A/N: Due to a combination of real life, and this chapters stubbornness about being written, this took much longer than I expected to get out. I apologize for that. Hopefully you'll find it worth the wait, and the next chapter will come along much sooner.

Tony stood in the center of the bedroom, motionless, while thunder shook the floor beneath his feet and rain beat against the outside of the house. He gripped the camera up tighter against his chest as his knuckles turned white, and blood was forced back from the pads of his fingers. Tony had tried, he really had, but he couldn't make himself take another step. He couldn't snap another picture filled with blood and evidence, and all the reminders that this had actually happened. God, they were out there. Hurt and alone. Teams moved around him, in an orbit that never reached his surface, in and out of his field of vision. They talked in hushed tones-seemed too far away for Tony to try to decipher their words.

If Gibbs stood here to witness this, he'd probably land a quick and firm blow to the back of Tony's head for freezing up in the middle of a crime scene. Gibbs would lean in closer, offer soft words that rarely seemed gentle on their surface, but they'd be sure and solid, and so very needed. They'd be enough to pull Tony back from his edge. The thought caused him to shudder out a breath, and he jerked his head up to watch as lightning flashed across the sky. He had to find them. No way in hell would he be forced into a world where someone else was allowed to fill their chairs, leaving him to sew up the torn parts of life where they had once belonged.

Tony drew himself up, forced his feet to carry him once more. If this were a movie, he wouldn't be the guy just standing around and letting the world fall apart around him-at least not more than it already had. Tony turned, headed for the door. He needed to check on the team downstairs, hoped they had come across something new to break the case.

He wanted to check on McGee, make sure he was holding his own down there. Tony blinked, stopped short and lowered the camera, when McGee appeared in the doorway. Uncalled, right on time. Maybe he had learned more from Gibbs than Tony had realized. Tony let out a breath, equally matched in its exhaustion when McGee echoed it.

"You look like hell, McGee," Tony said, looking McGee over, as he moved into the crowded room. He brushed by someone, possibly FBI. Everyone had come, responded to the call.

"Thanks, Tony," McGee said, giving him a fraction of an eye roll. "Abby is here, downstairs. She's pretty upset, Tony, and I thought you might want-"

He stopped, didn't try to finish, fill in the blank. McGee's shoulders sagged against the weight of carrying around gravity for too many hours, against the weight of guilt. I know the feeling, McGee. Dark circles colored the skin underneath McGee's eyes, and looking at him easily doubled Tony's own exhaustion.

"I'll take care of it," Tony said, reaching out and laying his hand over McGee's shoulder. McGee's eyes moved down to it, lingered a moment, then slid back up to look at Tony again. Maybe the gesture surprised them both. They hadn't exactly been the best of buddies up until now. "Go get us some coffee, McGee. I'll meet you back at the bullpen soon."

"Tony, surely I'm better off-" he started, but Tony narrowed his eyes, and McGee closed his mouth at once.

Tony could leave it there, with the Gibbs glare, and no explanation. He couldn't deny it'd be far easier, with no messy show of emotions, no need to admit that he cared at all. It'd be very Gibbs.

"McGee," he said. "We're both exhausted. I'm going to go talk to Abby, then I'll head back. You go, we need something to keep us up and running."

McGee gave him a tight nod. An agreement, or at least an acceptance. Tony squeezed his shoulder once, dropped his hand, and stepped around him to head for the door. He paused after a few steps, spun back around.

"McGee," he said, and McGee turned to him at once. "Were you able to find any more footprints before-"

Tony sighed, offered an empty handed gesture to the window.

"Just the one," McGee said, lowering his gaze to the floor. "We sent it off to Abby. I'm sorry, Tony. I looked, we looked, we just didn't have much time."

Tony just nodded, turned away again, thought last minute to add a 'thanks' over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. He didn't know how to do more than just mimic Gibbs (though he thought he could do that pretty well), but he did know how to do his job. And if somehow he could carry the others along while he did it, it would be that much better. That had to be enough, he had to be enough.

Tony avoided the drying patch of blood, clearly visible now as it browned against the lightly colored carpet. He could still smell it in the air, though likely it was all in his head by now, and it made his stomach clench up tightly. Kate's or Gibbs'? Stop it, DiNozzo. Get your head on straight. He carefully shifted, stretched to skip as many stairs as he was able. He took in a few slow breaths, waited until he felt certain he wouldn't lose the last meal he ate, and stepped around the corner to find Abby.

She stood just inside the open door-the storm a surreal background- wood splintered back from his earlier efforts. Water rolled down over her cheeks, largely rain, though the red-rimmed eyes surveying the room suggested it wasn't on its own. Her hands twisted in front of her, one clasping the other tightly. Tony moved to her at once.

"Abs," he said, looking her over, moving into her space. "I'm here."

Probably it was a stupid thing to say, but he thought she needed to hear it anyway.

"But they aren't," Abby said, eyes shifting up to him. Her jaw tightened, those same eyes hardened against his face. "How did this happen?"

He swallowed down hurt, pride, all the other emotions he could. Maybe she wasn't blaming him, but it sure felt that way, like a fresh and sharp blow.

"I don't know, Abby," he said, refusing to take the step back that his wounds wanted him to. "But we are going to find out. I promise."

She looked up at him, wiped at her cheeks. He could see the anger give way to the honesty of sadness, of fear. She reached out for him, and he was helpless to do anything but draw her in closer when she pressed her rain-soaked clothes into his dry ones.

"They can't be gone, Tony," she whispered into his shirt. "They can't be gone. It was only a dream."

Tony didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. Instead, he rubbed his hand slowly over Abby's back, stared out into the near-blackness of the morning over her shoulder. Most of the neighbors had their lights on now, had watched the investigation in patches of their morning routines. He didn't understand it exactly, couldn't condone it, but this sort of thing had always drawn in human curiosity.

Across the street, there was another light on. He could make out Ajax standing there, despite the heavy rain that was rolling off the other roof and obscuring Tony's view. Ajax seemed to be staring right back at them, taunting in his ability to be both their best suspect and now the least likely.

Tony glared into the space between them, gritted his teeth, and shifted his weight back off of Abby. He looked down at her, making silent promises he hoped he could keep. He would bring Ajax in, and he would break the man, if that's what it took to bring them back.

McGee

The ride back up to the bullpen was made with two full hands, and one large drink tucked into his side by his elbow. Rain had soaked into his shirt, but it had slowed enough to prevent him from dripping a puddle of evidence everywhere he had stepped. It had helped (along with a large amount of coffee) to resume somewhat normal brain activity. Mostly, anyway. Finally, after what seemed like hours instead of mere moments, the doors opened up before him. Tim moved out into the still air of the office.

Maybe he had expected the office to feel emptier, for there to be some noticeable shift in the world that Kate and Gibbs spent so much of their time in. It should have felt different, in some blindingly obvious way. Instead, it all just felt so...normal, like he could take a few steps and see Gibbs and Kate sitting where they belonged, waiting on the day to really start.

Tim shot a glare over the wall. He directed it at the people at their desks, talking on their phones calmly- as if lives weren't hanging in the balance. None of them actually deserved his anger, but he had plenty to spare, and was far too tired to try to force it back within its borders.

Focus

Tim moved at once, wanted (needed) to shake off the feeling that threatened to pull him under if he paused long enough. Tony's desk was empty, the chair still shoved back from the last time they had all been here together. Tim sighed. There were things he could actually be doing, and he couldn't just sit around and wait for Tony to show up and offer him some new orders.

He dropped Tony's coffee off at his desk, tipped his own empty cup into Tony's trash, and grabbed the pen laying alongside the keyboard. Tim scribbled a note on the closest pad, and straightened back up. He winced as his lower back protested, tightened against the hours he had spent collecting evidence.

He shifted Abby's drink, wrapped his hand around it, and headed for the other elevator. He would help Abby (if she'd allow it), lighten her load, while also using the time to pick apart the night until he found the part when he had failed the team. Tim jabbed at the elevator button. He waited, stepped in, and let it carry him down to her level. He moved out when the doors opened, the hall here silent, seemingly a few degrees colder than upstairs.

He heard no music rolling out from her lab, the silence an easy tell of emotions (he picked up on things fairly quickly, after all) but he knew she was in there. Tim saw her move across the room. She paused at once of the machines, he watched her pressing buttons.

He looked down at the Caf-Pow, swallowed against a lump. His nerve faltered, exhaustion nearly swayed him to turn back around, but he held strong. Tim stepped into the lab. She heard him, drew up still at once, her back to him-fists clenched up at her side.

For or against him, he couldn't say for sure.

"Abby," he said, watching her back. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I thought maybe I could help."

She turned to him. Her eyes lowered from his to the Caf-Pow. He held it out as a peace offering, one he wasn't sure if he needed- everyone knew of her love for Gibbs- but she didn't swing at him, didn't launch a verbal assault. Instead, she took the drink silently. She had collected herself since he had last seen her, washed her face free of make-up, changed into fresh and dry clothes. She looked tired. He wanted to hug her, didn't dare touch her.

"I'm just getting started," she said, pulling a long drink through the straw. She pointed to the table, where evidence had started to be unloaded from a container, and Abby turned away from him. She dropped the cup off at her computer, moved back beside him. "Tony isn't back yet, you know? Had to do something, he said. Wouldn't tell me what, though."

Her tone was hard, all business, but her hands paused in the space above the box. Her eyes glanced at him, her cheek tightened back. He slowly reached out, laid a hand against her arm.

"He'll be fine, Abby," he said, before dropping his hand back away from her. He turned to the table, looking down while she unloaded.

It took a few moments, where they stood in silence, and he thought of a million ways to break it and still didn't do it. At long last, she handed him a bag, sealed up with a tape inside.

"Start on this?" she said, looking over and giving him a sad and grateful smile. "And thanks, Tim."

He nodded, forced himself to turn away from the blood samples, and made his way to her computer.

"They're going to be fine, McGee," she said, stepping away from him.

He glanced over his shoulder. She had moved, across the room now, focused (or at least it seemed) wholly on her new task. He answered anyway.

"Of course they are, Abby," Tim agreed.

Gibbs

Wood. Gibbs would know the smell if he lived to see a thousand lifetimes-he really, really hoped he only had to endure the one, though. He had drowned himself in it, used it as an anchor and a sail, made it a twisted salvation enough times to never forget it. It occupied the first thought that ran across his brain as it fired up again, followed quickly by the tremendous ache behind his eyes. The smell, and the feeling, were melding to make him sick. Felt like hell.

His memories of the last few hours had frayed somewhere along the way, blackened out where they ought to be clear, but he sure as hell could remember his Kate. Her smile was a beacon in his mind, and he reached out (held on tightly) to that, even when he didn't have the strength to reach for anything else. Even when the picture of how much danger they were in couldn't be forced complete, and he didn't have a clue where she was at this moment. She better be unharmed.

His head pounded right in time with heartbeat, felt like it might be inclined to split open if he exerted too much effort into any task. He had explored though, shifted as much as he could manage, and knew that even if he wanted to (even if it wouldn't likely sink him back into the blackness), he didn't have enough room to fight his way out. Whoever had done this, wasn't stupid.

The good news, if it could be called that, was that he didn't smell dirt. Which suggested he hadn't been buried in some unknown location, which came as a bigger relief than Gibbs would have expected. He did, however, hear the hum of an engine. The vibration ran along his stiff spine. I'm too damn old for this crap. Gibbs felt certain that whoever had him-her too?- had them on the move.

He gave in to the burning, let his eyes close. It made it so much harder not to give in to the temptation of sleep, but he was taking no chances of some brain injury keeping him from waking up again. Kate was there, occupying his thoughts, stealing his focus as normal when there were so many other things he ought to be thinking about.

Stay right here, Katie. I need ya.

The movement, almost a rocking, lulled him despite his efforts. He jerked his eyes open up at once, when he shifted in his box, the constant sound of the engine cut off. Gibbs took in a breath. He wasn't in good shape, exactly, but that had never been enough to stop him fighting back before. If they let their guard down, gave him even a second to have the upper hand, he'd made damn sure they never got it back.

He heard a door creak open nearby, hinges loud after the near silence, and the sound of feet over metal. A truck? His box started sliding and Gibbs waited until he could act. The end lost contact with whatever he was on, and then he was dropping quickly inside the box. The end jammed into the ground first, and Gibbs shoved his arms out to avoid bashing his head against the side. It didn't stop the fall from rattling the rest of his bones though, and he felt close to vomiting (or passing out, whichever came first). He heard something else sliding, slowly raised his head. Another box? Kate? It had to be her.

The box was settled back again, the change back to a lying position felt dangerously welcome, and before he could figure out a sense of direction they were on the move. This path was much rougher, and now he did smell dirt, and animals. He'd bet they were on a farm, a ranch, maybe. The trip didn't last long, he rested at the moment they stopped, and he heard another door. They went up a small incline, he heard a masculine grunt, and the sound of the other box following.

"There had to be another way," a man said, Gibbs glared in the direction of the voice.

He heard a low chuckle as a response, the sound of metal and then a crowbar was jammed into the wood of his box. The wood creaked loudly, echoed in his space, before it splintered back and light finally poured in. Gibbs could see the open door just behind them, all he had to do was act.

He let out a breath, buried all the pain as he had been taught to do so long ago, and focused on the feeling of his heart. A hand reached in, wrapped itself tightly around his calf. Gibbs allowed it to start pulling him, waited, holding himself completely still. When he had enough room, he moved. He reached down, wrapping his hand around the man's wrist and yanking him forward. It threw off the man's balance, drew him in closer than he should have been, and Gibbs landed a quick kick to the man's thigh. He heard the grunt, saw the man roll away.

Gibbs shoved his butt farther down, wood digging into his back, and stretched the rest of the way until his fingers connected with the rough end of the box. His fingers tips pressed against concrete, and he used the box to push himself the rest of the way out.

No training, no amount of willpower, could stop the way his head swam with the effort, the way his vision blurred. He tried to stand, dropped hard to his knees. Gibbs reached for the figure before him, hoping it was only one man, instead of the duplicate copies it seemed to be. Something shoved him back, held him down (two then four pairs of hands against him) and he felt a pinch at his thigh. Heat climbed up his leg, higher and higher until he had no choice but to succumb to the blackness for the second time.