I need you like a heart needs a beat,
But it's nothing new.
OneRepublic, "Apologize"

Only a few things were keeping Mac from ramming his head into the wall.

One was, and always would be, Stella. She managed to find her way in one way or another into every list he wrote about virtually anything. Earlier, she'd gotten the flu or something related to it, which was absolutely unheard of. There were two people Mac knew who never, ever got sick: Stella and himself. It was one of the many freakish things they had in common.

Another was his own determination and fierce hunger for justice—the very thought of a killer, a bomber, somewhere in his city made his blood sing with fury. The last was the ever-changing variable that is "the unknown." What building would be blown up this time? How many would die? When the apartment complex had exploded, the terrifying, unnerving realization that someone had just lost their very own Claire hit him like a freight train.

He didn't want to answer his phone when it rang, but of course he did anyway. Not only was he the head of the CSI department in the city that never slept, but he was Mac Taylor. He was, in theory, the cat that curiosity killed.

"Taylor," he answered, an aggravated undertone seasoning his voice. The annoying ring tone silenced and the person on the other end didn't wait to speak.

"She's dead, you know. If you want the body, try her apartment."

Mac froze.

Sheldon suddenly fled into the room, anxiety dripping from his skin. "We've got activity at Stella's apartment. I've already—"

Mac's throat was aflame, his stomach churning and flipping on its axis. "Get EMS on the way. Cops, bomb squad—everyone." As he walked quickly from his desk, a picture frame teetered and then fell over, glass smashing in every direction.

He didn't have to turn to know it'd been a picture of Stella and himself.

If he could've stopped to pick it up or even acknowledge it as some sort of an omen he would have—Mac Taylor had always, always been a man of superstition, though he'd deny it even if his life depended on it—but there was no time, only breaths and complications, and moments to live.

It had probably been thirty seconds of driving (of which he couldn't remember) when he realized Sheldon was screaming, demanding that he pull the car over. Mac subconsciously drove on, his foot ramming the gas pedal through the floor. He wasn't sure where he was going, or how fast he was going, but even for an emergency, it was an unhealthy pace.

"Mac!"

That was when his foot eased off the gas pedal, so slowly that it was almost unnoticeable. The car was steered toward the side of the road and came to a stop. Mac looked idly out the window for a split second and then threw the door open, stepping into high speed oncoming traffic.

Sheldon pulled him out of the way and shoved him into the passenger seat, walking around to the drivers side and hurrying in. He started Mac's truck again without a word and drove at a quick but safe pace, without so many hairpin turns and violent sways at unknown times.

Mac's fists were clenching tighter and tighter until he realized he'd dug his nails into his own palms, drawing blood.

The car screamed up to Stella's house and Mac nearly flew out of the still-moving vehicle. Sheldon didn't even turn the car off.

When he ran to the door, Flack was already disappearing from it. "Nothing here."

"I was just on the phone with the guy, he said there'd be a body," Mac rambled hurriedly. "If there isn't one, then he has to be somewhere... I don't know where he could be... I don't know," he repeated. The words blubbered from his lips uselessly. "There has to be something... some sort of evidence, something... anything."

Through space his mind flew—back in time, to the evidence, to the beginning of the case. Anything. An address. A location. A time. Anything.

When his mind found it, he was running. Sprinting. The truck was there, metal beneath his hands, leather in his bloody palms, his phone already tittering at his side. He picked it up and spoke into it, his voice tense, a great dam holding back the screams that wanted to break through.

"The warehouse he'd wanted us in before," he barked. "At the other end of town."

He didn't even close the phone—simply dropped it into the passenger seat as Flack roared into it. The radio was on, an alert ripping through it at a high frequency, one of his coworkers' voice frightening the city into horrified oblivion and uselessness.

Once again his phone rang, but this time, he didn't pick it up. Five minutes ago, curiosity could've killed him. But now, curiosity meant nothing.

All he could see was Stella.

"Attention!" the radio screeched, "2344 Lexington Avenue, there has been..."

Stella. That was Stella's address. Mac growled viciously, the sound reverberating. and punched the radio off. He reached blindly for his phone. Flack. Flack. Which speed dial was he?

In the dark, somewhere in the back of his mind, Mac registered the feeling of his seams ripping and falling apart, his world crumbling to dust in a moment's notice.

The phone rang half a time and then the man picked up. "Mac, Stella's place just went up in flames," Flack shouted over the craziness, his voice tight with emotion. "I'm on my way as fast as I can with Danny and Lindsay, Hawkes is already halfway there. Hang in tight. Do not go in without backup, do you hear me? We're dealing with serious shit, and..."he trailed off with concerned words and deep thoughts, but Mac's brain couldn't process the anything—he understood Flack's words but couldn't match them with reality.

The warehouse was there, then, before his eyes, an image branded into his memory forever. When he reached the door—heavy, steel, and locked, he didn't know what to do.

"Open the door!" he shouted, pounding on it with his bloody hands, his voice shaking with each syllable omitted from his lips. "NYPD, open up, NOW!"

Nothing. At all.

Seconds. Minutes. They passed like molasses, and when backup finally arrived, it had been raining for some time.

But when the backup arrived, that was when the bomb went off.

Mac, leaning his head against the steel door, heard the dull, familiar noise loud and clear, and began to pound on the wall in front of him. And then it was open—Flack and another man had forced it open with something he didn't wait to keep track off—and Mac burst through, his gun drawn but not cocked, his heart angry but broken, more than anything else. The blast had hardly reached this room; it seemed to have come from the room at the far end of the hall, judging by his flashlight and thethere fire crackling . But most of the ceiling had caved in and fallen like rubble.

"STELLA!"

His own voice echoed back at him mercilessly. The fire snapped angrily. "Stella," he repeated over and over. "Stella, Stella, Stella."

The back up seeped in and took over, searching quickly but thoroughly. Mac began forcing large pieces of ceiling from the floor, uncovering nothing each time, his heart continuing to tear into millions of shards that stabbed him relentlessly from the insides.

"We've got something!" Danny shouted, a hand over his mouth as he coughed. Torn and tattered fabric dangled from his hands, and oh, shit, it was her shirt, ripped down the middle, bloody, dusty.

But not burnt.

She wasn't dead.

Stella couldn't die.

"Stella," he whispered now, but more to himself than anything. "Stella. Stella. Stella, Stella, Stella." It ran together in his mind, one syllable, one thought. One necessity. One thing he wasn't leaving this fucking cave without. Stellastellastellastellastellastella.

And then he saw it.

A flick of pale green fabric—a pleasant contrast to the gruesome surroundings. The tip of his flashlight caught it and he dropped to the ground, scooting as fast as he could, tearing his pants and his skin on the knees. Pushing rubble aside, he discovered her. Bleeding, dirty, unconscious.

"I found her!" he forced out, and grabbed her wrist. A pulse. All he needed was a pulse to keep his own going.

Thump.

A pause.

Thump.

Thump.

And in that instant she was in his arms, and he was careful not to jar her. Her body was exposed except for the sheet. Bruised. Beaten. Abused.

The rest was a blur. Outside. The rain. The ambulance. The place was the same as long as she was there. None of it mattered, unless she was there.

"Stella," his voice broke then and a single tear fell down his face. That was it. A single tear from his face, her name again and again from his throat. "Stella, oh, God. Stella. Stella. Please."

When they reached the hospital, he couldn't follow her to surgery. This confused him in his battered state. Flack tried to explain, but Mac repeated her name, tried to bargain his way in. Flack gently pushed him into a chair, too hard for his back, without armchairs.

"Please," Mac repeated. "Please, I have to make sure she's okay—I'm the boss of this department! She's my parter; no, I'm not family, but I'm her partner—I'm all she has!"

A nurse walked away quickly as Mac repeated his statement uselessly in the crisp, unnatural air. "I'm her partner! I'm the only person she has!"

A hand was on his shoulder. He turned his head. Flack.

There was silence. Mac's face contorted into misery. "She's all I have," he whispered in torment, and then dropped his head into his hands.

A sob rang out then, one so full of pain and despair that the color in Flack's world instantly evaporated. A monochrome remained; an outline, an unreal replacement for reality. Mac Taylor was crying. The toughest man he'd ever met was crying because the toughest woman he'd ever met had almost been killed. And almost was dead.

Mac needed Stella more than he needed oxygen, as far as Flack was concerned. She'd always held him together, and now, without her, he was falling apart.

Lindsay's breakdown instantly followed. Danny's arms found hers and he embraced her, pressing her body as close as possible to his. Sheldon took a step closer to Mac and laid a hand comfortingly on his back as Flack fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his boss. "She's okay, Mac," Flack whispered, his voice aquiver with terror. "She's okay, she's alive."

But the only response was Mac's empty choking heart, grasping at the air, unable to get enough of it.

Just an fyi – the song at the beginning is SO much better WITHOUT timbaland in it. OneRepublic is awesome.

Sorry this sucks :( Don't worry, it'll get better. When I'm done with this story, I'm writing a prequel to it. Originally, I was going to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start) after the prologue, but I wasn't feelin it.