Title: Found

Chapter 4

Warnings: Eventually, slash.

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I've been "haunting" CSI headquarters for about a week. Or it could be longer, but the first time I remember being conscious of my surroundings was a week ago when I suddenly found myself in the corner of the locker room. Since then, I've spent my days skulking around the locker room, trying to work up the nerve to venture out and visit my friends. Every time I get to the doorway, though, I chicken out. Part of me is afraid to see the new guy—there must be one by now. I don't know. I just don't think I could handle seeing Eric, H, and Calleigh buddying up to whatever loser they hired to replace me.

And if I'm being honest, I'm also worried that I'll discover I've been forgotten. That absolutely terrifies me. I mean, what if they start acting like I never was? Would I be trapped here, with no one to talk to? Would I fade away?

I'm starting to understand why I've heard so many stories about scary, pissed-off ghosts. A week and I'm already bitter.

Nights I don't have a problem with. I pretty much own this place at night. I usually drop by the trace lab to see what Brett, the nighttime trace guy, is up to. Then I go and sit with H until he leaves for the evening. After that, I pretty much wander the halls, trying to find something to pass the time.

I'm still haven't figured out how to make myself solid enough to pick things up. Which is why I'm currently sitting in the break room, about to drive myself crazy in a vain attempt to pick up a ballpoint pen. This has become an obsession.

Gingerly, I reach out and attempt to touch the ballpoint. Nothing. Frowning, I try again. Nada. With one finger, I swipe at the pen. Still nothing.

"Dammit!" I spit, "This is useless!"

Angrily, I strike out at the ballpoint as if I'm trying to swat a mosquito. The tip of my middle finger connects with the pen and sends it flying across the floor.

. . . I did it. I freakin' did it.

Hurrying across the room, I plunk myself down on the floor and close my eyes. Okay. I have to clear my mind, and I have to relax. Calmly letting out a breath, I tap the pen with my index finger. As I watch the pen start to spin around in a circle, I laugh out loud.

"Yes!" I shout triumphantly. Like a little kid with a new toy, I keep tapping the pen and watching it spin.

Just then, I hear a loud crash, followed by an earsplitting scream.

I glance up just in time to see a bucket of soapy water tumble onto its side, sending its contents streaming out onto the floor. I jump to my feet and peer around the doorway. The night custodian bolts down the hall, shrieking and pitching a bag of sponges at a passing lab tech. Oops. It never occurred to me that someone might actually see the pen spinning around in a circle. Poor woman probably thinks this place is haunted.

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A group of lab techs assemble in the hallway, apparently trying to figure out what caused the custodian to wig out and race down the hall, screaming. They mill around, talk in hushed whispers, and point at nothing. Soon, Maren and Brett swoop into the break room as if they're "securing the scene." Whatever. They need to get a life. For a while, I watch the flurry of activity with interest.

Suddenly, it dawns on me that I should test out my new "powers" by trying to get into H's desk.

"Okay, guys," I say to the crowd, "I think you have this under control." I point over my shoulder. "I'm going to head to H's office and get some stuff done."

I sweep easily through the office door and seat myself in H's chair. Comfy. It's weird. I never wanted the kind of responsibility H has—of course, I'm not sure H ever wanted it either—but now I sort of regret that I'll never get the chance.

Taking a breath, I slide open the top drawer of the desk and pull out H's scrapbook. Slowly, I flip the pages, my eyes scanning newspaper clippings, wedding announcements, and family photos. There's a matchbook from some apparently swanky restaurant I've never heard of. And a child's drawing. A snapshot of a woman who looks a lot like H—maybe his mother. Pictures of H and his brother. A couple of Yelina. Whoa. A wedding picture . . . H was married? Tugging at my bottom lip, I lean back in the chair. I feel like I'm violating H's privacy.

Then again, I have a right to read the articles about my own death, don't I?

Flipping ahead a few pages, I start to see evidence of my existence. My life. There's a picture of me when I was years younger—right after I met H. It's funny. I couldn't stand the guy when I first met him. He didn't seem to like me very much either. There are some photographs of me, H, Eric, Alexx, and Calleigh at Alexx's Christmas party. Hmm . . . he kept a one-paragraph write-up someone did about me for a trade magazine.

And then I come to evidence of my death. He's got one of those little "In Memoriam" things the funeral homes print up. Creepy. On the following page, there's a crumpled up note . . . from Megan. It says she's sorry she didn't make the funeral. Too many memories of Sean. Wonder why it's crumpled up. For that matter, I wonder why he saved it.

Finally, I come to them. The articles. To tell the truth, I'm not sure why I want to read them. Do I think my memory will come back? Do I want it to?

My eyes gaze over the articles. They all say the same thing—stats about how long I was with the crime lab, how old I was, that I worked trace. And every one ticks off the events of my death in a sterile, efficient manner—H and I showed up at the jewelry store to check out a lead. I spotted a hidden assailant and pulled my gun. I was shot in the ensuing firefight.

They arrested one guy who will be tried as an accessory to murder.

And then I see something I didn't expect. It's a quote from H: "Were it not for Detective Speedle's actions, I would not be here today. He saved my life."

My God. H credits me with saving his life.

I sit behind H's desk for a long time, just thinking about my life and death. If I was looking for closure from these articles, I didn't get it. Instead, I've plummeted myself into a deep state of melancholy. A few weeks ago, I was alive. Now, I'm a memory in a scrapbook.

When I finally glance at the clock, I realize that it's morning, and H will be here soon. Gently, I return the scrapbook to its home in H's desk and seat myself unobtrusively in a chair by the wall. Usually, I go back to the locker room and wait for everyone to get here. Today, though, I stay and wait for H.

About five minutes later, I hear the lock to H's door click. The door swings open, and H ambles in, dropping his bag next to the desk.

I rise from my chair and walk right up to H. "Hey, H," I say, "I read those articles. Thank you for saying what you said. Not that I believe it's true." Placing a hand on his shoulder, I continue, "Still, it makes me feel like I did something with my life."

H frowns and touches his shoulder.

"Did you feel that, H?" I ask.

Letting out a breath, H walks around and drops himself into the chair behind his desk. Almost as soon as he sits down, his pager goes off. Glancing at the screen, he lifts himself back up and snatches his sunglasses off the desk.

"You got another body?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

As soon as the word is out of his mouth, both H and I practically jump out of our skins.

"H," I say, throwing myself forward, "You heard me."

His face completely drained of color, H glances around the room. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, as if he's desperately trying to knock something back into place. Then, running his fingers through his hair, H backs out of his office and shuts the door.