When the car screeched into the car park, McGee was rather annoyed he hadn't passed out. He really didn't like feeling like this. In movies, people passed out and when they woke up, they were in nice clean hospitals with cute nurses and clean white bandages. Instead, he was still frozen, in incredible pain and stiff in every joint. The entire trip had been spent in a succession of uncomfortable positions trying desperately to protect his injured wrists and ribs while Gibbs rampaged around some backstreets all the while pounding him with relentless questions: Who were they? What did they want? What did the place smell like? Did he have an accent?

He felt Tony try to haul him out of the car but he knew he had to help. If he had been unconscious, he would have been saved all this pain. Once out, he shuffled stiffly with Tony urging him on from behind.

"Autopsy," Tony hissed. "Move it, Bernie."

Gibbs was still doggedly on his tail, interrogating him. McGee looked up. It was still dark. How could this be? It wasn't winter solstice, he had done the calculation. It seemed like the longest darkness ever.

Then they hit Ducky's domain and he realised he had to be more careful what he wished for. The room was flooded in a harsh light that took his breath away. Tony hurried him through the door. Ducky was standing alone and clearly waiting for them. Gibbs took a break from his barrage for a moment to let Ducky talk.

"OK, Timothy," he said seriously. "Let's get this over with".

Tony led McGee to a table and helped him hoist himself up.

"Anything on the trunk," Ducky asked Gibbs casually.

"No, only ribs and the extremities," came the efficient reply.

"Good, that will save time," Ducky remarked and McGee had the unnerving feeling that they did this sort of thing a lot. It was like a well oiled machine. Perhaps there was even a conveyor belt outside.

Ducky pulled over a tray of rather sinister looking sterile instruments and began probing at his wounds, picking out strands of rope and bagging them as evidence.

"Any other injuries," Ducky inquired as he scanned the tray. "I can smell vomit"

McGee looked down, embarrassed. "Ah, they used chloroform."

"Ah…," Ducky understood the implications. "Any problems?"

"Seizure apparently, the guy made comment about it."

"Oh, well you could have bruised the ribs then," Ducky concluded absently, selecting his weapon from the tray.

Gibbs renewed his attack: "Tell me about this spike."

McGee sighed, he was getting pretty tired of all this. He related his experiences over the past few hours in a monotone, staring straight ahead and trying to ignore the nightmare his life had become. He recalled the mysterious spike that plagued the spectrum analyser at lunchtime. At first he assumed it was local interference and, after checking Abby's equipment for leaks, he came across the idea that the problem might be due to a leaky microwave. After checking every microwave in the building, he was forced to rethink.

Then Abby had noted that the spike appeared not only at the same approximate time each day but at EXACTLY the same time every day. To the micro second, possibly closer as that was as much resolution as she had. It then lasted for precisely the same length of time before disappearing until the next day. Even in their building, it was unlikely that someone would be so anally retentive as to time their microwaving to the microsecond.

McGee stooped his narrative abruptly as Ducky stuck him in one of his sore wrists in an attempt to remove some twine than was embedded there.

"Sorry, Timothy," said Ducky casually as McGee winced in pain. The he looked over to Gibbs. "I'm going to have to call in some favours on these wrists," he said worriedly. "They're a hospital job; I can't fix injuries like this here."

Instinctively, McGee looked down at his mangled wrists. He had been right to avoid looking at them and why he had chosen to do so then was a total mystery to him. In a heartbeat, a tidal wave of dispair hit him full force. Before he knew it, he was shaking and weeping, almost to the point of hysteria.

"Oh, Timothy," Ducky said gently, replacing his instruments immediately.

"We're done here," he heard Gibbs voice.

McGee could feel Tony's warmth across his back. Someone else was holding him from the front, and although it made him feel better, it paradoxically made him sob harder. He could feel gentle arms around him, by the stubble and the aroma of coffee, it was Gibbs. He buried his face in Gibbs shoulder and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt safe.

"Ssh," he heard Gibbs soft voice in his ear. "It's all over now."

He felt sleep suck him into its vortex at a ferocious speed.

Gibbs grunted under the sudden increase in weight as McGee collapsed towards him.

"Christ, Ducky, are these guys getting heavier or am I getting older?"

Ducky chuckled, "A little of both I suspect."

"Boss," said Tony uncertainly. "I don't do that, do I?"

"Oh, I think you'll find everyone reaches a point where they just drop like a stone," said Ducky conversationally, sorting through his instruments. "He'll feel better in the morning after a bit of sleep".

"Ya goona help me with this DiNozzo?" Gibbs grunted feeling he was loosing in the battle of weight.

"Oh sure Boss," Tony reacted suddenly, realising he could be of some help.

Together Tony and Gibbs laid McGee on the table. Ducky moved next to Gibbs and gently bandaged the injured wrists.

"You set up Abby's futon?" Gibbs asked Tony, flexing his sore forearms.

"Yep, as always."

"Let's go."