Disclaimer: I do not own The Sentinel, Sentinel's characters or anything belong to the television series. I do not make a claim on them. Established characters are the property of Pet Fly Productions and UPN. Original characters are the sole property of the author. I don't own If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Numeroff.

Warning: This story is unbeta-ed.

A.N. This little snipplet hit me across the head. I woke up one morning with the phrase, "If you give a mouse a cookie," and somehow or another, it changed to "So you want to catch a guide". But, then, after think some more, I got another snipplet out of that phrase. So, enjoy.

A.N.N. The dialogues for two of the scenes are quoted directly from Becky's Sentinel Transcripts, and are the property of Pet Fly Productions and UPN.

If You Give a Guide a Book

If you give a guide a book…

Blair Sandburg, age four and a half, was sitting in the library reading. Piles and piles of books were around him. Piles so high, that his figure was indiscernible from in between the stacks.

"Blair?"

Blair's head bobbed up, and he smiled sweetly at the old lady. His curls jutted out cutely from his bed of hair, and his blue eyes twinkled with happiness. "Yes, Mrs. Delores?"

"I have a little something for you. You like reading books, right? Especially anthropology books?"

"Yes, I do, m'am. I've been all over the world, y'know. 'amoi took me everywheres. And books tell me lots about where I've been."

"Well, then. Young man, have I got the book for you. This book was written by Sir Richard Francis Burton. He was a famous explorer during the Victorian era. I trust you'll put it to good use. It was getting dusty sitting in my home with no one to look at it."

"Yes, I will."

Mrs. Delores placed the heavy book gently by the boy's lap. She watched with amusement as Blair's wide eyes took in the worn monograph, and exclaimed, "Wow, Mrs. Delores, this book must be older than I am."

Blair reverently opened up the cover, and read the words, "The Sentinels of Paraguay."

"Thank you, Mrs. Delores."

…then he will want to go to school.

If you let him go to school…

"Naomi," said Blair, with a backpack slung over his shoulders. "I want to go to college."

"Hmm," Naomi looked up from her meditation with many bright candles and incense around her. "School, you say?"

"You said that you would support anything I want to do," stated Blair firmly. "And, I want to go to college."

"But, Blair, you're only sixteen," exclaimed Naomi's friend, Dreamweaver.

"Oh, hush," Naomi said to the lady. "My boy's extremely intelligent. He skipped three grades, you know."

"Mom, this is important." Blair rummaged through his backpack, taking out applications to colleges and universities around the states. "I'm getting bored at school. The stuff is too easy. The other kids are always making fun of me too."

"Well," Naomi considered her son for a moment. Blair really wasn't happy with his current school. Her boy was too smart anyway. Plus, trying to take Blair around with her when she went on her retreats was getting more and more troublesome. People just don't make exceptions unless they were a really cute kid, and Blair wasn't a kid anymore. "Well, I suppose you could, but you have to be absolutely certain. And, you have to do research on it, and try to get scholarships. I don't have the funds for you to go to school with our lifestyle."

Blair nodded excitedly, waving his fist full of papers around. "I know. I thought about it all. Look, here. I got this diagram to show you, I charted out the schools, and ranked them in terms of turn-out rates, programs, living standards…"

Naomi just smiled fondly as her son prattled on and looked at her with pleading, earnest glances thrown in her direction every so often.

…then he would want to do research.

If you let him do research…

"Dammit," Blair muttered as he went through his papers. His research wasn't going any where. He looked and he looked but he couldn't find a sentinel. He found hundreds of people with hyperactive senses. That was true, but no one with all five. He found people with one senses, two senses, and at most three senses. These people were ice cream tasters, perfume makers, musically inclined people; All of them using their senses in everyday life.

Blair sighed, and hunched over his stacks of data, eyes glazing over wistfully at the thought of never accomplishing his dream. Maybe, he would never find his sentinel. Maybe, it was time to thrown in the towel. He was lucky enough to get to where he was. He got to explore. He got to go to school. He got to do a lot of things other people would never get to. But, he didn't want to get his dream crushed. To have it ended, just like that.

Ring. R-rring. R-ring. Ring.

"Hello? Blair, here," as he absent-mindedly answered the phone and shuffle his papers, "Anthropology department, Hargrove Hall, Artifacts Room three."

Blair dropped his papers in shock. "Wait, what?"

"Uh-huh. Yep. No way. Really? You're going to faxed me the info, right now?"

Blair scribbled down the fax number.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I really owe you. Thanks. Yep, catch you later."

He rubbed his hands in anticipation, staring hard at the fax machine, willing it to fax, damnit. He wondered if what the nurse was doing was ethically. If what he was about to do was ethically, but then the fax started spewing out papers, and all thoughts flew out of his head with the excitement of finally finding a sentinel.

…then he would want to find a Sentinel.

If you let him find a Sentinel…

Oh man, oh man, this was going to be great, thought Blair as he adjusted his stolen lab coat and pulled back his hair. He entered the room with a clipboard.

"Detective Ellison. I'm Dr. McKay."

Jim looked at him skeptically. "Your name tag says McCoy."

Blair looked down at his tag. "Um…yeah. But the correct Gaelic pronunciation of my family name is "McKay"."

"You have the results?"

"Of?"

"The tests?"

Blair shook his head. "Forget the tests. You don't need medication, you need information."

"What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?"

Blair hastily back up. "Now, just wait a second. Hear me out here. Loud noises that shouldn't be loud. Smelling things that no one else can smell. Weird visuals. Taste buds off the map, right?"

Jim thought the kid was a moron. "That's all in my chart," he said deadpan.

The kid nodded his head, "Yeah, but I bet I can add one more thing. A hyperactive tactile response."

"A what?"

"Extra sensitive touchy-feely lately?"

Jim gritted his mouth in anger. "That's none of your business. And who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Me, I'm no one. But this man, he is," as Jim reluctantly took the card handed to him. "He's the only one who can truly help you. You're too far ahead of the curve for any of this techno trash. You're a cop. See the man."

Blair backed out of the room as Doctor McCoy entered.

"Good afternoon, Detective. I have to tell you I've scheduled some additional tests. But, based on the results we have so far, there doesn't seem to be any medical foundation for your complaints," as the Doctor flipped through his chart.

No medical foundation, thought Jim. Maybe, maybe he would go check out the guy, as he glanced down at the card. And if the guy was screwing with him, he'll toss his ass into cell.

…then he will want to test his sentinel.

If you let him test his sentinel…

"Oh, c'mon, Jim," said Blair. "This is good for you."

"No way. I don't want to spend my first free weekend in a long time doing these weird ass tests you've come up with," protested Jim.

"But, I spent a whole month designing it, Jim. Jim," he said again. "You know these tests are important."

"No, absolutely, no." Jim was adamant in this matter.

"It's a test on food," implored Blair. "Don't you want to be able to eat Tandoori again?"

Jim mused. "Okay, let's go. There's this new Mexican place I want to try out."

"JIM."

…then he wants to become friends.

If you let him become friends…

Blair wondered if Jim was his friend now. Not a test subject, anymore. Lately, he seemed to be losing his focus, his objectivity.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Sandburg." His eyes were firmly on the game.

"Are we friends yet?"

"Nope," he quipped.

"Jim," Blair said in outrage, and smacked Jim in the arm. "I'm being serious here. You're like the one person I've been seeing on and off the whole time."

"You make it sound like we're dating."

Blair ignored his statement, and continued on. "I mean, I'm a researcher and you're my subject. Talk about mixed feelings, why don't you. I think, I'm losing my focus here."

"Blair."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and sit down. I'm trying to watch the game here."

"But—"

"Do I need to duct tape your mouth?"

Blair stayed silent as Jim resumed his gaze on the television.

"I guess, that means, we're friends, huh?"

"SANDBURG."

…then he will want to move in.

If you let him move in…

Blair stared unhappily at his former home. He dragged a couple boxes into the back of Jim's truck.

"So you mean to tell me, in all the time you lived here, you never once suspected you lived next door to an ice lab?"

"Oh, man, I swear, that place was deserted. I mean last week I did start to hear some strange noises in the middle of the night, but I could have sworn it was just like the plumbing," Blair emphasized with his gestures. "Hey, Larry…like you know the rodents of something. I don't know."

"Is this all your stuff?"

"Yeah, it's most of it. I'll have to try to come back tomorrow and put the rest into storage. This is just the worst. Where am I going to stay?"

"I don't know. A hotel, hostel, something."

Blair shook his head. "That's fine for me, but what about Larry?

"Put him in a kennel. He'll figure it out," suggested Jim.

"I can't do that to him. I mean, my project's due next Friday. Unless—" Blair gazed at Jim calculatingly.

Getting the idea, he said "No, no, no. No. Just forget it."

"Come on, Jim. Jim, please, please. My back is up against the wall here, man. I got nowhere else to go," begged Blair.

"I'm not a big fan of animals in cages."

"Larry?" He looked at the ape, not monkey, the ape. "Larry, he's no problem, no trouble at all. I mean, he's been around people his whole life. Heck, he's more human than most of my friends."

"And that's supposed to reassure me?"

"Jim, one week. One week, and I promise, I promise, we'll be out of your hair. Come on. One week, man."

"All right, look…one week. You or the gorilla act up and you're out. All right?"

"He's not a gorilla. And, look, you already hurt his feelings," Blair corrected automatically.

Jim looked up with a groan. "You know, I'm already beginning to regret this," as he put another box in his truck.

…then he'll make himself at home.

If he makes himself at home…

Jim turned the lock and pushed open the door. "What the—"

His loft had changed. There was a new carpet. That was a new blanket thrown over the couch, he knew that he never owned. A couple of green leafy planets, books in the shelves.

He sniffed. And, some weird exotic spices in his kitchen. He stored over and took a long look at the contents of the fridge. A bottle of something brown with foreign labeling, unidentifiable meats, lots and lots of veggies, oh and something that looked suspiciously like an animal part that was easily identifiable, and he didn't want to know.

Looking at the changes, he yelled.

"SANDBURG."

Blair walked out of his room, scanning through a textbook with a pencil perched on an ear, glasses half-way down this nose, and said, "Hey, Jim."

Jim stared at him in disbelief, as if nothing major had happen.

"SANDBURG, what did you do to my loft? I leave the house, for ONE, ONE day, and I come back and everything is turned upside down."

"Hmm," Blair sink back into the sofa, and placed his textbook in his lap, marking his place with a finger. "What's wrong? I thought your place could use some re-decorating?"

"Redecorating?" Jim echoed.

"Yeah, I mean, no offense, your place is like gloomy, man. And empty, seriously, I don't know how you can bring yourself to bring the ladies home, when your place is like this. It looked sterile. So, I decided to brighten things up. I know, I know, that the reason your loft looks the way it does, probably, was an instinctive reaction to compensate for your hyperactive senses. But, hey, I figured you got me now, and you could do with a home make-over. I just, you know, add a couple plants here and there, to provide more of a natural habitat for your senses, some new food for the fridge, you know, tongue—that's my favorite, and you definitely have got to try this spicy food I got from a professor who got it from a native in the sands of—hey, Jim, where're you going—"

Jim closed the door behind him, and looked at the number. 307. Yep, his place, alright. He opened the door again.

Blair waved merrily at him.

He closed it again. Pinched his nose, and sighed; he was not going to touch this. He knew he was going to regret this. How did a one-week stay ended up with him getting a roommate?

…then he probably wants a book.

Blair was settled comfortably in his room. It had been a long day. Helping Jim controlled his senses, getting chased and chasing criminals. Who knew his life would change so much after meeting Jim? Now the day was over, and he could relax. His sentinel was safe and sound upstairs, probably sleeping. He just finished his paper and putting a dent in the massive piles of grading he had to do. Right now, all he wanted to do was relax. Looking around for something to do, his eyes fell on a familiar dusty book.

Smiling, he plucked it from its shelf and made himself a cocoon of blankets. He opened the cover, and read out loud, "The Sentinels of Paraguay by Sir Richard Francis Burton."

And if he wants a book, he probably wants his sentinel.