McGee was on a roll. Sitting at his typewriter in his wooden chair in the gloomy post midnight light, the only sounds were the dulcet tones from his bedroom stereo and the frantic clacking of the mechanical keys. He had his characters right where he wanted them.

He was momentarily distracted by a noise and shot a brief annoyed glance over his shoulder to the front door to find nothing amiss. His eyes were sucked back to the page immediately and he continued his story undeterred. Something stung his arm and he whacked at whatever was trying to bite him with a quick slap, desperately trying not to loose continuity.

Slowly he found his mind was losing its grasp on the plot. He squinted hard to try to rein the page back into focus. His head felt like a large rock, wobbling precariously on top of his shoulders. He should probably get to bed. Then there were perfectly manicured red fingernails sliding over his shoulders, slithering down his blue T-shirt and slowly sliding it over his head. Her face came into view.

"I've waited a long time to do this," she whispered in a sultry voice.

"You….you can't be here," his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

"No one will know," her voice was silky smooth.

Then she was on his lap astride him, her breath hot on his face, her tongue wet and rough across his cheek. She was tweaking his nipples and occasionally, chewing on his earlobes. She was telling him that this was the right thing to be doing and he believed her. At some point she made the perfectly reasonable suggestion that they adjourn to the bedroom and he followed her compliantly but clumsily to his bed.

Suddenly, she was all over him, his pants were down, her fingernails danced around his most delicate regions in a thrillingly dangerous manner, all the while she whispered in his ear: questions, questions about the case, the evidence, the type of drugs found, who knew, what they knew. The game made perfect sense: if he pleased her with a good answer, she pleased him back. If the answer was not up to scratch, then she was up to scratch. It wasn't rocket science.

He was painfully close, he wished desperately for another question, any question, his favourite colour, anything. He was just one more question away from glory. He felt her breath hot against his lips.

"Who murdered Petty Officer Dorgon?"

He was shattered, he had no idea. He was so desperately close.

"I don't know," he whispered hoarsely.

There was a mometary pause and then: success! MIT examiners could learn a thing or two from this woman.

He lay panting and befuddled with a warm glow pulsing from his groin. Rolling heavily onto his side he felt slightly guilty about having such an explicit dream about her after all these years but then, nobody ever had to know. He smiled dreamily and tried to recall it again.

It wasn't the first time McGee had been late but it was the second. Like the last time, it caused immediate concern.

"Where's his goddam sister this time," Gibbs muttered, scanning desperately through his 100 strong unread emails.

"I'm going to his apartment boss," Tony stated, picking up his sig and heading for the elevator.

"DiNozzo."

Tony halted mid stride and turned to face his tormentor. "What!"

"Take Ziva with you."

Tony turned again and increased his pace, not bothering to respond as Ziva rustled around her drawer for her equipment and raced after him.

Tony offered to open the door. McGee's lock was so primitive he wondered why he ever bothered using it at all. He pushed the door opened silently and the two agents slid in the doorway, weapons raised. The room was eerily quiet save the elevator music emanating from the bedroom. As they stalked past the kitchen, Tony caught an obstructed view of McGee's writing desk through the bookcase used to divide the room. It looked clear. He indicated to Ziva to check the bedroom while he continued on to the desk.

McGee's blue T-shirt lay crumpled on the floor. He frowned, puzzled and proceeded to the bedroom.

McGee was lying peacefully on his side sound asleep. Ziva jerked her head towards him with a puzzled look and headed to the bathroom to complete the clean of the area.

"Clear," he heard Ziva's voice from the bathroom.

He sighed and straightened, tucking his weapon back as he went.

Ziva sauntered over and looked down at McGee "Looks like someone's burning the candle at both ends."

"It's…" Tony started to correct her, "Hey! That's right."

Ziva shrugged, "we have the same expression in Yiddish."

Tony sighed "Gibbs is going to kill him."

"Oh yes."

Tony leant forward and tapped McGee hard on the face a couple of time, "Hey!" he called out, "Probie".

McGee stirred. His eyelids came to half mast revealing two red-rimmed, glazed and severely bloodshot eyes. The eyelids hovered a moment and then slid shut again.

Tony shot Ziva a confused glance. "I know that look," he said.

"So do I," Ziva confirmed, "He would not be the first writer to use mood enhancers to write."

"Not Probie."

"Why not Probie?" she attacked, "A few months ago, you didn't even know he had published a book."

"At college," Tony began by way of explanation, "he didn't inhale.".

"He's been drugged," Ziva concluded instantaneously.

She bent down and started slapping his face more urgently, "McGee," she said loudly and distinctly, "You have been drugged. Do you know who did this?"

McGee rolled heavily onto his back with a grunt. The red eyes made a fleeting re-appearance and then sank away again.

The world was partitioned into two completely distinct universes. In one: the hot tongue and the silky smooth voice. In the other: the harsh cold light of day, thumping head pain, the taste of old mouldy socks in his mouth and Tony and Ziva yelling at him and slapping his face. He knew where he wanted to be, and where he was supposed to be. They were not the same place.

"Ring them," Ziva instructed but when she looked up, Tony was already hanging up the phone.

"Be here in 10," he said expertly, "Meanwhile, what about a sample for Abby to compare to that sailor".

Ziva smiled, "I'll get the kit."

"I'll phone the boss."

Ziva had just completed drawing blood when the EMTs knocked at the door. Tony led them to the bed explaining the situation on the way with a crisp efficiency Ziva had rarely seen.

After setting up the gurney, the paramedic pulled back the bedclothes in one grand gesture to reveal McGee's track pants and boxers pulled halfway down his thighs. Ziva's eyebrows rose dramatically and she spun away with a barely concealed smirk trying to shield her face with one hand.

"He's large…got larger, ah,… feet, than I expected, she stumbled.

"Smooth," said Tony.

He reached past her and rescued McGee's modesty. "There you go buddy," he said softly.

He stood back with Ziva and together they watched the paramedics take him away.