Chapter Four

Nick knocked lightly on the door to Catherine's office. The door was open, but he'd always thought, not to mention been raised, that it was more polite to announce your presence than to walk right into a room.

Catherine looked up from her computer and immediately frowned. "What are you still doing here?" She brought her wrist up and looked at her watch. "Warrick told me a couple of hours ago that the case was wrapped up."

"Yeah, well I offered to help Sara out with some things so she could get some sleep."

"Maybe you should get some yourself," Catherine said, eyeing him carefully.

Nick gave her a small, weary smile. "On my way now. Just wanted to say 'bye.' I'll see ya in a few."

Catherine gave him one of her big, bright smiles and he turned to leave.

"Oh, Nick?"

"Yeah?"

The smile had faded. "Grissom is going to get back sometime tonight, and he's going to want to talk to you."

Nick frowned. "About what?"

She gave him The Look.

"Oh, right. That." Nick was a bit embarrassed. Of course Sara had told her about what had happened with him and the teenage suspect, Peter Locke. Hell, she was probably going to put it in the department newsletter, just to make sure everyone knew what was going on with him.

He stood in the doorway, waiting for The Lecture that was sure to accompany The Look.

"Get some sleep," was all Catherine said, repositioning her fingers over her keyboard.

"Easier said than done," Nick said to himself, relieved that she was letting go. However, this probably meant she knew that Grissom was really going to let him have it, so she was taking it easy on him. He left the office and finally headed out of the building with heavy steps.

The late morning sun shone in his eyes and prompted an ache, a consistent, throbbing pulse in his head. It wasn't just one of the dull, bearable headaches that had been plaguing him recently, either. It was right behind his left temple, and throbbed to the point where he was squinting, even through his dark sunglasses.

Home, food, sleep, he told himself. That was all he needed, to recharge, refresh, and start anew.

The bad thing about alarm clocks is, if you ever manage to sleep through the loud, purposefully annoying bleats, they snooze themselves, sitting silently while you slumber away.

Nick did not hear nor did he respond to his alarm clock when it started going off at four in the afternoon. He was a little preoccupied, trapped in a nightmare he'd been subjected to numerous times over the past few months, since the first time, the time that really happened.

He couldn't breathe. Forget about the fact that he couldn't move…he couldn't get any air into his lungs, and they were screaming at him, begging for the cool relief of oxygen. Tiny but painful pricks were stabbing all down his arms and all over his face and he couldn't escape the pain because he couldn't move.

But he could see.

Nick was flat on his back, just how he swore he would never be again. Staring straight up and unable to even shift his head the slightest bit. A horribly brilliant white light was pulsing above him, blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, so tight that they started to water, but he could still see the light. His heart was thudding much too fast and too hard in his chest, but he couldn't seem to get himself to calm down.

His eyes forced themselves open against his will. The white flashes were illuminating shapes hovering over him, and their stillness was scaring him.

They stared down at him. He could see their faces. Gris, Catherine, Warrick, Sara, Greg…even Brass. They were all there. All staring. Not moving. Not helping him. Not saving him.

The light got brighter…it was impossibly white, burning his eyes. Black dots dances in the corners of the light.

Help me! he screamed. But he didn't, because he couldn't open his mouth. It didn't matter if he'd been able to say the words out loud, because they weren't moving.

All of a sudden they were moving, away from him.

Come back! His mind screamed again, so loud that he was sure that his mouth had formed the words and his vocal cords had pushed the sounds out, because his throat felt raw from the force of it.

The shapes started pulling back, and he was left with nothing to block even the tiniest bit of the light.

He was alone. And he couldn't breathe.

At the shrill ring of his cell phone, Nick bolted upright, sucking in deep gulps of air, feeling as though he had been holding his breath. His ears perked to the sound of the phone and he groped for it on his bedside table but it wasn't there. He reached his arm over the edge of the bed and felt around for it on the floor. His fingers scrabbled on the short carpet until they met the plastic casing and he whipped it open. "Yeah."

"Nick, where are you?"

"What?" Nick felt disoriented and sick. He brought up to his head and grimaced at how soaked with cold sweat his hair was.

"Work? I've been calling you for almost forty minutes."

Catherine sounded impatient and worried at the same. It was amazing how she could do that.

What in the hell time is it? Nick turned to his traitorous alarm clock. The little red dot was still illuminated next to the word 'alarm,' indicating that he had never turned it off. He was extremely late.

Nick rubbed more sweat from his face and hopped out bed, bracing himself with his arm. He felt like he'd just stepped off of a boat back onto steady land. "Sorry, Cath, I guess I slept through my alarm."

It didn't take more than a moment to steady himself. He grabbed a black tee and a fresh pair of jeans out of his closet, tossing them onto his bed.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. I'll be in as quick as I can."

"Okay. No rush."

Which of course meant, 'get your ass in here as soon as physically possible.' Nick snapped his phone shut and tossed on the bed next to the clothes.

He stood in the middle of his bedroom for several minutes, calming himself down. He had worked to control his breathing while on the phone with Catherine, and it seemed much harder to maintain that control now. A chill ran down his spine, but he was soaked with sweat.

As far as the nightmares went, this one was pretty standard, sometimes recurring over the course of a single night. He tried not to analyze it, had never been one to look too deeply into the meaning of his dreams. He knew what had really happened. His friends didn't give up on him and leave him, they had saved him, and his subconscious was just being irrational. He told himself the dream meant nothing.

After a quick shower, Nick dressed in a hurry and headed out, his hair still wet. Jogging through his living room, he tripped on a bunch in the rug and nearly went sprawling but caught himself on the couch.

Well, Nick thought, rubbing a sore ankle, this is just shaping up to be a great night.

Warrick eyed his friend carefully as Nick stumbled into the conference room an hour and a half late for shift.

Grissom was going to be arriving back in Vegas within the hour, so Catherine had doled out assignments again. And again, Warrick had asked her to be paired with Nick. Even though the two of them had talked it out, he just wasn't feeling a sense of closure with the issue, and he wanted to keep an eye on the man. There was a pit in his stomach, a feeling that shit was about to hit the fan and he sure wanted to be on the front lines when Nick needed him most.

"Hey, man," Nick drawled without making eye contact, heading straight for the coffee. "Catherine said I should check with you about our case."

Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Would you rather an IV drip, man?"

Nick turned, pouring a cup. His brow was furrowed. "Huh?"

"I swear I haven't seen you without a cup of coffee in your hand in a week."

Nick grinned. "Comes with the territory of working nights." He replaced the pot and eased into a chair.

Warrick shook his head. "I guess."

He handed the file he had been pouring through to Nick. "Hit and run on the strip. Victim's at Desert Palms. Sara went over to collect any trace samples from the clothes."

"Anyone check out the scene yet?"

"We were waiting for you."

Nick looked down at the table. "Let's go," he said in an uncharacteristically small voice.

Warrick wished that he hadn't snapped at Nick. The man really did look like hell, but he was afraid to bring it up again so soon. He just had to accept the fact that Nick was doing the best he could with such a bad situation.

He didn't know what else there was for him to do.

To be continued...