He stood awkwardly in the waiting room, trying to rid himself of the sense of foreboding that had been niggling at him for the last few hours.
Calleigh had kept him busy at the lab, processing evidence and filing reports, all the while keeping him from the prying eyes and enquiring minds of other people at the Crime Lab. It was inevitable that people would start asking questions sooner or later, questions about why he was no longer leading his team from the front. She had told him not to worry and that she would take care of it, yet he knew that the burden of responsibility was ultimately his.
It felt cowardly to spend his time hiding away in some dark corner of the building, hiding whilst his colleagues were out in field doing the job that he used to take for granted. It once again felt like a tremendous fall from grace, the confidence and strength that he had worked so hard to rebuild since those dark days in New York had fallen down around him like a house of cards, his pride and strength, his need for justice to prevail, all of it had collapsed to the ground in a heap and left him with nothing.
His foundations had been rocked to the core and all that was left were the shattered pieces of the lives he once knew. It would not be a simple case of gluing the broken pieces back together, there were so many different shards from his past life and his present that he wasn't sure what went where. Things were muddled and hopelessly mixed up as he lurched from one crisis to another, never entirely sure when his subconscious would chose to creep up on him and lambast him with another of his failures.
He had tried so hard to move on from the life that he'd been forced to leave behind in New York, compartmentalising it in his head to a place so far away that he didn't have to keep thinking about it. He'd learnt through bitter experience to play his cards close to his chest, never letting anyone get too close, knowing that it was only a matter of time before his past would catch up with him and he would be forced to leave yet another life behind to start again somewhere else, somewhere that no one knew him.
Something had changed in Miami, he had felt like he belonged, that he had people around him who cared and treated him like the family that he so desperately longed for. He began to feel wanted, needed by the people who surrounded him, little by little, Miami began to feel like home to him, without him even realising it.
Was that why he refused to heed the warnings of Agent Collins, or was it his mistaken arrogance in thinking that the Malucci's no longer posed a threat to him?
Either way, he had paid for his folly in the most horrific way. They had succeeded in their goal of making him suffer, even though they had planned to kill him, the fact that he was still stuck in his pain and torment meant that he suffered every day for what he had done, and that was a torture all by itself.
He returned the receptionists smile with a shy one of his own, even though it failed to reach his eyes.
"It's Sally, isn't it?" he asked, forcing himself to take his mind off of his own brooding.
The young receptionist blushed bright scarlet, in much the same way she had the last time the red-headed handsome stranger had wandered into her waiting room.
"Uh…yes, Mr Caine, it is."
Her stapler and notepad suddenly became fascinating objects to her as she tried to hide her reaction to him, embarrassed that she was reacting in such a way to him. Calm down, he's only asked your name!
He glanced out of the window, twiddling his sunglasses in his hands.
"It's a beautiful day out there," he mused.
He was handsome, in an older-man kind of way. The lines on his face stood out as did the dark circles under his eyes, she was no psychologist herself, yet she could clearly see by the slumped set of his shoulders that he carried a heavy burden with him. She barely knew him, only knowing his name, yet she desperately hoped that her boss would be able to help the troubled man that stood before her.
She glanced down at his calloused hands and found no wedding band, yet she hoped that he had someone special in his life, someone that would support him and take care of him in the way that he so obviously needed. He seemed to be a caring and gentle man, she could tell that much by the polite way that he had spoken to her, even though the weight of guilt he carried with him was heavy, he was still able to see past that and treat others with respect.
Of the many clients who graced her waiting room he was perhaps the kindest that she had met and certainly the most polite. Day after day, people blustered in and out of the waiting room, entirely wrapped up in whatever crisis or drama they were in the middle of. The majority of them were surly and rude, treating her dismissively as just some air-headed bimbo who manned a desk. Many of their clients came from privileged backgrounds, spoilt young brats or women who had married into money yet still found time and reason to complain about their lot in life.
It angered her that some people didn't know just how lucky they were, their problems, in the grand scale of things, weren't really that big of a deal. At least they had their beachfront apartments, gated communities and fast cars to go home to. Some people had far less than that and yet still managed to get by, issues and all, and still be decent human beings.
Looking at the man in front of her she remembered why it was that she had chosen this career, her receptionist duties were a way of paying her way through college so that she could build the life that she had always dreamed of. It was difficult being a mature student, the other people in her classes would look at her strangely, forever separated by age and means. The young students never realised how fortunate they were to have their parents pay their way through college, none of them had likely ever seen a day's work in their teenage lives.
Hers had been a troubled past yet she had found salvation in the one man who wanted to help her move past her chequered history. After bouncing from foster home to foster home she had become disillusioned with life in general and had found herself falling in with all the wrong crowds. It had only been through sheer luck that she had happened upon a foster family that actually cared about her and not just the social security cheques that they banked for taking 'care' of her.
Mr and Mrs Watson somehow sensed that she was a troubled soul and took it upon them to try to help her; they had sent her to their trusted psychologist at their own expense in an effort to help this wayward and erratic girl. The day she had met Dr Pearce had been the day that she had begun to see that perhaps there was hope and a light at the end of the tunnel after all.
Progress had been frustratingly slow at times, yet her foster parents and Dr Pearce had resolutely stuck by her, guiding her back to a sense of stability and normality. The three of them and the support they had provided her convinced her that she could use her own experiences to help others and it was the main reason she had chosen to emulate the man that had helped rebuild her life.
She had felt the need to repay the people who had helped her, but Dr Pearce had enabled her to see things in a different light. He had shown her that sometimes the best way to repay the faith someone had placed in you was to pay it forward instead, perhaps by helping someone you didn't even know.
It seemed like a fanciful notion at first, but perhaps if more people lived by the mantra she did it would help the world become a slightly better place. People often found themselves so consumed by their own pain that they were unable to see past it to the suffering of others. Sometimes, all it took was for someone to reach a hand out in support, the kindness of strangers was something that was still sorely underrated in this cruel and harsh world.
The man stood before her was significantly different from the many men that stood in her waiting room. It was clear to see that his problems ran much deeper than having a wife and/or a mistress or the stress of not knowing which hedge fund to sink his considerable wealth into. He was a smartly dressed man, that much she could tell by the expensive Italian suits that he wore, yet she could tell that whatever money he had come into it had not come to him easily. The worn and scarred hands, the slightly bent fingers of the left one and the worn features of his face told her that everything he possessed he had earned the hard way.
He looked weary and tired and she hoped that Dr Pearce would be able to help this man, a man who looked in need of support and guidance. It wasn't just his friendly face or his polite manners, there was something in his very essence that spoke to her and told her that he was a good man, perhaps a troubled soul but certainly one that was worth making the effort in saving.
The voice of the doctor made her jump, not realising that she had been caught up in mentally assessing the man in front of her. He gave her a quick smile and nod of the head before raising his gaze to the man who had called to him.
"Nice to see you again, Horatio," Jeff smiled as he opened his office door further and beckoned his client in.
"Indeed," he muttered back as he shuffled forward.
After making himself comfortable behind his desk, Jeff tried to coax his reluctant visitor to make himself at home.
"Are you planning to stand for the whole session? If you are, I should warn you that you'll be standing for quite a while. Why don't you pull up a seat?"
Horatio shifted his gaze around the room, taking in his surroundings, as if sensing for any possible threats that might occur. After a few minutes of deliberation he finally took the proffered seat and sat down uneasily in it.
"How have you been since our last session?" Jeff enquired as he opened a file and looked down at it.
"Fine."
Jeff raised his head to look at the other man disbelievingly.
"Really? Why don't you try again?"
"Are you accusing me of lying, Doctor?" Horatio replied coolly.
"Well you're not exactly being forthcoming with the truth, are you?"
"Perhaps you should be more specific then."
The eyes of the two men met, Jeff was experienced enough to know when a frightened and emotionally cornered man was trying to intimidate him. He brushed Horatio's aggressive demeanour aside as he continued to chip away at his unwilling patient.
"Okay then," he smiled placidly, "how have you been sleeping, any nightmares?"
A huge part of Horatio wanted to lie, to bluff his way through the session with the psychologist yet there was a small voice nagging away at him to be honest, to tell the man in front of him the truth, that he was in pain and that he was suffering. He felt the two sides of his psyche battle each other; it was becoming too hard to keep up the front, after months of fighting all he wanted was a little peace and tranquillity. Perhaps it was time to finally be honest with himself.
"Some," he answered finally as he leant his body forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Finally, a breakthrough! Mindful of pushing his client away, Jeff moved carefully forward with his questioning.
"Tell me about them."
"I have been having dreams…..about my past."
"New York?"
Horatio nodded his head all the while keeping his head down as he took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.
"Who else was in your dreams?"
He closed his eyes as he felt a small shudder go through his exhausted body.
"The other night…..I dreamt of my parents," he offered vaguely, still not sure that he wanted to carry on answering the psychologist's questions.
"Are they still alive?"
Horatio shook his head sadly.
"We're they alive when you went undercover?"
He shook his head again.
"My father died when I was a boy."
"That's rough. What happened?"
He could feel the panic building within him, he didn't want to go down this road again, yet something made him answer the doctor anyway.
"He was a beat cop in the NYPD; he was killed in the line of duty."
"Were you close with your father?"
Horatio's head shot up as one of Jeff's questions caught him off guard yet again.
"What has that got to do with anything?" he asked warily.
Jeff scribbled something down in the file and answered without making eye contact, knowing that the subject of his client's father appeared to be a sensitive issue.
"I'm just trying to gain an understanding of what your relationship was like with him. It'll help me understand what motivates you a little better."
He thought about the question before answering.
"My father worked long hours….shifts on rotation; he spent as much time with me as he could."
"But you wish he spent more time with you than he did?"
"Doesn't every child?" Horatio answered quietly.
Flashback. New York 1964:
Eight year old John Kelly trudged the 150 yards from the school gate back to his home in the quiet residential neighbourhood in Queens. It wasn't a bad place to live; the streets were quiet enough that he and the other kids from the block could bring out their mitts and baseballs and have a game after school most days. They would sneakily steal the metal trash cans from their neighbours and use them as a backstop whilst risking the wrath of their mothers by using their coats and blazers to mark the bases in the dirty and dusty street.
The boys would take it in turns pretending they were Mickey Mantle, seeing who could hit their beat-up old baseball the furthest. It was a fact that John was proud of, that he currently held the record for the biggest hit so far that summer, the only downside was that the ball ended up crashing through the windscreen of the sedan owned by old Mr Parker who had been less than pleased with what he considered vandalism of his property.
After confessing to what he had done to his mother, he'd been made to knock on the curmudgeonly old man's door to apologise and offer to pay for the damage. At first the grumpy old dinosaur had refused and had threatened to report him to the police until his father knocked on his front door later that evening and had a 'friendly' chat as the local neighbourhood cop.
He frowned as he made his way back home, feeling resentment at the fact that the most of the money he earned from helping out at the neighbourhood grocers had gone straight into the pocket of the evil old Mr Parker.
What did he need the money for anyway? He was just a nasty old man who lived on his own and seemed to take delight in scaring the local kids who were just trying to have a little fun in the warm summer evenings after school. They were playing in full view of their parents and weren't causing anyone any trouble, who was old man Parker to spoil their fun?
He kicked the front door closed behind him even though he knew his mother would not be best pleased if she caught him doing it. Tossing his school satchel down he made his way into the kitchen where he knew his loving mother would be, preparing dinner for the both of them.
He could smell the stew cooking from the hallway, hearing the bubbling of the wonderful gravy she made as it simmered in the pot. He loved his mother's cooking, she was simply the best cook he knew, no one ever came close to the delights she would place on the table, nothing was better after a hard day's school than to come home to one of her freshly cooked meals.
He felt a little disappointed that once again it would only be the two of them at the table, mealtimes with both his mother and father were somewhat of a rarity and he treasured the rare few times they were able to sit together as a family. He made his way into the kitchen with a slightly heavy heart and gasped in shock when he heard the familiar voice of his beloved father.
"Hey, Johnny. How was school?"
He probably looked stupid with his mouth hanging open but at that particular moment he couldn't care less. His father was home and judging by the three sets of cutlery at the table, he was staying for dinner.
"Daddy!" he exclaimed as he ran up to his father who caught him midway and held him up, hugging him tightly.
"How's my boy?" his father asked as he gave him a kiss on the cheek before placing him back down on the ground.
Little John Kelly resisted the urge to wipe the kiss away, his friends had told him that it wasn't right for men to kiss each other, they were only allowed to kiss girls.
"I scored top in my class in Math today, Pop," he proclaimed proudly as he ran out into the hallway to collect the paper from his school bag.
He was rewarded for his academic achievement with a ruffle of his hair and a pat on the head.
"That's my boy," his father said as he smiled at his son proudly. "Now give your mother a kiss, then you and I are gonna shoot some hoops before dinner. How does that sound?"
His face lit up like a fireworks display on the 4th of July as he ran over to his mother, stood on his tiptoes and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek before running to his room to collect the basketball his father had bought him last summer.
It had been the best end to a school day that any boy could ask for, John Kelly knew that for certain. He walked hand in hand with his father the few short blocks back to their home after spending the last couple of hours learning how to play basketball. His father was a great teacher, showing him patiently how to dribble and shoot three pointers until he had finally managed to grasp the basics of the game. His father had even lifted him high in the air so that he could try a slam-dunk, it was the best feeling in the world, it felt as if he were flying and that he could do anything as long as he was in his father's safe and strong arms.
He threw the basketball in his room and washed his face and hands quickly before climbing onto his usual chair at the dinner table. He returned his father's wide smile with one of his own as he tucked into his meal with childish abandon, the long day at school and running around the basketball court with his old man had left him ravenous.
"Slow down, Johnny," his mother chided gently.
"Ah, leave him be, Cathy. Johnny's a growing boy; I reckon we got a star player in the family. Our kid's got talent out on that court."
He felt insanely proud of his father's comments, little Johnny Kelly of Queens was gonna make something of his life. If his father said so then it must be true.
"You really think so, Pop?" he asked round a mouthful of food before ending up on the receiving end of one of his mother's fearful glares. His mother was a kind and gentle woman but a stickler for manners.
"You can be anything you wanna be, kid. People are gonna remember your name, my boy. I know it."
His father had never lied to him before and so he had no reason to disbelieve the man now, with his father in his corner he knew he could be whatever he wanted to be and all he really wanted was to make his old man proud of him. They shared a name and he promised himself that he would make sure that people remembered the name John Kelly, no matter what.