Author's Note: Now for the bonus chapter. Chock full o' Warrick Angst, because sherryw and sokerfreek922 seem to like that sort of thing.

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Chapter 5: The color of blood

I'm sitting on my bed, cross-legged, still staring at Dr. LaMer's drawing, scratching a bite mark on my wrist, when Catherine sticks her head in.

Catherine: I've got to go now. Warrick will be here in a few minutes. He called to say he's running late.

Me:

"Is that all right? Do you mind being alone for a few minutes? Do you want me to stay?"

I lie and shake my head. What I want is for her to come over and sit down beside me. I want her to hold my hand and tell me it'll be all right. I'm drifting, and I need a connection, an anchor, but I don't know how to tell her that.

She smiles at me and heads out, door clicking shut behind her. I wander out to the living room and pick up my laptop from my desk, take it back to the bed. I open the cover, turn the computer on. It hums and whirs reassuringly.

When the boot-up cycle is finished, I double-click on Word and open up a new document. The blank white page stares at me, cursor blinking silently. If I can't speak, maybe I can type.

But what should I type? My brain feels as blank and empty as the screen. My fingers hover over the keys, but I can't get them to type anything. Finally I grit my teeth and force myself to hit a key, then another, but it's gibberish. Meaningless, like my existence.

I sit and stare at the screen until it grays out, then with a burst of frustration I slam the lid shut. I toss the computer down on the bed, and jump up, energized by the surge of emotion. I prowl around the room, aimlessly, breathing hard, looking for something to smash. I'm suddenly very aware of colors around me, the red of my bedside lamp, vivid yellow stripes in the bedspread.

I grab the bedside lamp, hand raised to throw it, but instead I let it drop onto the bed and sink down beside it. As I sit staring at the lamp, my brief flare of anger burns out as quickly as it came, leaving me emptier than before. The world around me fades back to gray like the computer screen.

I'm not sure how long I sit staring at the lamp before I hear a knock, and then the sound of my front door opening.

"Nick? It's Warrick," he calls. I set the lamp back onto the nightstand, quickly fold the doctor's diagram and stuff it in the drawer. I hear his footsteps down the hall, and then a knock on my bedroom door.

Warrick: Nick? You in there, buddy?

Me:

The door opens and Warrick sticks his head in. "Hey, there you are, Man. You all right?"

I nod my head. Another lie.

"You want some dinner?"

I shake my head.

"Ok, maybe later." He is watching me closely. I try to stare back, but can't quite maintain the eye contact. "You sure you're all right?"

I lie again with a nod. Yep, everything's just peachy.

He doesn't buy it. He comes over to the bed and notices the computer. "You checking your e-mail?"

I start to nod, then turn it into a headshake halfway through.

"What does that mean, man?" he says with a grin. He picks up the laptop and starts to open it, but I grab it away. I don't want him to see my failed attempt at typing. Nick the failure. The Screw-up. As always.

"Hey, what's going on? Nick?"

I can feel the anger starting to build in my chest again. Color returns to my world. I need to smash something. I drop the computer on my bed and leap up, hands curled into fists. "Calm down," Warrick says, but I don't want to be calm. I want to smash something, anything.

I put my fist through the wall. It hurts, bad. It hurts good. I cock my fist back to smash the wall again, but before I can deliver the blow, I feel Warrick's fingers curl around my wrist, holding me back. Like a dog straining at the end of the leash, I pull against his grip, but he doesn't let me go.

"Nick, stop it!" he commands me sharply. I ignore him, yank away and slam my fist into the wall again, A bright red smear of blood stains the blue paint now, and I'm fixated by it. I raise my fist to strike again.

"Nick--please. . ." Warrick's voice breaks, which draws my attention more than the shouting. The red smear fades to a sort of grayish brown, and I tear my eyes away from it long enough to glance at him. His lip is trembling, eyes filled with tears. Warrick is crying.

Such a realization would typically bring me to tears as well, but my eyes are dry. I can't cry anymore. Vaguely I wonder why. I've always cried easily, which has been a source of endless embarrassment. But since they pulled me from the ground, I haven't shed one tear.

I allow Warrick to lead me out to the living room and sit me down on the couch. He disappears to the kitchen and returns holding a dishtowel and an icepack.

Wrapping the pack in the towel, he sits down beside me and takes my right hand. His palms are warm but his fingers are cold from the ice. "Here you go, buddy," he says softly. He gently places the wrapped icepack on my rapidly swelling knuckles. I stare at the dishtowel, trying to remember what color the stripes are. They might be green.

I slowly become aware of the pain from my bruised knuckles, a sharp throbbing that matches the pounding of my heart. With each heartbeat, each pulse of pain, the colors brighten and fade. The stripes are blue.

One hand still holding mine, Warrick slips an arm around my shoulders. He is warm and alive and solid, an anchor. I lean into him, stealing heat.

"Nicky, I--I just wanted to say--" He breaks off, but continues after a moment. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for what happened. I can't tell you--I'm just so sorry, man."

He sniffles, so I know he's still crying. I don't cry. I don't even acknowledge his tears. Instead I silently stare at the dishtowel, watching the stripes go from gray to blue and back again.

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The next day, Sara takes me to the neurologist, at Desert Palms. She seems even more uncomfortable than Grissom, making pointless comments, interrupting herself, fiddling with the radio. When we finally arrive, the obvious relief on her face is almost comical.

We have to go in the main entrance to get to the neurology department. The memories are so strong as we enter the building that I grab Sara's hand and hold on. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't let go, either. I'm grateful.

She holds my hand until we get to the check-in desk for neurology. I'm surprised to see Dr. Jenkins, the mousy doc who saw me in the hospital before, come around the corner.

"Hi, Nick," she says with a small smile. "I'm your doctor of record here, so they called me in to consult on the CT scan."

They send me to a little exam room and make me change into a hospital gown for the scan, which I don't understand. They're taking pictures of my head, so why do I have to take my clothes off? Sara hands me the gown with a chuckle and leaves me to change alone.

I sit on the exam table and stare at the gown for a long time. I consider just walking out, leaving this all behind. Maybe I don't want to know if there's something wrong with my brain. Maybe I prefer to live in ignorance.

A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. "Nick, hurry up!" comes Sara's voice. "The doctors are waiting."

I quickly change, fold my clothes neatly on the chair and go out to meet Sara in the hall. A couple of very young doctors in sparkling white lab coats are standing with her, clipboards in hand. They nod at me and each other. One looks at my bandaged hand then immediately starts writing on his clipboard. I feel like I'm in a baggie labeled "evidence". Nick the DNA sample. Or maybe more like a lab rat. They're here to watch me run through the maze.

A scruffily-bearded young man, who introduces himself as "Mike the CT tech," leads me into a brightly lit room. I stare at the CT machine. I've seen one before, but I had forgotten the part about sliding into a tube--a narrow tube, confining. I'm not sure about that part.

Mike says, "Just lie down on the table, Mr. --uh--" he consults his chart. "Mr. Stokes."

With a glance at Sara, I obey. She has seen me eying that tube, I'm sure, because she gives me a small smile that I guess is supposed to be reassuring. Dr. Jenkins, wearing an identical smile, gives me thumbs up before they all troop out.

"All you have to do is lay still, man," Mike says on his way out the door. "We'll take care of the rest.

Lying still turns out to be more difficult than anticipated. I'm fine for the first few minutes, as long as I can see the ceiling beyond the tube. But once the inside of the tube fills my vision, I feel a panic coming on. It starts with a cold sweat rising in my lower back and creeps up to my neck. I need to get out of here.

I try to control the panic, fight it down, but I can't help squirming. The intercom crackles and then Mike's voice comes on. "Please lay still, Mr. Stokes," he says.

There are sparkles in front of my eyes now. My skin crawls with thousands of tiny feet. I know they're not real, but my body reacts anyway. More squirming.

"Mr. Stokes, we can't complete the scan if --"

Mike is interrupted by Sara's acid voice. "What's wrong with you people? Don't you know his history?"

I hear a door open and close, and then a warm hand grabs mine. Sara's voice floats up from the vicinity of my knees. "It's all right, Nicky. You're going to be fine. They're almost done."

I squeeze her hand tightly and close my eyes. Almost done, almost done, almost done. Get me out of here. Oh, God, please get me out of here.

By the time they finally haul me out, I'm covered in sweat and shaking hard. Sara gently disengages her hand and rubs it; I can see the red marks from my fingers.

"Are you all right?" she asks me, but I'm shaking too hard to answer. When she touches my shoulder, I flinch.

Sara has to help me get dressed. I can't even button my own jeans or tie my shoes because of the tremors. I'm humiliated, but she does it very matter-of-factly, without making eye contact. I cling to her hand on the way out to the car, walking slowly so I don't lose my footing. A few minutes in the CT machine has set me back nearly a week, to where I was when I first woke up. I hate the helpless feeling, being so needy. I want to be me again. The old me. Happy, confident, talkative Nick. But that Nick seems to be still buried somewhere, and I can't get to him.

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Next chapter coming soon. . .