Author's Notes:

1. I have re-done the summary a bit.

2. So, I was watching Ep. 10.5(I think that's it), and I noticed something peculiar in Gibbs' home: a goldfish bowl. Just wondering if I was the only one to notice it, or if I've finally fallen off the deep end. Seriously Gibbs? A goldfish? He always seemed like a yellow lab guy to me.

3. The drug "Tramapro" explained in this chapter is completely fictitious.

Warning: This chapter (the last part, in particular) and the following chapter will be going to a very dark, very serious place. (As if it wasn't already.) Thank you readers for your continued support.

HELL BENT

"Floor collapsing
Floating, bouncing back
And one day...
I am going to grow wings
A chemical reaction
Hysterical and useless
Hysterical and...

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground"

- RadioHead

Chapter Twelve

Gibbs hid in the darkened recesses of the morgue, waiting for Ducky to finally show. His old friend had given him a call earlier; he had "news" of sorts. The call had roused Gibbs from his kitchen table where he'd feverishly slept, slumped over the wrinkled copies of DiNozzo's notes and old case reports. Had to be a clue somewhere. Ziva, appearing older than her years these days, had looked over the notes as well; there was nothing inside them that was telling.

So now the agent - the tireless investigator - was here in the basement, hoping Ducky brought him something more than another "we don't know."

"Jethro…" The doctor greeted genially as he peeled off his coat and laid it carefully on a chair. "I had a rather lengthy discussion with that colleague of mine. Of course we bonded a bit over cricket and then we went over the news of the past years-"

"Duck." Gibbs was impatient, and it was quickly morphing into ill-concealed anger. These days, anger was the easiest emotion. His voice became quiet and measured, "What do you got for me?"

"Well luckily, she was particularly forthcoming, the dear girl. She seemed to understand my curiosity. So she gave me the complete autopsy report-" Ducky held it aloft before letting it slap heavily to his desk. "-Under the assumption that I would keep it to myself. I'm afraid the FBI has got this one under lock and key."

"You didn't call me all the way out here to tell me that," Gibbs deadpanned.

Ducky smiled without any real mirth. And then he methodically began paging through the documents. "I've already given it a once over, and-" The old man breathed out a sigh and looked at Gibbs over the rims of his glasses. "There are some interesting things."

"Which are?"

"Everything was mostly normal, predictable anyway. Cause of death due to two gunshot wounds to the chest. Presumably."

Gibbs gave his oldest friend a bonafide harrumph. "You gonna give me a straight answer?"

"I'll get around to it, Jethro. Patience-" Ducky gave him a firm look.

"Damn it, Duck!" Gibbs suddenly exploded. He pushed himself away from the table he was leaning against to tower over his shorter friend. "I'm not in the mood for games right now! Or stories!" he roared, face turning a distressed shade of red, spit flying. "Just- just, come on!"

But Dr. Mallard knew Gibbs all too well. He did not back away, not even when met with the man's volcanically misdirected anger. Carefully, he put a hand on Gibbs chest and gently pushed him back. Or at least he attempted to. "As I was saying, Jethro, patience is a virtue."

Gibbs took a hard swallow, hoping to get rid of the raw rage that lingered in his mouth. It was acrid, like the moment before vomiting. He frowned, but kept his mouth shut.

Meanwhile, Ducky moved on as if nothing had happened. He extracted an x-ray film from the pile and placed it onto the light box. He then dug out a photograph and pushed it slowly across the table, where Gibbs could see it. Schooling his deeply lined face, Ducky began in a fully professional capacity. "Our victim was struck - as you know - two times in the chest." He tapped the enlarged photo. "One to the right of the heart, the other immediately above it."

Gibbs stared at the photo. It showed only a man's chest, no face or any other distinguishing marks. He wouldn't have even recognized it as DiNozzo if it hadn't been for the name printed on the bottom right corner. His mouth went dry as his fingers reached out to slide it closer, eyes locked on the ruined chest. The blood had been wiped away but still the ugly wounds remained.

"So according to the report," Ducky kept his voice low, "the heart was relatively unharmed by the bullet. The right lung was hit dead center. Practically obliterated, in a medical sense. The second bullet partially severed the aorta. Unfortunately for our friend, death was not exactly instantaneous, but it was inevitable, either from massive blood loss or from drowning in it. The lung was in bad shape. Irreparable."

Gibbs was still staring at Tony's chest, so Ducky moved to pull it away. "Do not dwell on the gruesome, Jethro."

Gruesome? Gibbs wanted to snort. This wasn't exactly gruesome. Kate's brains spattered on black roof tarmac… That was gruesome. Pacci's entrails hanging in the breeze… That was gruesome. War… That was gruesome. But this? No, this was relatively tame. Tony had merely been shot, and in a place not meant to disfigure. He'd fallen to the floor. Clean, vacuumed carpet. And he'd died where he lay. If not quickly, then at least quietly.

"But there was something else. Dr. Riley is very thorough, and she noticed something peculiar," Ducky was becoming agitated as he went on. He used his hands to emphasize his words. "What she found was evidence of a substantial cardiac event."

"What? Like a heart attack?" Gibbs looked skeptical.

"To be quite honest, it's difficult to tell, considering the trauma to the area. But I'd feel comfortable saying that Tony had been suffering from a massive myocardial infarction at the precise moment he was shot."

"So what killed him?" The agent's face was unreadable. He'd gone completely still, as if he couldn't decide between defeat, confusion, ever-familiar anger, or an intense mixture of everything. "Two GSW's to the chest, or a God damn heart attack?"

"Nearly impossible to determine for sure, Jethro. At least, impossible to tell which would have killed him first. If not the bullets, then the heart attack. If not the heart attack, then the bullets."

"So," Gibbs stated quietly. "That's it?"

"Well, not quite. Tony's blood contained a high concentration of a non-narcotic painkiller. It took Dr. Riley a while to pinpoint what it was, but it shares many characteristics of something called Tramapro."

"He didn't tell me about any kind of medication."

The old man nodded. "Nor did he me. I did take the liberty to pull his employee medical records. They aren't particularly telling. The drug is prescription strength, but it certainly was not prescribed by me - nor an NCIS network physician."

"So what the hell is it?" Once again, Gibbs was impatient with his friend's slow-build to story telling.

"Well, Tramapro is sometimes used to manage persistent pain - think aches of the joints and other such things. Or pain caused by withdrawals from narcotics."

Gibbs blinked. "Persistent pain. Like arthritis?"

"Indeed." Again, Ducky nodded encouragingly. "From what I could gather, Tramapro was originally developed for performance animals - show horses, in particular. It was designed to be administered via injection, oftentimes straight into the offending joints. It improved the animal's comfort and athleticism, despite older age, stiffness, and - yes - crippling arthritis. Only just recently was it tweaked for use in humans, and it's a cult success among older athletes. Helps them perform pain-free and for longer periods."

"So you think Tony was shooting up this crap?" Gibbs looked doubtful. He would have noticed whether or not his wayward agent was injecting himself full of this shit… wouldn't he?

Ducky gave Gibbs a wan smile. "Not necessarily. Recently, a similar drug was patented in capsule form. It's more likely Tony received a prescription for that, as opposed to the injectable… what with that terrible and irrational needle-phobia of his-"

"Is it safe?"

"There are less immediate side effects when compared to narcotic equivalents," Ducky shrugged. "It does mimic some characteristics of steroidal anti inflammatories. Weight gain, intense thirst, frequent urination, increased heart rate and the like. Prolonged use can decrease kidney function over time. There was a study that attempted to link usage to increased anxiety. The results were not completely conclusive. To be quite honest, Jethro, it is not a very popular pharmaceutical, and I am confused as to why Anthony's mystery physician thought it appropriate."

And why Tony felt he needed to hide it. Like a junkie, Gibbs thought inwardly as he chewed his lip. He had been hoping for something a bit more obvious. A veritable smoking gun. "DiNozzo never let on that he was in pain," he stated, voice blunt.

"Looking at the wear patterns on the weight bearing bones-" Ducky gestured towards the illuminated x-ray. All Gibbs could make out was a bunch of bones. "-It was not totally debilitating. He could do everything he needed to do; at times, it just probably hurt like hell. That is something I'm sure you can understand." Ducky threw Gibbs a meaningful look as he gathered the papers and placed them neatly back into the file folder.

"So we got nothing," Gibbs concluded. "Again."

"Pain like that is enough to make one irritable for sure, but not indiscriminately violent. The pharmaceuticals on the other hand…" Ducky ran a hand over his forehead. He needed a whole harbor full of tea after this meeting. "As Abigail would say, it feels a bit hinky. Perhaps if you tracked down whoever prescribed the drug-"

"Maybe I can help," a voice suddenly sounded from the darkened doorway.

Ducky jumped slightly, while Gibbs merely turned his head, his eyes sharp and suspicious. "Tobias?" he growled. "Who keeps giving you the damn door codes? People are gonna start thinking you work for us. Gave the ol' feebies the boot."

"Funny," Fornell snorted as he sidled closer. He was dressed in a suit, as always, and his face was fixed in a grim look of determination. "But you didn't think we'd let Dr. Mallard here share the goods without supervision, did you?"

Gibbs ground his teeth. "I told you not to shut me out, Fornell. But you did. If you thought I was just going to sit on my hands while the goon-squad took over, then you don't know me as well as you - or I - thought. This is DiNozzo we're talking about. You know him, right? You see what they're doing to him out there? It's a god damn feeding frenzy, and your agency isn't doing a thing to put a lid on the chum bucket."

"I gather that you're pissed," Fornell smirked, not without irony. "That's a lot of words, for you."

"Damn right I'm pissed." Gibbs tightly gripped the end of the table, knuckles white. "And I don't know where to go from here." It took a lot for the team leader to admit that he had no direction.

"For what it's worth Jethro, I didn't shut you out," Fornell soothed. "Word is, we don't have much of anything either."

"What about Vance? He changing his tune at all?"

"Seems that mum's the word with him. However, this isn't exactly an issue he can take care of by shredding a document or two. He was telling the truth, though. He fully intended to demote DiNozzo." Fornell then dug out the store-brand Ibuprofen bottle from the pocket of his well-ironed slacks. "This is what I wanted you to have." He leaned forward. He shook the pills around before asking, "We took this from DiNozzo's desk. Anybody mind?"

Neither Ducky nor Gibbs moved to object.

Fornell popped off the cap and dumped a good ten capsules on the table. They were small and two-toned in color: deep blue and baby blue. They spread out over the stainless steel, gleaming in the dim light. "Now, I'm not playing DEA agent here, but does that look like Advil to anyone?"

Ducky took two cautious steps forward, moving to grab one of the capsules. He held it up to the light. "Difficult to tell from look alone, but definitely not what the bottle suggests. The design of these…" the old man mused, "…very easy to tamper with."

"Tramapro," Gibbs muttered, gnawing again on his lip. He looked away from the both of them, swept a hand across his tired face. What else had Tony been hiding?

"Your boy got himself in quite a mess," Fornell stated needlessly.

"I never expected anything less from him," Gibbs mumbled mostly to himself. Then his cell phone suddenly chirruped. He snatched it from his hip, glancing at the caller ID. "Abs?" he answered, blunt as always. "Slow down…. I'm with Ducky….No, I haven't seen him…..He's what? Stay. Stay where you are."

As quickly as he'd flipped it open, Gibbs snapped the phone shut. He looked at both Ducky and Fornell, a vaguely spooked look passing over his face. For a man as Gibbs-like as Gibbs, that was monumental. He opened his mouth and all he could say was: "Tim."

And then he was gone.

Timothy McGee knew exactly when and how would be the best way to check an item out of evidence. He parked his car in the side lot, the one only smokers looked out on during their breaks. Nobody but visitors parked in the side lot, and visitors were few and far between at the NCIS headquarters.

He glanced at the digital clock on the dash. 13:28 hours. It was blinking, and he wondered briefly if it was accurate. Lunch break.

Before Tim opened the door, he lowered the visor so he could check how he looked. His skin was blotchy and pale. His bloodshot eyes were ringed in puffy black. His hair was a little bit unkempt, but at least he'd had the forethought to shave. Quickly, Tim ran his fingers through the greasy strands on his head. He couldn't look completely like a bum.

Normalcy. That's what he needed to portray right now. Just like when Abby hung around, forced him to choke down dry pieces of toast, forced him to wash the grime - the smell of gunpowder and vomit - from his skin, forced him to watch his favorite movies, forced him to live with himself.

He didn't want to break it to Abby. But he threw up her toast. After the showers, the grime - gunpowder and vomit - came back, always. All of his favorite movies were over at Tony's place. And as far as living with himself went… he'd done that for a good while, but only now it was losing its charm.

"I'm fine, Abby. Thank you." "You can go home now, Abby." "You don't have to watch me, Abby." "I'm okay, Abby." "I'll be okay, Abby." "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, Abby."

Ziva - not Abby - had brought him home that first day. She had been quiet and kind, but Tim had driven her off, eventually. She had come back a few more times. Brought him things to eat. Sat next to him on the couch. She didn't suggest movies or anything else. If silence was good enough for her, it was good enough for him.

"Tony had a girlfriend, of sorts," she blurted the last time she'd come. "Jenelle. She is… not what I expected. But I think… but what does it matter anyway."

"Book girl," Tim had muttered, curled up on his end of the couch.

Ziva seemed interested. "You knew?"

"He mentioned her. Never told me her name. Was some big secret or something, but a good kind of secret." He had shrugged.

The ensuing pregnant pause gave birth to a child who went through all twelve grades plus college before getting pregnant itself. The quiet could have lasted forever, but at least it was comfortable, companionable, if unbearably somber.

"Tim." Ziva had turned to look at her friend closely. She remembered all those years ago, when she was brand new to the team. It had been McGee who had offered her support. "I cannot tell you if things will ever be okay; that is up to you," she told him with brutal honesty. "But things will get better. It will hurt a little bit less, eventually. You did the right thing; you did what you had to do. You are very brave."

Tim had looked away, towards the darkened television. "Tell Tony that." He sniffed.

"Tony can rest now, McGee," she had spoken softly, but kept a firm eye on him. She had grown used to explaining the unexplainable. Years of car bombs, bus bombs, and people bombs had taught her that. "Things do not make sense now and maybe they never will, but someday you will accept it for what it is."

"And what's that?"

"God's will. And we have no say in that."

That was last night, the night when Tim went to sleep like usual, stared at the ceiling for five or six hours before getting up, shaving and taking Jethro to the doggie daycare center. What was God's will, anyway? Did God regularly demand that friends shoot their homicidal friends in the chest with a 9mm semiautomatic? Was that honestly God's will?

Maybe that was how Tim ended up here at NCIS. Today of all days. Maybe it was some kind of divine intervention.

He stepped out of the car, not bothering the lock it. The day was beautiful around him. Sunny and green and in the low seventies. But Tim was hardly in the mood to notice.

Security didn't give him another look, which was vaguely disturbing. Maybe they hadn't recognized who he was. Maybe he didn't exist anymore. Maybe he was the one who had died up in that office.

The relief evidence technician was on duty, the regular one being on lunch for one hour or two hours. The young man didn't bat an eye when Tim requested the Sig Sauer P226 registered to Anthony DiNozzo.