was a nightmare all in itself. Jim debated slipping in a whining ‘the toner kind of made my skin tingle’ to get the grad student off his weird sentinel track.
“The sensory imagery is there, man!” Blair was saying.
Jim wondered if the kid could converse without finishing a sentence in an exclamation mark.
“Look,” he interrupted, “do you want to just slow down and give it to me straight? Pretend I’m a freshman or something. I’m not following you, Chief, and after the day I’ve had – you know, I don’t give a snowballs--”
The kid abruptly segued into sympathetic, understanding. “Oh, Jim. Big Guy, what… er… I’m... what kind a day have you had? I’ve had an amazing…. Look…”
Holding up a free hand, because he was not setting down his beer, Jim tried one more interruption. “Frankly, Blair, unless your amazing announcement involves me getting away from my current life for a few weeks – and I mean a total change of pace here because I’m considering a stunning career in Tupperware sales – I’m not interested. Get my drift?”
Blair smiled angelically.
Which should have been the first clue that Jim had made a very stupid statement.
~*~
Jim sighed as the 747 lifted off the ground.
When had he lost control of his life?
“Jim, you’re so going to love England. I know the weather’s sort of iffy, but I just know we’re really on to something, ya know?”
“Riiiiight.”
“I’m just glad we had our passports in order. Cos smuggling into a country is not something I want to do again. Did I ever tell you about the time…”
~*~
The plane droned on toward the setting sun or was that the rising sun? Jim wasn’t too sure that Sentinels should travel long distances, wasn’t he supposed to be a local phenomenon or something? Of course his years as a Ranger sort of dropped an anvil on that idea. He ground his teeth; damn, though that would have been a good excuse to get out of this damn trip. The student traveller par extraordinaire complete with ear plugs, eye guard, hooded top pulled up and over his head and down over his chin, chamomile tea, two blankets (the extra acquired from the effervescent air hostess) and shoes removed was deep, deep, deep in the land of nod.
Jim was wide awake.
Mentally, he debated the pros and cons of a delicately applied elbow.
He couldn’t sleep. He was bored. They were in cattle class. There was no room.
He was going to get cramps and die. It smelled. Blair had taken his socks off.
They so were flying back first class.
A snort and huff. Blair lifted a corner of his mask and rolled his head to stab Jim with a concerned look. “What’s the dial on, Jim?”
The whisper was soft, too light to be heard beyond the two of them as they flew at some thirty thousand feet above the globe. Yet Jim’s ire rose to the altitude of their jet. Why couldn’t he just relax like the others on the plane? He’d watched as all the fellow passengers had migrated through the long lines of security. He’d picked up no gun oil traces or explosives around them.
Jim squirmed in his seat. Always the cop. Even if he hadn’t been a sentinel he’d probably worry about stupid things happening around them.
But then again, if he wasn’t a sentinel, Blair wouldn’t be putting up with him.
“I’m fine.”
“What is it?”
“It’s … eight.”
“Okay,” Blair said patiently, sitting up. “Let’s start with some breathing, slow and calm. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Take it in over a count of five.”
Blair rose up in his seat as he demonstrated, hands brushing his chest as he inhaled. Jim ducked low in his seat – thankful that it was late in the night and the lights were down.
People were going to be wondering about Blair.
“Come on, man. In out.”
Growling, Jim made a feeble attempt.
“You know, if you’re not going to even try...”
Jim muttered truculently.
“Don’t be such a grinch. Do you want to sleep?”
Jim tried, he did, really he did, but it was embarrassing.
“Nobody’s watching man,” Blair said, reading his mind (Jim didn’t like it when he did that). “In fact a bunch of people have used meditation to get to sleep, it’s not unusual. It’s not impacting on your masculinity.”
“Kid, shut up, I’m trying to meditate.”
Comically, Blair slapped his hands over his mouth. “Excuse me,” he mumbled.
Jim searched for strength. Why did he even bother to get the upper hand with this misfit in the first place? Verbally paring with Blair was risky when he felt a hundred and ten percent. He should know better than try it when he felt…
Better. He felt much better. Jim felt an eyebrow lift in surprise, recognizing Blair’s smug look. “Okay, fine then. How about you go shut up before you wake the rest of the plane?” Jim pinched the earplugs into place and made an elaborate show of getting comfortable. Still he had no problem hearing his guide mutter in answer.
“I was sleeping, Jimbo, remember?”
~*~
Heathrow was impossible. The Explorers, Lewis and Clark, couldn’t have stood a chance, with or without a ‘Corps of Discovery.’ Jim sighed wearily, they needed to move from international to domestic. That meant following the lines through customs. Blair forged ahead like the well seasoned traveller that he was. Jim wasn’t a naïve traveller; he had been plenty of places, but with the army, not commercially. Army was different.
Jim trooped along with the rest of the cattle, all that was lacking was the border collies, then again that was the ladies with the short skirts and the men with the moustaches watching them. Why were they all moustached? Weird.
Another escalator and other concourse.
Jim turned to go down an escalator and Blair caught his elbow.
“This way, man.”
“But…”
“We’re going to customs, that way’s outward international flights. We’ll be going that way in a fortnight -- that’s two weeks, man.”
They shuffled into a queue (line) toward the customs booth. Blair pulled out his passport and waved it, indicating that Jim needed his. Rolling his eyes, Jim pulled out his pristine, well-looked after passport.
Blair’s was dog-eared.
Jim watched his partner lean against the high counter and schmooze the customs officer like a cowboy bellying up to a bar, at home and settling in. The customs officer lasted for a brisk thirty seconds before breaking into a reluctant smile at something Blair had said. They continued along in a manner that reminded Jim of two old friends catching up.
“Next.” The order was sharp and impatient.
Jim’s turn had arrived and while Blair and his officer chatted, Jim got grilled one booth over.
“Name?”
“James Joseph Ellison.”
“Reason for visit.”
“Vacation.”
“How long are you in our country?”
Jim took a moment to contemplate the implied tone. What? Was he suddenly a Viking Marauder bringing his ship into a moonlit bay to ravage and pillar?
What did Blair say? Jim intoned, “I’m here for a fortnight.”
“Where are you staying?”
Crap! “I’m staying with a colleague of my partner?”
An eyebrow rose heavenward. “And?”
“I’m a cop. My partner - he’s over there - Sandburg has a friend in the North East of England. He’s letting us use his place.”
“I need to know the address, sir.”
The address is.”” -- Jim snapped his fingers. “--Professor Dicksee, at Spittel House, in some suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne. You’ll have to ask Sandburg.”
Shit, this was embarrassing.
The officer slowly passed the passport through the reader.
With a sigh worthy of a man who had just accomplished the unachievable, Jim accepted his passport and quickly moved to join Blair.
“We’ve got time for a coffee,” his self-appointed tour guide announced happily.
“Do the words ‘jet’ and ‘lag’ even exist in your world, Sandburg?” Jim grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah, you need coffee.” Blair ensnared one of Jim’s arms and pulled. “Come on, my treat.”
“Do they even do coffee over here? I thought it was tea.”
“Starbucks is an epidemic. Tea’s all right. I can get you a proper tea.”
“What’s a proper tea?”
“They put cream in it – well weird.”
“Coffee,” Jim intoned.
“I’ll even try and see if I can score you a donut.”
Dutifully (yeah, right), he followed Blair through the labyrinth – ending up in Gate 5. It smelled of old, tired sweaty bodies. He allowed Blair to conduct him to the far corner of the large windowed room and be plonked down next to a sad looking rubber plant.
“Watch my laptop.” Blair set it on the floor at his feet. Jim realized that Blair had placed them next to the only electrical outlet in the whole waiting hall. There was a Costa Coffee at the opposite end of the hall. Blair headed towards the Temple.
Jim could smell pastries.
Life was looking better already.
~*~
The taxi driver let them out onto a wet sidewalk. The salt heavy air lifted some of the exhaustion in Jim’s joints. He stood, breathing deeply and sending his sight piercingly into the evening darkness, nearly zoning on the crashing waves of the North Sea.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.” Blair handed over the correct fare with a hefty tip and closed the door with a zone-breaking slam. “Ready to see our home away from home?”
“You didn’t tell me we’d be on the coast.” Jim took a surer grip on his luggage and turned to survey the two-storey brick building before them. A duplex of sorts with a small flagstone entry to a three step stoop, Jim pondered on the building’s age.
Blair juggled through the set of keys that he had picked up from a postgraduate student during their brief stop at the local University. He held them up before his eyes trying to read a paper sticky pad which said front door.
“This is it.”
The heavy wooden door swung open with a thud.
“Professor Dicksee is on sabbatical in Southern Africa researching the Popoit tribe. He’s okay with us looking after his house. He didn’t want it empty the whole time.”
Blair dragged his bulging canvas bag into the foyer and dumped it. He drew in a breath. “Whoa, I wonder how long it’s been shut up.”
Jim wafted the door back and forth trying to get some air into the mausoleum.
“It’ll air out, man.”
Reluctantly, Jim entered. He set his suitcase and leather hand luggage on the carpet. “How do you know this guy?”
Blair buzzed by him and Jim had to press against the wall to make room. “Oh, you know. He taught for a year at Rainier. We got to be friends.” The familiar voice was shut out by a thick wooden, panelled door. Jim cranked up his hearing to monitor the answer as he inventoried the entrance. The outside looked like a Currier and Ives etching and the inside matched with ornate lines and dark, mahogany wood.
Jim nodded with acceptance.
“Then I got a chance to swing through Newcastle on my way to Scotland a few years ago and I figured, hey, what the hell and I dropped by. We hung out for a couple of days. Damn, the light’s broken in here.”
A steep and narrow wooden staircase with an ornate rail rose to his left. Jim frowned, not liking the pitch and seeing Blair taking a header. He’d have to explain the ‘hand-rail-rule’ to the kid.
“Okay.” Blair crouched down on his haunches and zipped open his leather backpack. “Okay, I’ve got the map here. I was looking the other day and I think the old Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall may have archaeology that might be similar to the one that we can look at in the Museum of Antiquaries tomorrow morning. I really think that we’ll be able to get an idea of the imagery by looking around an actual fort. Okay. Okay. It would be better to look at the real -- well, better preserved one -- tomorrow morning when the museum opens but in the meantime, this one could be useful. I really want to see if it about a sentinel.”
Jim held his hands in the classic ‘T.’ “Chief, we’ve been travelling for twenty plus hours on this little sentinel hunt. I don’t care if my body clock thinks it’s ten in the morning, it’s dark and it’s raining we’re not heading out any where. I want food and a beer. Actually not in that order, beer first.”
Blair looked up from his squat. “Gotcha, feed the need first. We’ll research later.”
“And beer, don’t forget the beer.” Jim stretched his spine and rocked his head from shoulder to shoulder. “You promised me a vast assortment of great beer.”
Blair snickered. “We’ll have to check the car before we drive. Might need to fill the tires or something. Professor Dicksee’s been away for a while.” Blair led the way up the narrow staircase.
“Hands on the rail, Chief.”
“Oh, God. You’re not going to start on that, are you?”
“You take a header and I’ll be the one carting you to the E.R.”
“We’ll just dump our bags in our rooms, and I’ll take you to the ‘Flying Pig’.”
“The what?”
“Prof. Dicksee’s local. I wonder if they’ll remember me?”
“Probably,” Jim muttered under his breath.
~*~
End of Part One.
Part Two
Rating: PG (to be on the safe side)
Gen
A smidgen of H/C
Advisory:
■ Sealie’s responsible for any bad language and LKY disavows all responsibility.
■ Blatant abuse of geography but unless you’re a local (and statistically that is highly unlikely given that in fifteen years of Sentinel fandom I’ve only met one other person that kind of lives in the locality) you won’t notice.
■ British English spelling.
■ This is set more than a few years ago *g*
■ Apologies to Enid Blyton
Jim and Blair’s Castle Adventure
By Sealie and LKY
Jim paused at the door of the loft, trying to figure out the cadence of the physical signs that he was sensing. Excitement he understood. Well, the heavy breathing first made him think that the little goober was up to something else, but then he realized that the jumping up and down was entirely unrelated. The “Oh my god!” “Oh my god!” kind of sat in the general direction where he was first going but the scent told him something else.
Jim turned the key in the door and let himself into his home. Blair came to earth with a final bounce.
Ah, Jim, noted, National Geographic was on the television.
“Jim! Jim! Jim!” Blair pointed at the screen. “Look!”
Jim rolled his eyes heavenward, National Geographic – that explained everything.
“Jim, I think I might have found a new sentinel!”
“Sandburg –“
“No, wait a second, man. Listen to me. The stone image and the Eye. Why didn’t I see this before? My God! I’m an idiot.”
Jim closed the door with a soft snick and promptly tuned out Blair’s ramble. He was tired, dead tired. The sort of exhaustion that makes a man wonder why he ever went into law enforcement in the first place. Dealing with projectile vomiting, a toner explosion -- that was not his fault -- in Rhonda’s copy machine, an irate police commissioner and thirteen cub scouts on a surprise tour of the police station was too much for one man to handle.
Jim headed for the ‘keeper of the cold beer’ and opened the door. Twisting off the cap, he started nodding his head as if he were listening.
There was something soothing about the rhythm of Blair (as background noise) but actually having to listen to him burble after a long day was a nightmare all in itself. Jim debated slipping in a whining ‘the toner kind of made my skin tingle’ to get the grad student off his weird sentinel track.
“The sensory imagery is there, man!” Blair was saying.
Jim wondered if the kid could converse without finishing a sentence in an exclamation mark.
“Look,” he interrupted, “do you want to just slow down and give it to me straight? Pretend I’m a freshman or something. I’m not following you, Chief, and after the day I’ve had – you know, I don’t give a snowballs--”
The kid abruptly segued into sympathetic, understanding. “Oh, Jim. Big Guy, what… er… I’m... what kind a day have you had? I’ve had an amazing…. Look…”
Holding up a free hand, because he was not setting down his beer, Jim tried one more interruption. “Frankly, Blair, unless your amazing announcement involves me getting away from my current life for a few weeks – and I mean a total change of pace here because I’m considering a stunning career in Tupperware sales – I’m not interested. Get my drift?”
Blair smiled angelically.
Which should have been the first clue that Jim had made a very stupid statement.
~*~
Jim sighed as the 747 lifted off the ground.
When had he lost control of his life?
“Jim, you’re so going to love England. I know the weather’s sort of iffy, but I just know we’re really on to something, ya know?”
“Riiiiight.”
“I’m just glad we had our passports in order. Cos smuggling into a country is not something I want to do again. Did I ever tell you about the time…”
~*~
The plane droned on toward the setting sun or was that the rising sun? Jim wasn’t too sure that Sentinels should travel long distances, wasn’t he supposed to be a local phenomenon or something? Of course his years as a Ranger sort of dropped an anvil on that idea. He ground his teeth; damn, though that would have been a good excuse to get out of this damn trip. The student traveller par extraordinaire complete with ear plugs, eye guard, hooded top pulled up and over his head and down over his chin, chamomile tea, two blankets (the extra acquired from the effervescent air hostess) and shoes removed was deep, deep, deep in the land of nod.
Jim was wide awake.
Mentally, he debated the pros and cons of a delicately applied elbow.
He couldn’t sleep. He was bored. They were in cattle class. There was no room.
He was going to get cramps and die. It smelled. Blair had taken his socks off.
They so were flying back first class.
A snort and huff. Blair lifted a corner of his mask and rolled his head to stab Jim with a concerned look. “What’s the dial on, Jim?”
The whisper was soft, too light to be heard beyond the two of them as they flew at some thirty thousand feet above the globe. Yet Jim’s ire rose to the altitude of their jet. Why couldn’t he just relax like the others on the plane? He’d watched as all the fellow passengers had migrated through the long lines of security. He’d picked up no gun oil traces or explosives around them.
Jim squirmed in his seat. Always the cop. Even if he hadn’t been a sentinel he’d probably worry about stupid things happening around them.
But then again, if he wasn’t a sentinel, Blair wouldn’t be putting up with him.
“I’m fine.”
“What is it?”
“It’s … eight.”
“Okay,” Blair said patiently, sitting up. “Let’s start with some breathing, slow and calm. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Take it in over a count of five.”
Blair rose up in his seat as he demonstrated, hands brushing his chest as he inhaled. Jim ducked low in his seat – thankful that it was late in the night and the lights were down.
People were going to be wondering about Blair.
“Come on, man. In out.”
Growling, Jim made a feeble attempt.
“You know, if you’re not going to even try...”
Jim muttered truculently.
“Don’t be such a grinch. Do you want to sleep?”
Jim tried, he did, really he did, but it was embarrassing.
“Nobody’s watching man,” Blair said, reading his mind (Jim didn’t like it when he did that). “In fact a bunch of people have used meditation to get to sleep, it’s not unusual. It’s not impacting on your masculinity.”
“Kid, shut up, I’m trying to meditate.”
Comically, Blair slapped his hands over his mouth. “Excuse me,” he mumbled.
Jim searched for strength. Why did he even bother to get the upper hand with this misfit in the first place? Verbally paring with Blair was risky when he felt a hundred and ten percent. He should know better than try it when he felt…
Better. He felt much better. Jim felt an eyebrow lift in surprise, recognizing Blair’s smug look. “Okay, fine then. How about you go shut up before you wake the rest of the plane?” Jim pinched the earplugs into place and made an elaborate show of getting comfortable. Still he had no problem hearing his guide mutter in answer.
“I was sleeping, Jimbo, remember?”
~*~
Heathrow was impossible. The Explorers, Lewis and Clark, couldn’t have stood a chance, with or without a ‘Corps of Discovery.’ Jim sighed wearily, they needed to move from international to domestic. That meant following the lines through customs. Blair forged ahead like the well seasoned traveller that he was. Jim wasn’t a naïve traveller; he had been plenty of places, but with the army, not commercially. Army was different.
Jim trooped along with the rest of the cattle, all that was lacking was the border collies, then again that was the ladies with the short skirts and the men with the moustaches watching them. Why were they all moustached? Weird.
Another escalator and other concourse.
Jim turned to go down an escalator and Blair caught his elbow.
“This way, man.”
“But…”
“We’re going to customs, that way’s outward international flights. We’ll be going that way in a fortnight -- that’s two weeks, man.”
They shuffled into a queue (line) toward the customs booth. Blair pulled out his passport and waved it, indicating that Jim needed his. Rolling his eyes, Jim pulled out his pristine, well-looked after passport.
Blair’s was dog-eared.
Jim watched his partner lean against the high counter and schmooze the customs officer like a cowboy bellying up to a bar, at home and settling in. The customs officer lasted for a brisk thirty seconds before breaking into a reluctant smile at something Blair had said. They continued along in a manner that reminded Jim of two old friends catching up.
“Next.” The order was sharp and impatient.
Jim’s turn had arrived and while Blair and his officer chatted, Jim got grilled one booth over.
“Name?”
“James Joseph Ellison.”
“Reason for visit.”
“Vacation.”
“How long are you in our country?”
Jim took a moment to contemplate the implied tone. What? Was he suddenly a Viking Marauder bringing his ship into a moonlit bay to ravage and pillar?
What did Blair say? Jim intoned, “I’m here for a fortnight.”
“Where are you staying?”
Crap! “I’m staying with a colleague of my partner?”
An eyebrow rose heavenward. “And?”
“I’m a cop. My partner - he’s over there - Sandburg has a friend in the North East of England. He’s letting us use his place.”
“I need to know the address, sir.”
The address is.”” -- Jim snapped his fingers. “--Professor Dicksee, at Spittel House, in some suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne. You’ll have to ask Sandburg.”
Shit, this was embarrassing.
The officer slowly passed the passport through the reader.
With a sigh worthy of a man who had just accomplished the unachievable, Jim accepted his passport and quickly moved to join Blair.
“We’ve got time for a coffee,” his self-appointed tour guide announced happily.
“Do the words ‘jet’ and ‘lag’ even exist in your world, Sandburg?” Jim grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah, you need coffee.” Blair ensnared one of Jim’s arms and pulled. “Come on, my treat.”
“Do they even do coffee over here? I thought it was tea.”
“Starbucks is an epidemic. Tea’s all right. I can get you a proper tea.”
“What’s a proper tea?”
“They put cream in it – well weird.”
“Coffee,” Jim intoned.
“I’ll even try and see if I can score you a donut.”
Dutifully (yeah, right), he followed Blair through the labyrinth – ending up in Gate 5. It smelled of old, tired sweaty bodies. He allowed Blair to conduct him to the far corner of the large windowed room and be plonked down next to a sad looking rubber plant.
“Watch my laptop.” Blair set it on the floor at his feet. Jim realized that Blair had placed them next to the only electrical outlet in the whole waiting hall. There was a Costa Coffee at the opposite end of the hall. Blair headed towards the Temple.
Jim could smell pastries.
Life was looking better already.
~*~
The taxi driver let them out onto a wet sidewalk. The salt heavy air lifted some of the exhaustion in Jim’s joints. He stood, breathing deeply and sending his sight piercingly into the evening darkness, nearly zoning on the crashing waves of the North Sea.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.” Blair handed over the correct fare with a hefty tip and closed the door with a zone-breaking slam. “Ready to see our home away from home?”
“You didn’t tell me we’d be on the coast.” Jim took a surer grip on his luggage and turned to survey the two-storey brick building before them. A duplex of sorts with a small flagstone entry to a three step stoop, Jim pondered on the building’s age.
Blair juggled through the set of keys that he had picked up from a postgraduate student during their brief stop at the local University. He held them up before his eyes trying to read a paper sticky pad which said front door.
“This is it.”
The heavy wooden door swung open with a thud.
“Professor Dicksee is on sabbatical in Southern Africa researching the Popoit tribe. He’s okay with us looking after his house. He didn’t want it empty the whole time.”
Blair dragged his bulging canvas bag into the foyer and dumped it. He drew in a breath. “Whoa, I wonder how long it’s been shut up.”
Jim wafted the door back and forth trying to get some air into the mausoleum.
“It’ll air out, man.”
Reluctantly, Jim entered. He set his suitcase and leather hand luggage on the carpet. “How do you know this guy?”
Blair buzzed by him and Jim had to press against the wall to make room. “Oh, you know. He taught for a year at Rainier. We got to be friends.” The familiar voice was shut out by a thick wooden, panelled door. Jim cranked up his hearing to monitor the answer as he inventoried the entrance. The outside looked like a Currier and Ives etching and the inside matched with ornate lines and dark, mahogany wood.
Jim nodded with acceptance.
“Then I got a chance to swing through Newcastle on my way to Scotland a few years ago and I figured, hey, what the hell and I dropped by. We hung out for a couple of days. Damn, the light’s broken in here.”
A steep and narrow wooden staircase with an ornate rail rose to his left. Jim frowned, not liking the pitch and seeing Blair taking a header. He’d have to explain the ‘hand-rail-rule’ to the kid.
“Okay.” Blair crouched down on his haunches and zipped open his leather backpack. “Okay, I’ve got the map here. I was looking the other day and I think the old Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall may have archaeology that might be similar to the one that we can look at in the Museum of Antiquaries tomorrow morning. I really think that we’ll be able to get an idea of the imagery by looking around an actual fort. Okay. Okay. It would be better to look at the real -- well, better preserved one -- tomorrow morning when the museum opens but in the meantime, this one could be useful. I really want to see if it about a sentinel.”
Jim held his hands in the classic ‘T.’ “Chief, we’ve been travelling for twenty plus hours on this little sentinel hunt. I don’t care if my body clock thinks it’s ten in the morning, it’s dark and it’s raining we’re not heading out any where. I want food and a beer. Actually not in that order, beer first.”
Blair looked up from his squat. “Gotcha, feed the need first. We’ll research later.”
“And beer, don’t forget the beer.” Jim stretched his spine and rocked his head from shoulder to shoulder. “You promised me a vast assortment of great beer.”
Blair snickered. “We’ll have to check the car before we drive. Might need to fill the tires or something. Professor Dicksee’s been away for a while.” Blair led the way up the narrow staircase.
“Hands on the rail, Chief.”
“Oh, God. You’re not going to start on that, are you?”
“You take a header and I’ll be the one carting you to the E.R.”
“We’ll just dump our bags in our rooms, and I’ll take you to the ‘Flying Pig’.”
“The what?”
“Prof. Dicksee’s local. I wonder if they’ll remember me?”
“Probably,” Jim muttered under his breath.
~*~
End of Part One.
Part Two