The ground beneath him shakes violently as a wave of dirt and air pins him down to the ground. His ears pop, and a loud tone rings in his head. He shuts his eyes, waiting for the moment that the earth beneath him stops moving, or for the air to clear and become breathable once more. He feels remnants of his previous confinement that still cling to him, poking his skin, stinging as his body shakes uncontrollably,. His mouth is dry and dusty, a tasteless powdery texture has clung to the inside of his cheeks, to his teeth, some even finding its way into his scarred throat.

For a moment, he's trapped in this odd sensation that he's still confined, that the box was just shaken like a snowglobe, that the dirt that made its way into the box was flying all around him like snowflakes in the air. His back feels like it's on fire, though the rest of his body feels like ice. He instinctively moves his face closer to a fan that is no longer there, tries to inhale oxygen into his body, but instead coughs out the dirt that coats his body like paint. He tries to breathe through his nose, but it feels heavily filtered, it doesn't quite reach him.

This feeling that he's still trapped, isolated, suffocating, deprived of all human sensations and connections lingers for seconds that don't seem to have an end. He tries to scream out into this torturous void, though even if he could, he cannot hear anything. The voice that inhabits his body is now gone, disconnected. His limbs feel detached, his heartbeat slows as his brain struggles to remember who he is, if it even matters anymore.

He tries to remember what led him to this timeless moment, distant screams and shouts reverberate behind the muffling effect of latex stuffed into his ear drums. A monotonous tone rings over everything, even beyond the latex. His body rocks back and forth as if floating in the water...water...what does water feel like he wonders.

The muffled sounds in his ear come unplugged, everything sounds so much louder it hurts. The blockage in his nose is taken out, so fast that it tickles his nostrils. Something soft, warm presses down on a side of his body, and he falls backwards.

He feels more warmth, more pressure. Something is wrapped around his chest, he tries to fight it at first, desiring the freedom to move according to his will for the first time in over a day. His eyelids feel like stone, but he tries to lift them anyway. Blurred faces swirl and distort through spotlights flashing at him. He shuts his eyes again, wincing.

The tone in his ear is fading, and the screaming and shouting is becoming clearer. A name is being called for, a name that he recognizes, that he feels a sense of belonging towards.

"Nick! Nicky, buddy, we got you!"

He was being rescued, that's what was happening. His name was Nick Stokes, and he was being pulled out of hell.

"Hang on, Pancho, you're almost out of the woods now."

Both voices are familiar to him, they belong to a brother, to a father. The corners of his lips twitch upward, he tries to open his mouth to speak, to make some joke about how they couldn't get rid of him that easily, but he still can't find his voice.

Instead his body begins to float, he reaches out, and another hand grasps his. He feels something grab his leg, too, patting it, it feels reassuring. He inhales and exhales, shaky breaths becoming steadier as soothing words of comfort from his brother's voice fly through his ears.

"We got you, we got you."

"Alright, Nick, I'm going to take your vitals now, okay?"

But this voice isn't familiar, and sounds cold, harsh…Almost like the voice on the tape…

Hi, CSI guy…

Something grabs at his arm, applying increasing amounts of pressure.

He's being taken again. Out of the frying pan, back into the six foot sensory deprivation box. His new home, shrouded in never fading green light, constantly depleting and refilling miniscule amounts of oxygen.

"No…no no no no no…." he moans, unaware if any sound made it out of his body. He hears the cold voice calling out information about his blood pressure, his heart rate. The voice is collecting data, just like he collects evidence.

Cause you followed the evidence, cause that's what CSIs do.

"He's just doing his job, buddy," Warrick voice echoes in his mind.

"So was I," Nick mutters. One of his eyelids is lifted up, and a blinding white light is shoved into his eyes. The light is back on...but he shot that out hours ago.

The light disappears, then reappears in the other eye.

"No! Enough with the damn light!" he echoes sentiments from eons ago. His fingers twitch, searching for a gun that was destroyed minutes ago. His lips tremble, he just cannot deal with the light again.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay, it's okay," a motherly voice now, Catherine.

Hands are touching and prodding all over his body, goosebumps begin to rise through the blisters and cuts from the glass. He knows they're human hands, but they feel like giant ants…

"I'm going to roll you over now, Nick, take a look at your back,"

As he's rolled onto his side, something rises in his stomach, propelling outward through his throat. The sides of his throat burn and sting, like glass is being dragged from his stomach to his mouth.

"Just nausea from the tinnitus, it'll pass."

As the last bit of vomit drips out of his lips, he tries to catch his breath, but as he finishes a sharp inhale, his throat closes. He tries again to breathe, but his throat remains closed. He screws his face in concentration, trying to figure out how to open his throat. His eyes dart around, looking for Warrick and Catherine, but they're not in his line of sight.

Breathe quick...breathe slow...

"Can't...breathe…" he mouths, no sound exits his body.

Anyway you like, you're going to die here.

"He's going into shock," the cold voice states without emotion. Nick wonders if he's this emotionless when he's in the zone, "doing his job."

His body falls backwards again, his heavy eyes find what they were previously looking for, Warrick and Catherine, frozen in a moment between deep concern and terror. Everything seems to move slowly, every time his eyes move, his vision blurs.

He blinks, and he's looking at a crowd of doctors. They all look like Doc Robbins.

He blinks, and he sees his mother, crying into Cisco's shoulder as he looks on in sorrow. He wants to cry too.

He blinks, and sees Warrick, Catherine, Sara, Greg, Brass all spread throughout a room-hospital room? They're all looking at him with varying degrees of despair on their faces. In the distance, he thinks he sees Grissom standing behind a glass window, he wants to raise his hand up, and touch Grissom's like he did before…

He blinks, and everyone is gone except for Warrick. Warrick is standing closer to him, his head hung as he grips Nick's hand.

The movement between blinks is increasing in speed, his stomach is settling, and his throat feels open. His mouth no longer feels dry, air seems to flow more freely than it has in the last day.

He blinks, and Warrick is still there. He wonders what time it is. Warrick is looking at him now, squints a little at Nick.

He blinks, and Warrick is still there. But now, he's talking on a phone. He can't make out what Warrick is saying, voices of all the faces he's seen seem like they haven't caught up, like a lag with footage he's watching.

"Hey…" he tries to say to Warrick, to get his attention, but his voice is still gone.

He blinks, and Warrick turns away, walking out of the room-no, they're not in the room. Nick's in a hole, 200 lbs of dirt looming above him. He lifts his hands up against the invisible glass, but Warrick doesn't seem to notice.

"No...Rick-" Nick calls out, his voice a hoarse whisper. Tears start to leave sting at the corners of his eyes, burning his skin as they slide down his cheek. He's leaving him again, why is he leaving again?

The dirt starts to fall onto Nick, and he turns away to brace himself, but finds that his arms don't hit the wall beside him-

Nick lets out a audible noise of shock as he falls face first onto the hospital room floor. The tile on the floor feels like a slap to his face. He feels suddenly feels connected to his body again, in control of his limbs, his senses, his voice. He takes a few deep breaths, and tries to push himself off the floor, but falls back down again. His eyes scan the room, it's empty except for him.

Warrick's still walking down the hallway outside his room.

"War-Warrick!" he blurts out. Even though his voice is back, it's still damaged. Warrick still doesn't seem to hear him, though.

He tries again to get up, this time grabbing the bed beside him. He manages to stand halfway up, but his legs wobble and give up, and he's on the floor again. He shuts his eyes tight as he feels a sob rise and escape his body.

"Nicky?"

He blinks, and Cisco-no, not his father-Grissom is crouched in front of him, his hand firmly grasping Nick's shoulder.

"Ciscsom," he mumbles incoherently, the two men seeming to merge once again in his mind. He reaches out to Grissom, grabbing onto his arm like he did when he was in the hole.

"C'mon, I'll help you up."

Grissom keeps hold of Nick's arm as he stands up once again, and helps back onto the bed. Nick notices the bed is slightly elevated. He looks down, seeing for the first time that he's in a hospital gown. Under the bright lights in the room, he finally gets a clear view of the ant bites on his skin. They're smaller than he thought they would be, although a few of them are as red as he imagined. Some bites have small bandages on top of them, he must have tried to scratch at them.

It does itch like hell.

"Not easy to stand after lying down for over twenty four hours," Grissom remarks, ever the observer.

"Twenty-four hours," Nick repeats, still staring at the bites. His hands can't seem to stop shaking. He looks at Grissom, and tries to hide his shock at how drained his mentor looks. His eyes look red, his brow furrowed in concern as he stares intently at Nick, also studying the ant bites. He's seen Grissom after doubles and triples and even a quadruple shift one time, but he's never seen him like this.

"What took you guys so long?" Nick asks. He says it as a joke, but can't seem to mask the sob that's still rising inside of him. The corners of Grissom's mouth twitch into a sad smile.

The two share a moment in silence, Nick can't seem to think of anything to say. He has hundreds of questions, but wonders if Grissom would even have the answers. His eyes scan Grissom's face, Grissom also seems to want to say something, his mouth keeps opening and closing, but nothing comes out.

"What time is it?" Nick asks, more to himself than to Grissom, and his eyes start to look for a clock. Whoever undressed him seemed to have removed his watch.

"It's six in the morning. You've...been in shock for a while," Grissom tells him.

"Can't imagine why,"

Grissom lets out a soft chuckle, and Nick smiles back at him. Grissom moves a chair over next to the bed, and sits in it. More silence follows, but it feels less awkward than before. This time, Grissom is the one to break it.

"Warrick went to go get your parents," he tells Nick, and adds, predicting the question Nick was about to ask, "I saw you trying to get his attention when he left."

Tears well up in Nick's eyes. He can sense that it's making Grissom uncomfortable, he never does seem to grasp the concept of human emotions like Nick does.

"I...thought I was in the...still...and that he was leave-leaving..." Nick starts to stammer, feeling the need to explain himself. Shame seems to shiver down his spine that Grissom had to see him like that, both on the floor and in the hole. He starts to absentmindedly itch at his skin, then stops as Grissom gives him a look. He knows that look well, it's the same one his father had whenever Nick would do something inappropriate as a child. His lips begin to quiver.

"I know. I'm sorry we had to do things the way we did, back there."

Grissom's voice trails off, and Nick finishes the thought for him.

Back in the hole.

Nick nods, scrunching his face closed. He can't seem to stop the floodgates in his eyes from bursting open.

"You...did what you had to do. Got me out, didn't it?" Nick tries to chuckle, but it sounds more like a cry.

More silence reigns between the two men. How far did Warrick have to drive to get his parents? He shudders, thinking of how history seems to be repeating himself. He feels like he's nine years old again, waiting for his mom to get home.

"Who-Why-How did you guys find me?" Nick asks, keeping his eyes closed, trying to shove down even more painful memories from bubbling to the surface.

"We don't have to talk about that now, Nicky. It's been a long day, longer for you more than any of us."

"Yeah," Nick chokes out. As much as the curiosity of who did this, why they did it, how the found him still nags at his mind, he feels a slight relief at Grissom's reluctance to tell him right now. He takes a deep breath, and everything seems to just crash around him. The panic, the terror, the anger, the full gravity of what happened to him finally seems to catch up with him.

His right hand twitches where the gun was once held against his chin by his own hand, and he releases all of the sobs he was trying to keep within him.

"I was-I was gonna do it, Gris," he cries. "Right before y'all found me, I was gonna-"

"But you didn't. You survived , Nick."

Nick nods, eyes still shut tight, tears still flowing. His head throbs, he feels like he's cried more in the past minute than he has in his whole life. He can feel the bed sink next to him, Grissom must have moved from the chair.

"And you know what?"

Grissom grabs Nick's shaking hand, puts his hand on Nick's shoulder again, holding it firm like he did before. Nick understands that Grissom wants him to make eye contact, he opens his eyes to meet his, and sees something he'd never thought he'd see in Gil Grissom.

"I've never been more proud of anyone in my life."

Nick nods, shutting his eyes tight again, his body heaving, tears staining the top of his hospital gown. He feels Grissom's hand release from his own, and tries to fumble to connect with it again, but instead Grissom pulls Nick's body to his in a tight embrace.