Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".

A/N: Thanks so much to all the people who are reading the story and especially to the people who are leaving comments and reviews – I love to hear from you. I am back to work today, so updates will slow down a little.

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.

Chapter 5: I Must Go

And now the time has come so my love I must go,

And though I lose a friend in the end you will know, oh

One day you'll look and see I've gone,

For tomorrow may rain so I'll follow the sun.

"Lindsay Monroe." How many times was she going to hear that replay in her head: his voice, so serious, so unlike the usual teasing tones he used for her. She had frozen solid when she heard him in the hallway, after first standing him up, then not even being able to come up with some halfway decent excuse. She'd done her best to avoid him all that day, avoid that conversation all day, but he had caught her.

She had stood in front of him and deliberately, almost clinically, torn him to pieces, watching the inquisitive light in his eyes turn to confusion, then hurt, then resignation. His voice when she walked away, offering his help if she needed it, still haunted her. She woke up every morning with it echoing in her ears.

Months. It had been months of continuing to avoid him, stay out of the office if he was there, work with other partners when possible, keep things professional and cool between them. He tried to help, and she shot him down. He tried to keep things friendly, and she froze him with deadly professionalism. She was wiped out with the effort.

When Lindsay was in university, she'd had a friend diagnosed with cancer, which metastasized to her lungs. She had three operations in which the cancerous polyps were stapled off, getting rid of the cancer, but also destroying her lungs bit by bit. The last operation, the doctors had closed her up again without finishing the procedure – there wouldn't have been enough lung surface left to keep her alive.

Lindsay felt as if she had done the same thing to her heart. Every time she felt a little softening towards Danny, felt that she could give him back some of the warmth he gave her every day, she had cut that piece out, excised it in fear that it would grow. Now, she was sitting in an airport, waiting for them to call her flight, and she felt as if her heart was two sizes too small – barely big enough to keep the blood circulating around her body.

She had been called home to Bozeman, but even Montana reminded her of Danny. When she had showed up at the airport, wanting to buy a ticket on the direct flight at the last minute, she had said "Montana" with his flattened Staten Island accent, earning a strange look from the ticket agent before being told that flight was already over-booked.

"I could book you on one leaving about an hour later. It has a stop-over in Denver. You'd get to Bozeman about two, well, nearly three hours later than the direct flight." The agent looked sympathetically at the young woman standing in front of her with no luggage and a dead look in her eyes. "Is it for a funeral? We have a bereavement rate."

Lindsay looked at her dully. "Yes. I mean, no. It isn't for a funeral." At least, not a recent one. One – several – which had taken place years before.

"That's okay," the agent leaned forward and smiled, "You look like you could use a break, anyway."

Lindsay's eyes filled with tears, as she murmured "Thank you." But inside she was screaming, "Don't be nice to me! No one should be nice to me – I don't deserve it."

"Don't mention it. Your flight leaves at 5:25; you have a layover in Denver for about 45 minutes, and you'll be in Bozeman before midnight. That do you?" She smiled kindly at the exhausted young woman in front of her. She looked, the agent thought, as if someone had run her through a grinder.

"Of course, and thank you again for all your help." Lindsay was automatically polite; she had had to work at developing a New York attitude. Her eyes filled again as she heard Danny's voice in her head, "Ya don't gotta do that, Montana," when she had taken off her shoes at a suspect's front door. He had laughed at her so often, but usually gently, as if he found her … sweet.

Lindsay perched on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the airport, waiting for her flight to be called. She wasn't sweet. She was smart and competitive and determined. She was as tough a cop as any of the men she worked with, though maybe not as tough yet as Stella. She could take down a runner, process a scene, go dumpster-diving without vomiting.

She stood up and wandered over to the large windows that enclosed the airport, rubbing her hands together restlessly. She rested her hot face against the cold glass, looking out over the Departures drop off point. She watched cars pull up, dislodge their passengers – hug, kiss, cry – then drive off.

She had come to New York to prove herself, and dammit, she had done it.

For a while at least.

Her flight was called; she wandered to the very end of the line, too tired to fight her way through people. She showed her ID at the desk and then went down the long skyway in a daze. The flight attendant told her where her seat was, but Lindsay just stared at her uncomprehendingly. Taking pity on her, the attendant walked her down the aisle and installed her in a middle seat between a nervous university student with a runaway tongue, and a large businessman who, before the plane had left the runway, was asleep and snoring, taking up much more than his fair share of space.

Lindsay zoned out, ignoring the girl beside her, and trying to avoid the businessman' breath (he had evidently swallowed a few relaxers in the bar before getting on the plane). She tried to sleep, but succeeded only in dreaming; terrible, crime scene-like photos flashed in front of her eyes briefly, then a face, then nothing. She would startle awake, then drift off again, only to have the whole sequence replay before her weary eyes.

Finally, the attendant came with food and made Lindsay eat. She tried a few bites of rubber chicken and sips of coffee, but her stomach revolted. Deeply embarrassed, she filled an airsick bag before getting out from under the businessman and spent most of the next two hours in the air standing near or in the bathroom, emptying her stomach over and over.

Now all the attendants had her on their radar, checking on her every time they passed, bringing her ginger ale and water, which she would promptly vomit up again. By the time they had to put back in her seat for landing, she was dizzy and barely able to speak.

"Honey," said the attendant who had helped in the beginning, "You are going to have to stay in Denver when we land, okay? You can't risk going on with whatever this is until you've been checked out. Just stay seated when we disembark; I'll have an agent meet you at the exit."

Lindsay nodded her head, not really knowing or caring what the woman was talking about, but recognizing kindness in her voice.

The businessman beside her leaned over and said in a carrying and angry voice, "Is there another seat I can have? I really don't appreciate being seated with a sick passenger."

The attendant frowned and said, "She'll be fine, sir, and it will only be a few minutes until we land." She walked off with a twitch to her rear-end; had she been a cat, her tail would have been whipping back and forth furiously.

Lindsay would have laughed at the image if she could drum up enough energy. Instead, she closed her eyes and fell deeply asleep as the plane landed in Denver, Colorado.