A/N: Well, I hope I just stunned all of y'all with the previous chapter because I have never had a chapter read by so many and reviewed by so few. I wanted to give Nick back the last and best memory he had left to recover. I thought the poor guy deserved it after everything I've put him through. Hope you all enjoyed it and were just too emotionally drained to review :-). On with the story… the final chapter …
Warrick awoke an hour or so later, the only clue to the length of time he had slept the lengthening shadows in the room from the evening light that snuck its way past the vertical blinds on the lone window. When he glanced over to check out the bed's occupant he saw Nick was still sleeping soundly.
He moved to straighten in the chair, caught by a sudden pain in his back, and he let out an involuntary groan as he stretched. Nick's head turned at the unexpected sound, eyes half open and bleary.
"Sorry, Bro. Didn't mean to wake you. How're you feeling?"
A shaky hand rose to wipe at the sweat still clinging to his brow. "Like I got hit by a Mack truck. Dja get the plate?" he asked with a queasy smile.
Warrick returned the smile with his own small grin, visions of the grotesque gymnastics Nick's body had been performing not 48 hours ago still running on the morbid video in his head. "Yeah. Sara's running it down. I'll have Brass send out an APB, 'kay?"
The grin faded from his face at the look of alarm that formed on Nick's countenance during his joke. Please tell me he knows who the hell Brass and Sara are. Please tell me he knows who the hell I am.
"Nick? Bro? What's wrong?"
"I shouldn't be here. I have a date."
Warrick was already shaking his head in dismay. No, no, no…
"Nicky, Man. I …" He ran out of words. He couldn't start again. He couldn't put the man through this again.
But Nick was already rubbing at his eyes. "We're supposed to be going dancing… I have to …"
His hand began moving the various tubes on his face and in his arms and as he struggled to sit up in bed the pain in his arm wound grabbed hold of him with razor sharp claws and he grabbed at his bicep, fingers fumbling on the slippery fabric of the sling. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.
Warrick had already risen from his chair and was standing at the bed rail, his hands gripping the metal tubing in frustration.
Several pounding heartbeats later Nick's eyes reopened. The adrenaline from his earlier distress had quickened his breathing and brightened his eyes. There was clarity there now. For the first time in over four days.
He sank back into the pillow with a sigh. "Sorry. It was a dream …but it was so…"
"So, what, Bro?"
"We were going dancing. My last night off… we were supposed to be… doesn't matter. Never happened," he said dully.
"I'm sorry, Nick. I-"
Nick's head turned suddenly on his pillow. "Berto? Is he...?"
"Yeah. He's alive. He's down the hall. He'll probably get sprung before you do," he said with a sad smile. "You, uh…you remember what happened?"
"Yeah. The girl …" He paused for a moment as his eyes closed then sprung back open with revelation. "Gina. Her name was Gina. I … I killed her."
"Yeah. We know she shot Alberto. Girl had it coming to her."
Nick shook his head. "She was just in the wrong place. She was a junkie; she didn't know what she was doing…"
"She knew what she was doing with that gun, Nick. She took a good chunk outa your boy Alberto, and she'd have killed you, too. The kid told us what happened."
"Ramón? He dead too?"
"Nope. Your bandage saved his life. Asshole's sitting in a holding cell right now, wearing an unflattering shade of orange."
"You find the picture?"
"Yup. Right where you said it would be. Relax, Bro. Just take it easy and get better. Your little vacation has already been way overextended."
It was meant as a gentle josh but of course the reason for Nick's time off was sitting in a freezer back in Doc Robbins' morgue, and he immediately regretted his words - would have paid any ransom in the world to get those words back as he saw the effect they had on his friend.
"I remember that night … the night Mari… it's all back."
"I'm so sorry, Man. But I have to admit to being glad to hear your head's back on straight. We were a bit worried."
Nick continued on as if not hearing him. "It's all back … it was easier…when I didn't know…when I could still tell myself…" His words trailed off and he turned his head away, but not before Warrick saw the tears forming in his partner's eyes.
Warrick stood wringing the metal bedrail with his hands, his knuckles blanching with the effort. Frustration was a bitter pill he couldn't swallow. It choked him as he hovered there, trying to form words, knowing there were none that could offer the slightest bit of comfort.
The ICU was a honeycomb of patient "cells" each arranged like spokes on a wheel around the central nurse's station. The only thing separating room from room was a thin glass wall and fabric privacy curtains. A sound floated over from a nearby room; a keening that began low and increased in volume and distress, finally coalescing into a single word. A woman's voice sobbing out a long drawn out, "No." Warrick found his eyes pulled toward the sound and a moment later saw a woman exiting a patient area, leaning heavily on another younger woman; a younger version of herself. Mother and daughter's faces were red and wet with tears.
It was a grim reminder that not everyone within these walls was going home.
Warrick tore himself from staring at the receding backs of the distraught women and turned back to see that Nick had heard the cries as well.
His partner wiped an unsteady hand across his eyes and pasted a smile on his pale drawn face. "No more pity party, huh?" he laughed, a quaver still in his voice.
Warrick sighed. "Nick, Man. You've got every right to be down. I can't even imagine what this has been like. I'm sorry things turned out so badly for you. For Mari. And I'm sorry you had to have it all kinda hit you at once like this. All over again."
"No. No, Rick. I'm not sorry. I got it all back. Everything. I… I guess, I'll take the bad as long as I can have the good as well."
… … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Dr. Morrissey was cutting his lawn. The now-retired college professor was an odd picture. He sat ramrod straight on his John Deere, cutting perfectly even concentric circles on his lawn. He was wearing a suit. He had never quite gotten past the wearing of the suit on a daily basis and his only concession to the heat and his labor was the unbuttoned jacket and the loosened tie. The teacher's wife was working in the garden in her favorite outfit; a bright purple tee shirt, khaki camp shorts, and a large straw hat. Tending to the pansies that matched her shirt. It was a comforting sight. One Nick had gotten used to over the few years since he had moved here.
He sat observing them silently, the only other sound in the air the buzzing of cicadas.
From his front porch he could see the whole block. The Morrisseys were the only other humans occupying the vicinity; his other neighbors the occasional rabbit, squirrel, and sparrow. Early that morning as the sun rose, a mule deer had been nibbling at the sparse greenery in the field across the street. As far outside the city limits as he lived, it was still a rare appearance and spoke well of wildlife preservation efforts that had been made in the area between his home and Lake Mead twenty miles to the east.
His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a car motor, an SUV from the sound of it. He sighed, knowing that the visitor was most likely his. No one ever disturbed the Morrisseys on "Lawn Day".
A large black truck rounded the bend and pulled into his driveway. The bespectacled face of his boss sat behind the wheel. The older man turned off the engine and left the vehicle to approach where he sat on the porch stairs, back supported by the back of the top tread.
He raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Grissom."
"Nick. I hope I'm not disturbing anything."
"Nah. Just keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Can't be too careful, you know. Always vigilant."
Grissom smiled as he took in the quiet street. Gestured with his hands toward the stairs in a "may I sit down?" manner.
Nick nodded and made a show of wiping a tread clean with his hand for the man to sit on.
Grissom sat heavily on the stair and took a handkerchief out his pocket to swipe at the sweat on his brow.
"Is that man wearing a suit?"
Nick smiled. "Sometimes it's hard to break a habit."
"Speaking of," Grissom said with a finger pointed at Nick's hand.
"Oh. Yeah," he said, staring down at the half-smoked cigarette held there. "Sorry. Do you mind?"
"No. No. I actually used to smoke myself. A pipe. When I was a foolish young man in grad school I thought it would make me look more erudite," he said with a small smile.
"Really?"
His supervisor nodded solemnly in affirmation. "One girl in particular told me I looked like a young JRR Tolkien."
Nick grinned at the thought of Gil Grissom, scientist extraordinaire, weaving stories of orcs and hobbits and magic rings.
"It's weird," Nick said, self-consciously finishing the cigarette and snuffing it out on a cracked china saucer. "I guess I forgot I quit. And I've had so much time on my hands…and not a lot to fill it," he finished softly.
Grissom dipped his head down, then looked back up at the younger man. "I'm sorry I never got to meet her. She must have been a very special woman."
Nick nodded slowly, looking away at the field across the street. "Yeah… Yeah she was. I'm sorry you guys never got to know her. She was … actually, you'd have liked her, Grissom. She reminded me of you at times," he said with a chuckle.
"Of me?" he asked with exaggerated surprise.
"Yeah," Nick laughed. "Yeah, she did this thing with her eyebrow, kinda like when you get ticked off at me. Like she'd probably be doing if she saw me smokin' again. She was a spitfire, boy. Never had any trouble putting me in my place."
The soft smile lingered on his face as his hand rose unconsciously to rub at his upper left arm. Grissom must have noted his fussing.
"How's the arm?"
"Better. I started physical therapy on it this week. Phew, it sure does hurt though," he said with a rueful grin. "I'll ice it up tonight before bed. There's always my good pal Vicodin if I need it."
He caught the look Grissom gave him at the mention of the powerful opiate. He shook his head. "No worries, Gris. Still have half the bottle left. I've got no plans on turning into a junkie, thank you."
"I didn't mean to suggest anything, Nick. It's just concern. I think we've earned it."
"Yeah, I guess you have. Look, I'm not gonna pretend that everything is roses and sunshine, Grissom. But I have no desire to blot out any memories or walk like a zombie through my days. Mari woulda hated that, too. Don't think I ever saw that girl take so much as an aspirin the whole time I knew her. Although she loved her tequila, boy. Hoo-wee, that girl could knock 'em back," he drawled.
"You spent too much time home. Haven't heard a 'hoo-wee' out of you in a number of years," Grissom said with a pointed look.
"I could break out a few wee-doggies for ya," Nick said with a chortle. "Yeah, I guess you can take the man outa Texas…"
"But you can't take the Texas out of the man," Grissom finished for him. "No, Nick, I don't think you can. Nor can you take the CSI out of the man. I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with you."
Nick couldn't have been more surprised if Grissom had told him he was running away to join the circus. He had spent the last several weeks of his recuperation mulling over everything that had transpired. While he knew that logically, he was not responsible for everything; that his ability to act rationally had been stripped away by his high fever and the ungodly amounts of steroids he'd been on, he couldn't help feeling pangs of guilt at how horribly everything had turned out. And to hear the man say he was impressed …
"Do you remember when you called the police department, Nick?"
"Yeah. Still not sure how Berto got the idea in his head that I was a criminal…maybe something he overheard or translated wrong … but yeah, I remember calling. Why?"
"It was an incredibly clever thing to do, Nick. I wish it had worked out better, and that we'd been able to find you earlier, but had you not had those days off it would have served to help you find us. You also managed to secure the ring from Ramón, and you gave us the photo. You were collecting evidence. No memory. Deathly ill. Yet you were collecting evidence. John Locke would be proud."
"Ooookay. I'll bite. John Locke. Philosopher? That's what I got."
Grissom chuckled. "Yes, Nick. John Locke was a 17th century philosopher. Among his theories was that of tabula rasa. The blank slate that each of us is born as. Life writes upon the slate. In essence he says that each man has the freedom to choose his own path. We become the sum of our experiences."
"So how does that fit in with me? Sorry to be so dense, but you know- recovering head trauma and all …"
"You had no memory of who you were or what had happened in your past. Yet your experiences had already made you the man that you are. You could no more fight your instincts as a CSI than you could, say, purge yourself of your body's addiction to tobacco. Given free rein, your true self still shone through. And that true self is a hell of a criminalist, Nick."
Nick accepted the compliment with a smile and a slightly embarrassed nod. It's not like his life experience had ever prepared him for a real compliment from his supervisor; they were rare as hen's teeth.
"You know, after...that night…I made the phone call, you know? Well, I walked around the city that night. And I contemplated starting over. I mean, its not like I could have gotten a job or a place to stay, but the idea of starting from scratch…. A new name, a new identity. I gotta say…it was appealing. I mean, now everything is as it was, and it's…it's really hard, Grissom."
The older man sighed. "I know, Nicky. And I am truly sorry. That's why I know she must have been very special. Because you loved her. And that is a thing worthy of your life's slate."
"You're not gonna break out the whole 'it's better to have loved and lost' line are you?" Nick asked with a sad smile.
"Tennyson was a brilliant man. And the finest poet of his generation. Trite and cliché as they have become, the words don't hold any less meaning. Or any less truth."
"Thanks, Grissom. I don't regret loving her. I could never regret that part of it. Regrets, I have more than enough of. Like starting smoking again. How'd you kick the pipe habit?"
"Gum, Nick. Lots of gum. I had a penchant for bubble gum myself. You should try it."
… … … … … … … … … … … … …
If you always wondered why Nick developed such a love of bubble gum, well wonder no more! That's it. That's all she wrote. I want to thank everyone who read, and especially those who took time out of their busy lives to jot down a word or three for reviews. They are always appreciated.
Special thanks go out to Kristen for her never-wavering support and advice when I hit a particularly obstinate writer's block. To Sara, who may not know it, but an email she dropped me early on really helped iron out some potential flaws. And to iboneki, whose real name I can't use as she is currently "in burrito", to borrow a phrase from Beavis & Butthead. (If you haven't checked out Requital, then you are missing out on a hoot and a half of fun.) Her compliments and encouragement made the last several chapters much easier to write.
It's hard to believe that when I started this I was tossing story ideas around with my friend Mark sitting poolside. Over a foot of snow out there now.
So, as I'm sure anyone who checked out Kristen's most recent fine efforts knows, we are working on a story together. I am pleased to announce a working title: "The Art of War". It promises high adventure, non-stop action, and much angst. But of course! Stay tuned here should be starting fingers crossed sometime in the next week or so.
Thanks again, everyone. Happy Thanksgiving to those in the US. My best to all of you and yours!
Be safe! Have fun! And get stuffed!
Beth aka everybetty
finis