It had been a nightmarish day. Gibbs had gotten a call informing him that a Navy officer had shot and killed two executives at an insurance company that had denied his claims for family medical expenses. When security guards had reached the scene, the officer had turned the gun on himself. Tim was still driving to work when Gibbs caught him on his cell and instructed him to meet the team at the crime scene. Tim pulled into the building's driveway just as Tony and Ziva were unloading supplies from the truck. Gibbs grabbed a large pack from Tony and thrust it towards Tim.

"You're with me, McGee." Gibbs was already well into the foyer before Tim had even gotten a proper hold on the heavy bag. Scrambling to catch up with his boss, Tim didn't even register at first that Gibbs was waiting for him in front of the elevator.

The elevator doors opened and Gibbs strode in. Tim's throat tightened as he saw Gibbs waiting for him to follow.

"Uh, Boss, I'll just meet you up there, OK?"

"We're going to the twelfth floor, McGee. We don't have time for your exercise regimen." Gibbs's tone conveyed his impatience.

Tim still hesitated.

"Get in the damn elevator, McGee."

Tim willed himself inside the metal box. Twelve floors. He took in a deep breath as the doors closed, and shut his eyes. As the elevator ascended Tim tried to breathe out slowly enough that they'd be at the top before he ran out of air. When his lungs were empty, Tim opened his eyes. They were at the third floor.

Tim felt himself getting overheated, and he reminded himself to breathe in again. He wanted to unzip his jacket, but he needed both hands to hold the pack. Tim leaned against the back wall of the elevator and watched the floor numbers light up…6,7,8…9… The elevator stopped and the doors opened to let in a security guard. Gibbs gave the man a short nod.

The security guard attempted to engage Gibbs in conversation. "You just never can tell when one of these guys is going to go off the deep end, can you." It was a statement more than a question. Gibbs looked straight ahead and didn't respond.

The guard turned to McGee and made a second attempt at small talk. "Your job to lug his stuff around?" He jerked his head in Gibbs's direction.

Tim was still focused on not passing out. "No, sir," he managed to say. Gibbs turned and gave him a strange look.

"Well, you got him well trained, anyways." The guard remarked to Gibbs.

At last they reached the twelfth floor, and Tim almost lunged out of the elevator. He dropped the pack and tore off his jacket. His underarms were soaked with sweat. Luckily Gibbs was already across the room surveying the bodies, and Tim was able to dash off to a bathroom where he was could splash water on his face and the back of his neck.

The rest of the day had been torture for Tim. It was the first time he'd been around dead bodies since the night he'd shot Benedict. When he looked at the victims he saw Benedict's face instead. Every smell made his stomach lurch, and only the awareness that Gibbs would tear a strip off him if he compromised the crime scene kept him from vomiting. Tim tuned everything else out and just focused on getting his job done. The anxiety became a bubble around him – he was hot and his ears were buzzing, but he was able to effectively perform the tasks required of him. At the end of the day he didn't even hear the first time that Gibbs told them they could go home.

As soon as he was safely in his own apartment Tim peeled off his sweaty work clothes and pulled on an MIT t-shirt and boxer shorts. Tim glanced at his computer, but didn't think he could muster up the energy for a role playing game. He needed something slower and more solitary. He sat down at his typewriter. Working on his novel seemed like the right speed.

Tim scanned the last few paragraphs to remember where he had left off. LJ Tibbs and Lisa had found the backwoods cabin where they suspected a serial killer, Linus Browne, usually brought his victims. They knew that he always kept two victims captive at a time, and made the most recent one watch him kill the previous prisoner. Right now they knew that Browne only had one woman in the cabin, which meant that he'd be preparing to seek out his next victim. Agent Tommy had sent word that Browne had been seen in town that morning, so Lisa and Tibbs were cautiously approaching the cabin, presuming it empty except for the current captive. Lisa silently signaled to Tibbs that she was going up ahead to check out the windows, but when she reached the cabin steps Browne burst through the door, grabbing Lisa from behind. Tim had left the story with Browne holding Lisa in a choke-hold, his gun pushing up on her jaw.

Tim began typing. LJ Tibbs was a former sniper, and if he could get a clean shot at Browne's head, then he would be able to take out the murderer without injuring Lisa. But if he missed and hit Lisa, then not only would he have shot his agent, but Browne might be able to get back in the cabin to shoot the remaining woman before Tibbs could stop him. Tim thought that he could build suspense by making the bullet hit Lisa's shoulder and having Browne drop her to the ground, leaving the reader to wonder if she was bleeding to death while Tibbs chased the killer inside. On the other hand, what if Browne shot Lisa himself, which would then force Tibbs to…

Tim slammed his fists down on the keys. How could he do this? How could he trivialize death and murder and serial killers for the sake of entertainment? It was sick, and he was disgusted at himself for profiting from such a hideous trade, and even enjoying it. He saw the reality of crime every day; of all people, he should know better. It repulsed him to think about the fact that he had turned death into a hobby.

Tim could feel himself coming apart. Everything inside him was just so extreme these days. He was overwhelmed with anger and disgust right now, but he knew that soon that would be replaced by a terrible, deep sadness.

Suddenly Tim remembered how he'd felt last week in the ravine, after he'd gotten the splinter. Rummaging through his backpack, he pulled out his pocket knife. Tim inspected the palm of his hand – there was no evidence of the splinter or the cut he'd made. He thought about cutting his hand again, but he knew that it was a mistake. He needed his hands for too many things.

Tim went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. He pulled up the leg of his boxer shorts to expose his upper thigh. No one would see a cut there.

He held the point of the knife to his leg, and dragged it lightly across his skin. It left a soft white line, as though he'd been drawing with a chalk pencil on his thigh. The knife had scratched as it moved, but it didn't hurt. Tim moved it back to the start of the line. This time he pressed down firmly as he drew the knife along its track. He felt a stinging pain that radiated into a burning feeling around the cut. A glistening red inch appeared on his thigh. Tim was mesmerized by the blood, and the pain seemed to encompass his entire being. As the pain subsided, Tim felt all his muscles relax blissfully.

When he felt like he could stand again, Tim blotted the cut with some toilet paper, and then fell into bed. He slept deeply and peacefully for the first night since the shooting.

At first Tim was careful to ration the times that he cut himself, treating it like a gift after a particularly rough day. He made himself strict rules to follow – never do it two days in a row, no cutting on weekends, only do it inside the apartment. He was meticulous about alternating between legs, and never cut on one leg until the previous cut had started to disappear. Tim ensured that he only went deep enough to draw blood, never deeper. As long as he followed these rules, he figured it was under control. Tim knew it wasn't exactly something he should be happy about, but it wasn't like he had that many vices – he didn't smoke at all and he rarely drank. The worst addiction he could fault himself for was a predilection for decadent flavored lattes. So this one bad habit wasn't going to worry him.

Tim took it in stride the first time he broke one of his rules because the circumstances had been so extreme and unusual. The team was investigating a particularly gruesome crime scene and Tim had been instructed to photograph the mutilated bodies before Jimmy transported them back to autopsy. Tim's own body alternated between hot flashes and chills, and his hands were shaking hard enough that he worried none of his pictures would turn out. When the team got back to the office, Tim made a beeline for the head and locked himself in a stall where he undid his pants and sat on the toilet seat. When the blade broke his skin, the relief was instantaneous. Tim could breathe again.

Once he knew he could do it at work, though, it was easy to do it again. Tim rationalized that if it helped him do his job, it made sense to give himself permission to keep doing it. If a visit to autopsy left him shaken, a quick trip to the bathroom on the way back to his desk meant that he'd be able to concentrate on whatever task Gibbs had waiting for him. Tim bought an extra pocket knife to leave in his desk. Just knowing it was there made everything seem less daunting. Tim was even able to take the elevator one day when he arrived at the same time as Tony and didn't want to provoke Tony's teasing by heading for the stairs rather than join him.

It wasn't till Gibbs asked Tim to sit in on an interrogation that Tim began to worry if the cutting was getting out of hand. Tim sat silently across from the suspect with Gibbs at his side. Tim knew that Gibbs's routine in interrogation was a carefully choreographed dance that couldn't be rushed. But as the time dragged on Tim grew increasingly distraught. The room was small and hot, and Tim felt the impatience and agitation building inside him like a fire. He grew sweaty and his legs began to tremble so rapidly that he had to keep them steady with his hands. Tim didn't want to admit it to himself at first, but the urge inside him was undeniable. Tim tried to ignore the need, but eventually he pushed his chair back, announced to a startled Gibbs that he needed a moment, and went to do the only thing that he knew would make it stop.