The workstation is empty; his workstation. I can't help but notice it every time I come into work, put my coffee down, go right to business. The tepid Miami sun draws a red glare across the vacant seat, the desk, and the keys to his motorcycle. Though my desk was always near Speed's, I'd never looked at it, nor had a reason to. We were like brothers, competing all the time; usually he bested me because he was ranked higher than me.

I never minded.

I get up from my computer chair, my back is stiff and feels as if it's about to break in half. It's no more than a few steps away but for some strange reason, it seems as if it takes hours to get there. Part of me wonders what is there; just some old papers that he kept around for no reason? Numbers for all the girls he met when he was out partying? The gun cleaning kit that Horatio gave him?...

Sliding open the first drawer, I'm not surprised to find an array of pens, sticky notes, even a box of thick rubber gloves; but nothing out of the ordinary. I check the other drawers. Nothing special, accept a sticky note written by Calleigh proclaiming, "CLEAN YOUR GUN". I remembered that note. She'd wrote it after it had happened the first time; the day that they had gone to dispose all of the drugs, and Speed hadn't been taking care of his sidearm. He'd almost died then...

The problem with the rest of the team was that they didn't know him like I did; like I thought I knew him. He didn't write things down as a reminder to do them later, he didn't take care of things, he didn't maintain a general upkeep of all his equipment. He just did it when he was bored. And Speed was hardly ever bored, although the low apathetic tone in his voice suggested he was nearly all the time. He didn't clean his gun knowing that it would save him; he never learned from his mistakes. And that was something that no one could change; not even me.

There is a chill in the air. I shudder and glance around to see if anyone else is around. It's late afternoon, most of the desks are unoccupied; people are too busy on cases to be sitting around doing nothing. That includes me. I was supposed to meet Alex in the morgue five minutes ago. Instead, my mind had re-directed me back here. I can't help but wonder if his ghost is here, listening to my every thought and change of emotion... watching me.

I scoff. That's complete bull. Speed had gone to a better place; even if he'd had the choice I doubt that he'd stick around here; work wasn't exactly his favorite time for recreation. But as I walk down the hall towards the stairs that lead to the morgue, I wonder... what if he is?

As I step down the metal flight, I stop and gaze once more at his desk, and find that I've left one of the drawers open. Panic seizes me, sweat dripping from my forehead. What if someone sees it; thinks someone stole something? What happens if Horatio comes by to collect the rest of his stuff? I had to go back up and shut it. I scan the area. There's no one looking. They're all too busy to notice something that no longer has a purpose to be noticed. I begin up the stairs and turn the bend.

I stop, a frozen feeling gliding over my skin. The drawer is shut. I wasn't imagining things... or was I? Had I really gone nuts? A gulp slides down my throat as I go over and check it. But it's locked. All the drawers are locked. But how... and who...

TBC...