Hello everyone,

I recently decided to watch the entire CSI series, which inspired this short story in six chapters.

The characters belong to the authors of the series and I'll also mention the Criminal Minds series.

This fic will mention a love affair between two men, death and suicide, so if you don't like it, don't read.

This story was written in French and translate by myself, I'm sorry if there are mistakes.

Happy reading!

Chapter 1

Greg climbed into the scientist's car with a closed face. He had to go to a crime scene with Nick, but he didn't feel like it. He'd had a fight with his boyfriend just before they left for work, and neither of them had taken a step towards the other since. The atmosphere in the cabin was cut-throat, Nick kept his eyes fixed on the road, Greg let his gaze wander over the sidewalks, not a word was exchanged. They both knew they'd have to talk to each other to study the crime scene, but they saved their saliva for professional talk.

Greg shivered as he recognized the alleyways they passed. Memories of the night that had so marked his life came flooding back: the man on the ground, beaten up by a gang of masked youths, him calling for reinforcements before deciding to intervene, the lens-altered gaze of Demetrius James, the stone in his hand, his fear of dying, the impact between his bumper and the young man, his body ripped from the driver's seat through the window and beaten, the pain.

A hand on his brought him back to the present, and he released his. As upset as he was, knowing that his boyfriend was too, they'd already been together by then, he still blamed him for their argument. Nick huffed, the car was stopped in front of the yellow stripes that marked the crime scene, this wasn't the time or place to revisit what had happened at their house, but being right in front of that alley stirred them both.

"Greg, baby, I...''
''Nick, stop it, I'm sick of your sweet talk. It's the same refrain almost every month for four years. I don't want it anymore, I need action now."

Annoyed, disturbed by where they were, tears welling up in his eyes, he escaped contact with his boyfriend and got out of the car. He swallowed his tears, forgot all personal thoughts and grabbed his sample kit from the back of the SUV. The sound of slamming doors told him that his boyfriend had imitated him, but he avoided his gaze.

Both put on a professional face and went to meet the waiting policeman. The rest of the teams had not yet arrived, so it was just the three of them at the dimly-lit scene. The two scientists turned on their flashlights and began taking photos of the man on the ground. He had a few bruises, but no visible wounds, so they would have to wait for David to find out more. Greg spotted a trail of oil starting five meters from the body, moving away from it, then forwards and to the right, towards The Alley, the one he had no desire to set foot in again. He turned to Nick, but he was busy photographing bits of glass. The former laboratory technician took a deep breath and huffed; he was still annoyed at his companion and didn't feel like asking him to babysit him. He ignored his twisting stomach, placed a small numbered cardboard where the line began, took a photo and followed the path traced in oil.

He had to curb his anxiety and stress, but eventually entered the gloom of the alleyway. Without his lamp, he was in a deep blackness that distressed him even more. He looked up from the ground and his gaze fell on the barely visible silhouette of a black van. He had no time to call out to Nick, or even to make the slightest gesture, as a gas was sprayed over him and the world became a blur before coming to a frightening halt. He saw the shadows coming towards him, trying to engulf him. He stepped aside and collided with a hard surface that sounded like a gong.

Greg was stunned for a few seconds before realizing he'd bumped into a door. Convinced that he had to get through this door to survive, he searched for the handle. It took him a few moments to find it, as he couldn't see it, but he didn't have time to pass it as noises echoed behind him. He turned and saw shapes approaching him. Frightened, he drew his gun and fired before passing through the door. He closed it behind him and lost consciousness.

Nick straightened up when he heard a thud - Greg was nowhere in sight. He pulled his gun from its holster and called out to his boyfriend, only to be met by silence. The Texan looked around, noticing the numbered cardboard box dropped by his colleague, the line of oil running from it and the direction it was heading. Cautiously, he motioned for the agent to come with him, and together they made their way up the trail.

His anxiety increased as they approached the alleyway where Greg had been beaten. Nick remembered that night as one of the worst of his life, when the news of his boyfriend's condition had sawn off his legs and taken his breath away. He had felt as if his heart was being squeezed and he couldn't breathe. Studying the scene the next day had been torture for him, and his heart had only calmed once Nick had been able to go to his man's side, relieved to see him alive despite the marks on his body. Returning to that alleyway rekindled the fear of losing Greg that had remained hidden in his heart since that night.

The night engulfed them, and a shot rang out. Nick tensed, searching for the shooter, but there was a second shot and he felt an intense pain in his shoulder. A third shot tore his leg and he fell to the ground. He managed to remain conscious despite his suffering, but could only see the silhouette of a van with no number plates moving away. He was terrified of what might have happened to Greg, and of dying. He turned to the inert body of the policeman beside him and reached out with a weak arm for his radio.

He mustered the last of his strength to make a distress call to the exchange before dropping to the floor. He was cold, he was in pain, and his fear of dying was growing as he fought against the torpor that invaded him. Every second seemed to last an eternity, and he felt he was losing the battle against unconsciousness, but could do nothing to stop the blackness enveloping him.