Chapter Twenty-One: A Therapeutic Chain of Events

Gil Grissom had a lot to be thankful for, and he was very well aware of it. He could have lost a lot more than his life that night. The events of the past few months had been very educational, for lack of a better word. He'd learned new things, and understood some other things. Things he hadn't understood before, about himself, about his job, and about those around him.

He learned that time, in fact, did not heal all wounds, as he had stupidly said to Catherine during one of her emotional stomps into his office.

"No, it doesn't. Sometimes, time rips wounds open and shreds them into tiny pieces and then you sit in here and expect me to pick it all up and put it back together."

It seemed she'd been right all along, about so many things. But Catherine hadn't been able to pick it all up and put it back together. Quite the opposite. One word from her had aided in the near-implosion of his team.

"Nicky."

They'd all been letting it slip more and more in those days after the box. What had initially been a nickname for the baby of the team, before Greg came aboard, had come to be so laced with concern and so patronizing and parenting to Nick's ears he'd grown to despise it. Once they stopped using it like that, though, it was amazing how well-received it was again.

He learned empathy wasn't a switch you could flip on and off. It was something inside of you, and if you didn't understand that, then you had an incredible capacity for screwing things up. If you didn't understand that, things could go horribly wrong.

Kevin Barnett spent one night in the Las Vegas PD lockup following the events in the parking lot, but it was long enough for Gil to feel a reoccurring stab of guilt. Staring him down that night had been the personification of all of his failures wrapped into one and threatening to kill him. He'd gone about trying to fix things in all the wrong ways, and all he'd succeeded in was reducing a grieving man into a blubbering, gun-wielding wreck. Well done, Gil.

He learned that wanting something wasn't enough to make it happen. You had to put in the effort, and you had to leave it all on the floor, or what was the point? Wanting Nick to stay, well, that was nice and all, but it wasn't going to accomplish anything. Wanting something wasn't enough, especially when it wasn't your call to make. He could want things all he wanted, but it hadn't been up to Gil to fix anything. It had been in Nick's hands the entire time, and if any one of them had taken the time to really think, it had always been that way. But they didn't think, they'd only wanted.

You couldn't force someone to get over something, or to face up to the personal demons inside of themselves. You just had to give them time, and room, and your understanding. And in their search to find something that would accomplish all of those requirements, they had failed Nick. Miserably. And they nearly lost him for it.

He learned not to underestimate what people were capable of. Because the grieving were capable of threatening murder, and the wounded were capable of recovering, surviving, and coming back strong as ever against seemingly insurmountable odds.

He learned that, every now and then, it was okay to ignore what your brain was telling you and follow the beat of your heart. Because sometimes, it was your head making the rash decisions.

He learned he had a nice office, but that wasn't where his people were, not where he was needed.

He learned maybe, just maybe, he was going to have to start listening to Catherine.

He learned what Nick meant to him, and that was perhaps the most important thing he'd always known and never really understood.


It was twenty minutes before the start of shift, and the halls of the crime lab were quiet enough for the clack of her heels on the tiles to echo loudly against the bare walls as Catherine approached Grissom's office. He was still spending plenty of time in there, but more often than not, she would pass an open door and see a man pouring over case files and listening to classical music as opposed to a closed door, behind which she knew was a brooding man wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose and hiding from troubles he couldn't understand.

Catherine no longer felt like a mediator between the members of her team. They were finally communicating with each other, nothing too extravagant or revealing, but she had it on good authority Nick and Warrick were spending more time together outside of the lab. She also had it on good authority the life-or-death standoff in the PD parking lot had disintegrated any lingering resentment between Nick and Sara. It seemed the most trying events really had a way of making the little things seem inconsequential. Their bickering and arguing was a thing of the past. Nick even bought her a new jacket to replace the one lost to the rain and the mud and his bad mood, back what seemed like a lifetime ago but her desk calendar told her had really only been a couple of months.

Catherine herself had sat Nick down one night a week or so earlier to apologize for making him in any way feel like she was trying to baby him since the abduction, and was surprised to hear him stop her and apologize, himself, for the way he'd spoken to her. He started to explain the reason for his temper and behavior, and she'd stopped him just as quickly, told him that he had nothing to explain. And they just didn't talk about it. It wasn't like before, when they didn't talk because they were avoiding the subject. They didn't talk about it because it wasn't needed. Because this time around, when the little things came up, they dealt with them.

When they got a 419 in a crawl space, Grissom put Nick on a different case. Not a way to make him feel as though the rest of team thought he couldn't handle the small space, but in a way to let him know that they were thinking about him, and he seemed to be honest to God grateful for the gesture.

And with what was possibly the most important gesture of all, Grissom called Nick into his office two days after the incident with Kevin Barnett, two days after Nick told them he wouldn't be able to leave them, and behind closed doors they spent the better part of an hour and a half going over all of the details of Nick's case, of Kelly Gordon's case, of Sylvia Mullin's case.

Catherine stopped in the doorway of the dimly lit office and placed a hand on the frame. She chewed her lip and watched Grissom, oblivious to her presence. He was leaning back in his chair, chewing on the earpiece of his glasses with a pensive look. Not a brooding look, just a thoughtful one. It was a look Catherine was relieved to see.

She rapped lightly on the door with her knuckles. "Can I come in?"

Grissom looked up and smiled at her, removing his glasses from his mouth. "Of course." He still seemed a bit lost in thought, and Catherine knew the reason.

"It's Wednesday," she stated, sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Yes, it is," Grissom said.

Catherine cocked her head. "Did you see him today?"

Grissom again nodded in the affirmative.

"And?"

"He's doing well."

"Better?"

"Yeah."

There was something else there, and Catherine knew Gil was still hanging onto the guilt he'd been harboring the past few weeks. "Gil, I know I've only told you this a hundred times, but you didn't do anything wrong."

Grissom glanced over with a small smile, grateful for the reassurance, but she knew he would keep beating himself up over the parking lot mishap. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the desktop. "I gave him false hope, Catherine, and I did it for all the wrong reasons."

Catherine sat for a moment and thought. When she spoke, her words came slow and calculated. "No, Gil. You did it for the right reasons. You just did it in the wrong way." She leaned forward as well, put a hand on his arm. "His wife had been murdered. He was already grieving, and unstable…"

"And I tried to use his pain to my advantage."

"You can tell yourself that all you want," Catherine said, "but I'm not going to believe it. It was a nice thing to try and reach out to him, whether you did it for him or for you or for Nick. It was a nice thing to try."

"I just don't have it in me."

Catherine smiled and gave his arm a squeeze. "Well, I don't believe that, either. Everyone has it in them, Gil. You shouldn't stop trying."

Grissom took a moment before speaking again, meeting her eyes. "Thanks, Catherine," he said with a genuine smile, patting the hand on his arm.

"Any time," she said, returning the smile.


"OH!"

The call, coming without warning and simultaneously from two yet-to-be-identified voices, was so loud it could have been heard down the street. As Nick walked down the hall at the start of shift, wincing, he had no doubt that it had been. The shout was followed by a whooping victory cry and a blurted curse, and Nick smiled as he recognized the shouters.

As he rounded the corner and entered the break room, Nick had to brace a hand on the doorframe as he ducked his head in an unfamiliar and welcome burst of laughter.

The room's occupants paid no attention to him as Nick struggled to catch his breath. "What is goin' on in here?" he asked, surveying the scene.

Warrick was hopping around in the center of the room, doing his patented Warrick Brown dance of joy, while Greg stood sulkily off to the side.

Warrick turned to him for a moment and grinned widely. "This is the dance of sweet, sweet victory, baby."

"Yeah?"

"Woooo," Warrick said, shaking his head and bumping a very not amused Greg with his hip. "Did ya see how on that shot was, Greggo?"

"That's total crap," Greg said moodily. It seemed Greg took his gaming more seriously than Nick had previously thought.

He poked his controller accusingly at the television screen and dodged Warrick's flailing limbs with a glare. "Do you know how many times I've played this course? You can't eagle on the eighteenth at Red Rock Creek. You just can't."

Warrick didn't pause his dancing as he gave another victorious laugh and thumped Greg on the back with enough force to make him drop the controller. "Maybe you can't, but I can."

Nick crossed his arms, grinning widely at the antics of his friends. "Rematch?"

"Rematch, baby," Warrick said, making his way across the room and slapping him a high five. "And what a sweet one it is."

Greg squinted and put his hands on his hips. "How often have you been practicing?"

"Every day for three weeks, Greggo," Warrick said honestly, unashamed while reveling in his narrow victory.

"It's total crap," Greg mumbled under his breath. "You can't eagle on the eighteenth."

Three weeks. That's how long it had been, and Nick marveled at how much it seemed like nothing had changed. But if he really thought about, things hadn't really changed so much as they had changed back. There sure wasn't any miraculous one-eighty to be seen in the way Gil Grissom held his team safe at arm's distance. He didn't keep as shut up as he had before, but they weren't exactly having group hugs and sharing time or anything.

Nick wasn't really sharing any more information with his friends about the way he was handling things, but there was some kind of unspoken understanding amongst them, that he finally was handling them, and it put them at ease. What there was, was a lack of tension in the room when the gang was assembled. What there was, was eye contact, and laughter not awkward or forced. What there was, was Tiger Woods PGA Tour rematches, Blue Hawaiian search parties, and solo cases. What there was, was weekly appointments with Doctor Audrey Bruning, and on the part of more than of the Graveyard team members.

Nick and Warrick had the talk they were supposed to have the night of Sylvia Mullins' murder. They didn't get into specifics, but Warrick admitted to seeing the psychologist because Tina had asked him to, and he was going to go back. Nick reiterated what Warrick already knew, that he'd been shoved back through her door by Ecklie, but that he, too, was going to go back. They agreed to stop keeping things from each other, and pounded fists on it.

So Nick continued to see the doctor and this time, he wasn't sarcastic and he didn't try to talk circles around the woman, keeping the important stuff buried. He actually started talking about and getting into the things on his mind, about the things that had happened, and he started to feel better.

He talked so much on the Tuesday following the standoff with Kevin Barnett that at the end of the hour, the doctor had looked down at her notes and raised her eyebrows.

"Are they slipping you something at work?" she deadpanned.

Nick shook his head and laughed good-naturedly. "Nah, just…just want things to be different, I guess. To be better."

And little by little, they were getting there. Three weeks wasn't long enough for everything to have righted itself, but the spills were being cleaned.

"Nick?"

Nick scratched his forehead and raised his eyebrows, coming out of his thoughts. He turned his attention to Warrick, having missed the question the first time. "Sorry, what?"

"You wanna try to squeeze in nine holes before Gris gets here," Warrick repeated.

Nick grinned. "You itchin' to come down off of that winning high?"

Warrick snorted. "Talk to up, bro. I know golf ain't your game."

Nick stepped fully into the room, bending to snatch Greg's forgotten controller off of the floor. "Is that right?"

Greg stepped back, shaking his head, his defeat already a thing of the past.

"How many bogeys you rack up last time we played?"

Nick raised his chin. "I was rusty."

"You rusty right now?"

"Boys," came the warning call.

They all turned in the direction of the door as Sara entered the room. "You two are never going to grow up."

"What about Greg?" Nick asked defensively. "He was just cryin' like a baby."

Greg shot a look Nick's way. "I was not crying." He shifted his shoulders and moved to sit at the table. "There was something in my eye."

Sara laughed lightly, settling into a chair across from Greg. "Well, I already knew there was no hope for him," she said, giving Greg her sweetest smile, to which he responded with a single finger.

The laughter coming from the direction of the break room was something only weeks earlier Gil would have paid good money to hear, and he was relieved at how natural it sounded. Catherine bumped him with her elbow and smiled. His team was patching themselves up.

"Wait, you were crying?" Warrick exclaimed as they drew closer. "How did I miss that?"

"Probably 'cause you were dancing your dance of joy," Greg said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sara groaned. "Not the dance of joy."

"What?" Warrick mocked offense. "You jealous you missed it?"

Catherine shook her head as they entered the room. "I know I am," she said, giving Warrick a wink.

Warrick held out his arms. "See, Greg? The ladies flock to the dance."

"All right," Gil said. He took his seat at the head of the table, and Nick and Warrick took the hint, tossing the controllers onto the shelf under the television and selecting empty chairs.

"I've got a pair of 419s," Gil said, getting down to business. "One on the strip, and one at a home in Henderson." He handed the assignment slip to Catherine. "Cath, Greg, and…" he trailed off as a knock sounded on the door.

"Hey, kids," Brass said, leaning on the doorframe. "You guys get too into yet? I've got a case for ya."

"No, Jim," Gil said, sitting back in his chair. "I can move people around. What have you got?"

Brass nonchalantly shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk around the room. "Probably only need one body for this," he said. He stopped walked and stood behind Nick. He shrugged. "It's just a B and E."

They all turned to gauge Nick's reaction. He just rolled his eyes. "Funny."


The End.