The shutter on Nick's camera snaps in rapid-fire, as he documents the scene.
A warm summer breeze swirls through the subtle landscaping, and across the well cared for lawn. The sliding patio doors make the porch an extension of the living room. A strand of mood lights twinkle on the pergola.
The grisly body mars the otherwise tranquil scene.
"Homeowners Paul and Rita left for a night on the town around 7pm. Got back just before midnight," Brass reads from his notebook. "They noted the dog was upset. Go to let him out the back door. That's when they noticed the body on the porch. They don't know the victim."
"Liver temp puts time of death around 9pm," Dave says, recapping his probe.
Nick zooms in and snaps another succession of photographs. A small pool of rapidly congealing blood under the body. Too small for the wounds to have bled out here.
"No blood spatter," Nick observes, turning to look around the patio.
"A body dump in a residential neighborhood?" Brass asks unconvinced.
A series of resounding clacks and the tranquil scene is suddenly illuminated by harsh floodlights. Nick squints. "Guess they figured out how to turn the lights on," he shields his eyes against the glare.
David holds up the bloody hand of the corpse, fingers snapped off distal of the first knuckle. "Why take the fingers if they left the face and skull intact?"
"Torture?" Nick asks. "Trophy?"
"Are you guessing, Nicky?" Brass teases.
Nick smiles. "Just workin' the scene."
"The cuts are clean," Dave says, examining the hands. "We'll know more when we get him back to the lab, but there are no obvious striations. It was a sharp blade, looks like one smooth motion."
Nick snaps another photo then scans the yard. "Pruning shears?" He nods towards the shed near the back of the property. He stands, stepping carefully through the yard. The grass crunches under his feet. His eyes on the ground, not wanting to miss a single piece of evidence.
The latch of the shed is broken. Nick snaps a photo of it, and makes a mental note to dust for prints. He pulls the door open, the hinges protest with a screech. The interior is dark, the lights from the yard cast oblong shadows against the shelves.
Nick steps into the small building, pulling his flashlight from his vest and clicking it on. The light is dim, he probably only has a few minutes before it goes out completely. He quickly crosses towards the back wall of the shed where a workbench sits. A bag of dirt spilled across the tabletop, next to a stack of terra cotta pots. His flashlight flickers, and he smacks the cylinder in an attempt to coax more juice from the batteries. A small spade, a trowel. His light bounces across the disorganized shelves and pegboard, searching for gardening shears.
A moment later the flashlight flickers again and this time sputters out, despite Nick rattling the battery compartment.
He squints in the shadows, as his eyes adjust. The light that makes it through the window high on the wall isn't enough to see by. He sighs at the inconvenience. Warrick would say something snarky about being prepared if he were here.
He needs to get his kit anyway. He turns to head back to the door.
He picks his way around a lawn mower and a section of broken fencing as he heads towards the half open door. The window allows just enough light from the straggling beams of the floodlight to guide his steps and cast creepy shadows in the dim interior. They sway and bounce on the walls and shelves. If he didn't know better it looks like even the floor is moving. Distorted waving patterns.
Nick frowns, squinting in the darkness. The movement is too inconsistent to be a shadow. It almost looks like...
Realization dawns, a moment too slow.
A too familiar agonizing burn erupts on his ankle. He gasps. Then another pinching sting, and another. A cluster along his ankle and up across his shin.
His heart races with panic and fire ant venom.
They warned him about the risk of repeat exposure. They can't be sure how his body will react with a second dose.
Nick draws another sharp breath, swatting at his leg, trying to shake loose the insects attacking him. The piercing burning continues.
A staggering half hop, kicking his leg frantically, trying to free himself of the swarm without success. The stings continue. He crashes hard against the half-closed door of the shed.
His pulse thrumming in his ears. His breathing already sounds ragged. Fear, or the poison already coursing through his veins.
Venom, his mind supplies in Grissom's voice. If you bite it and it kills you, it's poison. If it bites you and it kills you it's venom.
What if you bite it and you kill it, he hears Greg ask.
Then you're venomous. Weren't you paying attention Greggo?
His breath comes in short quick puffs. Sweat drips, rolls between his shoulder blades from the exertion. With shaking hands Nick grasps the rough wooden door frame, using it as leverage to propel himself forward.
The scene is hazy around the edges. The patio looks so far away. He doesn't remember walking that far to the shed. His knees buckle. He's not going to be able to make it back.
"Hey," Nick cries out, clearing the shed, and stumbling. His voice cracks. "I need some help here!" He waves an arm hoping to attract attention.
Super Dave looks up at his yell, where he was getting ready to transfer the body onto the gurney. He takes a slow step towards Nick.
Brass hearing Nick's yell for help, draws his gun. Eyes scanning for threats. He catches David's arm and pulling him back until they know what the danger is. A uniform also pulls his gun from its holster, carefully assessing the scene as they head towards Nick.
Grissom exits the house where he'd been completing a walk through and sees Nick's unsteadily lurching through the yard.
Brass isn't fast enough to latch onto Grissom's arm as he blusters past the detective, on a mission to get to his CSI.
Nick stumbles, crashes to the ground, continuing to brush frenetically at his ankle. His chest rattles with each shallow inhale. Lightheaded. Eyes wide, anxiously darting between his boss and the cops.
Grissom crosses the yard quickly. Dropping beside Nick and catches his arm. "What's going on, Nick?" His eyes searching for the cause of Nick's obvious distress.
But Nick can't draw enough breath. "A-a," choking on the word that would let them know what was happening and how to help. He points towards the toolshed.
The uniform takes off towards the shed and unknown threat while Grissom's eyes narrow. He takes in the shuttering, shaking gasps for air. The flush on Nick's face, highlighting the lines of pain. Lying on the ground, the scene lit with searchlights. And suddenly he knows.
"Oh my god," Brass whispers, as realization dawns on him as well.
"Nicky, where's your epipen?" Grissom asks patting Nick down. Leaning forward to hear Nick's voice through the wheeze.
"Ki- kit-" Nick gestures weakly back to the patio.
"Kit, it's in his kit," Grissom yells. "David, Nick's been stung. His epipen is in his kit."
Grissom tries to hold Nick upright, to ease his breathing but Nick fights against his arms, curling forward.
Nick bats at his leg. "Bites," he forces out through his rapidly swelling airway. "Still. Bites."
Brass pulls up the leg of Nick's jeans, revealing pus filled blisters peppering his leg, extending up past the rolled pant leg. Ants attacking the inflamed skin.
"They're still biting him," Brass says in horror, brushing them away furiously, but it's not enough.
They work in tandem to pull away Nick's jeans. Nick struggles, and Grissom isn't sure if he's trying to help them or fight them in some attempt to retain his modesty.
"Stop it, Nicky," Grissom admonishes. "We have to get the ants off of you." His hands brush furiously against inflamed skin. Picking the ants off Nick's bare leg, sweeping away the horde.
Grissom pushes up Nick's shirt, examining the skin across his chest, back and abdomen for signs of bites or residual ants. "Do you feel them anywhere else?"
Struggling for breath, Nick shakes his head. His eyes watering as he wheezes. Fingers clawing, scratching at his throat, leaving pink scratches against purpling skin. Terror in his eyes as he fights for oxygen.
David drops next to them, quickly assembling the epipen, jamming the cartridge into place and hands it to Grissom, who freezes.
In all the years they've been working together, it's the only the second time David's ever seen the night shift supervisor's facade break. This second time is a mirror image of the first. The situation too similar to the nightmare that haunts everyone in the lab, even if they don't talk about it.
David takes the epipen back from the older man. "Middle of the outer thigh," David quickly talks through the motions as he performs them. "Don't jab it. Just firm pressure. Hit the button and hold." David counts silently.
Brass slams his phone shut. "A crash on the 95 has all paramedic crews tied up. Twenty minutes until they can get here."
"We could drive there faster ourselves," Grissom scowls, holding Nick in a reclining position against his chest. He can feel the rattle in Nick's lungs with each inhale. "He can't wait twenty minutes for help." His eyes settle on the stretcher on the patio, where moments before they prepared to lift the victim onto it. Now to be used for a different victim with a different destination.
He refuses to consider the alternative.
Nick struggles again as they settle him on the coroner's stretcher. "No, no, no," he cries, weakly pushing hands away. "Not dead."
"Just to get you up to the car, Nicky," Brass tries to calm the younger man.
Nick's eyes rove wildly and he yells when they land on David. "He- he has- good heart-" he wheezes as the stretcher bounces across the yard to Brass' sedan.
Brass exchanges a look with Grissom.
"He's hallucinating," Grissom says, quickening his steps. "Oxygen deprivation, the venom, flashbacks to... that night."
Pulling Nick into the back seat takes all three men, plus the two uniformed officers at the scene. He fights weakly every step, every motion. Arms and legs flailing, fighting enemies only he can see.
Grissom wonders if Nick isn't just reliving the box and the ants, but also the kidnapping in the murky haze of shock and adrenaline. He settles into the back, propping Nick up, dodging flying elbows.
"It's not exactly standard issue," Brass explains, pulling an oxygen cannister out of the trunk, and passing it to Grissom, settling the mask over the younger man's face.
The cool air ghosting across his faces causes Nick to cry out again, struggling against the mask and his boss' hands. Does this remind Nick of the traitorous fan? In the immediate aftermath of the box, it was uncertain what would trigger a panicked response from Nick. Too bright and too dark. Too warm and too cold. A mattress too soft or too firm. A paradox. The sound of the fan, the feeling of the air caressing his body distressed him, yet he couldn't sleep without it.
Grissom pushes the mask firmly over Nick's mouth, hardening his heart to Nick's fearful cries. Hoping the epinephrine will ease the swelling Nick's airway enough to allow the oxygen through.
"If he doesn't start breathing easier in about ten minutes, give him the second dose of the epipen," David hands the injector to Grissom.
Grissom nods seriously. The door closes.
Brass slides into the front seat. Emergency lights flashing and siren wailing, and the sedan peels out of the driveway. Tires squeal as they careen through the subdivision, interrupting for the second time tonight, the otherwise usually quiet neighborhood.
Warrick stalks through the Emergency Department, a man on a mission, daring anyone to stop him.
It's too soon to be here again.
It's not fair to be doing this again. Almost losing Nick to another damn ant bite. An insect that small shouldn't have the power to fell a grown man. And it certainly shouldn't get a chance at a rematch.
He pushes through the doorway. The room is dim. Cool. They cranked up the air conditioning.
Grissom stands near the head of Nick's bed, frowning.
Minute twitches in Nick's limbs, mar the illusion of peaceful slumber. Vapor escapes the sides of the oxygen mask, curling around Nick's face. He can still hear the rasping of Nick's breath.
"Albuterol treatment," Grissom says without looking back.
Warrick nods, stepping further into the room. He doesn't need the explanation. He remembers all too well the treatment plan for anaphylaxis. He eyes the multiple bags of IV fluids hanging from the pole. The slow hypnotic drip of medication into the chamber. The lines disappearing beneath the sheets that Nick twists and turns underneath.
"He's dreaming about the box."
"Aw, Nicky," Warrick shakes his head. He knows those nightmares never fully abated. They're still the source of restless nights and purple bruises under tired eyes.
"He's having some arrhythmias?" Warrick's eyes follow Grissom's gaze to the monitor over the bed. The trace of Nick's heartbeat; even to his untrained eye it looks too fast, irregular.
"They're worried about the effect of the venom on his heart and his kidneys."
Same song, different verse. They're too familiar with this. The automatic blood pressure cuff inflates.
"Catherine's on her way. Sara and Greg are going to finish the scene," Warrick tells his boss.
"I should go back and help," Grissom says, turning slowly, reluctantly, to leave. He pauses. "He needs a medic-alert bracelet. Make sure he gets one. He needs it on his wrist before he discharges."
Warrick nods at the instructions.
"Do you know how to use an epipen?"
"I had Tina teach me. After."
It's Grissom's turn to nod. "Anybody in the field with him needs to know how to use one. Us. Uniforms. Detectives." He takes a few steps and pauses at the door. "It was minutes, Warrick, from the time he was bitten until his throat was too swollen to call for help. He needs to carry it on him, in his pocket or on his belt. Not left back in his kit somewhere."
Warrick frowns. "He'll get an earful from me. From Catherine and Tina too," he promises.
Grissom disappears out the door. Warrick hooks a leg around the chair, pulling it closer to the bed. "Yeah, you get some rest buddy. I want you wide awake when we scold you for not having your epipen on you. Thought we talked about this?"
Nick's eyes stay closed, but the restless movements slow.
"Your mother ever tell you if you keep making that face it's gonna stay like that?" Warrick teases as Nick's frown deepens. "Speaking of, did you call your mom?"
"No. I'll tell them. Sometime. I just can't now. I don't want them to worry. Not after, everything," Nick shakes his head. Wrinkling his forehead when the motion displaces the nasal cannula. He pauses as he adjusts it, then bargains. "I'd tell them this afternoon if they'd let me go home though."
His long blistered covered leg exposed, rubbing restlessly against the sheets, trying to find relief from the perpetual itch.
"You're still getting IV benadryl and you're this uncomfortable. You really want to try to go home like this?"
Nick flops back against the raised bed. "No," he sighs. His voice still rough and raw. "I just feel like I just did... this." He gestures vaguely to the medical equipment and hospital room.
Warrick huffs. "Yeah, don't I know it."
"You don't have to sit around with me all day. Don't you have a wife to get home to?"
"Tina's teaching a class this afternoon, so I got some time."
Nick's eyes narrow. His friend's trying too hard to sound casual. "What kind of class?"
Warrick shrugs.
"C'mon, Rick."
"An inservice at the lab. Ecklie signed off on some continuing education hours. Thought maybe we needed some first aid training."
Nick nods, his jaw tight. "Any particular topic?"
"Just stuff we might run across in the field or in the lab."
"And this just randomly came up? Cause I don't remember hearing anything about it."
"What are you so upset about? Your nurse is gonna come running in here in a minute because you're gonna set off your heart monitor."
Nick pauses. "I'm not upset."
"Seems like you are. That's the most color I've seen in your face all day."
Nick's leg slides back under the blanket, and he pulls it higher on his chest, like a shield. "Everyone saw me. In that box. The worst moments of my life and everyone watched them on a screen while I lived them. I just don't want everyone thinking about that when they look at me. Reminding them."
"Hey Nick," Warrick begins, waiting until Nick looks up and makes eye contact. "I guarantee no one sees weakness when they look at you. I see the strongest man I've ever met."
Nick rolls his eyes.
"I'm serious. If it had been me, I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have held on," Warrick admits. "And yeah, man, we watched you. But we watched you survive. Did everything we could to find you. So none of us want to give the little crawling bastards a second, third, whack at ya."
Nick laughs. "Don't let Grissom hear you call 'em that. You might get a lecture on their impressive strength and resilience."
"Nah, I think he's more impressed with your strength and resilience," Warrick says, clapping a hand on Nick's shoulder.
Nick can't help the small smile and blush of pride that crosses his face.