Chapter 11

Tim didn't open his eyes when he regained consciousness. It wasn't the slow, steady moving from sleep to wakefulness that a person normally did. It was a jerk from darkness and oblivion to awareness and pain...and need. The shame of it made him cry again. He was a drug addict...and he had worked so hard to convince himself that he wasn't, that what he was doing was a good thing, that he had...

"Tim? Are you awake?"

That concerned voice only made him feel worse...and he already felt pretty bad. He was an addict. He didn't deserve concern. He didn't deserve...

"Tim, what's wrong?"

Tim still didn't open his eyes, wanting to go back to sleep when he could pretend that he didn't want to find the nearest pharmacy and drug himself up like John Belushi or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin or...or like Devon. All of them dead. All addicts. Like him...

"Don't cry."

What had he been doing before the darkness? Things were fuzzy. He had a feeling that he had been on the verge of being able to solve everything, all at once...and that he had been stopped.

"Please, Tim, open your eyes."

Tim didn't want to open his eyes. Opening his eyes meant seeing that person looking at him, looking at the addict, knowing that all he wanted was drugs, that he had nearly...

"Come on, McGee. Please?"

That additional voice didn't help. The sobs became audible, but he refused to look at anyone. He had nearly killed himself...and it would have served him right if he had succeeded and...

Arms encircled him, holding him close, rocking him gently.

"Don't cry, Tim. It's going to be okay."

His arm hurt. So did his leg. ...but all that was muted beneath the weight of his addiction, the shame of the admission, the fight he still had to wage against his own body and mind...a fight he was sure he was going to lose. He'd never won before. Why should this time be any different?

"We're all here, McGee. Let us help."

Tim sobbed harder than ever. It wasn't right that they had forgiven him. It wasn't right that they were all there. He had betrayed them. He had lied and cheated and now he had a job he didn't deserve, friends he didn't deserve, a life he didn't deserve.

"Go away," he whispered.

"Why?"

"I should be alone." It was hard to talk; his crying seemed to have sapped all his energy. "I deserve..."

"McGee, open your eyes." That wasn't a request. It was a command. Tim had to obey orders.

He opened his eyes. Abby was hugging him. Everyone else was around the bed, looking at him...not hating him...and yet... He looked down at himself. One of his arms was heavily bandaged. Both were shaking. He closed his eyes again. Still shaking, still addicted. He began to sob once more.

"Tim, don't! Look at us!"

Tim shook his head and tried to push Abby away.

"Look at me!" he sobbed, pulling away from Abby's much-stronger arms. "I deserve to die."

"No! McGee, look at me!"

Tim shook his head again. "I'm an addict, a junkie. I'm addicted to drugs! Worse...I'm a liar. I'm..."

The familiar and strangely comforting headslap stopped his words. He looked up at Gibbs who was standing over him...not looking angry.

"You are dependent on drugs, McGee," he said. "You can stop. You don't have to be like this forever."

"No...I always go back to them. Always. Every time. I stop and start and stop and start and..." Tim tried again to get away from Abby. He was shaking more. "There's nothing I can do. Worthless."

"No, Tim," Gibbs said, sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing Tim to look at him. "No. You're wrong. We've been talking with your doctor the last couple of days and..."

"Days?" Tim interrupted.

"You've been unconscious for two days," Ducky said. "You lost a lot of blood and did plenty of damage."

"I just wanted to stop," Tim whispered.

"I know...but I also know something you don't."

"What's that?" Tim asked, flicking his eyes around at everyone in the room. He felt so nervous, so afraid...he wanted to jump up and run away.

"Your decision to attempt to slice your arm to ribbons was a reaction to the drugs you were given. The doctors made an error."

"What do you mean?" Tim's eyes were able to lock onto Ducky for a few seconds before roaming again.

"A successful withdrawal from benzodiazepines requires a slow and steady tapering of the drug. It also requires a long-term variant that can be given in extremely low doses. They chose to shift you over to diazepam."

"I'm still on drugs?" Tim asked. "But I don't–"

"Timothy, I appreciate your feelings, but for the moment, I would ask that you shut up and let me speak."

Tim blinked and then, to everyone's surprise, managed a weak smile. "Sorry."

"It's not a problem. Now, as I was saying, they shifted you to diazepam. However, not knowing how high your doses had gone, they did not give you the equivalent amount."

"What does that mean?" Tim's shakes had subsided for the most part in his attempt to follow Ducky's explanation, and although he was still twitchy and nervous, he wasn't panicking as he had before.

"It means that the extreme withdrawal you suffered before was not completely eased and you were in the grips of a physical reaction to not having enough benzodiazepine in your system. Your attack on yourself was a symptom of withdrawal, not a rational decision made by an intelligent man...which you are."

Tim looked down in shame. He looked at his arm. "I remember. I just wanted it to stop."

"I know, but do you deny that you were confused at the time?"

Tim thought back to his time in his bedroom. "I'm an addict, Ducky. Addicts aren't smart."

"Timothy, you seem determined to think the worst of yourself."

"That's all that's left. Everything else is a lie."

"What would you say if I told you that your current depression is also a reaction to your withdrawal?"

"I'm not withdrawing, not yet," Tim said. Then, he looked at Ducky, not shifting his gaze for the first time since opening his eyes. "I know what the symptoms of withdrawal are. I know what can happen if a person stops too quickly. I know, Ducky. I know! ...because I looked it up...once...a few years ago." The tears started again. "When...when...Kate died I...I thought that I might have a problem. I...I didn't know what to do, and I..." His eyes again roamed around the room. He didn't want to look anyone in the eye. "I wanted to tell someone...I really did, just to...I don't know...but I didn't. I went...went to the library and I...I looked it up. I found some stuff online and I know that...that it's possible, but I don't think I can." His voice cracked. "I've never done anything without it. I lied to get into NCIS. It's the place I wanted to be...and...and I can't... What I've done...it's... I'm... no better than any of the people we've arrested. I just don't think that I can make it."

Gibbs sighed. "Did you think that you were addicted back then, McGee?"

"No...I don't know. I just wondered...and I thought...what if I was...what should I do? I couldn't...couldn't ask anyone for help. I didn't know how... Everything I read was about...people who'd been prescribed it...or people who were using other drugs at the same time. I wasn't like any of them. I hadn't been prescribed temazepam. I hadn't ever used any other drugs. I wasn't a druggie. I couldn't be...because...because...that's not who I am!" Tim started shaking again as his anxiety increased. "I don't want to be that person! I don't want be an addict!" He was shuddering and gasping for breath. "...but that's what I am. That's what I am. I'm an addict. I'm an addict." Tim leaned forward, rocking in agitation, his hands over his head, the repeated sentence fading to inaudible murmurs.

Abby put her arms around him again. "No, Tim. Don't say that."

Tim didn't seem to hear her. He continued to murmur unintelligibly.

"Are you sure they got it right this time?" Ziva asked, approaching the bed.

"Yes," Ducky answered shortly and then refocused on Tim. "Timothy. Timothy!"

Tim lifted his head, gasping for air. His eyes were full of terror as he looked at Ducky.

"Oh, dear. It's all right, Timothy. Breathe slowly. There's plenty of air. Abigail, if you wouldn't mind loosening your grip?"

Abby let Tim go completely, but Ducky shook his head and gestured for her to hold onto him.

"Timothy, just breathe. Ride it out. Listen to my voice. This is a feature of your withdrawal, of your body adjusting to a different drug, adjusting to a different level of drugs in your system. It's expected that something like this would happen. So, let it happen. You aren't going to die, whether you want to or not. This is not that time. Breathe and listen. Your body is dependent on drugs. It is true, but you are not a failure and you are not worthless and you don't deserve anything but a second chance at life. Breathe deeply, slowly. Don't panic. You're getting your second chance. Everyone deserves that and you're no different. Breathe."

Tim listened to Ducky and after a few minutes, his panic subsided. He took a few loud deep breaths and swallowed noisily. "I've ruined everything, haven't I," he said breathlessly.

Ducky smiled. "No, you haven't. ...and whatever you might have read, you are experiencing withdrawal and it will last for weeks, probably months. You're not insane; you're not worthless. You are facing a huge challenge, but one that you can surmount. Many people do. In fact, more people successfully withdraw from benzodiazepine addictions that from many other illegal drugs. Timothy, you have not ruined everything."

Tim looked away from Ducky, and his eyes moved to Ziva, to Abby, to Gibbs and then finally rested on Tony.

"Tony...I..."

"Don't say it again, McGee," Tony said. "We only want you to get help. That's why we're here. Let us help and..."

"I don't know if I can do it."

"Maybe not alone...so ask for help, Probie." There was just a glimmer of a smile on Tony's face.

Tim looked at them all, tears still streaming down his cheeks, shame evident in his eyes.

"I need help," he said in the midst of a long exhale. "I can't..."

"You can, McGee," Ziva said, firmly. "You can."

"Help me," he said, staring at his lap, at his hands which were still twitching slightly.

"You only had to ask, McGee," Gibbs said. "We'll always help."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment and then he repeated once more.

"Help me."