"What's up, Abs?" Tony blinked at the bright orange mass blocking his usual path. He swayed a bit and Rufus counterpulled, steadying him. "What is it?"

"What it looks like."

"Ah ... yeah." The lab tech turned around to catch DiNozzo putting out a hand toward the life raft she had sitting on two saw horses. His fingers stretched out to brush the reinforced fabric then his palm cupped around the curved edge following the smooth bulk until he reached the rope handle. More confident now, he straightened, returning his hand to his side. "You expecting a flood?"

"Uh ..." Abby watched as Tony used the strangled syllable to refix on her position. "It's from the Rivera case."

Satisfied he'd picked the Goth's white lab coat out from the bland mosaic of the rest of the lab, Tony fastened his gaze on the oval of her face, pale beneath her darkened hair.

"You ... okay, Tony?"

"Got a little problem, actually."

"You need to sit down?"

"No, I ..." Tony ducked his head. "It's not my legs. It's my ... uh ..." Tony's forced smile was more of a grimace than a grin, "... I can't read the computer screen anymore, even with the font pumped all the way up, and if I can't do database searches there's not much left I can do. I just thought you might—"

"We can fix this."

DiNozzo smiled, a real smile this time. "Abby, I'd think you could fix most anything. I guess that's why I'm here. I'm just not sure this is ... fixable."

"Tony, my parents are deaf. When the phone or the doorbell rings their lights go on and off. When I want to talk to them, I use TTY. And when I want to talk to them in person, I sign. I'm thinking somebody's probably worked on your computer problem before."

"If it's something that needs to be requisitioned, we'll have to tell Gibbs."

"And that's a ... bad thing," deduced Abby.

Tony sighed. "I'm thinking it's not a good one."

"Anthony, I do not think I am the proper physician—"

"Just look at him, Ducky." Abby nodded encouragingly at the ME as she helped Tony hoist himself on the exam table.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"My vision's getting worse. It's like I'm trapped in an early Kandinsky."

"Around the time he founded Der Blaue Reiter?" Ducky grinned. "He gave this wonderful quote. Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the harmonies, the soul is the piano with many strings."

"Forget I said it," moaned Tony.

"There is nothing wrong with being a connoisseur of the fine arts." The medical examiner gently lifted the right eyelid. Tony blinked at the intrusion of the beam from the penlight. Then he repeated the action. "Your pupilary response seems adequate."

"I see the light. I just don't see much else."

"Color?"

"Yeah, color is still there, maybe not so ... bright. Just no detail." Tony brought his hand up, his errant fingers soundly smacking his reluctant physician in the nose. "Sorry!" In embarrassment he launched himself off the cold metal of the table and, legs not prepared to hold him, nearly landed face down in the floor, but two pairs of arms wrapped around him, steadying him.

"Easy," soothed the Englishman. "Come on." Together he and Abby wrestled him back on the table. "Stay there." A hand patted Tony's shoulder before the ME shuffled away.

"We have nearly everything in that storeroom. I believe, if I'm not mistaken, there is still an evidence box in there from Jethro's first case." Tony tilted his head in the direction of the scuffle the ME seemed to be having with whatever he'd dragged out of storage. "This is a Snellen eye chart, devised in 1862 by Dr. Hermann Snellen, an ophthalmologist of the Dutch persuasion. If you would, measure off twenty feet and mark it, Abby."

"Sure."

"Come stand here," said Ducky, easing Tony from his resting place and wrapping his hand around Rufus' harness. When he'd positioned his subject properly and made sure he was steady, he went back and flipped the sheet hiding the chart.

"Tell me what you see."

Tony squinted at the only clear letter on the rectangular white blur. "E," he finally conceded.

"And?" urged Ducky.

"That's it, just ... E."

"No others?"

Frowning, DiNozzo tried to force the smeared shadows below the 'E' into something recognizable but they remained formless blobs of gray.

In the silence, the ME re-covered the offending chart.

A warm hand took Tony's wrist. "Come sit down."

The young agent laughed thinly. "Good enough for 'blind'?"

"Legally, yes. At this point, I'm afraid so. When have you seen Dr. Lenz?"

"It's only been a few days; she said in most cases this resolves itself."

"Anthony," Ducky knelt, ignoring the creaking of his knees, "this is an inflammation of your optic nerve. It may resolve. It also may ... not. But what you need is some cortico-steroids to reduce the inflammation."

Tony reached in his pocket and produced a prescription bottle. "That's these, right?"

Ducky took the bottle, turning it over in his palm to read the label. "Yes, this is prednisone." He placed the drugs back in Tony's hand.

"I'm taking them."

"You should be resting, as well."

"It's not like I'm straining myself here, doc."

Abby watched as Ducky lowered his head, gathering himself. "All right," he said, patting Tony's leg, his cheerful voice belied to by the look of worry on his face. "Why don't you stay down here with Abby and relax. I'm sure she has some soothing music you could listen to."

"Sure, I just got Dark Orchid's Kali Yuga CD."

The lab tech's grin was faked but, with luck, Ducky was the only one who noticed. He pointed toward the door mouthing "Gibbs."

"How long have you not been able to see?"

"Define 'see'," countered Tony, fixing his eyes on the featureless skin-colored oval he knew was Gibbs' face.

"Then read this." A rectangle of mosaic color was slammed down on the table in front of him.

"I'm not reading a cereal box, Gibbs."

"How'd you know it was a cereal box?"

"'Cause I'm not blind?"

"Damn it, DiNozzo. You could kill yourself. Rufus is not a guide dog."

"Most cases of optic neuritis resolve within a few days," Tony retorted, pushing the offending box away.

"How long?" repeated Gibbs.

"It hasn't gotten worse in a couple of days."

"But it hasn't gotten any better, either."

"Ah ... no," admitted Tony.

"What can you see?"

DiNozzo dropped his head, his mumbled answer barely heard. "I can see the 'E'."

"The 'E'?"

"Yeah, Ducky dragged out an eye chart and I can see the 'E'."

"That means you're 20/200."

"Yeah, and it also means technically you were right, Gibbs. Is that what you wanted to hear? You're right and I'm blind."