Grissom had collected himself enough to try to take stock in the situation. He moved Nick's head gently to the floor. The supervisor kept his left arm close to his side, as not to irritate his injury, and hoisted himself off the floor. He grabbed the tire iron, went to the far corner of the warehouse and deposited it in the darkness. He trudged back to the tool box and opened it. It had two compartments that were basically empty except for a few nails and a screw driver. One thing caught the man's eye; it was a piece of a stop sign torn in half, and Grissom got that "look" in his eyes. He grabbed it and laid it down next to where Nick was currently sprawled out. Not wanting to take any other chances, Grissom carried the metal box and its contents to the same place as the tire iron.

Gil didn't want those items to come into play again; however, he doubted Nick would be any shape to use them against him. Once that was done, Grissom settled back down on the floor with his unconscious colleague. The supervisor checked Nick's pulse; it was slow and weak. Noticing that his fingers came away moist, Gil pushed the younger man's damp hair away from his forehead.

The other man was still sweating profusely, and the scientist in him wondered how long it would take till Nick's internal thermostat might overload itself. Careful of his injured shoulder, Grissom picked up the broken sign and began to fan the unconscious figure. The supervisor fumbled a bit as he tried to hold onto the thin metal sheet awkwardly with his right hand. He didn't want to overexert his own strength, but the sick man needed to be cooled off somehow.

For the next hour the entomologist alternated between sitting to rest and kneeling while circulating the hot stale air in their little prison. The older man tried to use the perspiration on Nick's skin as a kind of crude cooling system. Grissom dropped the sign after his collarbone couldn't tolerate the increased movement. He decided to keep still for a while, as his own headache raged inside his temples.

Grissom went about checking the capillary refill in the young CSI's nail beds. The older man frowned; he had to use the criminalist's left hand, since the younger man's broken right hand had already swollen up to twice its size. Grissom arched his eyebrow with concern. He worried about how much more damage had been inflicted on the broken hand when Nick managed to deck him a few times. Out of reflex, the older man rubbed at his sore jaw wearily.

It was silent in the warehouse, and the supervisor was forced to deal with the grim thoughts in his head. Even under the heavy influence of drugs, Gil wondered where the paranoia began and Nick's own frustrations ended. Did the younger man really feel that he was under the boot of an unapproving boss? Grissom usually didn't dwell on feelings very much. They tended to get in the way of an effective unit. However, Gil always knew the key to one of the best crime labs were its people, as they were the cogs in a well oiled machine. He wasn't totally shut off from the world of humanity; however, sometimes that door to his mind kind of got stuck and remained closed off. In his line of work, he couldn't afford to let his emotions rule.

Grissom's brow furrowed. Nick sought confirmation from his superiors. Somehow the shift leader was a measurement of expectations and worthiness. Grissom groaned inwardly. Catherine once told him that people were building a family around him; he just wasn't comfortable with his patriarchal role right now.

Gil was ripped from his musings when the object of his scrutiny groaned. Grissom grit his teeth, scooted next to the younger man and gently touched his shoulder.

"Nick? Can you hear me?" The supervisor waited, unsure what kind of reaction to expect.

Brown half open frightened eyes stared back at him. Nick's impossibly wide pupils darted around at the ceiling, as if searching for some unseen enemy.

Gil tried to get the other man to focus on him. "It's okay, Nick. You're safe. Can you understand me?"

Nick tried to articulate his woozy thoughts. The shadows were swooping in on him, the cold void was so heavy on his chest. His arms and legs felt numb; he tried to move them to no avail. Nick felt his breath hitch in his parched throat. Grissom was talking to him, trying to get his attention.

"Gris?" His voice was horse, a mere whisper.

Grissom heard the fear and gave the man a slight squeeze to his shoulder. "Yes? How are you feeling?"

Nick swallowed; it was so difficult to keep his throat from closing in on him. His heart continued to slam against his chest. "I-I can't move m-my legs."

That wasn't the answer that Gil was expecting. The supervisor wandered over and undid the shoestrings to Nick's boots. He fumbled with the strings for a few moments and pulled the Timberland off. Grissom ignored the wet, soaked through socks and pinched Nick's toes.

"You feel that?"

The CSI felt something. It wasn't pain, since nothing tingled. It was like his feet were made of rubber.

"I can't move em." Nick's voice went up an octave in panic.

"Okay, okay," Grissom said calmly. He squeezed and prodded each toe. "But you can feel this, right Nick?"

Nick gulped. "Yeah. It... it... feels strange."

Grissom went from the ankle, to his calf, to his knee, pressing and prodding. "Feel the pressure?" Grissom's tone was all business. He was calculating.

Meat. His legs were a mass of meat; no sensation, just twisted nerves that were firing the wrong way. He still couldn't move them no matter how much Grissom inspected.

"It doesn't matter, Grissom. I can't move my legs, they're all wrong," he yelled, his thick accent heavy.

It wasn't the same violence-fueled voice from earlier. The homicidal-laced tone was gone. No, this time was Nick in full fledged panic mode.

Grissom was beside him again. He grabbed Nick's uninjured hand. "Look at me, Nick."

Command mode. Gil needed to take control of this situation, remain that line to reality before all of Nick's fears consumed him again.

Nick latched on to that calm, collected voice like the drowning man he was. It was hard with all the movement in the warehouse. The air seem to crackle with some sort of energy, like it was alive. He sought out his boss in the dimness, and locked eyes with him.

"You have numbness in your extremities. But you're fine, all right. Everything will be okay, I promise." Grissom sent him a message with his tone, a simple inflection in his voice.

It seemed to work. Nick picked up on that voice, the one that filled him with confidence. Gil Grissom was the annointed one of the crime lab. If you didn't trust his reasoning, then there was nothing else that he could put such faith in.

"Yeah," his voice shook, but he would try.

Nick felt some sort of static electricity in his hand, where his boss still gripped it. The younger CSI concentrated, willed his fingers and muscles to obey his command. He couldn't feel his flesh, his fingertips were absent of sensation. However, something still worked and his hand squeezed Grissom's.

The supervisor smiled. "See, you're still in control. Your body is just a bit sluggish to respond."

Nick didn't feel very much in control of his situation at the moment. He felt vulnerable out in the open, but his body was too drained to do anything about it. He was a sitting duck, one that was slowly being roasted on the concrete floor. He wanted to rip off his clothes; he could see the heat rising from his own body. The steam mixed in with the dark cloud that loomed over him.

Damn shadows shifted around so rapidly, they were a silent menace. Nick wanted to tear his gaze from the high ceiling above, but the spasms in his neck constricted his movement. Undaunted, he craned it to the side and his eyes focused on the floor. The ground looked like it was crawling, moving towards him. Nick's hands shook uncontrollably now, little jerky movements that were beyond his control.

Grissom watched the shakes begin again. Nick's expression crumpled in union with his uncoordinated movements. Grissom grabbed both hands, careful of Nick's injured right one. He tired to keep them still and lend some sort of support. Nick's eyes were focused solely on the floor.

"Nothing's wrong. Nick, whatever you think you see, it's not there." Grissom maintained his professor's voice. "You're stronger than the drugs. You're smarter than any hallucinations."

Grissom held Nick's hands on his chest. He didn't press unnecessarily hard. Gil didn't want to appear as if he was restraining him in some fashion, but the supervisor needed to handle this differently. Somehow Grissom needed to have a hand on this new wave of paranoia and not let it get out of control like before.

Nick heard the logic in his boss's instruction, the confidence in him. He fought against the tidal weave of dread. The laughter was back: it bounced all around him, echoing in his head. Last time he was able to run away, fight against the evil. Now he was trapped by his own body. He couldn't get up, couldn't budge. Now he understood where he was; the realization hit him like a freight train.

Nick was inside an oven. That would explain the darkness, the immense amount of heat that scorched his body. His skin was burning, his blood boiled inside.

"Gris," he croaked.

Nick's entire body was trembling. He might not be able to feel his limbs, but that didn't keep them from shaking.

Grissom touched Nick's face to try to get his attention. His face burned with a high fever. The supervisor cursed; the drug continued to cause his temperature to skyrocket. Grissom let go of Nick's arms and grabbed his makeshift fan. Gil painfully gritted his teeth as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. He pushed it aside and brought over the sheet metal.

He started to wave it back and forth over the frantic man. The swishing sound filled the dingy little building. The supervisor's arms tingled with fatigue, but he pushed on.

"Feel the breeze, Nicky? Just close your eyes and relax"

Nick clawed at his shirt; the damn thing was suffocating him. His coordination was off; his fingers curled around the cotton, but it was no use. He felt the air move above his head, saw the weird light waves and patterns mutate and flash around him. The air felt somewhat nice on his flushed face, but it wasn't enough to keep the flames at bay.

The tin box was an oversized oven, and Jorge Carlos was outside turning the dials all the way up. Grissom's face was hanging in the air. Gil's face was red; not the shade of anger, but of cooked flesh. It was melting off now, peeling away in layers, the blood beneath the skin bubbling and evaporating right before his eyes.

"No," the word was garbled, trapped in a throat rubbed raw by sandpaper. His mouth was devoid of moisture. "Grissom!"

Gil didn't know what to do. He needed to keep Nick as cool as possible, but he was losing it again, slipping away from him. "Nick, stay with me. Just think of a cool breeze."

His mentor face's burst into flames. His curly hair was on fire, the bones of his skull exposed like in some warped prop of a Shakespearean play. The smell of decaying flesh permeated the dry air. Nick couldn't keep it together, the shock was so overwhelming that he just screamed till it felt like his dried up throat would slough away.

The hell with the sign, Grissom threw it aside. He gripped Nick's shoulder and gently shook him. "Nick, Nick!"

"Burning. You're burning!" Nick screamed.

Grissom was so preoccupied with trying to console the young man that he didn't hear the sounds from outside the doors.

tbc..

Notes: Again thank you for such detailed feedback. Its always interesting to see what people pick up on, what details they liked, what's a reader's general response is to certain scenes. I'll always write whatever gets my juices flowing, but when I try out new ideas...its always a mystery how people will react to plots. Thank you for being a great, active butch of readers.

shacky-

Thanks again for your wonderful support.

miss anonymous-

Thank you. It had been emotionally stirring to write.

sarah-

Thank you so much. hope the cliffhangers are not too much. If you think you are leaving soon. E-mail me. I might be able to help.

designation-

I love torture! snicker not really. Sorry my dear! I wondered if anyone would recall the tire iron from chapter 2. evil smile. It certainly had an impact. This was so touching to write, glad you enjoyed it.

higherbeingfriendfan-

PCP stays in your system for a decent amount of time. Poor Nick has other things to worry about, his body can only tolerate so much.

snowangel-

Here's more. Thank you!

sokerfreak-

Thank you. It was one of my favorites to write.

a.remains-

Here you go girl!

bpusa-

Thank you.

mudhousejunkie-

The tire iron seemed to freak a lot of people out. Thank you again!

wolfwood-

Grissom can handle himself..its just hard with a drug induced Nick. He's going to have to keep his cool to make it though this.

groban-

Thank you so much for your kind words. Sadly, more paranoia for poor Nicky. I'm sorry. There's no way Gil could just leave Nick alone on the ground after that whole situation.

witchbsword-

Repeat after me. PCP is bad! I ran across Santaria while trying to come up with a post plot for "Snakes", ended up using it for this story. I had in mind. Thank you.

amarawind-

Enjoy your vacation. I'll try to entertain you during the summer! I'll try to make you squirm!

mad maggie-

I'm trying and all your questions will be answered, I promise...in time! I keep on updating so hopefully the suspense continues to build. This last chapter was quite a wind up I hope.

Amy-

Both Nick and Grissom will have a lot of soul searching to deal with. This was a situation that was out of control, but in the end, it does not erase what happened. You will have to wait a bit longer to see if Nick recalls any of this, and if he does, how it will change him.

MS2-

Drama is good! Thank you, comments like your really make me smile.

cl-

you caught up! Always lovely to hear from you. Glad you like the ride. Yep, Gil and Nick need to learn a few things.