The ususal disclaimers apply - not mine, no profits, I'm just playing and I promise I'll give 'em back in one piece.
It had been six months and still he searched, in every spare moment he took his Denali and drove the desert roads; hunting. The scent was cold, it had been cold for a long time but he couldn't stop looking, he couldn't leave his friend in his Plexiglas coffin, in an unmarked grave, un-remarked, un-noticed, alone.
At the lab they had moved on, but it was quieter now, the atmosphere subdued. He caught Sara and Greg scouring maps while waiting for DNA results to come in, he found Catherine staring at the wall in her office, Grissom wafted through the lab like a ghost, speaking to no one, a frown furrowing his brow.
There was a great big empty hole in the lab now, a sand storm had blown through, scouring everything, pulling flesh from bone, eroding walls and leaving behind nothing. No relief, no kindness, no joy, no Nick.
He searched at the weekend, he thought probably the others did too – but they didn't speak of it, Nick's name was never mentioned. Nick was a taboo subject, emotions too raw, guilt at their failure too big for them to speak of it.
There was talk that the teams would be split up, transferred to day shift and even to other labs but so far nothing had happened. He didn't know if that was thanks to Grissom or Ecklie; Ecklie who was still being strangely supportive; Ecklie who patted Warrick on the back and softly said 'good job' way too often to be comfortable these days. Once he would have joked about it with Nick – but there was no Nick so there were no jokes – something else the sand storm had taken from them.
He couldn't remember how many times he'd stopped at the side of the road and dug frantically with his hands, just because some stray dog had scratched the earth, just because it might be here and he couldn't leave Nick to this heartless death. His fingers bled, his heart bled, it should have been him.
And then, just as his hands bled into the sandy desert and he'd dug up yet another dead dog in yet another Plexiglas coffin he opened his eyes to blacked out day; his clock flashing green in the darkness, a comforting 14:49. And he couldn't remember: which was dream, which was reality? Is Nick still out there, under earth, in a coffin that was not crafted with love and honour but with hatred and twisted darkness, are his bones drying in the desert awaiting their rescue? Or, is he rescued, bitten almost to death by the fire ants that became his saviour? Back at work but so fragile that his friends are scared to breathe too close to him in case he disintegrates, turned to dust by the earth and the ants; dust to dust, ashes to ashes but not dead yet.
Warrick lies on his back, staring at the blackness above him, waiting to remember, wanting to be sure. Which is true, who is right? Nick lives or dies and he can't be sure. He turns his head and looks at the clock, 15:01 and still he can't be sure. He knows which truth he needs but he can't be sure. He sighs and reaches for the phone, there's one way to know, the sound of a sleep filled voice on the other end of the line. But what if there is no voice, what if the line is dead – like Nick. No redemption then, no forgiveness, Warrick lets the phone fall back in its cradle. He has to get up soon, get ready for work, best to lie here a few minutes more, stay in ignorance of the truth, blissfully unaware of Nick's fate – just in case, just in case the nightmare is the truth.