A/N: heyhey:) yeah, here's a story that i started while on writer's block for my other work in progress, 'nowhere to run' (check it out if you want - chapter 1 is up) -- normally this kind of fic (suicide related) isn't my thing, isn't my style, but i got a few requests for a post 'grave danger' episode fic, and i had nothing better to do, so here it is:) -- don't worry, nothing is at all graphic. there's around four chapters so r&r - be gentle if you don't like it

Chapter 1

Cold. That was all that he felt right then, even though it was probably closer to eighty degrees outside at the moment; afternoons in Las Vegas were never cold – and yet there he was, shivering as though the temperature were in the negatives. He shook his head with half-hearted anger. What was wrong with him? He'd been discharged from the hospital the morning before and he hadn't slept or eaten since, hadn't even gone home. Hell, he hadn't even let his friends know that he had been released when he knew they would've wanted to pick him up, to be with him. But that was the thing, that last night, when the doses of drugs finally let up and he really had time to think back to when he'd been found and to think about how he had broken down, he didn't think he'd have been able to even look his friends in the eye if they would've come to see him between then and the morning when he was allowed to leave, never mind endure the ride home.

He'd failed them. He had given up. At first the mere thought of the handgun beside him in that Plexiglas coffin made him want to be sick. However, twelve hours underground, fire ants, and then suddenly not being able to breathe had certainly changed that – he had actually picked up that gun and placed the barrel under his chin, ready to pull the trigger, to make it all stop when Warrick's face suddenly appeared through the dirt above him and his voice shouted to him, though muffled, to not pull the trigger, to put the gun down. At that exact moment he'd been deliriously happy, unable to contain weakened cries of joy as he, out of sheer force of habit, replaced his gun in its holster on his hip – it was only later on in the hospital that his mind let the Stokes shame set in at having given in like that, at having actually almost taken the coward's way out.

What was he doing up there?

When he'd left the hospital on foot, politely declining the offered cab, he'd walked aimlessly around town for hours until finally finding his way to the lab, his home away from home, the place he'd always loved to be at the most. Luck had been on his side that the receptionist was on break, and the lab itself almost entirely empty when he walked in, considering the fact that it was only one in the afternoon on a Sunday, meaning that virtually no one would be wandering around here, most especially no one he knew or that knew him. He was hardly even aware that he was climbing the stairs to the roof until he opened the door in front of him and he was hit full on with a blast of warm wind, causing him to shiver despite the heat it washed over him.

In that first minute on the roof of the lab, he had walked over to the edge and gazed blankly at the ground bellow, leaning heavily against the concrete that kept him from falling into empty space; he had had little real energy since the incident that made him like this, any that he had had left after being rescued having been wiped out with a week of tests, sedatives to keep him calm, and then talks with the resident shrink on how he felt about what had happened to him. No one from the team had said anything on the subject, but he knew that he looked terrible, the absence of real food causing his usually lean body to thin out under the hospital gown, the absence of real sleep forming unfortunately dark rings under his eyes. He hadn't had the courage to look in the mirror of his hospital room's bathroom before he left, and he had a feeling that it was for the better; the last thing he needed was to feel was had happened to him and see it as well.

In that first minute, he found his thoughts wandering to what it would have been like had Warrick not gotten to him when he did, if he had taken just one more second to sweep away the dirt and Nick's finger had pulled the trigger back…

He had of course dismissed the thought angrily, berating himself for such ideas and cursing the fact that he had thought it, cursing the gun that was once again in its holster at his hip, cursing the fact that he had been given the opportunity to use it, then finally cursing Walter Gordon himself, for having put him in that damn box in the first place.

Presently, Nick was sitting with his back against the ledge, his knees bent so that they were around a foot in front of his face, his arms gripping himself tightly to ward off the non-existent cold, that gun in its holster, sitting on the roof floor beside him along with his badge. He stared vacantly at the ledge at the other end of the rooftop, wondering vaguely if they had left the clip in his gun when it had been left at the hospital, but thinking mostly of his team, his coworkers and closest friends, and how he had let them down, and how he was letting them down again.

Grissom's fingers on his left hand cheerfully drummed out the beat to the song playing over the elevator's speakers on the rail attached to the wall behind him, watching the doors close and tensing his knees briefly for the jerking motion that started him up to the fifth floor of the Desert Palms Hospital. In his right hand he held a sandwich from the deli in its brown paper bag, the food being his reason for coming to see Nick so soon before he was due at the lab for his shift that night; the CSI had been looking progressively thinner throughout the week and it had Grissom worrying, and also put the idea in his head that his friend simply needed some good, real food in his stomach so as to start to feel up to par again. And, not really knowing what kind of food the Texan usually ate, he figured that he'd be safe in just ordering what he always saw Sara eating, figuring that Nick's taste couldn't be too far off from there.

However, the second the doors opened again, giving him a full view of first the empty waiting room then the nurse's station as he stepped off as well as the opportunity to overhear the conversation taking place, his cheerfulness immediately evaporated and he ran towards the now heated argument between the only nurse currently present and the man and woman who stood in front of her, the man also holding a paper bag from the deli in one hand while the other gestured angrily in front of him.

"What do you mean he's gone! How could he be gone!" Warrick all but yelled into the young nurse's face whose expression in turn went from somewhat understanding to defensive.

"Well, we're not exactly running a prison here Mr. Brown – patients do eventually get to go home, and not just for good behaviour," she yelled back, her hands gripping her clipboard even tighter as she stared him down. Now it was Sara's turn to jump in.

"Okay, one, he didn't say anything to us about being discharged today, and two, how could you just let him walk out of here alone?" she demanded, her voice displaying her growing anger and anxiousness over the situation. The nurse suddenly looked very sheepish and lowered her gaze to her clipboard as if looking for an answer that she didn't have.

"I – I guess I just assumed that he told you five, seeing as we told him yesterday just before you all came to see him," she said carefully. "That and, when I offered to call him a cab, he said that it was all right, that he already had a ride." At this point, Grissom felt it was safe to speak up.

"Maybe Greg or Cath drove him home." Both Warrick and Sara whipped around to face him, obviously startled at his sudden appearance behind them. Warrick's look of sheepishness almost dominated the nurse's, though in his, more worry was present.

"Yeah, maybe. 'Guess I didn't really think of that – I just need to know for sure that he's okay, you know? I mean, he probably shouldn't even be alone yet," he mumbled, and Sara nodded.

"I agree. I'll give Greg a call, see if he dropped him off this morning after he got off." Grissom was already headed for the payphones.

"And I'll call Cath." However, just as they both began to dial, the elevator doors opened up again and both Greg and Catherine stepped off, Catherine holding a brown deli bag in one hand. Upon seeing the others start towards them and seeing their expressions bordering on panicked, Catherine's heart plummeted, but Greg beat her to the question.

"What's wrong? What happened? Is Nick okay?" Grissom quickly stepped forward, knowing now that their question was answered: neither Greg nor Catherine even knew that he was out of the hospital.

"Nothing's wrong – Nick's okay…at least as far as we know." Catherine's frown deepened.

"What do you mean 'as far as we know'," she said, looking at him steadily. Then it dawned on her. "Where is he?" Grissom sighed, and Warrick took over.

"Apparently he was discharged this morning, at around nine." He didn't bother to hide his frustration. Why hadn't Nick called him? Why hadn't he called any of them to come pick him up? Why was it that he had left, on his own, nearly nine hours ago, and no one had heard from him?

It was clear that from the looks on the other's faces, the exact same questions were running through their minds as well, but no one wanted to voice the possible answer that always came up: he didn't call any of them because this thing with Walter Gordon had affected him deeper than they had all thought, and maybe what he was planning on doing, he wouldn't have done it around them…

Warrick cleared his throat uncertainly.

"You don't, uh, think he would do something…stupid, do you?" Catherine's sharp eyes immediately set upon him, and he resisted the urge to take a step back.

"This is Nick we're talking about here," she said firmly. "He may be hurting, but he would never do…that." Even as she spoke the words, the entire team, her included, thought back to that night, thought back to what they had heard Warrick say to Nick when he had finally uncovered the lid of the coffin, and what they had seen for themselves.

Warrick's hands were working furiously to sweep away the last few handfuls of dirt while the rest of the team stood by, watching him with barely contained panic until the glass was finally revealed. However, any relief that they felt was more than a little dampened when they saw Warrick's eyes widen as he started to yell down to Nick.

"Hey! Nick, put it down! Put that thing away! We're here! Don't you pull that trigger!" Immediately they had rushed forward with crowbars to pry the lid up, and had seen with their own eyes Nick's disbelieving ones…as well as the handgun that now rested on his chest, his finger still hovering over the trigger while his free hand scraped anew against the glass that imprisoned him.

They were torn from the unpleasant memory by Grissom's normally calm, now slightly anxious voice.

"Okay, before we start making assumptions, I'm going to try his home phone, then his cell," he said, and quickly returned to the line of payphones, immediately slipping in a quarter and beginning to dial. Catherine, being second in charge in any normal scenario, returned her attention back to the nurse who stood waiting nervously in front of them.

"Alright, could you tell me any specifics about when he left? Did he say where he was going to go after leaving here?" For the nurse's sake she kept her voice calm, but in reality, she was anything but. Anyone who had been through what Nick had shouldn't have been left alone, and he'd been alone, away from the safety of the hospital for the greater part of the day. The nurse looked back down at her clipboard, this time reading the information on it.

"Um, well I can tell you that he left here at exactly nine-fifteen a.m., and that all of his personal items were returned to him once he was discharged," she said slowly before looking back up at her, seeming genuinely apologetic. "But I'm sorry, he gave no indication at all of where was headed." Greg's eyes suddenly widened.

"Um, did – did you say all of his personal items?" His subtly panicked voice made the other three stare from him to the nurse, who quickly looked back down at her page.

"Yes…a cell phone, clothing, a Las Vegas CSI badge, and – " Now it was her turn for her eyes to widen.

"What? What is it?" Sara asked, though she had the feeling she knew what it was, at the same time hoping beyond hope that she was wrong. The nurse's expression and tone did nothing to soothe her nerves, especially when paired with what she reported to them.

"Um, along with everything else, his – his service handgun and holster were returned to him." The listening CSIs did their best to dismiss the scenario running through their heads, to convince themselves that it would never happen. The nurse, seeing the impact of her words, tried her best to reassure. "Maybe – Maybe he just went home?" At that moment Grissom rejoined the group, the frown that creased his face speaking for him even before he opened his mouth.

"No answer at home and his cell was turned off," he said to no one in particular. Catherine piped up quietly.

"We have no idea where he might've been going when he left. And Gil?" He looked up at her. "His gun was returned to him at the time of his discharge." Sighing, the senior CSI massaged the bridge of his nose before looking up at her, his expression bordering on pessimistic.

"We'll give him the time it takes us to get from here to the lab before we try him again, and if we still can't get a hold of him, we'll call in Brass and a small search party," he said, looking around at each of them. "For all we know, he simply went for a walk to clear his head." At this Warrick scoffed, though not rudely, just out of worry.

"I think we all remember how much weight he's lost and how little sleep he's gotten on his own," he bitterly, looking up at his boss. "I seriously doubt the guy would be able to keep on walking for nine hours on what little energy he's got." Sara placed her hand carefully on his arm to draw his attention.

"We'll call him again when we get to the lab Warrick. Don't worry – I'm sure he's fine." She only wished she felt as confidant as her words were.

Upon arriving at the lab, the five criminalists all but jumped out of their separate cars, Grissom pulling his cell phone out to try him again at home and Warrick again trying his cell, as prearranged when they all left the hospital. The other three gathered around them, hoping desperately for one of them to start talking to Nick who would be on the other line, doing just fine. However, their hopes were crushed as both men hung up without having spoken a word. Grissom looked slowly at each of them and saw there the intensifying worry that he knew showed on his face as well; the sooner they found Nick, the better.

Opening his cell phone again, he hit a number for speed dial and was relieved when the voice he'd known for years answered at the other end after only two rings.

"Brass here."

"Jim?" Brass immediately recognized Grissom's voice, also catching the display of one of the rarest emotions in his friend, rare that is, until last week: worry.

"Gil? What's wrong?" he asked immediately. The last time this man had sounded this way was when one of his guys, and one of Jim's closest friends as well, had been kidnapped and buried alive. Needless to say, he was almost afraid of what it could be this time. He heard Grissom sigh, the sound of it doing nothing to calm his nerves. "Gil, common, what's going on?" he demanded softly. There was another pause before Grissom finally spoke.

"Nick was discharged this morning Jim; he didn't tell any of us, and he left the hospital at nine-fifteen – and we still haven't heard from him." A cold feeling worked its way up his spine before finally reaching the back of his neck, causing him to shiver involuntarily as he forced himself to speak.

"Have you tried calling him?" He knew it was a lame question; Grissom didn't just work himself into this state without having first tried such obvious options.

"Yes – no answer at home and he hasn't turned his cell on after getting it back when he was discharged." Grissom almost didn't want to continue, but Brass had the right to know, just in case. In case…

He blocked out the last of the thought. He couldn't however block out all of the cases he had worked where the vic's COD had been a point-blank 9mm shot to the side of the head. His imagination seemed to enjoy replacing their faces with Nick's, making him shudder, peeking the curiosity of the others in the process.

"There's something else…" He swallowed thickly. "The – The hospital gave him back his gun Jim." This made Brass stop his walk to his office to gape at nothing. Was Grissom implying that Nick would…

"Gil wha – what are you saying? That Nick, our Nick, would – " Grissom was quick to interrupt him.

"No!" His tone was harsher than he had meant it to be and he took a deep, calming breath. He couldn't let himself get too worked up when they needed to focus their energy on finding their friend as soon as possible. "No, I just really think it would be better if he wasn't alone right now – if we could just talk to him…"

Brass couldn't help but smile at Grissom's usually hidden humility, but at the same time wished more than ever that it would one day have a better excuse to come out into the open rather than just in situations such as this. In the end, Grissom was right: they needed to find Nick, find him and make sure that he was alright, and if he wasn't, stay with him until he was – he would've done the same for them.

"Okay Gil, here's what I'll do: I can get five of my guys to start looking for him with me downtown. It'll be discreet, so the press won't get any wind of it, and if we find him, we won't approach him, just in case, and you'll be the first to know where he is."

"Thanks a lot Jim," Grissom said, relieved at Brass' discretion – the last thing they wanted was for Nick to be hounded even more by the press than he already was. "While you're looking, we're going to get a look at the feeds from the traffic cameras, see if maybe we can see where he went or where he was headed, give us a better idea of where to look."

"Okay, call me when you know anything – which ever of us is closer will go get him." And with that he hung up, no doubt to head off towards dispatch to call five units back to the station for briefing on the situation. Hanging up himself, he turned back to the others who were staring at him, eager to be able to do something. "Okay, everyone to the A/V lab – we've got traffic camera feeds to go through, ASAP."

TBC