A/N: Not really AU, but also not set at any specific point in the series. There WILL be references to various episodes of the series though. I will let you know in the individual chapters. The title is a reference to the Johnny Cash song.

*WARNING* I CHOOSE NOT TO GIVE DETAILED TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY. Because I don't want to reveal too much of the plot. Be prepared for all kinds of angsty stuff. Also, in parts of the story I will depict Monroe a lot darker than we ever get to see him in the series. I understand this might not be for everyone.

The house was still, wrapped in a woolly scarf of dusk and causing Nick to frown as he cut the engine. He'd expected lit-up windows, bright classical music seeping through them, and a hectic Monroe running from room to room, wrapping up the rest of the cleaning and cooking in time for their visitors' arrival. Instead, the place looked dead, and the bag was heavy in Nick's hand as he got out of the car.

Maybe Bart and Alice had arrived early, and Monroe had decided to take them someplace in town? That wasn't the original plan, of course, but Nick could easily imagine the clockmaker trying to delay the inevitable. Today was the day they were going to tell Monroe's parents. They had started dating just after their annual visit last September, and got away with seeing each other for almost a year without the Blutbad's family being aware. But both of them knew they couldn't keep it a secret forever, and Monroe had been so nervous all day he'd even burnt the cake, which was a first.

The detective had quite happily volunteered to make a last-minute trip to the bakery, grateful for the brief time-out as his boyfriend's agitation was starting to rub off. And Nick had always been the one to say it wouldn't be all that bad, and hey, at least Blutbaden were tolerant of same-sex relationships, so there was just this tiny little issue of him being a Grimm. But, if it were to go wrong, he would often say to Monroe, at least he was used to handle negative reactions from Wesen: fear, anger, hate, he could deal with all of that calmly and rationally. Of course, he'd not yet been in a situation where he had to tell a couple of Wesen that he'd been sleeping with their son. But that was still a little better than decapitating their son, right? And then Monroe would roll his eyes and express doubts that his parents were into that kind of humour.

But now the Grimm felt more on edge than ever walking towards their bleak, silent house as the last shreds of daylight were dissolving. It had started to rain, just a little, infusing the early autumn air with dampness, and Nick shivered, quickening his pace. They didn't need a wet cake in addition to the slightly charred one they already had.

He fumbled for his keys, opening the door and stepping into the hallway where the only audible sound was a faint click as the detective switched on the lights.

"Monroe?"

The rest of the ground floor was quiet and dipped in gloom, as if no-one were at home, yet as soon as Nick entered the lounge he could make out the Blutbad's shape hunched over on the sofa, an even darker silhouette against the darkness that surrounded him.

"Hey, are you..? What are you doing sitting in the -"

He walked across the room and reached for the light switch when Monroe stopped him with just one abrupt syllable, making Nick instantly retract his hand, not so much because of the word itself but because of the dry huskiness in the clockmaker's voice.

"Don't."

Nick peered into the shadows, trying to discern the expression inside the blackness that was his lover's face.

"Alright.. are your parents delayed or something?"

There was a silence, only punctured by the ticking of at least a dozen clocks, a sound Nick would find soothing under normal circumstances. But now each tick was pulling at his already strained nerves. Something was very, very wrong.

"They're not coming", Monroe finally responded, quietly.

"Okay", Nick was unknowingly playing with the plastic handles of the bag he was holding, "did you argue?"

That would be no surprise. Monroe only ever spoke favourably of his parents, yet half the time when he spoke to them on the phone they ended up arguing, followed by a few hours of banging doors and general grumpiness until the clockmaker returned to his usual funny, adorable self. Nick always felt bad for him, as, obviously, his parents were never going to fully accept his life choices; but he tried not to get too involved, considering his rather difficult relationship with his own mother.

Maybe, for some reason, Monroe had ended ended up telling them something over the phone, and they decided not to come, and to disown him for good measure, or -

"No."

It was almost a whisper.

"Well.. that's good", the detective tried, cautiously, unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed by this unexpected turn of events. "Then why are they not -"

"They're dead, Nick."

There was nothing at first. Then a dull thud as the bag with the cake hit the floor.

"Wha- .."

Nick's ears had picked up all the individual phonemes, muffled as they were, but, somehow, his mind simply refused to string them together, filled to the brim with the earsplitting tick-tock of the damn clocks.

"What do you mean they're -"

"Car crash, just outside Portland.. you haven't heard?"

The last of those hoarse words were bitter with reproach, and all of a sudden Nick felt crushed down by guilt, as if he were to blame for everything. True, he would usually listen to police radio in the car, even when off duty, just out of interest, and because he loved his job. But this evening he'd been driving in silence, trying to figure out how to best approach the difficult conversation they needed to have with Monroe's parents, and make sure that no one accidentally killed anyone else in the heat of the moment. And now..

"Oh God, no", Nick muttered as all the horror of the situation finally started to trickle in. "Oh my God."

He'd done various seminars on this precise issue, on talking to the bereaved relatives of crime victims, people who had suffered a tragic loss. It was an important part of his job, yet now that it would really, really count for something his head was as empty as his hands and he could not think of a single word to say.

All Nick could do was dash across the room to kneel in front of the dark shape doubled over on the sofa, to wrap his arms around it.

"Monroe.."

And then something happened, so quickly and surprisingly it took Nick several seconds to figure out why he was suddenly on his back, groaning in pain. To realise the Blutbad had pushed him away forcefully enough to make him bang his head on the sharp edge of the coffee table. He was still sprawled out on the carpet in utter shock when Monroe got up and almost instantly disappeared from view.

"Wai-.."

The detective managed to clamber to his feet, dazed but determined, running after him, through the hallway and up the stairs, but not fast enough to stop Monroe from slamming and locking the bedroom door in his face. How many times had they joked about that stupid door bolt after moving into their new house! They'd made plans to take it off, but always got distracted, somehow, well, it was their bedroom door after all. And now, for the very first time, the lock had found its use.

"Monroe? Hey, open up!"

Nick smacked his hand against the door several times, before realising how insensitive that was, and then he started rubbing the solid wood instead, as if trying to make up for the fact he was not able to touch the person on the other side.

"Come on, let me in, please", he entreated, "I'm sorry, Monroe.. I'm so sorry.. this is just.. please let me help!"

Nick pressed his ear to the door, but there was not a sound to be heard, and after what had felt like a whole hour of pleading and waiting he made the reluctant decision to leave the Blutbad be and take the time to deal with his own dismay. He staggered down the stairs, rubbing the painful bump above his temple and trying to calm his bruised feelings which, given the circumstances, were completely inappropriate. And yet, he hadn't expected Monroe to wilfully hurt him and lock him out of his own bedroom under any circumstances. Well, people grieved in unpredictable ways. That much Nick remembered.

He went back into the lounge, finally switching on the light.. and instantly reaching for his mobile, eyes widened in shock, intending to report a breaking and entering – but then his brain caught up and told him it was no stranger who'd wreaked havoc here. In his job, the detective had to deal with this type of settings at least once a week. Yet he was hopelessly overwhelmed standing in the middle of their demolished living room, glass shards crunching under his feet; the whole carpet littered with dials, little wheels and what he could only assume were other clockwork parts; one of the curtains torn off completely, the other still attached, but shredded beyond recognition; Monroe's antique wooden chairs scattered around upside down, missing some of their legs; the rest of the furniture dented and scratched, and distinctive claw marks decorating the wallpaper.

For a few moments Nick was frozen to the spot, speechless. Then he let himself sink down onto the floor, leaning against the sofa and pulling out his phone anyway. He still couldn't wrap his head around all of this. Monroe had only spoken to his parents this morning. They were on holiday in Seattle and were going to borrow a car to drive down to Portland. Maybe there'd been some kind of really unfortunate misunderstanding.

Nick called the station and asked to be put through to the traffic department. Tom was on duty this evening. Not exactly his favourite person in the world, but someone he knew quite well from in-house training days.

"Hey Nick, whassup? I thought you had some important family thing today?"

The detective closed his eyes. Rumour travelled fast in the office.

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Sure."

"Has there been a crash involving the death of an elderly couple, probably on the -"

"Highway five, yeah, Jeff's preliminary report just came in, give me a moment.."

"Thanks."

Nick waited nervously, reaching down and pulling a sharp object from underneath him. It was a little star-shaped pocket watch. He remembered that one. Monroe had given him a half-hour lecture on its history once. It was French. Probably. Nick hadn't really been listening. He loved to hear Monroe talk enthusiastically about this or that, but the content didn't matter too much. There were just too many things the clockmaker was passionate about, Nick couldn't possibly pay close attention to all of them. And now he was inspecting the little metal star in his hand with great care, as if waiting for it to tell him what to say, what to do in order to help its owner. He closed his fist around it when Tom finally found the report and read out the victims' names. There was no mistake. This was really happening.

"Nick? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry.. how did they die?"

"Oh, just your typical vehicular manslaughter, you know, nothing exciting." There was a sickening crunching noise, grating in Nick's ears; Tom seemed to be biting into an apple and chewing on it as he continued. "Truck didn't see their car, vics were dead on the spot. Not a pretty sight, Jeff said, but there was enough left to ID them."

Nick exhaled, slowly and deliberately, only barely managing to stop himself from yelling at the young sergeant. Yet he was well aware he was often discussing cases with Hank and Wu in pretty much the same impassive manner. No cop could do their job whilst constantly remembering that the name in a file used to be someone's child, or spouse, or parent..

"Anything else in the report?"

"Not much. Truck driver is being brought in as we speak, next of kin has been notified, and -"

"When?"

"Let me check. About thirty minutes ago."

Nick's stomach clenched. Those were the thirty minutes he spent cruising around Portland, taking the longest way home that he could think of as he was in no great hurry to get back. And Monroe was here, in the house, all on his own.

"Oh God", Nick whispered, but, thankfully, Tom did not seem to notice.

"And he – hm, or maybe that's a 'she'? You never know with a weird name like 'Monroe', right?"

Nick squeezed the watch until its sharp edges were piercing through his skin of his palm – and said nothing.

"Well, anyway, this 'Monroe' person has been informed the bodies will be released tomorrow morning at eleven, when the M.E. is done with them.. and that's it, really. Why're you asking? We've already passed it on to Homicide, would you like to know who -".

"Don't worry. Thanks."

Nick hung up in a hurry. Another word or eating noise, and he would have to personally drive over to the office on his day off just to punch Tom in the face. Besides, he would have hated for a colleague to hear him cry.

Nick didn't know Monroe's parents, of course, he didn't even know much about them. But that all-encompassing, soul-shattering agony.. that he knew all too well, and was suddenly flooded with the most gruesome memories. Such a horrible way to die. The fact his mother was actually alive did little to alleviate what he'd been through as a child. But, at least, aunt Marie had always been there to comfort him, and now, for reasons he could not even comprehend, he was not allowed to do the same for his own boyfriend. This was completely out of character. The Monroe he knew was prone to oversharing rather than refusing to communicate. And all Nick wanted was to hold him, and take away at least a drop of the pain.

He forced himself to get up, wiping away the tears and rushing to their bedroom door once again in order to apologise for not being there earlier, and beg Monroe to let him in, or at least talk to him. But to no avail.

Finally, he gave up. At some point, Monroe would need the bathroom or some food; neither of them had eaten since breakfast. At some point, he would have to come out.

In the meantime, Nick went to fetch bin bags and a vacuum cleaner. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the explosion of chaos that used to be their living room. They'd only finished decorating a few weeks ago, and now he didn't even know where to start. He sighed and got to work.

Nick woke up because his neck was killing him, and for a little while he had no clue what he was doing here, sleeping leaned against something hard and uncomfortable. Something that turned out to be the bedroom door. Then he remembered. He instantly jumped to his feet, ignoring the soreness in his muscles, and tried the handle once again. The door was still locked. And then it hit him. He must have been in complete shock last night not to consider this possibility.

The detective flew down the stairs, ran out the front door and around the building until he was stood on the wet grass at the rear of their house. It must have rained heavily during the night. His heart sank as his worst suspicions were confirmed: the bedroom window had been thrown wide open, and that kind of height posed no problem to a Blutbad in full woge. Suddenly, Nick regretted he never let Monroe teach him pilates, as he could have done with some breathing techniques to get air into his lungs just about now. Instead, all he got were thoughts, and each was scarier than the last. Of course, in his usual state of mind, Monroe was probably more peaceable and level-headed than most humans. But when he got angry, he got angry, and judging by the current state of the living room, despite Nick's efforts to tidy it last night..

The detective reached into his pocket and clutched his phone. Where was Monroe? What was Monroe doing? He had to go look for Monroe. No, he had to stay home in case Monroe came back. He could put out an APB. No, being apprehended by cops was the last thing Monroe needed right now. This was a crazy idea.

Yet after calling the clockmaker's phone and finding that it was ringing from inside the bedroom; after waiting restlessly for several hours, with nothing better to do than break open that goddamn door and finally unscrew the bolt lock; after realising it was already midday, calling the morgue and being told that Monroe had not shown his face; after all of that, the APB didn't seem like such a crazy idea anymore.

As a last, desperate resort Nick decided to call Rosalee. He had been trying to avoid it, as he didn't feel comfortable telling her before even speaking to Monroe, but now he was relieved to hear her chipper 'Spice Shop' greeting. At least, some things were still as they should be.

"Hey Rosalee.. you haven't seen Monroe by any chance?"

"No.. what happened?" Instantly, the cheerfulness in Rosalee's voice was dissipating. "Did you guys actually fall out?"

She sounded incredulous. Indeed, Rosalee enjoyed poking light-hearted fun at Nick sometimes, how him and Monroe never seemed to argue about anything more significant than what exact shade of green to paint their new kitchen. Even though they were very different, somehow, they fit into each other really well, personality wise. In other respects, too. Nick clenched his jaw. There was no easy way to say this, so he simply told her.

What followed were the expected expressions of shock and disbelief, and then Rosalee offered to come over, which Nick was grateful for, as he was slowly losing his mind being forced to stay in the house on his own, wondering whether Monroe was doing something terrible that very moment, and using most of his mental resources trying to stop himself from visualising any specific scenarios. The Grimm was about to accept when he heard a key in the lock.

"Rosalee, I think he's back, gotta go."

Nick hung up and turned around. He was not mistaken, there were definitely steps in the hallway. Heavy steps.

"Monroe! Thank God, I was so worried, are you -"

Nick's breath caught as the Blutbad's shape appeared in the doorway. He had been preparing himself for the worst but, for a few moments, he barely even recognised him, though Monroe was still wearing yesterday's clothes. Only now his vest was hanging down in shreds, his shirt seemed to be missing most of its buttons and the trousers were torn beyond saving. He was covered in dirt and grass head to toe, dripping mud onto the cream carpet, a mess of wet locks plastered over his forehead.

But it was something else that made Nick's heart freeze in his chest. It was the trace of blood on Monroe's chin, and at the corner of his mouth.

A/N 2: I realise this is an unusual outset for a Nickroe fic, and not 'classic' slash. But I just love stories where everybody suffers A LOT, but in the end love conquers all. In my previous stories for this pairing I just haven't achieved my desired degree of suffering yet I think ;). So I hope a few people will like this. Please drop me a comment. Especially if you think something in the way Nick behaves doesn't make sense. (Whereas Monroe's behaviour will be explained in more detail throughout the next couple of chapters.)