Jim sidled up behind Blair, wrapping his long arms around his lover's waist as Blair tried unsuccessfully to sort clean laundry.

Ignoring Jim's advances, Blair asked: "Yours or mine?" holding up a pair of plaid designer boxers from Calvin Klein's 'His & His Millennium' collection, wondering vaguely when they had switched personalities.

"So, Sandburg, it's Friday night. You sure you wanna do laundry?" Jim nuzzled Blair's delicate, shell-like ear.

"Oy. Sex on a Friday night. It's a mitzvah!" intoned Blair.

"'Oy' is right, Chief. Every time you watch 'Roots' you get more Jewish. You don't see me getting back to my cultural heritage, do you? And no, moaning 'Jesus Christ!' while you blow me doesn't count. Besides, isn't it only a mitzvah if it's about procreation? That certainly isn't us."

"Not in this universe, anyway." Blair ran an uneasy hand down his reassuringly flat tummy. And glanced anxiously at Jim's.

"I'm busy with the laundry, man. Can't you wait a few minutes?"

"You wanna do laundry, Chief? I can do laundry." Jim waggled his eyebrows, lending a whole new meaning to the word 'laundry'. "I'd like to do a few loads with you tonight, in fact."

Jim carefully extracted the half-full laundry basket and set it on the dresser in their bedroom. Turning Blair to face him, he began to kiss him; gently at first, then with more fire and passion. Reluctantly giving up full frontal contact, he eased his hands between them to gain access to his lover's abruptly hard dick.

"Laundry." Blair managed to pant and smirk simultaneously. "I can do laundry. Although I'm a little worried about the spin cycle. "Oy vay iz mir!" he cursed as the phone interrupted their grope-fest.

"Oy fuckin' Christ!" Jim bitched in a manner that could be considered either very PC or very un-PC. "Not again!"

Blair reached for the phone. "Guide Central."

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Rhonda had quietly moved from desk to desk and from detective to detective (and inspector), meekly requesting that everyone in the Bullpen meet in Simon's office in five minutes for an announcement. Surprisingly, everyone who worked in the Bullpen was actually in the Bullpen. Crime had taken a holiday, or at least a cigarette break (crime not worrying about long-term health risks or Surgeon General's warnings), and all the detectives were at their desks. Simon himself had entered the office last, looking grim.

"What is everybody doing the weekend of the 20th?" Simon had begun, and then had filled them in on the mandatory team-building exercise the Chief of Police was insisting they undertake.

It was supposed to be some sort of wilderness-survival team-building thing, but instead of working together to build team-ness as planned they'd all disagreed on minor details like which way was North, and ended up getting separated in the woods. They had then spent days wandering around looking for each other and for home base. And what did all this backwoods isolation do for the detectives of Major Crimes? Why, turned them all into Sentinels, of course. What were the odds?

So Blair was being run ragged, trying to quickly recruit and train novice Guides for each of the neophyte Sentinels. It hadn't been easy, and had been playing hell with his and Jim's sex life. Herding cats was a pleasure compared to the pound-your-head-against-a-wall frustration of herding a group of sceptical, stubborn, cantankerous Sentinels.

BACK TO THE PRESENT

"Guide Central." Blair repeated, listening as the caller turned down ear-shatteringly loud house music in the background. "This could take a while," Blair mouthed to his lover. Jim nodded and settled himself back on the bed, seemingly prepared to wait. Blair walked downstairs, cordless receiver in hand and at ear, to fetch a beer.

Nobody whines like a teenager, Blair mused sullenly, twisting the cap off and taking a long swallow. "Just how many 'dopest parties of the year' are there, Daryl? And yes, in the beginning, you're on the job 24/7. What if your Dad zones or something?"

Eighteen months or 18 years, kids were all the same. When do they get the idea of responsibility? When had he gotten it? Oh yeah. Right about the time he acquired a full-time Sentinel. And Daryl wasn't even gonna get laid outta this! Blair made himself comfy in the overstuffed chair in the living room.

"Why don't you just take your Dad with you to the party? Maybe he'll zone and you can use him to hang the coats on. Kidding, Daryl, kidding. Actually, I know exactly how much fun your Dad can be to hang with, but one of us usually gets shot or drugged or kidnapped...a good time had by all."

Blair felt for Daryl. He really did. Since his Dad had become a Sentinel, Daryl hadn't been able to get away with jack shit. Who wants their Dad to be able to tell every time they were anywhere near a cigarette, or a joint, or had gotten laid? Latex - the smell of sex for an entire generation.

"Well, Daryl, you could always invite the girl over to your place. I've always found you can't make someone love you. All you can do is stalk them and hope they panic and give in.

"...Right. Happy to help. See ya, Daryl. Call any time." He placed the cordless receiver face-down on the coffee table, thinking 'call any other time'. God. He wouldn't wish Sentinel Simon on anyone. And he'd thought Jim was a recalcitrant charge. At least Simon had had to give up the bellowing: his newly sensitive hearing just couldn't take the volume. And cigars. While teaching Daryl the meditation and relaxation techniques he'd need as a Guide, Blair had been both amused and annoyed to discover the teen had abandoned the traditional 'Nom Ne Oh Ho Ring Gi Kyo' for "No more cigars. No more cigars." as his mantra of choice.

Actually now that Simon had enhanced senses, no one could get away with anything. Having a Sentinel for a boss really sucked. The dressing-downs were just about continual - the major crimes gang referred to it as getting 'Simonized'.

Blair glanced up at the bedroom where he could hear his lover moving around on the bed. Grinning wickedly, he slid his hand over his nipple - the one with the silver ring that was now bent and dented and covered with teeth marks. He headed for the staircase.

The phone immediately rang again.

"Guides 'R' Us. Hi, Rhonda."

Returning to his comfy chair, he settled in for another long conversation. And to think he'd once wished he had another guide to commiserate with. Be careful what you wish for...

"You have to be firm with her.... No, Megan won't hate you. You're her Guide. Make her do the tests.... No, I can't do it for you.... With Jim? I withheld sexual favours.... No. That's not part of the deal, but if you go that route, can we watch? Kidding, Rhonda, kidding."

Sheesh. When had Guides lost their sense of humour? And why, for that matter, wasn't humour one of the enhanced senses? It would sure make a bunch of territorial watchmen sharing the same territory a whole lot easier to manage. For a moment, Blair flashed on the image of his pack o' Sentinels all running around and peeing on hydrants and trees. Especially Megan. It gave him the resolve to continue.

"Stop worrying about the 'what if's,' Rho. Close your eyes and just imagine a world with no hypothetical situations - hypothetically speaking, of course.

"...As a matter of fact I did live with the Australian Aborigines for a while, so I do have a working knowledge of Australian colloquialisms. Try me...Okay, when she says 'Shove it up your arse', she is just asking for further clarification.... No, 'Ask me if I give a shit' means she's deeply concerned with what you are saying. When she says 'You don't know what the fuck you're doing' it means 'Call Blair'... 'Kay? No problem.

"...Yes, I'll speak to her. Put her on." Oh, joy. There must be a special place in heaven for Guides. Megan was scarier than Jim and Simon put together...and that was before the enhanced senses.

"Megan, you have to listen to Rhonda. You're a Sentinel, for Christ's sake; use your hearing when she mumbles.... No, you can't have that cute uniform from the day shift as your Guide. Cooperate with Rhonda or we'll try Samantha again. At least Sam's strong enough to stand up to you, and remember Rhonda came up with the whole Feminine Hygiene Spray thing to help you manage your sense of smell during that, uh, time."

Blair rolled his eyes. Megan as Sentinel wasn't easy. Somehow she'd gotten so much more Australian since her enhanced senses had kicked in. She was now barely intelligible, and she kept referring to getting lost in the Pacific North-western woods as "gone Yank walkabout."

"Okay. Play nice now. And remember, low standards are the key to flexibility. Bye." Blair smirked as he left Megan with that truly crappy bit of advice.

And Rhonda thought Megan was driving her crazy? Moi Aussie, he punned.

For a second, Blair amused himself with an imaginary Sentinel Report Card. 'Doesn't play well with others. Needs own sandbox.' He sighed. Maybe he should re-assign Rhonda to Joel. It's not like she and Megan were bonding or anything. But then again, Rhonda and Joel were both so incredibly nice they'd just end up doing a Goofy Gophers imitation: "After you." "No, after you." "Do you want to do a test?" "Only if you want to do tests." Better to leave it be for now. Maybe some other solution would turn up. Where was Carolyn Plummer when you really needed her? Oh, yeah. In San Francisco with her girlfriend, Cassie Wells, running an extremely successful 'Freelance Forensics 4 U' franchise.

Wearily he turned back to his own Sentinel, only to find Jim had left their bedroom and was now crashed out on the couch, remote in hand, attempting to surf. He was waving the small device in the direction of the TV in demented semaphore and applying extreme pressure to the channel change button. Blair didn't have to be a Sentinel to hear the plastic creaking under the pressure.

Blair wandered over and leaned down to whisper throatily into one of Jim's wax-free ears. "Here's a fascinating technological fact, man. When the battery is dead, pressing the button harder and waving it around doesn't actually help." He ran a tentative hand down Jim's hip. "Still wanna do laundry?" Blair purred euphemistically.

"Thanks anyway, Chief. It was a small load so I did it by hand."

Shocked and disappointed, Blair headed for the shower to feel sorry for himself with his right hand. Maybe I'll use my left, he thought, and pretend it's somebody else.

Just then, the phone rang.

"World o' Guides.... Ah, my star team. How's it going?" Having run out of empathic, empathetic or just plain pathetic potential guides, Blair had brilliantly decided that Brown would guide Rafe while Rafe guided Brown. It had been a stroke of desperation, but it had turned out to be a stroke of genius. And the surprise fact that they were, if not lovers, at least occasional fuck buddies, had proved that Blair's whole 'withholding sexual favours' technique had universal application in the taming and training of Sentinels. Rafe and Brown were amazing together.

Blair was delighted with their - and thereby his - success. Jim had begun sulking, though, when their case solve rate rocketed past his and Blair's. He had learned to keep his thoughts on this matter to himself, however, when his comment that maybe he too should have another Sentinel as a Guide, and what about Megan, had led him to re-experiencing first-hand the now-famous 'withholding sexual favours' technique.

"No problem, guys. Come on over." He glared at Jim. "We certainly weren't doing anything special tonight."

"How 'bout we try that new pub on Grant Street? ...Review my notes? No, that's fine. Maybe you guys should take it a bit easy. Give yourselves a break." Blair liked to be needed. He wasn't ready for the students to be outstripping the teacher.

Since the dynamic duo was on its way, Blair decided to forego the shower. Instead, he flopped down on the sofa next to Jim.

God, Guiding the Guides was exhausting. He'd barely had time to feel sorry for himself when Jim started speaking to the air.

"Oh, hi Joel...no, nothing...come on up." Jim paused between each statement, his head tilted slightly to the left like an attentive cockatoo. For Blair, it was a lot like hearing one side of a telephone conversation; no, it was exactly like that.

"Door, Chief. Your fan club is here."

"Never wanted a fan club, man. Who do you think I am? Richard Burgi or something?"

The entire group of new Sentinels and Guides had really wracked their brains for a suitable partner for Joel. Although Joel was still a good detective, he was approaching retirement and slowing down a little, and having weight problems, and minor health complaints, and could be a bit of a pain to be around. Not to mention that whole digestive tract thing. So where were they going to find someone who knew about Sentinels, had time on his hands, and was age-appropriate for Joel?

Blair opened the door just as the elevator pinged, and in walked Joel and his Guide, who was saying unnecessarily loudly: "In my day, we didn't have fancy health-food restaurants. Every day we ate lots of easily recognizable animal parts, along with potatoes drenched in melted fat...Blair! How's my favourite son-in-law?"

William Ellison was really enjoying his new life as a Guide. He loved ordering people around and had really, really missed it since his forced retirement. The Board of Directors hadn't cared if their search for new blood had meant the shedding of some old, and now all the impersonal, life-destroying business decisions at William's old firm were being made by men in their 30s with names like Ryan and Jason and Brook.

"I know what you mean, Bill. Back in the good old days, electricity hadn't yet been invented so we had to watch TV by candlelight." Joel enjoyed baiting William almost as much as William enjoyed telling him what to do. It was a match made, if not in heaven, then at least in The Waiting Room.

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Jim deadpanned: "In my day, we couldn't afford shoes, so we went barefoot. In the winter we had to wrap our feet with barbed wire for traction."

Blair snickered. Joel and Bill gave Jim withering looks and exchanged knowing glances.

"Kids," said William. "Forty months or forty years...."

"I know what you mean, Bill," Joel sighed long-sufferingly.

Joel and Bill had hit it off from the first. Despite his miserable parenting skills and other bad qualities, William had never been a bigot. And it turned out they had a lot in common.

Suddenly both Joel and Jim started choking, eyes watering and faces grimacing. "God, William. You can't do that around Sentinels." Blair fanned the air briskly with his hand. "Can't you take a Gas-X or something?"

Gasping, unable to speak, Jim grasped Blair by the arm and pointed at Joel. Yes, the two older men had a lot in common.

"Sorry, Bill. Er, what brings you guys by tonight?"

"I was thinking about how you guys got started in this whole Sentinel business, and I was wondering if there was a book I could read on it." Joel always liked his reference manuals. He still referred regularly to the one on detective techniques Jim had given him when he started to clue in on Jim's special abilities.

Although Blair had great plans, he hadn't yet written the 'Definitive Guide's Guide'. "I can lend you Burton's original monograph, but I really, really want it back. It's very old and irreplaceable, and I know you'll be careful with it, it's just...."

"Why don't you just bring the original to work tomorrow and make a couple of photocopies?" William had built a career on his ability cut to the chase.

Blair's eyes grew large and round. A photocopy. Why hadn't he thought of that? He'd lugged that damn book around with him for years. He'd taken it to Sierra Verde, for Christ's sake. It was heavy, awkward and now dog-eared and travel-stained. (Not to mention that time the lube had burst open in his backpack.) He felt truly humbled.

"In my day," William began the refrain again, "we didn't have fancy technology like photocopiers and calculators. We had to do addition on our fingers. To subtract, we had to have some fingers amputated."

Just then, Jim started speaking to the air again. This time Joel cocked his head to one side and grinned as well. "No. That's fine.... Come on up.... No, We aren't doing anything.... Well, with the phone ringing all the time we certainly aren't up for that.... Yes, H. 'Up for it.' I get it.... No, not often enough. Jesus, Rafe, how do you stand him? Just come on up."

And indeed, by the time this long-distance conversation courtesy of Ma Sentinel had concluded, Joel had stepped over to the door and opened it before either Sentinel/Guide had had time to knock. Actually, Rafe and Brown had never intended to knock, knowing that two Sentinels were in the house.

"Hey, guys." Brown began making himself at home, hanging up his own coat and throwing himself on the sofa next to Jim.

Blair glared. William and Joel had been there ten minutes and they were still standing with Blair by the door. Couldn't people take a hint? It was Friday night, for Yahweh's sake!

Rafe seated himself in the comfy chair across from the sofa. Figuring his guests were settling in for a while, Blair grabbed a couple of chairs from the kitchen for his earlier visitors, asking for their coats and taking beer orders all round.

"We gotta tell you about this case we heard about from one of the guys in Traffic earlier today," Rafe began. "You're not going to believe this."

Brown leapt in, convinced he was the better storyteller of the two. "It seems that Joe Roanoke was on highway duty when he saw this car weaving all over the road doing 55 miles an hour. So he pulls alongside and looks in, and he sees this chick behind the wheel knitting!"

Rafe picked up the story: "So he flashes his lights at her to stop, but she's just driving and knitting and knitting and driving, totally oblivious to his flashing lights and siren."

H. took over again: "So Roanoke cranks down his window, turns on the external speaker and yells, 'PULL OVER!' And you'll never guess what this babe yells back."

"'No!' she says. 'It's a scarf!'" Rafe finished. These guys had obviously been practicing.

Sentinels and Guides alike were stunned for one brief moment, before they collectively re-defined the word 'guffaw'.

Eventually, tears and beers running down chins and shirtfronts, the group of detectives and one detective's Dad were able to breathe a little again.

Then Blair just had to go and say: "You did say she was weaving in and out of traffic. She must be really warped.

Jim joined in with: "Was she having muffler problems? Guess it toque him a while to catch her."

"She must have thought her whole life was unravelling before her eyes," H gasped out between giggles.

Just as the laughter began to ease off, Bill calmly observed: "That's quite a yarn."

Rafe opened his mouth to add his five senses worth, then closed it again, looking grim. He began toying with a loose thread on his Brooks Brothers suit, then another, then attempted to straighten a seam that was crooked only to Sentinel eyes. Standing suddenly, he strode over to the windows and let himself out onto the balcony.

"What's with him?" Jim hooked his thumb in the direction the dapper detective had gone.

Brown lowered his voice, which was obviously just a gesture since Rafe could have heard their food digesting a block away. "It's this whole Sentinel thing. It isn't sitting very well with him, especially sight and touch."

Blair glanced over at the darkened balcony meaningfully, which was also just a gesture since he didn't have his glasses on. He leaned forward and asked with concern: "Is he experiencing problems? Allergies? Pain?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. It's just that now he can see how badly those damn designer suits are made. He's totally messed up about it."

"Oy gevalt." Blair grimaced. "I guess they had a lot of that problem in the jungles of Peru! Those shoddy loin-cloths, manufactured in, well, South America."

A short while later (plus two more phone calls from Daryl and one from the Australian Sentinel saying that whatever Rhonda told them tomorrow, it hadn't been Megan's fault at all), all Sentinels and Guides who didn't actually live in the loft had departed. Blair had promised to make everybody copies of both his notes and Burton's monograph the next day. Simon would just have to turn a blind eye to the clandestine use of the PD's copier. Blair hoped he could talk Rhonda into doing the actual copying. Contrary to popular myth, Blair cared less for paperwork than any other Cascade PD employee - maybe because in his 25 years of schooling, he'd had so much more of it than any other Cascade PD employee.

And he still had to finish the damned Diss. Now that he had a group of Sentinels to study, it would be a lot easier to protect the anonymity of the research subjects. He often wondered why it was called research when you were actually looking for something new. The whole thing where the group of Sentinels had descended on Chancellor Edward's office and regaled her with details of her personal life - from what she'd had for breakfast (Pop Tarts with Nutella - yetch) to whom she was sleeping with (Jack Kelso - way to go, Jack!) had quickly earned him another chance to become Det. Sandburg, Ph.D. But that's another - and oft written - story.

End