Illusion of Life
By Camilla Sandman

Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there

Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…

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Chapter Three

He dreamt.

There was pain in the dream, washing through him, slamming into in, brushing against him. Little pain, great pain, dying pain. Numbness took over and he merely floated, feeling nothing. But that too, was a kind of pain. Nothing was absence, longing.

Sometimes, he thought he heard echoes of sounds that did not quite reach him. Sometimes, he thought he felt touches of familiar skin against his. Or perhaps it was merely the dream, confusing, alluring, vivid.

For a while he didn't feel his heartbeats and he wondered if the dream was death. But slowly, the beating returned, steady and painful. Pain was life, so he floated in it, clinging to it like a lifeline. An ocean to drown in. But it was life, and not death. Life was pain and yet he wanted it.

The dream unravelled, the ocean of pain becoming nothing. He gasped as he fell and fell and darkness became light.

The light forced itself past his eyelids, into his mind, chasing the last strands of the dream away. Brightly white. Voices surrounded him, all foreign. The said his name and asked him to wriggle his fingers. When he finally did, they left.

He rested in the light for a while, soft and warm as it was. Gradually, he could make out cracks in the white ceiling and shadows playing across his face.

"Hey, Warrick."

Catherine. Recognition flooded into him and he was grateful for something to cling onto. He knew her. He had held her, had smiled at her, had watched autopsies with her. Catherine. Beautiful, passionate Catherine.

Her face came into view, her hair falling around her face like a frame of light. She smiled and he wondered if he dreamt still. He tried to return the smile, but it hurt and he winced instead.

Immediately her soft hands were on his face, easing the pain away. It looked as if she needed to reassure herself he was truly there and that finally convinced him it was not a dream. She wouldn't need reassurance if she was a dream.

His heartbeats sounded metallic. For a moment he thought there was something wrong with his ears, then his eyes fell on the monitors by his bed. A hospital, he realised. Whiteness and machines. It figured.

What had happened?

He tried to lift his head, but Catherine restrained him with a gentle hand on his cheek.

"Easy, Warrick. You were shot twice."

The memories came at him, much like the punk white boys had, firing while laughing. The pain had been unbearable, hot and pointed, burrowing into his stomach. He had fallen, the asphalt had almost felt cool against his cheek. The blood had pooled by his hands, it had seemed strangely bright in the dark night.

They had laughed and he had thought they would shoot him again, finish it. They had finished the other kid instead, all the while laughing. But the laughter had sounded desperate, forced. So young. The laughter had sounded so young.

And then they had taken his car and he had been alone. Unconsciousness had been a blessing, darkness with no emotions. He had thought he was dying. No tunnel, no bright light. Just darkness.

And then…

Catherine smiled again, but there was sadness in her smile. She brushed a finger over his lips and whispered something he couldn't hear. It sounded like a caress, but he wasn't sure. He strained to hear, strained to move, but his body did not listen to his pleas. It hurt, it wanted to rest.

The lights dimmed and suddenly she was gone. It took him a moment to realise he had fallen asleep and she had left. Her scent still lingered, so she had not been a dream.

For a while he merely stared at the ceiling, trying to connect with all parts of his body. It felt unresponsive. Drugs, probably. That didn't bode well for when he would get reacquainted with his body again.

"Hey."

He managed to turn his head towards the door, and saw Nick, Grissom and Sara, all looking tired and strained. Nick looked grim, Sara looked angry and Grissom… Grissom looked intense. Concentrated.

"Hey," he managed to croak out. They tried to smile, but it only made them look more tired. He wondered how much overtime they were working. He wouldn't have been able to sleep had any of them been hurt, much like Hollys death sometimes still woke him late at night.

"Cath… Catherine?" he asked. His throat felt sore, and he was thankful when Sara helped him gulp down some water.

"She had to pick up Lindsey," Grissom replied.

Warrick nodded, closing his eyes for a moment to gather strength. His body was beginning to feel weighed down and an another attack of drowsiness left him feeling deadly tired.

"They took my car," he complained to Nick as lightly as he could. It was easier to stay awake with sounds surrounding him.

"You drive a wreck, buddy. You should be thankful," Nick joked, but it didn't take the grimness away from his face.

"At least his is better than yours," Sara countered lightly. Grissom looked at her strangely for a moment, a cross between love and sadness playing across his features. Then the look disappeared, and Warrick wondered if he had imagined it. He sometimes wondered that about all the looks between Sara and Grissom. Sometimes so obvious, sometimes just friendly, sometimes so intense he'd feel a desire to leave the room to give them privacy, sometimes…

The thought died away. He tried to cling to it rather than what he knew was to come but he couldn't. The thought of his attack forced itself in, pushing away all other thoughts. He couldn't hide it, couldn't chase it away. He had to face it.

"The guys who attacked me…" He paused, trying to remember. They seemed so faceless in his memories, their laughter the only solid thing about them. Wisps of clouds.

"Caucasian. Three guys, I think."

"Warrick… You don't have to do this now," Grissom sad gently. "We have plenty of forensic evidence, we'll find them."

"Yeah, we found the gun," Sara jumped in with. "Ballistics have matched the bullets to both shootings. When we find them, we'll nail them. Fingerprints came up unknown, but when we find the shooter, he can't wriggle free."

If she sounded so sure to convince herself or him, Warrick wasn't sure.

There was a slight awkward silence, Grissom looking like he wanted to say something, but had no idea what. They all looked uncomfortable, as if faced with life they just felt at a loss for what to feel. They knew death well enough.

"Rest easy, buddy," Nick finally muttered. The three begun to shuffle out, when a bright flash of memory swept through Warrick, leaving him breathless.

"One of the guys…"

They all turned.

Just like the three guys had. The three laughing, faceless guys, gunning down a poor defenceless boy. One of them had worn a tank tope. White, like the guy's skin. White and a black tattoo. An echo of the past.

"He had a tattoo. A swastika."

An echo of the past, black against the white skin. A swastika. It had looked so unreal, so out of place in the 21st century.

Grissom betrayed no emotions. Sara looked horrified for a moment, Nick angry. They both looked at Grissom, as if the older man would tell them how to react.

"Rest, Warrick," Grissom simply said, nothing in his voice betraying any kind of surprise at the revelation. He and Sara walked out, Nick lingering behind for a moment.

"Take care, man."

Nick nodded, and then Warrick was alone with his metallic heartbeats once more. The dream pulled at him gently. He resisted as long as he could, but he had no strength left.

Darkness fell.