Author's Note: Hey, y'all! This is a story that takes place post 'Organ Grinder'. It's written from Nick's point of view, and I realize it's short, but I just wanted to get a feel for it first, and I also want to hear what you guys think about it before I get too far into it. If there is enough interest, and the Muse complies, the next chapter (chapters?) should be longer.

Spoilers: Well, it's based around 'Organ Grinder', but it's not really a spoiler. Basically, all you have to know is that there wasa guy (Bob Fairmont)who was poisoned but his wife had him cremated. They (the CSIs) couldn't determine how much poison and over what period of time killed him, since he was cremated, but his wife also had his organs donated. His kidney went to Carl Mercer, and Nick went to him to see if they could use an invasive scope or something like that to get a scrap of kidney so they could determine the poisoning period. Anyway, that's basically all you have to know.

I couldn't believe it. Carl Mercer may have been the single most selfless person I had ever met. I mean, the poor guy waited four years for a kidney, and mere days after he finally got it, I waltzed in and asked if I could cut him open again to see how much poison killed Bob Fairmont – somebody this guy had probably never met. Obviously, he refused, but who could blame him?

And then Mr. Mercer called me back in shortly after he refused our request, and he told me that his body was rejecting the organ , and that he'd changed his mind and that he was going to let us go in to get a scrap of his kidney!

Although I knew it was his choice and that he had free will, I couldn't do it. I couldn't let him risk his life again to help our investigation, and I explained that to Grissom (although I don't think I got through to him). Honestly, I wonder what goes on in his head sometimes, but I'm not really sure I want to know. But I stood by what I told him. No investigation for the dead is worth hurting the living.

But Mr. Mercer got me thinking. Well, not Carl Mercer specifically, just his whole general situation. When I die, which, let's face it, is inevitable, why shouldn't I donate my organs? Seriously. What use am I going to have for them once I'm dead? Why couldn't I help somebody live longer by my death?

So that's why, the day after we wrapped up the case, I picked up a donor card and signed it. Even got Sara and Warrick to sign as witnesses. I couldn't really express the feeling afterwards. It wasn't relief…no, it was more like something that made me feel worthwhile. Now I knew that maybe somebody would be able to make some use out of my organs once I was through with 'em.

I almost slept easy that night.

I couldn't help but think about Carl Mercer and how he looked, lying in that hospital bed. He had been sweating a lot and his breathing had been laboured. I could tell his throat had been dry by the way he'd kept swallowing. I tried to push the image of him lying there from my mind the same way I do a crime scene, but it wouldn't leave me along. I rolled over in my bed and faced my alarm clock. Seven in the morning. Man, my body clock was screwed up. Seven a.m. and I'd just gone to bed. Why the hell did I work nights? It was so messed up.

Realizing that this image wasn't going to leave my head unless I did something about it, I sighed and crawled out of bed, pulling on a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I drove myself to the hospital, though I wasn't really sure what I would do when I got there. I parked my car, entered the building, and approached the reception desk. My mouth seemed to go on autopilot, without consulting my brain about what to say. "I'd like to donate an organ," I blurted out.

'Surprised' is not quite the word I'd use to describe the look on her face. No, it was more like I'd made up a foreign language and asked for directions in it. Finally, my brain kicked in and I corrected myself. "Actually, I'd like to see Carl Mercer."

"Young man, it's seven in the morning," she pointed out. "Unless you're family, I can't let you in."

"I'm his nephew," I lied. That was said by my mouth, not my brain. My brain would have said that I was from the Crime Lab.

She was quiet for a minute before she said, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." My brain. I saw her stand up and approach a nearby doctor. They spoke for a moment and I could see them glance back at me every so often.

Finally, the doctor came towards me. "You're Mr. Mercer's nephew?" he asked. I nodded. He looked me up and down as though he didn't believe me, and finally said, "Mr. Mercer doesn't have a nephew." I let out a breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"Okay, so I'm not his nephew," I confessed. The doctor raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Deciding that I couldn't really make myself look like any more of an idiot than I already had, I continued, "The truth is, I wanted to see if I would be an eligible kidney donor for Mr. Mercer."

The doctor – Dr. Marple, his nametag said – looked absolutely floored (yet pleased), but he quickly regained his composure and said, "Come with me."

I rolled up my sleeve and prepared myself for the deep needle. Man, I hated blood tests. The last time I had one was when I first started at CSI, and Grissom asked for a pint of my blood. I've had needles since then, but no blood tests.

I wasn't ashamed to look away. I hated seeing myself being given needles; I didn't care how un-macho that was. I felt the sharp entry and tried not to tense up, knowing that it would make it worse. My arm acclimatized to the pain and I was able to relax a little more. After a few minutes, the nurse who'd been drawing my blood removed the needle and gave me a cotton ball to hold to the tiny wound, and handed the vial to Dr. Marple who was waiting nearby. He held it up to the fluorescent light as if to inspect it, though I'm not sure what he was looking for. Serum? That takes twenty minutes, and, hello, he just saw me get it drawn. Whatever.

He put the vial into an envelope and wrote something on it with a Sharpie. I listened and I could by the strokes of the pen he was writing my name. It's a gift, really. Sharpie's easy, too. It's loud.

Dr. Marple turned his attention back to me. "We have to screen it and make sure that your blood is compatible with Carl Mercer's, so we'll call you in two days to let you know."

"Alright," I said. "Thank you very much." I stood up and left the room, still holding the cotton ball to the crook of my elbow.

Author's Note: So, maybe starting a new series is the last thing I need to be doing right now, but, as always, the Muse has called and I must answer, right? Please review and let me know your general opinions, specific opinions, things you hate about it, things you like about it, and what you'd like to see happen in this sucker.