The fan clicked off. The sudden silence in the box was oppressive and Nick realized what it signaled. The end of his oxygen supply. Just The End. He'd seen the scratch marks and broken nails left behind by other victims trapped and fighting the end. I'm luckier than them, he thought bitterly. He had other options. His gun had been left for him; perhaps in whatever mercy his captor had left in his soul. He had made his peace with his loved ones, family and friends. Should they ever find his body… the recorder, he hoped that they found a small measure of comfort in his farewells and reassurances that he knew they had done their best. He had many regrets, but he realized that he truly was made to be a CSI, in the very fiber of his being; because his final regret would be that he didn't know who had done this to him. He had had ample time to mull over every case, every argument, hell, every cross word he had ever uttered and to whom. He had thought back to those who had left their foul imprints on his life up 'til now.

Amy Hendler. In prison, and he was just wrong place, wrong time. Story of his too short life.

Jack Willman. Twenty-five to life. Poor Kristy. He still believed that if she'd had a chance she could've done something good with her life. Hell, even if she kept turning tricks, so she made a few lonely guys happy for a brief time. No harm, no foul. He knew what it was to be lonely.

The babysitter … what was her name? Melinda…Melissa…Melanie? Not sure he ever really knew it. Didn't care that he didn't know it. It was what? Ten minutes? Twenty-five plus years ago? He'd seen enough abuse done to kids that he knew he got off relatively scot-free.

Nigel Crane. I am one, and who am I? Sara's words echoed through his head. "Twenty-five to life, Nick. It's over." And it had eventually been over. He had moved on - put it past him. Didn't care if Nigel had or not. He wondered briefly what Nigel would think when the news trickled down the prison pipeline that he had died… would Nigel finally get to …what did Grissom say?….self-actualize. Maybe now Nigel would be free to assume Nick's life. Welcome to it, Nigel, old pal. You're still gonna live it behind bars.

So now he was left with this one regret. He had no doubt the team would know, and that would have to be enough. Knew what he had to do. He was shaking so badly he feared he would miss and wind up bleeding, suffering, suffocating nonetheless. He grasped his gun with both hands and placed the barrel to his jaw. Pull the trigger. No more pain. No more fear. No need for oxygen. Oblivion. Eternity. Has to be preferable to this. Maybe take a few ants with me. With an involuntary cry he took a breath of the last of his oxygen, grimaced, and began to tighten his finger on the trigger…

A sound. No… wait. More sound. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He barely cracked them open. Movement caught the corner of his eye. Another hallucination…ignore it…

The darkness in the box receded the tiniest bit. A glimmer of light above his head. He hesitated, finger still tensed on the trigger. More sounds. A voice, calling his name. Warrick. No. Can't be. Oxygen depletion talking.

The voice kept telling him to put down the gun. His hands had grown so weak the gun dropped almost unconsciously. The movement caused the ants to recommence their attack and he groaned at the pain. It's too much. He began to shake and sob. It's too much. No more, please.

On the edge of his consciousness he heard Warrick's voice, but with his ears plugged, his head was filled with the sounds of his gasping, ragged breathing.

An ice-cold blast of vapor struck him, a momentary sting, but …the ants. They'd stopped biting him where the vapor had hit. The other ants though, panicked by the invader attacked with renewed vigor. The pain was excruciating, and there didn't seem to be any part of his exposed flesh that wasn't on fire. A second blast of the extinguisher and the pain abated briefly.

Voices continued to break through the fog. He had seen Warrick through the condensation on the lid. Began to call out to him. To beg to be set free. His hands reached out to him but were stopped inches from his body by the glass lid. Then his friend's face faded from view, and he accepted that. His rescue wasn't coming from out there. It's coming from in here. The ants had stopped biting and he accepted that small mercy.

It was then that Nick began to regain hope. If it was just another hallucination, then at least the pain was gone. Eternity may beckon, but it'll be an easier trip. And that was enough hope for now.

His vision began to turn black at the edges. And he accepted that. Barely any fight left in him. His tears were unrelenting now, exhaustion seizing his body as it was wracked with sobs. His hands continued to beat vainly against the glass.

An insistent voice now. Yelling at him. Pancho…a name from his childhood. His dad. Cisco? He was ten years old again. He'd been thrown from his horse and broken his arm. Thought his dad would be mad that he'd been thrown. Stokes men weren't thrown from their mounts. But his dad had gathered him up in his strong arms, the smell of his aftershave, the heat of the Texas sun beating down, the sound of his father's voice murmuring in his ear. It was all there.

He stared at the face peering at him through the fogged-over glass. Couldn't be his dad. But there was that voice. Unrelenting. Firm. He struggled to focus on what the voice was saying. "There may be explosives under the box." Explosives? No. No. No. Just let me out. Dad…Cisco…just let me out…please. When the voice commanded him to put his hand on the lid he felt his hand rise of its own accord.

"I need you to stay lying down. Okay? Promise me!"

He echoed the voice. "I promise."

The lid rose in front of him and an arm reached in to push down on his chest. He grabbed the arm. The feel of human contact. Connection. Not alone.

A hand grabbing his now. Dirty and dry, like his own.

Fresh oxygen suffusing his system. Mustering the last of his reserves he forced down his cries, choking back his tears. Gathered strength for what was yet to come. More dirt. Released, only to be buried again. Deep breath. Almost done. Like when the doctor reset his broken arm. His father's firm stare. Don't cry in front of the doctor. Was that regret on his dad's face?

The dirt now. A deluge. Drowning him. Too fast. Too much. Then a rush of air and his body was yanked cruelly from the box, descending to Earth. Impact. Pain. Precious air slammed from his body. And a merciful fade to black.

He awoke while the paramedics worked on him. Oxygen. IV. The gentle rocking of the stretcher as it was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Warrick and Catherine piling in after him. He worked his hand free from the blankets. Reaching. Striving for connection again. Warrick's strong hand grabbing his. Catherine's gentle hand on his leg.

He had finally allowed himself to accept this as reality. No more hallucinations. He was out of the box. Orpheus emerging from the gates of Hell. And much as Orpheus had turned around to glance back at Eurydice and found her sucked back into the bowels of Hades, Nick felt his grip on reality leaving him. His breathing became labored. He was back in the box. Not enough oxygen. Lungs not working. The dirt weighing down on his chest. Struggling to pull air through his windpipe. Nothing moving. His vision graying again. Not even enough air to cry. He was sucked back underground.