The address Mrs. Lovett gave them was right on the beach, in one of the swankiest resorts in Miami. The house was immense, made of dark red brick, with at least three stories and its back facing the ocean. He could see an exquisite sunset over the water that painted the sky with different shades of pink, orange and yellow.

"Nice place," Eric said approvingly. "Very high-class."

"Very," he agreed. "International trade supervision must pay well. Let's have a look inside."

Eric nodded and headed for the steps, shuffling around in his back pocket for the key. By the time he reached the door, it was in his hand and unlocking the dead bolt. He pushed it and it squealed on its hinges as it opened.

Inside the house looked like something out of a soap opera: the walls were tall and white, flanking an immense staircase that was wide at the bottom and narrowed as it went to the level above. Horatio pulled off his sunglasses and glanced from wall to wall.

"Yes, but are they rich?"

Horatio smirked. "The world may never know. First stop is the bedroom."

It didn't take them long to find it, since apparently it took up half the upper level. It was unsurprisingly clean and lavish, but there was one feature that stood out to Horatio:

"Two beds," he pointed out.

"What is this, 'I Love Lucy?'"

"Note quite," murmured Horatio, moving across the floor to a small desk, over which were at least ten degrees hanging on the wall. "Look at this," he said. "Diplomas -- masters, doctorate, from Harvard Medical, Oxford…"

"Was her husband a doctor?" Eric asked, standing over Horatio's shoulder and examining the diplomas for himself.

"Not her husband, but herself. They're all for her." Horatio frowned thoughtfully as Eric moved around the far half of the room.

"Two bathrooms, too," he said. "This is a loveless marriage if ever there was one."

He threw a glance at the two doors next to one another then headed into one. It seemed to be the wife's: it was decorated primarily in white and baby blue, with black-and-white photographs hanging on the walls. In most respects, it was an average, if high-end, bathroom, complete with a shower and a claw-footed bathtub. He glanced offhandedly at one of the pictures.

"Answer me something, Eric," he said.

"Yeah?"

"What kind of doctor," Horatio began, "has pictures of herself on stage?"

-- -- -- -- --

"… but by that time, of course, I figured out that I didn't even need it in the first place!" Alexx said over the music what was shaking the whole of the morgue. "Sure shows me."

"Yeah, well, what can you do?" Nigel asked. He speared a piece of apple pie with the plastic fork, watching from the counter as Alexx performed the autopsy on an older Asian man. "This pie is something else."

"Isn't it?" she said. "I tell you -- every time we get a new drug pitch, we all collectively gain three pounds just by looking at the food they bring."

"We're all going to hell for our diets, love, so there's no use in fighting it." He hopped off the counter and neatly carved off a corner as he headed over towards her, offering the piece. "Succumb to the carbs! They call to you!"

"Mmm-mmm! Screw you, Atkins, you old fart!" She took the bite from the fork in her face and chewed happily. A split second later, however, she grinned and swallowed suddenly. "Oh, wait-wait-wait, favourite part!"

The song had nearly hit the one-minute mark, and together, in the middle of the morgue, they sang:

It starts out easy, something simple, something sleazy,

Something inching past the edge of reserve.

Now through the lines of the cheap Venetian blinds,

Your car is pulling off of the curb

They had a great time jiving in front of the examination table, Alexx with a scalpel and Nigel with a piece of pie. A few people stared as they walked past the glass door, but if either of the two noticed, they certainly didn't care.

Just when you think you're in control,

Just when you think you gotta go, just when you gotta roll;

Oh, here it goes, here it goes, here it goes, again

Oh, here it goes, again

I should have known, should have known, should have known, again,

But here it goes again

Someone cleared his throat from the doorway, and though it drew their attention, it didn't stop the music, the dancing, or the face-splitting grins. Horatio was framed in the light from the hall, his hands on his hips.

"Having fun?"

"Well, hey, Horatio!" Alexx said before laughing. "Yeah, we're doing just fine, thanks."

"Come to join the party?" Nigel asked.

"Not quite," he replied, reaching to the stereo and turning it down a few decibels. He then took a moment to examine the slice of pie in Nigel's hand before continuing with, "Just a question."

"Fire away," Alexx said.

"Any idea where you'll be staying?"

The smirk fell off his face instantly. "Shit," he mumbled, apparently realising it for the first time. "I don't have enough money for another night at the hotel…"

"Oh, honey," Alexx said sympathetically, "I'd invite you to my place, but my sister and her kids are staying for the weekend, and we don't have room."

He frowned thoughtfully. "It's okay, love," he said. "Though it is quite the predicament."

"There's always a holding cell," suggested Horatio, shifting his weight easily from one foot to the other.

"No," he said quickly.

"No?"

"No," he repeated. "No, that's not -- I can't stay in a cell."

Horatio raised on eyebrow. "Claustrophobic?"

"Yes, actually," he replied, squirming in his spot. "Deathly terrified. Known to go into panic attacks."

Horatio's brows knitted together. Even if he'd wanted to keep him in a cell, that was now against the law. He couldn't legally keep a claustrophobic in a ten-by-ten holding cell. Unfortunately, it didn't leave many other options.

"Okay," he said after a pause. "Okay, you can stay with me."

"With -- with you?"

"Sure," Horatio said with a nod. "I have the room, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, so why not?"

Blinking owlishly, Nigel couldn't seem to put together any form of coherent sentence for a few moments. Eventually, however, Alexx did it for him:

"Why, Horatio," she said, her Cheshire grin showing she was impressed, "how very chivalrous of you."

He cracked a smirk. "I do the best I can. So what do you say, then, Nigel?"

The question shook Nigel out of his stupor. "What? Oh, I -- you're sure it's not a problem?"

"None at all," he said. "Come on, this place is going to close soon, anyway."

-- -- -- -- --

"Be it ever so humble," Horatio said, slamming the front door behind him.

"This is far from humble, mate," Nigel said, shrugging off his jacket and nosing around in the sleek, modern foyer. "Downright snazzy, this place. Very slick."

Horatio took his coat from Nigel and hung it up next to his own on the coat tree. "Glad you think so. For all the mortgage I pay on it, you'd think it was the Trump Mansion."

Nigel smirked. "I wouldn't stay in the Trump Mansion if you paid me," he said.

"Neither would I," admitted Horatio. "Hungry?"

"Famished."

"Then let's have at the kitchen."

Horatio led him through the far door, which swung open under his hands. Beyond there was a warm, homey, bright kitchen, with a theme of pale oak and white porcelain. Each surface seemed to glow in the light from the fluorescent bulbs built into the ceiling, and Nigel couldn't help but grin.

"You must be a decorator," he said.

"No, but my ex-girlfriend was," Horatio responded. "Help yourself to anything you can find."

"Famous last words," Nigel cackled, rubbing his hands together. With that, he headed across the room and peered into the nearest pantry as Horatio grabbed a skillet from a rack dangling above the flat black stove. He set it down on the left side nearest him and turned it on with a dial right above the oven door.

He was about to get the can of Pam from the cupboard when Nigel suddenly chimed in with, "Yes! Peanut butter and jelly! Now that's what I'm talking about!"

Horatio looked over his shoulder, only slightly startled. "And here I was, about to sauté strips of chicken for an Alfredo dish."

Nigel made a "pfft" noise as he brought two jars, one light brown and the other dark purple, to the counter across from Horatio (the kitchen was set up so there was an "island" of counter in the centre of the room, with a table on one side). "Nah, every time I visit home, my mum always stuffs me with that sort of thing. Give me a good old fashioned sandwich any day."

"Each to his own," Horatio said, eyeing the slices of bread that Nigel was pulling from a bag.

"Truer words there never were. Where are the knives?"

"Second drawer to your left."

He heard the drawer open and close, and a moment later Nigel was spreading viscous violet jelly onto one of the bread slices. "Mmm. Fine dining at its very best," he said approvingly.

Smirking, Horatio watched with a detached interest. Nigel set down the knife and went to move the slice of bread, succeeding in getting a dab of jam on his thumb. He raised it to his mouth and licked it off.

And Horatio really couldn't help but stare.

If Nigel noticed, he didn't comment. Wiping the knife off on the edge of the jar, he moved on to the peanut butter.

"So you've got yourself a pretty slick lab," Nigel noted, spreading a thin layer of peanut butter onto the other slice of bread. "Great equipment. I wish I could say the same for my lab back in Boston."

"We get good government funding," Horatio explained, finally pulling his eyes away from the finger. He turned and headed to his fridge, split vertically, and opened up the smaller of the two doors, pulling out a Styrofoam plate with strips of chicken, secured with Saran Wrap. "You don't have the same up there, then?"

"Not even close," he said. "It's not to say that our stuff is bad -- it isn't -- it's just not quite to this calibre."

"Well, maybe we get better equipment for tougher crimes," reasoned Horatio mildly, tearing off the Saran Wrap. "I can't speak for what happens in Boston, but down here, there never seems to be a cut-and-dry criminal case, at least not in CSI."

"Oh, we get tough crimes, all right," Nigel said as he put one slice of bread on top of the other. "I'm pretty sure I can take whatever Miami has to offer, at least until the storm in the northeast lets up long enough."

The chicken sizzled softly when it landed on the Teflon. Horatio glanced up briefly as he neatly speared another slice of the chicken breast. "You're sure?" he asked. "I've had plenty of employees who left because it was too much to handle."

Nigel raised his eyes from the sandwich, a small smirk playing on his face. "I can take whatever you dish out, Lieutenant."

"There's very little time to breathe," Horatio noted as he filled the skillet with strips of chicken. "It just keeps coming, over and over. It never lets up."

A raised eyebrow accompanied the smirk. "Maybe I like it that way. Fast-paced, zesty, never dull… sounds exactly to my taste."

Horatio's intense blue gaze met Nigel's unwaveringly. "Admirable," he said after a moment's pause. "Very admirable. But I think that if you ended up staying here, you'd be exhausted before too long. Miami has a tendency to do that."

"Maybe I would," Nigel said, "but that just adds to it, doesn't it? Waking up every morning, ready to take whatever the city might shove in my face…"

Horatio was beginning to wonder if they were talking about police work or sex. Either way, and for whatever reason, he didn't have much desire to end the conversation.

"Really," he said.

"Absolutely," Nigel countered immediately.

"Well, given the proper environment," he said, "I might think of taking you up on that offer."