sealie

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

Disclaimer: The Sentinel belongs to someone else, and no infringement is intended.

Merry Christmas!

(  Jim and Blair’s Castle Adventure. )

Fandom: Sentinel and guests from Supernatural.
Gen
PG-15
Warnings: horror elements (there’s a surprise).
Spoilers: none -- set pre season SPN and first season TS

morgan32 and Cindy (Combs) were kind enough to beta this fic prior to me inflicting it on betagodess as part of the Scrapbook. lilguppee gave it a thorough going over before I posted it. Thank you.

I’ve made a few additional changes. Any errors are mine, all mine… \o/

(  Dzoonokwa. )

Warnings and story info are presented in Part I

(  Dzoonokwa Epilogue. )

Sorta
“Go back to your first vision.”
‘K… I can do that.” Jim breathed in slowly over a count of seven and then exhaled with the same rhythm.
“James, don’t jiggle.”
Jim looked up at his Father, who was scowling down at him with that face that meant that a smack was going to happen. Jim hung his head and looked at his sandals. He clearly heard Father knock once, twice sharply on the wood panelled door.
“Mother,” Father said as the door opened.
“William. James.” Grandmother said, her voice smooth. “Please, come in.”
Dutifully, Jim trooped forward enjoying the twinkle of the buckles of his sandals as he walked along the sunlight great hallway.
“An Ellison walks with his chin in the air, James.”
Jim straightened. “Yes, Grandmother.”
“So Grace chose not to visit?”
William answered. “You’re going to be a grandmother again, Mother.”
A tiny smile crossed Grandmother’s face. “Excellent.”
“Grace was feeling tired.”
“Somewhat understandable. James, don’t touch the Jade. If I see any fingerprints you’ll be in charge of cleaning the Dragon.”
Jim snatched his hand back. Rocking from foot to foot, Jim pushed his hands deep in his shorts pockets. Grandmother had her back to him, but Jim knew better than to tempt her slipper.
“There’s a glass of milk and a cookie in the parlour, James.”
Jim shot off.

~*~

“Jim, where are you?”

~*~

Jim pushed his nose up against the glass and peered into Grandmother’s cabinet. Breath misted the polished glass. The fog whispered away. Jim nibbled on his cookie as he looked at the little dancing man, the tiny glass box with the different coloured pieces, the teddy bear with one eye. There was a thin key in the lock. Jim stuffed his half munched cookie in his pocket. Keys turned. He knew that. Carefully, he tried it. It moved a bit but then it stuck. Growling, Jim tried to force it. The cabinet stayed shut. Jim ran his fingers over the fine grain until he found the right spot. He pressed against the tiny flaw, shifting the warp and the weft of the wood and the key turned. The door popped open.
Jim chortled. Grandmother’s mother’s knickknacks – as Grandmother called them -- filled the shelves.
The music box. Grandmother had never let him touch it before. This was the “peerc d restintance” of Grandmother’s collection. It opened and the fairy stood up and began to dance. Jim rocked from side to side to the gentle chimes. There were more goodies in the soft lined box. A gold ring sat in the middle. Slowly, Jim reached in, wanting to feel the smoothness.
*AH*
~*~

“Jim, think about the vision.”

~*~

“Of course we will go. I would not miss a Progression along the Mall.”
“Edith, dearest, your young American suitor will be there. He asked father if he could have your hand. I believe he will propose.”

~*~

“Jim?”
“Whoa.” Jim sagged back onto the cushions of the couch. The sense of great grandmother’s wedding ring was rich. Delicate knot work was engraved as a band along the centre. Silence, amazement, there was a hollowed out feeling in his guts since he knew the truth of the vision.
Jim held his finger and thumb up, finger width apart, as he studied the ephemeral ring. Great grandmother had small hands.
“Jim?”
“My Grandmother had a cabinet containing her mother’s favourite possessions,” Jim said dispassionately. “There was a music box which fascinated me. The day I figured out how to turn the key, I got in and opened the box. When I touched Great grandmother Edith’s wedding ring, I saw the day that Charles Ellison the Fourth proposed.”
Blair’s mouth fell open. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Jim smiled without any humour. Back then it hadn’t been anything special, he had returned to the Magic Cabinet as often as possible. “Why do I forget this stuff?”
Blair smiled sadly. “When Bud died, I think that you locked everything away. This would have been part of it. You did it after Peru. It’s a survival mechanism, Jim. I understand, you do it ‘cos you have to.”
Jim clicked his fingers and the ghostly wedding ring dissipated.
“It was only your great grandmother’s things which gave you visions, eh?” Blair asked.
“Yeah.”
“Was your Great grandmother a sentinel?”
Everything froze and then his memories toppled and images like a shuffle of cards walked before his eyes; Great grandmother’s trip on the giant steamship across the Atlantic Ocean; her amazement the first time a sea squall rose in the west and moved towards the vessel, the wind on its wings bringing scents that she had never smelled.
“She was a sentinel,” Jim confirmed.
“The genes must be carried on the X-chromosome,” Blair mused. “This is fascinating; you have a predisposition to pick up images from sentinels. I can’t begin to explain it, but perhaps you – sentinels – have a higher electromagnetic payload, you impress your essential self onto elements with the right resonance: metal, stone--”
“I thought that you hadn’t any theories,” Jim said waspishly.
“Hypotheses,” Blair corrected. “And the matrix retains the experience and you’re tuned into the sentinel phenomenon, so you can read it.”
“And the orbs?”
“You didn’t get any messages from them, did you? It’s related but different. It’s about seeing beyond natural sight into the preternatural. Your psychometric experiences are sentinel orientated. But seeing other phenomenon is about being sensitive. You are sensitive. You said ‘this place is full of ghosts’- maybe if enough ghosts knock at the door, you eventually see them.”

still computer quarantined -- stayed late after work to write this bit of JBDE. *snarl* probably looking at a reformat and reinstallation of the hard drive on my laptop. I... you know the amount of bad karma these virus/trojan guys (or gals) get and effected people thinking *really* nasty things at them, you’d think that they would have problems getting out of bed in the morning... surely flaming meteorites must be dogging their every footstep, not to mention black cats, runaway SUVs...

sealie wrote:

“Toast for breakfast. No eggs? Bacon? Maple syrup.” Jim poked the piece of thinly sliced brown bread.
“Count yourself lucky we’ve got toast – we meant to go to the supermarket last night, but plans changed, didn’t they?” Blair said pointedly.
“We’ve got to go to supermarket – asap,” Jim said ignoring the unspoken question. “They do have supermarkets here, don’t they?”
“It’s England not the Third World – of course they’ve got supermarkets,” Blair said acidly. “Actually, I noticed road signs to a market when we were at the Keep. We’ll go there see if we can get any fresh, organic fruit and veg. Eat your toast – you need something on your stomach,.”
“Yes, mom.”
Blair glowered and the fight was on. Toast and coffee at five o’clock approaching rapidly.
Blair’s finger stabbed the air as he spoke. “So shoot me for being concerned. This is more than jetlag, do you want to tell me what the hell is happening?”
not particularly, no
“You saw something in the keep, didn’t you?”
yeah, floating orbs
“But it was more than once. There was something freakin’ you out in the Great Hall. But in the catacombs it was more,” Blair hunted for a word, “present? Yeah, present.”
I went on a trip. Without the help of pharmaceuticals.
“So what happened? Jiiiiiiiim?”
Jim shrugged.
“And last night? What the hell happened last night?”
I…don’t actually know where to begin…
“Oh, Jim,” Blair said sympathetically. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”
Heaving a deep sigh, Jim launched into what he had seen.

~*~

Blair slumped back in his seat, mouth opening and closing without sound as he mentally started to say something, decided against it, thought of something else, changed his mind and then repeated the whole process over again.
“Ah!” he brightened. “Mr. Coates saw them as well, you’re not nuts. Not that I ever thought you were, but you were thinking it. So now you know you’re not.”
Jim held up his hand.
“Orbs?” Blair continued ignoring him. “Wow, an electromagnetic phenomenon? You probably can see further in the light spectrum. But orbs, I remember Naomi saying that they were paranormal phenomena. “
“You mean ghosts,” Jim grated.
Blair shrugged massively his entire body engaged in the motion. “Could be. But I’m more interested in the psychometry.”
“The what?”
“The ability to read the history of certain objects by holding or touching the object,” Blair defined, he leaned forward across the kitchen table. “Have you done this before?”
“Hallucinated…”
“Had a vision,” Blair interrupted.
“After touching something?” Jim clarified.
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” Blair probed.
“I think that I would remember, Chief.”
“Oh, so speaks Mr. Memory.” He grinned cheesily as Jim glowered at him. “Okay, I’ve got an idea. I don’t know why it’s happening now. Maybe there’s more ghosts per capita in Good Ol’ England, or maybe you’re only responsive to really old ghosts, they’ve gotta be like hundreds of years old or maybe they have to be sentinel related ghosts. But we’ve gotta go with this. I wonder how the dream thing worked? It wasn’t like you were touching anything. Maybe you’re just switched on, man. You’ve moved up another level in the sentinel thing?”
Jim now leaned across the table until their noses were almost touching. “So, Darwin, How. Do. We. Switch. It. Off!”

The phone trilled again insistently. Blair scowled, but genetically, mentally and physiologically unable to allow an unknown caller to ring off, he stood. Clutching the towel around him he shuffled over to the phone.
“Professor Dicksee’s house,” he said. “Oh, wow. Prof, hi.”
Jim poured himself another whisky.
“We’re fine, sir. Everything’s great.”
Jim studied his hand, slowly rubbing his finger tips with his thumb. He had touched the stone plaque and the gravestone and felt things – a new sentinel quirk. But he hadn’t touched anything when he had dreamt of the marauders or seen the orbs in the keep.
“Er no, that’s okay,” Blair said. “Understandable – it’s ten o’clock in the morning where you are. I always get the maths wrong. Can never remember to add on or subtract.”
On the cabinet on the north wall was stacked with old crockery. Carefully, Jim leaned out and brushed the hideous pot bellied ceramic gnome with a crooked black top hat that was pretending to be a tankard.
Not a tickle.
Jim rocked his chair back to earth with a thump.
Blair span round and glared at him. Jim smiled back innocently.
“We were up – you didn’t wake us. It’s only eight pm at home. Jim’s not used to the jet lag,” he said meanly. “Camomile tea, that is a good idea. Where is it?”
Jim sipped on his whisky swallowing a shudder.
“Thanks, Professor Dicksee. Aw, man, you’ve been too kind. I’ll chat with you later this evening for you, early for us. Bye, man.” Slowly, Blair put the handset back on the phone. Then deliberately he turned. “Now, where were we?”


*innocent blink*
*blink*
*blink*

Jim blinked, aware now of the cold drizzle against his face. Opening eyes, which had been open elsewhere, he now stood barefoot on wet grass wearing his night time shorts and t-shirt.
It was dark where previously it was day.
Cold salty air rolled over him, damp with the sea.
“Jim?” Blair was in his face, his brown curls hung in wet, ebony ringlets. He wore the old, threadbare sweats that he slept in.
Behind them every light in the professor’s house was on – a lighthouse in the night time gloom. The Priory cemetery stones stood sentinel around them. Somehow they had ended up on the headland across the road from the professor’s house. Deep in the dead of night they were the only souls out. The drizzle misted the lights with amber haloes.
“Jim. Jesus!” Blair tangled his fingers in his long hair. “Are you awake?”
“What happened?”
“You were sleep walking or something! I heard you clomping around and you were talking. I got up.” Blair heaved a traumatized sigh. “You opened the door and you were out like a shot.”
“I….” Jim rubbed at his chilled cheeks. “I was dreaming. I dunno what it was. It wasn’t like the castle. It was mixed, it wasn’t real. Maybe some of it was? Vikings didn’t invade when the Romans where here, did they?” Jim brushed his fingers against a tombstone. The bones it guarded stirred. He snatched his hand back.
“Jim?”
“I don’t like England. It’s full of ghosts.” Jim said and was mortified at how petulant he sounded.
Blair’s mouth fell open. He cocked his head to the side plainly digesting Jim’s words. Abruptly, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Come on, Jim, back to the house. It’s cold, it’s damp; we’re in hypothermia territory. Come on, you’re the medic. We have to get back to the house.”
Jim curled his bare toes in the grass.
Blair tugged on his arm and Jim allowed himself to be towed back to the house. Blair pushed him through the door and kicked it shut. Summarily, he was pushed into the professor’s formica kitchen and directed to a stool. Blair grabbed a towel and dropped it on Jim’s head, rubbing the wet from his short hair. Jim rocked sideways with the force of his drying. He stood it for a heartbeat then,
“Quit it, Sandburg.” He grabbed the towel and then he realised that he was shaking.
“I’m gonna call a doctor. There must be a number somewhere.” Blair jerked left and then right going nowhere.
“No, doctor,” Jim ordered. “What are you going to tell him?”
“Hang on.” Blair darted away. Jim didn’t have time to count to ten before he was back with an armful of towels from the bathroom, warm from the airing cupboard.
“Get out of those wet things.” Blair began to peel off Jim’s sodden t-shirt.
Jim fought against him, just enough so that they both knew that he wasn’t being mothered. Before he could protest again he was wrapped in towels and Blair was routing in the cupboards. He whooped and pounced on a bottle of whisky.
“Here.” He thrust a generous glass forwards.
Shivering, Jim gripped it with both hands and took an ample slurp. Alcohol was not recommended when chilled to the bone, but it felt great. Blair stripped bare and swaddled up in his own towels. He grabbed his own beaker of whisky and sat.
“Jim…” he began.



*cackle*cackle*

Jim set the sandwich aside and concentrated on the soup. It was early for dinner – UK wise but his tummy should have been saying that it was lunch time or thereabouts. Soup just hit the spot; contentedly, Jim shovelled food into his mouth. But come midnight would he want steak? Jet lag coupled with sentinel weirdness was proving a chore. Hadn’t he told Blair that he didn’t get jet lag?
“Jim?”
“What?”
“Everything, okay? What’s going on?”
“Soup’s good. Tasty – like homemade.”
Warm soup curled up in his stomach like a settling cat. It would be easy to sink into the warmth and have a nap. It was cerebral technobabble time on SG:1. Blair might like egghead-babes but Jim preferred the android on Andromeda.
Jim shuffled down to lie out on the sofa, empty bowl balanced on his stomach

~*~

Abruptly, Jim opened his eyes. The sound on the television was turned down and a purple throw was covering his legs.