Title: Amnesia
Author: Korbjaeger
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Pairing: Warrick/Nick
Rating: NC-17 (this part alone PG-13)
Spoilers: Some "Grave Danger", general Season 6 events

AMNESIA

It seems we stood and talked like this before,
Why can't I remember...
did we share something more?
I must have loved you
once upon a time,
Amnesia has come
and clouded my mind..."
--The Tubes

"What time is it, anyway?"

Warrick checked his watch. "Five thirty-eight. Why?"

Tina shrugged. "Just wondering. It seems so dark already."

"Well, we're past Thanksgiving now, you know, the days are getting shorter."

Even inside the bright mall with its sometimes excessive lighting and now with its Christmas decorations up and dazzling, there was a sense of darkness in Warrick's heart that lasted long after he glanced out the glass doors of the mall entrances to the twilight outside. It made no sense to him. Here he was a newlywed, looking at his first holiday season bringing someone home to those wonderful Christmas celebrations at Grandma's house, first Christmas experienced with the person he'd intended to share his life with.

But as much as he hoped he'd someday in the near future have little "someones" to buy toys for and visit Santa Claus with, he missed the joy he'd felt in getting a present for Lindsey Willows. He could probably still get away with picking up a little necklace or sweater for the girl, but not with Tina with him. Doing things for Catherine now, just felt like...

...cheating.

Hell, doing things for Nicky, Greg, Sara, Archie, even Grissom and Brass...it was taking something away from this. He wondered if every married person had the same feelings, but he somehow doubted it. Brass had been married once, so had Cath. He thought of asking them. His cousin, Andre, was just coming up on his tenth wedding anniversary, and he seemed fairly generous with family and friends during the holidays. Had he felt...wierd about it that first year?

It was just another symptom. Maybe it was that "SAD" stuff...seasonal affective disorder. The holidays getting to him. That had to be it.

No.

He felt uncomfortable around Catherine, as close a friend as she'd always been. He felt guilty about spending any time with Nick outside of work. He couldn't even laugh with Archie in the lab the way he used to. Brass kept asking him, "Kid, you okay?" The thought that he might be actually, clinically depressed...not just moody or blue, but depressed...scared him.

He was supposed to be happy.

As they got near one of the entrances, Tina turned to him.

"Sweetie, I gotta go to the 'little girls' room'. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

Warrick forced a smile and replied, "Okay, baby, I'll be right here."

They shared what seemed like a rather perfunctory kiss on the cheek before she turned to head toward the restrooms. He watched her until she disappeared behind the door.

He felt as if his insides had been burned out; hollow, aching and empty.

It's not her...it's me.

He was supposed to be happy.

He turned back toward the stores in the immediate area, and a men's clothing store about fifty feet to his left caught his eye. He glanced toward the restroom, then yielded to his impulse and decided to check out the window display of the store. She'd be at least five minutes anyway. Women can't just pee, wash their hands and split; they gotta comb the hair, put on more lipstick, adjust the bra...at least here I don't hear it about leaving the seat up...

He noticed a black crushed velvet blazer worn over a white "poet" style shirt and black leather pants on a stark black mannequin. He couldn't buy that now, he thought. Tina would think it looked too much like "some eighties hair metal guy". Actually, Warrick thought it was very sharp. He envisioned himself in the ensemble, at the lab Christmas party, sharing punch and laughter and friendly kisses under the mistletoe. And, for a brief moment, he smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile.

The mannequin next to it was wearing a more conventional black suit, but with broad lapels and a shiny shirt with a silver and black print. Just the kind of shirt Nicky would wear, he thought, his smile growing. He himself wouldn't be caught dead in it, but Nick would love it. And he'd look damn good in it, too.

Warrick glanced back toward where he and Tina had taken their leave. She wasn't back yet, and he wasn't far enough away that she wouldn't readily see him once she got out of the restroom. He debated with himself whether he should go ahead and check the store out more thoroughly, or wait until Tina returned. He gave the velvet jacket another wistful once-over, then turned back toward the restrooms to look again.

Suddenly, everything went a blinding white, and stayed blank white even when the flash and heat of the initial burst was gone. By the time he heard a deafening rumble and roar, he was airborne, through the plate glass of the display window and the plywood backboard behind the mannequins, and thrown hard against a wall. Unable to see or hear, he barely knew at what point he fell unconscious.

************************************************

Brass stood in the break room, which was now no longer a break room, but a staging area. He was flanked by Grissom and Catherine, the trio surrounded by Sara, Greg, Nick, Archie, Hodges, Mia and Dr. Robbins. Conrad Ecklie stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, face ashen.

"We don't know anything about the mall bombing just yet. It doesn't have the earmarks of the usual terrorist bunch. If it was one of them, somebody would have taken credit by now. I think this is somebody domestic, whether it's another Oklahoma City-type thing or just some nutjob who likes to blow things up. Anyway, we have an initial body count at twenty-three, no idea how many injuries. It was after-work hours, the week after Thanksgiving, they wanted to hit as many people as they could. The USAR team is in there. L.A. and Sacramento volunteered to send theirs in, but I think we're just going to have their specialists fly in. The physical damage to the place was limited to the north center wing of the mall. The feds will probably get involved, but for now, this is an LVPD case. Everyone pulls doubles. I'm sorry. Now are there any questions about what to expect?"

Archie looked scared. "We've never dealt with something this major before. Are we going to be processing all the DNA stuff?"

"In the long run? Probably not. Initially, yes. Depends a lot on what the feds say. We're going to be carrying the ball on this, they're running interference for now and until they say otherwise. If it were obviously a terrorist attack, that'd be another matter. The stuff would be going straight to Quantico."

Catherine looked around again. One absence was sticking out like a sore thumb.

"Has anyone seen Warrick? I couldn't get through on his cel phone."

"I tried it too," Nick said. "Kept going to his voice mail after six rings."

"Keep trying," Grissom advised. "We need all hands on deck. And we need to work as a team. If anyone needs on-the-spot counselling, they'll get it."

Gil Grissom's team knew that "on-the-spot counselling" could take the form of tough love, a supportive hug or a verbal kick in the ass.

"Okay, folks," Brass sighed, suddenly looking older than his years. "Let's do this."

As most of the team moved briskly from the break room to their respective work areas, Nick asked Grissom, "You sending us out there yet?"

"Not until the USAR guys are sure they got all the survivors out. When it becomes 'recovery' instead of 'rescue', I want you, Sara, Greg and Warrick out there...as soon as Warrick reports in, that is."

Nick nodded. He headed toward the locker room, pulling out his cel phone, trying Warrick again.

Six rings. The usual recording. The usual beep.

"Warrick...it's me, bro. Call me. NOW."

****************************************************************

Warrick felt a large chunk of plaster lifted from where it had lain across his shoulder and chest. It seemed quiet, very dark. He had no idea where he was.

"Sir?"

The voice sounded a thousand yards away.

A pat on his forearm. "Sir, can you hear me?"

Warrick tried to respond.

"...little."

"Okay, sir. Your ears are still probably a little out of sorts from the explosion. We're going to get you out of here. Just relax."

Explosion?

"Can you move your fingers? Feet?"

Warrick flexed his fingers, and managed to straighten his bent legs slightly. It hurt.

"No spinal precautions. Let's get him into the wagon, Fred."

He felt a couple of people, probably men, probably paramedics, lift him slightly upward, then onto a gurney. He cringed, his back aching, sharp pains jabbing at his forehead, jaw, shoulder, and the left side of his torso. He still couldn't see a thing and was wondering how these medics were functioning in the dark. He felt himself carried a few yards and felt fresh evening air hit his face and arms, and he wondered why there were no stars, why no mars lights flickered from emergency vehicles.

Then he realized the darkness was his own.

He felt a cold, panicked chill run through him like a sword.

"Oh, God," he said, his voice breathy and weak.

He felt the gurney set down, felt hands on him to ease examination, felt his wallet slide from his back pocket.

"Mister Brown?"

Warrick paid the address no mind.

Who's Mister Brown?

*******************************************************************

Grissom picked up his phone on the second ring.

"Gil Grissom."

"Doctor Grissom? Captain Bob Dunbar."

"Bob. I take it you're on the mall bombing."

"Yeah, who the hell isn't right now? Listen...I think we found one of your guys at the mall. Warrick Brown?"

Gil's heart raced, and his blood ran cold.

"Please, tell me he's alive..."

"He is. Doesn't look to be hurt too serious, in fact, maybe a concussion, shrapnel, flash blindness, we're guessing that's temporary."

Grissom sighed, a gut-deep sigh that seemed to take all his strength with it.

"Thank God."

"They're having a little trouble communicating with him, though. His ears took a pounding from the explosion, but the treating doctor at Desert Palms says that's clearing up, he's starting to hear better. But...it sounds like he's suffering at least partial amnesia, probably from the whack on the head he took. Doctor's got his mitts full over there, can you go and see if you can get some sense out of your guy?"

"I'll be right over. Thanks, Bob."

As he hung up the phone, Grissom stood and shouted, "Nick!"

Nick was only a few feet down the hall from Grissom's office, and sprinted to the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"We're going to meet up with your partner."

*******************************************************************

Warrick blinked purposefully. The flash blindness was dissipating; he could now make out shapes, dark and light, motion. His hearing had returned to near-normal, possibly a "post-concert" level of tinnitus. He had been given pain medication to ease the misery of the second-degree burns on his back, the tiny cuts from flying glass and debris, few of which had required more than light bandaging, two of which had called for stitches. The dull ache in his head from the concussion; an x-ray had ruled out skull fracture and a CAT scan was scheduled for early the next day. Various and sundry aches and pains from being sent through a glass window, a plyboard barrier and against a plaster wall, then being buried under acoustic ceiling tiles, clothing, broken plaster and glass, and two other people, neither of whom had survived the blast.

He remembered the pain, the debris being cleared off of him, the feel of heavier things being lifted off of him, being lifted onto a gurney, taken away. He didn't remember the dead bodies. He didn't remember who he was, where he was, who he'd been with.

He knew something was wrong, and when the man who was obviously a doctor addressed him as "Warrick" or "Mister Brown", he accepted it with weary resignation. There had to be a reason they knew his name, and a reason he didn't.

"Warrick?"

Warrick shifted in his hospital bed, which was adjusted to a near-sitting position. He strained to see the person addressing him through the remnant haze of the flash blindness. He saw two human shapes standing at his bedside, both a little shorter than he, dark-haired, one in a dark shirt and pants, one in a lighter shirt and darker pants.

Warrick's voice was still strained. "Sorry, I can't see too well."

He saw the figure in the darker clothes move toward him and felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Rick. It's me, Nick."

"Nick..." Warrick thought. Nick who? I should know this person.

The other man spoke now. His voice was stronger, more authoritarian, at the same time more fatherly. "I'm Gil Grissom. The man with me is Nick Stokes. You work with us."

Warrick sighed. "Okay...I'm sorry, I..." He fought to remember. Nothing before being carried to the ambulance was coming through. Nothing. "I'm really sorry."

The man in the dark clothes was squeezing his shoulder now. "Hey, I'm just glad you're okay. I was worried sick about you."

Something in that man's tone moved Warrick. He had to remember him, if not the voice, the touch, what little he could see of him, then surely he could remember what he was feeling.

"Nick?"

"Yeah!"

Nick's voice sounded so happy. It hurt Warrick to know he had to tell him that he hadn't said his name out of recognition, but of desperately trying to associate man with memory. He reached up and patted Nick's hand.

"I'm trying to remember, man, I swear I am. I know I know you, but..." Warrick shook his head. "God, I'm sorry, Nick."

The older man spoke now. "It'll come back. You just rest, now, Warrick. We'll be back tomorrow. You need some sleep."

"Okay," Warrick sighed. "See you then."

He felt the hand on his shoulder move, pat him softly on the chest, and squeeze his hand, then saw the two figures move away.

It tortured him. Nick had to be someone...not just a co-worker. He had to know him, like him, love him, understand him. He tried to remember a face to match the soft Texas drawl and the warm, reassuring touch.

If there was a Hell, Warrick thought, he was slipping into it.

********************************************************

Nick was glad it was dark. Nobody could see inside the windows of the SUV, nobody could see the tears streaming down his cheeks, the pain and worry in his dark eyes. Nobody but Grissom...and for once, Grissom understood.

It stunned Nick that even a head injury could cause one best friend to forget another. An hour before, he would have readily accepted it...but this was him and Rick. How could anything damage Warrick so badly that he'd forget him? He felt guilty about not being there for him, despite the fact the bomb had gone off at 5:45 p.m. and the reason Warrick had been so close to the blast was that he was most likely headed out the exit and off to work. He'd been due in at six. But something still ate away at him. He was shopping - not Warrick's favorite recreational activity. He should have been with him to "lighten the load." Help pick out "office gifts". Point out the pretty girls. Pull him toward the video game stores, the food court, anything. But he was no longer Warrick's companion of choice.

Speaking of which...

"Do you think Tina was with him?"

Grissom glanced toward Nick, then turned his attention back to the road as he turned left into the mall parking lot.

"I haven't heard anything. Do you have a way to get into Warrick's apartment?"

"Yeah, we traded spare keys years ago."

"Can you see later on if you can locate her, or if not, some indication that she's been there in the last couple of hours? Barring everything else...a hairbrush, something that would have her DNA on it. Obviously I hope it doesn't come to that, but..."

"Yeah." Nick sighed, leaning his elbow on the window ledge and his chin on his hand as they drove over to where the lights from the emergency vehicles danced on the jigsawed surface of the outside wall in the blast area. The building had been put together to withstand attack from outside, whether natural or manmade. Unfortunately, the effect from an attack on the inside hadn't been nearly so effective. The roof of the entrance wing sagged like the famous photos of L.A. area malls hit by the big earthquake in the mid 90's. Few civilian cars remained in the lot; the mall had, obviously, been evacuated after the blast. The only reason for a car to be there would have been that...

Nick pointed to their left.

"I see Warrick's car."

As Grissom parked the SUV near the center of vehicular activity, Nick jumped out and sprinted toward Warrick's sedan. He pulled out his mini-Mag and looked inside. He knew what "should" be there and what "shouldn't". The usual papers, Thomas Guide, empty Starbucks cup...

...and a makeup compact on the floor of the passenger side.

As he straightened and turned, Grissom was just coming up behind him. Nick's expression was as tight and cold as he felt.

"Tina was with him."

**********************************************

"This is where the blast originated. Here."

Greg looked at the area Sara was indicating. It was still dark; dawn would be approaching soon, but the area was well-lit artificially. It was easy to see why Sara had reached her conclusion so quickly; there was a clear area with only scorched flooring, little debris other than settled dust. The ceiling had been completely blown out and the framework for the tiles was bent sharply upward, even ruptured at points. Directly above the blast point, one could see up to the second story of the mall. Most of the force had, however, been directed outward, obliterating the walls of what had once been a restroom area, judging by the mangled plumbing and scorched tile flooring. Otherwise, it was unrecognizeable as such.

All of the stores immediately adjacent to the restroom had been completely gutted, and extensive damage was noted for another three stores down the wing. The glass entrance doors to the mall at the end of the wing had also been blown out, accounting for many of the injuries Desert Palms and St. Agnes were seeing. Debris had continued to fly down the broad walkway to where that wing joined the main part of the mall - the precise point where the Santa Claus area, with photographer, booth and "elves", had been located. The chunky middle-aged fellow playing Santa that evening had, ironically, been largely protected by the well-padded suit and faux beard; some of his young visitors hadn't been as fortunate, nor had many parents. The fatality count was now up to thirty-six, injuries in the hundreds.

Greg kept scanning the area near where the blast had originated. "There's got to be something left. A bomb big enough to do this kind of damage?"

"It's here, you just have to keep looking," Sara encouraged. "Don't discount anything. If you find a hinge, it might be from a wastebasket or it might be part of a bomb mechanism. Anything you see that isn't ceiling tile or floor, take a closer look."

Greg sighed. He was looking closely. It didn't seem like a fingerprint could have survived this.

It was going to be a long night, even after the sun rose.

*******************************************

Nick checked his watch. "Golden time" was about ten minutes away.

He wasn't as tired physically as he was emotionally. Not that he wasn't perfectly glad to let day shift take over the collecting of evidence, body parts and stress. By this point, most of what was left of the bodies was going to be so small that all one could think about was the evil capable of making a device that could do this to a human body. It would wear on you. It could drag you into the abyss.

Maybe Grissom could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. His usual pressure had been more gently applied as they'd worked, then after a call on his cel phone, Gris had given him a new last assignment for the day. Desert Palms was releasing Warrick, and someone had to pick him up.

Nick had managed to get through all the paperwork, read the doctor's follow-up instructions, and absorb the summary of Warrick's current condition. His hearing had returned to normal, although his vision was still cloudy. It would continue to improve, with the help of some eyedrops the doctor had provided. He also sent along vicodin and ibuprofen for the pain, and a slip instructing Warrick to return in three days for a follow-up examination. There were instructions as to the continued dressing of the two larger shrapnel wounds, one on his jaw, the other on his left shoulder. The smaller "dings" and the flash burns were already healing quickly and needed only scant attention. He would continue to feel weak and to be sore; there was simply nothing they could do for that that couldn't be done at home. Return in a week to have stitches removed. Follow-up with neurologist on Monday to monitor the amnesia.

It all seemed too soon. Nick knew they needed the bed for more severely injured victims, but...it seemed too soon to turn Warrick out into a world he didn't recognize.

Warrick was fully dressed and sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. White dressing showed beneath the slice taken out of the sweater he'd been wearing, contrasting with the dark red stain that ringed it, contrasting in turn with the delicate ivory of the Aran knit. He looked fairly relaxed, and Nick was glad they'd - most likely - given him enough meds to make this move relatively painless.

"Hey, Rick," Nick said in greeting, "they're gonna have your wheels in here in a minute. Ready to go?"

Warrick simply looked like a man who had given up. "Yeah. Wherever I'm going, anyway."

"My place for now. We all just thought you shouldn't be alone just yet."

"Who's 'we all'?"

"Doctors, boss...me."

Warrick nodded. Didn't make sense to argue; he couldn't see well enough to go off on his own anyway, and if everything around him was going to be one big foreign landscape, he was going to need someone to guide him through it...and this Nick seemed trustworthy enough. In fact, he considered why he trusted him at all. He told himself he didn't even know the guy, but something was nagging at him inside; something told him this man had to mean something to him.

"Come over here, will you?"

Nick obliged. Warrick reached toward him, putting his hands lightly on Nick's face.

"I can't see well enough. I feel like I should know you, but I can't even see you well enough to tell yet."

Nick understood. He quietly let Warrick's fingers trace the contours of his nose and jaw, his lips, his chin, his eyebrows, his forehead. He closed his eyes, swallowing, galled that this was what it took for his best friend to even recognize him. His jaw tensed. Warrick's fingers picked up the tightening.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," Nick lied.

Warrick continued to "read" Nick's face. He carefully and lightly felt Nick's eyelids and lashes, then travelled down to his cheekbones. On the way, they encountered a slight dampness. It stunned him. Whoever this is, he thought, he loves me this much...

"Hey...Nick..." Warrick gently took Nick's face between his hands, brushing at the dampness with a thumb. "I'll be okay. I'm worried about you now."

Nick managed a wry, faint smile. He's not all gone after all, he thought. Still worrying about me.

"I'm fine, Rick. It's just...been a long day."

"Got that right." Warrick smiled, trying to reassure him. "Look...just because I don't have everything straight in my mind...I can tell some things. I know you and I mean a lot to each other. Right now, that's what counts, right?"

Nick's smile spread. "That's right. The rest'll come along."

They heard the rattle of wheelchair tires approach and enter the room. Nick carefully helped Warrick to his feet, and guided him over to the chair as the young nurse who had brought the chair supervised. As Warrick sat, he reached upward. Nick took his hand and squeezed it for a moment, then gripped the handlebars of the chair.

"You're gonna be fine," he reassured Warrick.

********************************************************

Grissom had been awake now for over twenty-four hours, but he was developing a sort of "second wind" clarity now that he had returned to the lab, away from the horrendous blast scene and its desecration of the trappings of joy and good will. The lab was peaceful, it was "home".

They had retrieved the videotapes from Mall Security. Although the two cameras closest to the blast had been destroyed, the tapes and recorders themselves had been far anough away, in the security office, to survive without damage. One camera had been right outside the mall entrance, viewing shoppers entering and exiting, and the other had been just inside, pointed the opposite direction, down the wing toward the main mall.

Archie had grabbed about three hours sleep in a corner of the lab before going back to poring over the tapes, along with others from cameras slightly further from the blast, to see if they had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary. It just seemed so normal. Archie knew that was when something was going to jump out - when the normalcy had grown to a deafening drone in his head, a trumpet blast was in the offing.

And then he saw it.

"Grissom!!"

Grissom had been standing in the Trace area, quietly discussing DNA findings with Hodges, and he heard Archie's sudden shout. He sprinted to the Audio/Visual Analysis room and leaned over the young Asian's shoulder.

"Find something?"

"Something that made me have one of those 'holy shit!' moments," Archie replied. He rewound the tape he was viewing to a certain point. The time stamp read "17:42" - 5:42 p.m. "This is three minutes before the bomb went off."

The video showed the view pointed toward the mall from the entrance. A figure exited the women's restroom and turned toward the entrance, obviously walking out. He hit pause.

"Recognize her yet?"

Grissom shook his head, and pulled his glasses out of his breast pocket.

"Enhance it."

Archie did, homing in on the face of the woman in question, letting the equipment clarify the features.

Grissom's jaw dropped. "Check the outside video, see if you can tell where she was going."

"I'm on it."

Archie slid the designated tape into the player, and fast-forwarded to the 17:42 time stamp. He kept in mind the woman's height, figure, hair style, clothing. He slowed the tape down, then pointed at the monitor.

Grissom watched along as the dark-haired young woman walked briskly from the entrance of the mall to the curb of the parking lot, where a dark sedan was pulling up. She opened the rear passenger side door and got in the car, which then pulled away and out of view.

"Get the tapes from the parking lot exits. I want a description and plate on that car."

Archie still looked disturbed. "But Grissom, tell me, is that who it looked like?"

Grissom didn't want to answer. He knew it was Tina Brown. He just didn't want to believe it.

Sara flopped down on one of the folding chairs in the break room.

"Two hours. How much sleep did you get?"

Catherine rubbed her eyes. It didn't matter; yesterday's makeup had long worn off and she couldn't have been bothered to reapply it at this point.

"Zero. I lay down for an hour, but I couldn't sleep."

"Worried?"

Catherine nodded. "Yeah."

"He'll be okay, Cath. The doctors said he wasn't even injured that badly. Might take a few days, maybe a few weeks, but he'll be back."

Catherine silently sipped the coffee she held. It was fresher than usual, but then with two shifts working at once, it was brewed more frequently and lacked the usual burnt taste of late afternoon java.

"Anyway," Sara continued, "Greg found something he thinks might be part of the timing device for the bomb. I didn't think much of that part would have survived the blast, but I took a look at it and I think he's right. Archie knows more about nuts-and-bolts electronics than I do, so I'm gonna run it past him."

"Isn't he busy with those tapes?"

"Yeah, but we're all multitasking right now."

"Tell me about it." Catherine leaned on the table. "It'll be like that for a while."

"And this is just the sort of case Warrick could really sink his brain into. I really miss his help."

Catherine peered at Sara from under her red-gold bangs.

"Know what I miss?"

"What?"

"Having someone in this lab whose shoulder I could bawl myself senseless on when I think about all those kids who got hurt..." Catherine's voice caught as she tossed her empty styrofoam cup in the trash. "Watching someone whose passion about the case fueled him without burning him out. Hearing someone play devil's advocate and force me to think outside the box - not like Grissom does, but...like Warrick does."

Sara nodded. She knew Catherine also missed having a trusted friend who never hesitated to look after her daughter or pick her up from school when needed. A strong presence when she had to let her weakness show after keeping it under wraps in front of literally everyone else. And the bond. Just the bond. Two offspring of the soft white underbelly of Sin City. Each knowing the other was there - unconditionally.

At least until Warrick's sudden marriage. He might not have been hospitalized until last night, but they had all, in a sense, "lost" a great deal of him last summer when he suddenly married Tina. Everyone else had been able to at least accept his decision, if not understand it. Catherine had had a harder time.

And now, they'd all lost him.

**********************************************

Nick turned over, pulling the blanket to his chin. It wasn't his imagination. He held still.

Sounds from the bedroom. A muffled cry, then a terrified scream.

Suddenly wide awake, he threw off the blanket, bolted off the sofa and sprinted to the bedroom.

Warrick was sitting upright, knees bent and pulled up to his chest, eyes wide. He looked like a frightened child, Nick thought. He moved over to the bed and sat beside him.

"Rick, it's me. I'm here."

Warrick only stared at him.

Nick pulled him close, and noticed that he was trembling. He rubbed Warrick's arms and back, trying to ease the shaking.

"It's okay, man, nothing to be scared of. I'm here."

Calming slightly, Warrick tried to sort it out in his mind. He knew he'd had a nightmare, but whether based on memory, fact or fiction, he had no idea. He let himself sink against Nick.

"I'm sorry."

"Hey!" Nick laughed. "You don't remember how many times you came flyin' in here doing the same thing for me when it was my turn to have nightmares."

Warrick looked at Nick, his face looking ethereal in the context of the room, softened by the slight trace of blurriness not yet cleared from his vision and darkened by the heavy curtains needed by a night worker, the sunlight filtered and curved until it blended the details of the room like a fading old sepiatone photograph. He began to relax, feeling safer with Nick there.

"You had nightmares?"

"Yeah, like I say I know you don't remember, but...I was kidnapped a few months ago. Buried underground. I almost died. You helped rescue me, you...you said you wouldn't leave without me, even though it was dangerous. You could have been killed. Afterward, for weeks, I had bad nightmares. You stayed with me for a while, and when I'd wake up with a nightmare...you came in here and got me settled down again."

"We didn't live together?"

"No. No, we had our own places. You got married last summer."

Warrick shook his head. "Everyone's been telling me that. I swear, I don't remember."

"Tina. She's a nurse. Real pretty, dark hair..."

Warrick sighed. "No. I can't see her...here." He pointed to his head. "I can't imagine it."

Nick was troubled. It was going to be very, very difficult to try to reorient Warrick to reality. He knew he wouldn't be able to do it alone.

"Well...maybe tomorrow we'll get into it a little more. For now...how 'bout you try to get back to sleep? I gotta go into work at six."

"Am I going in too? You said I worked with you."

Nick grinned. "Boss gave you a few days off until you feel better. I'm gonna have another friend or two come by and check up on you while I'm out. Okay, bud?"

Warrick studied his face. He smiled gently, his mind forming its own version of a memory.

"Thanks."

Nick put an arm around Warrick's shoulders to give him a hug. Warrick reached over and lifted Nick's chin gently, then caressed his face, trying to regain via touch what thought alone wasn't giving him.

"You don't even remember who I am, do you?" Nick sighed.

"I don't remember who you are, but I remember what you are to me," Warrick whispered. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Nick's in a tender but prolonged kiss.

At first, Nick was startled, even afraid, but what had started as a chill of unease quickly evolved to a firey charge that ran from lips to heart to solar plexus, and from there outward to every nerve ending and downward until it tingled, took control, aroused. As their lips parted, Nick, abashed, bent one knee and pulled it in front to try to camouflage his most visible reaction. He started to maneuver himself off the bed, but Warrick grasped his wrist.

"Please, stay here," he begged. "I'd sleep better. Please."

How was he going to refuse? "Okay," Nick replied, "but you try get some sleep, now. We both need it."

It didn't take long for Warrick to nod off again. It took Nick much longer. It wasn't because he didn't know what he wanted. It was because he did.

********************************************************

Brass walked into Grissom's office, intending to either say goodnight or leave him a quick note on a Post-it pad, but he saw Grissom, in his chair, sitting slumped over his desk. Alarmed, he moved briskly around to the chair and felt at the lead CSI's neck.

Grissom blinked and straightened slightly. "Hmm?"

"Jeez, Gil, you scared the hell out of me!" Brass put a hand on the upper corner of the chair. "I was wondering if you ever slept."

"Not much, not lately," Grissom admitted. "Not since the bombing."

"I understand," Brass sighed. "I have half a mind to knock out in my own office for an hour or two, but...what can we do until shift?"

"'Shift' doesn't apply anymore, not on this case. Archie, Mia and Hodges have been surviving on power naps. Sara's not getting much more than that, and if it weren't for Lindsey, Catherine would be here twenty-four-seven right now."

"We have a day shift, Gil. Why not let them work? We need to be operating at full capacity - mentally, not just in terms of staff numbers."

"You go get a good sleep, Jim. I'll be fine."

"Go home, Gil."

Grissom looked up at Brass, who was regarding him with an almost parental concern. Not a typical look from a man who wasn't that much older than he.

Right now, they both felt much older than they were.

******************************************************************

Warrick stretched, yawned, blinked the sleep away. He looked over at the digital clock on Nick's dresser.

3:35.

He was intrigued by this whole idea of sleeping well into the afternoon and working all night, often until after the sun rose. The things Nick had told him about their work...he wished he could remember it. It sounded fascinating. A chemistry degree? Warrick couldn't remember earning it, or anything about college.

But this was okay, this comfortable apartment, and this sweet, attentive man, and this sleeping until the "day" was almost done. It was a comfortable life.

He stood carefully, still a bit sore from his wounds but encouraged that today was a little less painful than yesterday. He stretched again and yawned, and headed toward the hallway.

He could hear the shower, and headed toward the bathroom with the intention of saying hello to Nick. As he got to the doorway, where the door was slightly ajar, he heard something else.

Crying?

Warrick was stunned. He hadn't the long-term memory at his disposal to discern why Nick was so upset, and had to make do with the limited memory he had to work with. Two days of living with him, being cared for by him, being told fantastic stories about a past and an education and a career and a marriage that were fairy tales to him. Those things just weren't...real. Why would Nick be so upset, just because he couldn't "remember" them? There was more to it than that. He was too caring, too sensitive a man for it to be simple frustration or disappointment. There was something more, much more, much deeper. He had to remember. For Nick's sake, he had to.

He stepped into the bathroom, into the warm humidity, and moved toward the bath, concerned.

"Nicky, you okay?"

No reply. Now truly worried, Warrick pulled the shower curtain very slightly aside and had a look. Nick was standing, leaning against the back wall of the shower, arms folded, head bowed, crying softly. It struck Warrick as so strange to see Nick's athletic body, so beautiful and strong in appearance, seeming to slump under the power of his sadness. Nick had been the strong one, his guide and comforter and...

It was the love. I'm not responding. I'm shutting him out. We were more than two broken souls before. He needs me as much as I need him. It's me.

Warrick wriggled out of the underwear he'd been sleeping in and sidestepped over the edge of the bathtub into the shower.

Nick was startled out of his crying jag and stared at Warrick.

"Um...what..."

"Oh, Nicky, I'm sorry..." Warrick, now getting as soaked as Nick, stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him, aching for the sorrow he saw in Nick's eyes, the sorrow he blamed himself for. "I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry. I swear, it's coming back, it is. I could never forget you. Never."

Nick didn't know whether to be touched or simply continue to be confused.

"What are you remembering, Rick?"

Warrick brushed Nick's wet hair back from his face with his long fingers, his expression one of ardent longing. He ran his hands softly over Nick's wet skin, taking in the feel of every muscular ripple, the hair on his forearms, the curve of his back, the granite firmness of his chest. He seemed to file away every variation, every texture, every temperature change into part of a mental hard drive that had before then been emptied. He looked into Nick's dark eyes, trying to read the emotions his clearing eyesight now permitted him to see, and mentally appreciated each one, like someone gazing at Christmas ornaments before putting them away after the holidays, treasuring the beauty and fragility and memories connected to each. Memories. All he could remember beyond two days was love. He kissed Nick gently, then pulled him closer, kissing him again, harder, his tongue pressing between Nick's lips, caressing him from within for a long moment. He whispered, "How could I forget loving you when you love me like you do?"

Nick was still trying to find his own equilibrium while trying to find Warrick's. "Are you sure you're..."

"Oh, my God, yes..." Warrick held him close, his warm, wet body comforting to Nick in a way he still wasn't sure he ought to accept.

"Warrick, I don't know if you're thinking the..."

"Baby, my mind might stumble, and the words I might fumble, but the body don't lie."

And suddenly Nick was aware that his body had betrayed him again, and no sooner was he aware of it than he felt Warrick's long fingers tracing the underside of that betrayal, sending a shiver up his spine that made him want to throw caution to the wind and jump headlong into whatever Warrick's "reality" was. A prod against his hip told him that the feeling was very, very mutual. Part of him was ready for this. The rest of him was utterly terrified. He closed his eyes, heart racing, and swallowed.

"I don't want you to hate me later..."

"Nicky, Nicky, whatever you did in the past, it's forgiven. Clean slate. It's a new beginning for us. Come on, now." Warrick nudged him gently against the shower wall, crouching down the scant inches to equalize their heights. He pressed up against him, wrapping his fingers around both erections, caressing them, coaxing them.

Nick swallowed again. Any inclination he might have had to resist was utterly gone. He luxuriated, not only in the friction from Warrick's hand, but from the feeling of their most intimate parts being clasped together...even thinking about that was a stimulant unlike any he had ever experienced. He had cursed himself before for even considering what they were doing right now, thinking about it many times, before the bombing, and now that it was happening, he gradually felt less guilt, then no guilt, no doubt. As Warrick's strokes grew tighter and more intent, Nick's breathing deepened. He clung to Warrick, arms around his shoulders, kissing his neck, rubbing his face against the wet locks.

"Oh, God, Warrick..." Nick whispered. "Harder, please..."

"Anything you like, Nicky." Warrick intensified his strokings yet more, until Nick could hold back no longer. He gasped, a blinding flash seeming to fill not only his eyes but his entire body as he released both physically and emotionally, making inarticulate sounds of passion as he thrust his hips toward Warrick's, abandoning himself to the moment and the sensations and the desire, emptying himself until he felt a corresponding throb against the underside of his cock, a second warm, wet burst cascading down his belly, the pressure of Warrick's panting against his chest, breathing heat into his ear, a growl of pleasure...and then, unexpectedly, a deep kiss, Warrick's entire body wrapped around him, squeezing, their tongues dancing together, their breath returning slowly to a normal pace, breathing as one.

Nick looked into Warrick's eyes, cautiously looking for any sign of...anything more that it seemed to be.

Only love, and only passionately and completely and monumentally so.

Warrick smiled broadly but with tenderness, his voice soft and sweet and intimate. "Wow. Oh, Nicky. If that's some of what I'm coming back to, I can't wait for the rest! How could I ever forget this..."

Nick closed his eyes and leaned on Warrick, arms still slung around the taller man's neck..

They'd just crossed the Rubicon.

Greg set the newest tray of samples on the designated corner of the table and looked around.

Sometimes he wished he'd stayed here. He had his reasons for going into the field, but this...this made him long for a return.

Hodges was so engrossed in readying samples given to the LVPD by families with missing members for comparison to those coming in from the blast scene that he hadn't had time to make a snotty comment all day. He looked exhausted. So did Mia, who was already a workaholic, but looked like she was going into some kind of overdrive mode. Silent focus was her norm, but the dullness in her eyes spoke of a need for sleep. Everyone was covering on the DNA, whether processing, labelling, or sorting results. Even Archie, who was poring over the video from the mall, took occasional "breaks" to sort the DNA matches and reports and have them in the proper folder, waiting for pickup. Even the mailroom guys were working double shifts.

Archie was leaning, propped up on one elbow, forehead in hand, at a microscope. He looked tired, but beyond tired...haunted. Concerned, Greg went over to him.

"Hey, Arch, you look like you need to grab some more shut-eye."

"Nah," Archie replied dully, "Can't afford to take the time."

"We can't afford to have people collapsing either."

Archie looked up at Greg, his dark eyes full of an overload of stress and sorrow, and of tears he refused to let fall.

"I have to keep going."

Greg squeezed his shoulders. "Don't be afraid to say it's getting to you. I understand. It's getting to all of us."

"You're still working."

"I just had six hours sleep. Archie...come on. At least come have some coffee. I made an extra pot of my good kind."

Archie was too exhausted to argue. He followed Greg into the break room and sat at the table as Greg poured the gourmet java.

"How you take yours?"

"Better take it black," Archie sighed.

"That's cool. This coffee is good enough you don't need to overload it with other stuff." Greg set Archie's cup in front of him, then sat beside him, taking a sip from his own. "Unless, of course, you wanted to dump a couple heavy splashes of rum in it. Papa Olaf used to say that'd cure anything."

"Right now," Archie said, "I think I'd rather have a cup of rum with a splash of coffee."

"That bad, huh."

Archie looked at him, the tears fighting against his resolve. "It's the kids, Greg. It's...the kids...shit!!" He looked down, his breath coming heavy. "I've got two little nephews, three and five years old. I play with them all the time. I taught the five-year-old, Ray, how to play Tetris. He's a wiz at it now. I see these kids come in from the mall...Greg, some of them that age and younger. Somebody did this to tiny little kids..." His voice broke. "I know I'm supposed to be able to stay dispassionate about the cases that come in, but..."

"But you're human," Greg replied softly, setting his cup down and grasping Archie's forearm. "You know, nobody's gonna think less of you if you cry."

"That's not the way I was brought up, Greg," Archie sighed, sounding more like a wounded child himself. "I don't break down in the face of this kind of thing."

"And did whoever told you that face this kind of thing?"

Archie thought. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Hey - I've lost it. Quietly, but I've lost it. I lost it on the way back here with Sara last night. None of us judge each other for that, especially right now. If you have to, you have to. Then you go wash your face, rest for a few minutes and jump back into the work."

"I don't know how to lose it." Archie's voice sounded sad, resigned.

Greg felt sorry for him, not only for the overload of emotion he was suffering, but for the breakdown he knew was coming. He patted Archie on the back and stood.

"I'm gonna go help out in Trace for a bit. You need to talk, you know where I am."

Archie forced a wan smile. "Thanks, man."

*******************************************************************

Warrick jumped up at the sound of the doorbell and peeked through the peephole. He saw an elderly woman, black, of modest height and matronly build, with two grocery bags in her arms. He opened the door.

"You must be my grandmother. Nick said you were coming. Here, let me help you..." Warrick took the bags from the woman. "Whoa, these are heavy! You strong little thing, to be carrying these! Come on in, sit down."

As Warrick carried the bags to the kitchen and set them on the counter, Althea Brown looked at her grandson, trying to make sense of what had happened. He obviously didn't recognize her, but accepted that she was his grandmother...because Nick had told him so? It was insane.

"Baby, you don't recognize me at all, do you?"

Warrick returned to the living room and escorted his grandmother to the largest chair, the most comfortable. "Here, sit down. Grandma, I'm sorry, I don't, I don't recognize much of anything or anybody yet. Nick's coming back to me, I'm starting to understand where we were. Everything else..." He shrugged sadly. "It'll come. It is with Nick. It will with everyone else."

As her grandson sat on the sofa, Mrs Brown studied his face. The intensity in his gaze had been replaced by a look of curiosity, like a child studying a moth or a planetary map. In some ways it was Warrick, but with the history erased...and so much of his history was what had defined him.

Warrick sensed her unease and wanted to break the silence. "What did you bring? Smells pretty good."

"Just some homemade food. Nick's a nice boy, but I know he don't ever cook for himself. I brought you some macaroni and cheese, some soup, some greens, some chicken, got some potato salad...oh, and see if this don't make you remember a little something..." She stood and went toward the kitchen.

Warrick stood and followed her. "Aw, come on," he said, smiling, "what?"

She pulled a plastic pie tote from one bag and set it on the counter, removing the lid. The pie inside looked appetizing, a deep terra cotta-like orange, and smelled...wonderful. Wonderfully familiar. Spicy, earthy...

"Sweet potato pie. You wouldn't let me make it just Christmas, you'd beg me for it all year. First time you ever got straight A's on your report card, I made you one."

"Mmmmm..." Warrick grinned. "How about we have a little of that right now?"

"And spoil your dinner?"

"I promise to eat my dinner, Grandma!"

Mrs Brown had to smile. His expression reminded her so much of the little Warrick she remembered, age eight and already a bookish overachiever. She had a feeling part of her grandson that had been missing was coming back. Glancing through the cupboards and drawers, she finally found two small plates, a knife and two forks. She cut a mere sliver of pie for herself, giving Warrick a far more generous portion.

"You think Nick will mind if we eat this in the living room?"

"Nah," Warrick replied, "We eat there all the time anyway."

They returned to the living room with their dessert, and sat where they had before. Warrick took a good-sized bite of his serving.

His expression changed. He analyzed the taste, went over it thoroughly, the creamy texture, the distinctive spices, the...memory. Christmas. His mother, coming home from work to dive straight into holiday preparations. Modest but well-appreciated presents under a tree decorated with handmade ornaments. A crayon drawing of the Nativity taped to the wall, showing a Holy Family with skin dark like his and a Star of Bethlehem that took up the whole sky. Laughter. A family, a good-sized one, cousins around his age, chasing, laughing, playing. Music. His uncles' resonant voices, filling the house with song. He began to rock slowly. He began to sing, his voice magnificent even when soft and tentative.

"Mary had a baby, oh Lord, what did she call him, oh, my Lord, she called him Jesus, oh Lord..."

Mrs Brown smiled from ear to ear.

"You're remembering, Warrick..."

He looked up at her, as if he had just discovered a new planet. Images were racing in his mind.

"I was fourteen. You and Aunt Bertha got me new sneakers, new...Adidas? They were black with white stripes. First time I ever had top quality sneakers. I remember I thought maybe the kids at school would stop teasing me. I said I wanted to get a job so I could afford contact lenses. You told me my glasses looked good...'cause they framed my eyes..."

His voice trailed off. The memories overloaded him, even though they were limited to the confines of his grandmother's house. Only that much, and it was almost too much.

Mrs Brown smiled and leaned over far enough to pet his arm. "You're still my work in progress, Warrick, aren't you?"

He looked at her, his expression nearly breaking her heart.

"Have you got a photo of my Mama?"

******************************************************************

Catherine sat next to Nick on the locker room bench, looking exasperated. "Are you ready for another trip out there?"

Nick gave her a polite smile. "It'll be a short one today. Pretty much just filling in the blanks from Sara and Greg's report."

"How's Warrick doing?"

"Well, other than not being able to remember anything before the bombing, not too bad. He's moving around better. Been kinda nice having him around."

"Heard anything on Tina?"

Catherine's change in tone told Nick she'd only broached that subject out of a sense of propriety.

"Nothing yet," Nick sighed. "I stopped at his apartment on the way in. Found her hairbrush and gave it to Hodges as an exemplar. Hopefully they won't find anything, I mean...she's probably just in St Agnes or something, or freaked out and went to a relative's house."

"Mmm." Catherine looked down. She wasn't liking this uncertainty any better than any of the others in this case, most of all for what she knew it would do to Warrick...once he remembered who Tina was.

"I know you two were really close...hey, it'll get back to normal, don't worry."

"No, it won't. His little sprint down the aisle took care of that."

"Oh, Cath," Nick said in a scolding tone offset by his usual smile, "Come on now! He's still Warrick, and you're still you, and everything will be back the way it was."

"Not everything."

Nick didn't want to consider the implications. "Don't be so sure."

"Anyway..." Catherine sighed. "I'm glad he's doing better. How are you two...getting on?"

Nick felt himself blush and took a breath to try to alleviate it. "Fine. It's just...I...he still, he has this...sort of makeshift reality in his head. I try to pull him into the real world, but sometimes I have to sort of follow him into his reality to reach him first."

"That's good...but Nicky..." She took Nick's hand. "Don't follow him too far down the rabbit hole. You have to maintain a grip on reality if you're going to get him there too."

He nodded, staring at the floor. You're insane, he thought. Nicholas Stokes, you're insane. He's your best friend, not your bed partner. What do you think you're doing?

He remembered high school, his prowess on the football field and popularity with the girls who appreciated his shy, naive gentility. He recalled the talk back then, because of his sensitivity and his gentlemanly behavior, the homophobic barbs sent his direction by teammates. Back then, he gave as good as he got, sending zingers back that were sharp enough to cause the locker room to ring with howls of laughter and put an end to that line of questioning...for the time being. College? Frat life gave him enough of a shield to hide behind, especially from himself. It was all about the girls then. Moving to Las Vegas he'd be surrounded by women, beautiful, easy, dangerous.

And then he'd met Warrick Brown, and he'd had to strain to catch the rules as they went flying out the window. Thoughts had crossed his mind, thoughts he had forced roughly back for years now. Thoughts that were more dangerous than ever had sprung to life. He'd crossed the line. He wanted to cross it again and again. It was...

"Ready?"

Nick looked up at Catherine. "Ready," he replied, looking anything but ready.

**************************************************************

Grissom leaned over Archie's shoulder and watched the video again. The young lab tech had slowed it down to a point where it was a series of stills, not a flowing visual image. He stopped it at a certain point.

"Grissom, look at the other side of the car. The guy standing up outside..."

"I see him." It had taken a few perusals with weary eyes and overstressed minds, but the man was quite apparent to them now. It appeared that he had stepped out of the far passenger door, standing and watching as Tina had climbed in on the other side. He then got back inside before the car raced from the curb.

"You think he was threatening her? Forcing her?"

"Hard to say," Grissom said. "I can't tell from that distance and that angle, he didn't appear to be doing anything aggressive toward her. Without context..."

"I wish we had sound," Archie complained. "What I'd give to know what they were saying..."

An idea clicked in Grissom's head.

"Can you enhance and speed up slightly?"

Archie gave him an askance look.

"Both?"

"Trust me on this."

With a shrug, Archie isolated an area of the video that contained both Tina and the man in question. The image quality suffered, as the tapes used by the mall weren't top of the line quality and were recorded on extended-play, with more information crowded onto less tape. Archie had always wondered why, in the post-9/11 world, security personnel weren't insisting on better tapes, better recording techniques, more forethought. But Grissom wanted a blow-up with speed-up, and that's what, pain in the ass though it was, he was going to get.

As Archie played back the "enhanced" view of Tina entering the car, Grissom watched the man's face, tried to get a clue from the mouth. Nothing.

"Again."

Archie sighed and complied. Grissom squinted. Still indecipherable.

"Again."

With an "oh, well" look, Archie re-ran it. This time, Grissom watched Tina's face. The corners of his mouth twitched up.

Archie turned, the light finally going on.

"You're reading lips."

"Trying to," Grissom admitted. "I can't tell from this tape what the guy said, although he obviously said something."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'Shut up'."

**********************************************************

Warrick opened the door and smiled.

"Let me guess...Catherine."

Catherine gave him a cautious smile. Her vocal tone reflected that cautious optimism.

"Yyyyyeahhh...how'd you guess?"

"Come on in. He described you perfectly."

Catherine stepped in, still nervous. "How did he describe me?"

"Tall, beautiful, reddish-blonde hair, incredible figure, and blue eyes that could stop King Kong in his tracks."

Catherine couldn't help a self-conscious laugh at Nick's florid description. At least there was a chance of keeping the conversation light.

"Gee, I'll have to thank him for the wonderful P.R. statement! Hey...I just wanted to come by and see how you were doing."

"Yeah. I know we were friends."

Were. Catherine's expression fell. "I still consider you a friend...even if..."

"Oh...no, Catherine!" Warrick laughed. "You can't take it personally. I can't remember a thing about the people I worked with...just Nicky. I'm sorry, I'm trying."

"How much do you remember?"

Warrick leaned against the wall. "My grandma came by for a visit, and...I remember her house. I remember some Christmases, some of my cousins and stuff..." He had a faraway look. "My mom. She had a picture of her taken not long after I was born. She was a beautiful lady. And I finally remembered actually seeing her."

Catherine smiled, relieved somewhat. "You're getting better then."

"I guess I must be." Warrick smiled shyly at her. "I'm trying, anyway. I want to remember you, too, everything about you. Everything we ever said to each other, everything we did. I can tell...you're a really energetic, strong person. And Nick's said such wonderful things about you as a person, I mean...I want to remember everything."

There are some things about us I'd just as soon you forget forever, Catherine thought.

Warrick reached forward and took one of her slender hands, holding it gently but with a sense that he was studying it, by look, by feel. "So, tell me something about us."

"You're really wonderful with my daughter. You've looked after her and even picked her up from school for me at times. And..."

"And?"

"And you have a great singing voice. You play piano very well, too. You'd sing in the car when we were together sometimes, sing along to whatever CD I had playing. You liked a lot of stuff, you'd sing R&B, classic rock, the new stuff, the old stuff, beautifully..."

"And?"

Catherine looked into his eyes, the green eyes she had always adored.

"And you've always been supportive toward me. When things got crazy...you were there, you encouraged me, kept me from going off the deep end...you've been an amazing friend to me, Warrick."

He smiled sweetly. "I'm glad I did all that...and I know I'll do it again. Be patient. All the good things I've ever done for you, I'll be doing them again."

Moved, trying not to tear up, she stepped forward and embraced him.

"I know."

Catherine didn't wear perfume on the job, but there was a distinctive scent about her, from her hair, from her clothes, from her skin. As Warrick hugged her back, he thought he remembered a long conversation, sitting in a locker room. She had seemed sad. Overburdened. He squeezed her, hoping he could take away whatever remained of that burden. She was a wonderful woman.

Nick had told him so.

**********************************************************

Sara's eyes widened.

"She what?!"

Grissom, sitting at his desk, held his hands palms outward toward Sara.

"We can't make any assumptions right now, Sara. She could be in on it, or in on it but not willingly. She could be a victim as well as a perpetrator."

"Well, she's not who any of us thought she was, that's for damned sure," Sara snapped, leaning forward in the chair across from Grissom. "You told anyone else yet?"

"Obviously Archie knows. I'm going to tell Catherine and Greg, and...I guess I'll have to tell Nick. That's it. It stays within this group."

"You're not gonna tell Warrick."

"Warrick can't even remember who Tina is right now. He doesn't remember getting married. Dumping this on him would just...muddy waters that are already zero visibility."

Sara nodded. He had a point.

"So, what are you going to do about Warrick?"

"As soon as he shows signs of remembering who he is, we need to start adjusting him back into interacting with us. He needs to trust us again. Right now, we're all lucky he's on such tight terms with Nick."

"Well, they are best friends. It'd be pretty strange if he didn't remember anything about him."

"Amnesia's a strange thing," Grissom sighed. "Total amnesia is more predictable. Partial amnesia...the patient can remember some isolated sensory stimuli, but as far as associating them with actual historical triggers...when he can do that, he's on his way out of the woods."

Sara leaned back. "Will he be completely normal again?"

"After recovering from the amnesia, or after he finds out about that videotape?"

Sara could only stare at her hands and think.

***************************************************************

Nick, wearing only his jeans, lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he re-read the report Grissom had given him. It all seemed fairly textbook as far as the physics of the blast, the expected casualties and their conditions, the disposition of the building. The whole wing would have to be replaced. The death toll wasn't expected to rise any further, and held at thirty-nine. The two-hundred-fifteen injured were all expected to recover to some degree; in fact most had already been treated and released. And - according to Hodges, not to the report - none of the DNA extractions so far had matched Tina's hairbrush.

He felt a warm hand softly massaging his lower back, and smiled. It felt wonderful.

"Hey, you."

Warrick slid over on the mattress so that he was right up against Nick's back.

"Hey, yourself. I thought you said you had the rest of the night off."

"I do, I'm just...putting this all together in my head. Lot of unanswered questions."

"You'll catch the bad guys." Warrick slid an arm around Nick's waist and nuzzled his shoulder. "Now how about you really take the rest of the night off?"

Nick have him an impish grin. "Warrick Brown, you are a horndog."

"You got a problem with that?"

With a resigned chuckle, Nick lay the report on the nightstand and rolled onto his back. "I suppose not..."

For once, he allowed himself to appreciate Warrick visually. Not just the soulful green eyes that had captured his heart from Day One. No, he studied the perfect cafe-au-lait skin, the chiselled physique from the sharp clefts of his collarbone to where the muscular ridges above his hips trailed down into the waistband of the sweatpants Nick had picked up - among other items - at his apartment. He reached up and traced the folds and ridges of the well-defined muscles, appreciating their symmetry and strength, and the smoothness of his skin.

Warrick was amused by Nick's studious appreciation. He reached over, rubbing Nick's abdomen softly, dipping his fingertips mischievously under his waistband.

Nick grinned at him. "Want something?"

"Mmm..." Warrick rolled over nearly on top of him and reached down, massaging the now-visible engorgement beneath the denim. "Want something real bad."

"Oh, ho!" Nick chuckled and grabbed his own waistband, undoing the button. "Since you put it that way..."

Just then, the trill of his cel phone jarred his attention. Startled, he reached over to the nightstand and checked the Caller ID.

G Grissom

"Sorry, babe, I gotta take this," Nick sighed.

Warrick rolled onto his back, scowling. "I hate that damned thing..."

Nick gave him a reassuring wink and answered the phone.

"Yeah, Gris."

"Nick, what are you doing right now?"

Oh, if you only knew... "I'm...getting ready to grab a bite to eat. Why, need me?"

Warrick playfully pretended to grab a "bite" of his own from the fly of Nick's jeans. Stifling a laugh, Nick gently pushed his head back and mouthed, "Stop that, come on!"

"Nicky, I need to know how Warrick's doing."

"He's in very good spirits," Nick said, barely containing a laugh. "His grandmom came by today...he says he's remembering some things about his family and holidays and stuff."

"Good, that's great! Nick, I needed to know where he's at because...we need you to bring him in."

Nick felt the blood drain from his face - and from parts further south - and he stammered, "Wh-what? Y-you want me to..."

"Is he okay physically?"

"He's fine..."

"Bring him in. We've got a lot of work to do."

"Okay...ah...see you in about twenty, Gris."

As he hung up the phone, Warrick gave him a puzzled look.

Nick returned the look. "Better get dressed, Rick, looks like we're both going in."

Warrick hiked his eyebrows. "I'm...going to work?"

Nick grasped Warrick's upper arms. "They don't know, okay? About...us. They don't know."

Warrick thought it over and nodded. "It's okay. I can play it cool."

"Good."

"But soon as we get home..."

"I know, I know!" Nick grinned and leaned over, kissing him on the neck. Warrick wrapped his arms and legs around him, wrestling him onto his back, hands intently kneading the denim-covered buttocks.

"Promise?"

"Promise! Now come on, Rick. We can't go in there sproutin' a pair of flagpoles. Simmer down, and hold that thought. I'll make it up to you later. I swear."

Warrick sighed, accepting that he was going to have to curb his carnal instincts for a few hours.

"I can play it cool. I can."

Nick sighed. He was more sure that Warrick could play it cool than that he could himself.

Greg pulled up the license plate number Archie had given him, and clicked to the registered owner information.

Tara L. McGuinn
4 Stennett Court
Stateline, NV 89449

He clicked the Print button, then pulled up the registry of licensed Nevada drivers. He scrolled through the Mc's until he found the one he was looking for. Tara Lee McGuinn of Stateline. Same address. Sounded like hardcore Lake Tahoe, probably with a view of the lake. It was the photo that threw him for a loop. He grabbed his cel phone and called a page in to Grissom, with the "911" at the end that designated a rush or emergency page.

Grissom was there within seconds. "What have you got?

Greg pointed at the screen. Grissom put on his glasses and took a close look.

The woman looked like Tina. Looked a lot like Tina...but not identical. There were differences. The eyes were slightly closer set, the nose just a bit longer, the jaw more squared.

"It's not her."

"But do you see a resemblance?"

"What are you thinking - relative?"

Greg nodded. "Sister?"

"Does Tina have siblings?"

"That's just it...how much do any of us know about her?"

Grissom sighed. "Try to dig up what you can about Mrs. McGuinn. And keep it sub-rosa for now. Warrick's coming in here, I don't want him hit with too much, too soon."

"Got it."

Grissom patted Greg on the back and turned to leave.

"Power naps" had gotten him through the last twelve hours, but he didn't know how much more to demand of himself. He was going to have to turn things over to someone else, even if briefly, before he made a mistake. But who...Nick? Too busy with Warrick. Sara? Not the temperament he was looking for right now. If Warrick had been on solid ground, he'd have been a logical choice. Catherine? She was well-rested, seemed to be keeping a level head through the whole situation...

He walked into the break room where Warrick, Nick and Sara were all standing near the refrigerator, laughing softly and talking. Catching up, Grissom thought. He smiled as he approached them.

"Warrick! Good to see you back, how are you feeling?"

Warrick turned and gave him an uncharacteristically relaxed smile. "Doctor Grissom! Great, I'm doing great." He extended his hand.

Grissom took it and squeezed it firmly. "Warrick, you can call me Grissom, you can call me Gil if you want. The 'Doctor' part is a little formal for us."

"Sorry..." Warrick looked a bit sheepish as they finished the awkward handshake.

"No problem. I'm just trying to get a bead on how much you actually remember. Anything about what you did here?"

"Not a lot." Warrick looked around. "I'm trying."

Sara had a brainstorm of her own. "Here...let me fix you a cup of Greg's high-falootin' gourmet coffee. I'm sure he won't mind you having some." She went over, filling a styrofoam cup with the brew, adding the approximate amount of milk and sugar she remembered him taking - not much, but enough to take the "bite" out of most of the coffee they brewed there. She handed Warrick the cup. "Should help you wake up a little more, I know it's hard after you take time off."

"Thanks, Sara." Warrick took a cautious sip of the coffee. The temperature was not excessively hot; it was drinkable for the more seasoned caffeine-heads at the lab, of which Warrick had always considered himself one. The flavor was distinctive - quality stuff, with "undertone" flavors that had an almost wine-like complexity.

He'd had this before.

The lighting looked familiar. The ceiling tiles. The floor. The table.

Nick noticed the intense concentration on Warrick's face. "What is it?"

"I've been here so many times..."

Many times. Time off from mental stress. Coffee. Sometimes popcorn, or cookies when the receptionist...oh, what was her name...brought them in for their shift. A lot of laughter...discussions...talking about...things he couldn't remember, other than the talking.

Just then, a voice rang out from the doorway. "Grissom! I have that...info you were asking for."

Warrick looked toward the doorway and smiled, this time a smile of genuine recognition.

"Hey, Greg..."

****************************************************************

Greg slid the file folder across Grissom's desk and spoke softly.

"It's all there, as much as I could dig up. Tara McGuinn, born Tara Neal. Married Gavin McGuinn, owner of McGuinn Agricultural Resources. They deal in farming equipment, irrigation systems, and...wait for it..." Greg leaned across the desk. "...fertilizer."

Grissom looked up from the printed pages to Greg, who had that look of enthused determination that he'd missed for so long. "Ammonium nitrate. Mia found traces on one of the bathroom floor sections Sara brought in. Go on."

"Think about it. This bomb was ammonium nitrate-based. It was a smaller version of the Oklahoma City bomb. That was a truckload. This was probably a bomb about the size of a kid's backpack, and how many of those go through a mall every day?"

"Keep going..."

"According to Gavin McGuinn, his wife has been on vacation in Europe for the past month. To his knowledge, she's coming back in two weeks and is right now sunning herself on Ibiza. Her car was supposed to have been left in the long-term lot at Reno Airport. Obviously, it made a little side trip. The police department up there did manage to get a DNA exemplar from him, Tara's toothbrush. They rushed me the results, and I compared it to Tina's hairbrush."

Grissom rifled through the loose pages until he found the report in question.

"This many alleles in common...same paternal allele at over half the genetic loci?"

"Immediate family. Slam dunk"

Grissom's expression grew grim. He had always believed in going with the evidence, whether or not you enjoyed the trip.

Greg continued. "Glad you're sitting down. Before Tara Neal married Gavin McGuinn, she was involved with a man named Derek Carpenter. He's got more aliases than I care to list right now; they're in there, though. Carpenter is the real name. Under various and sundry of these aliases, he's had run-ins with the law in the past. Breaking and entering an industrial warehouse in Reno. Trying to hack government computer systems in Sacramento and Carson City. Conspiracy charge in Portland that got dumped because the D.A. dropped the ball." Greg's voice grew softer. "Illegal explosives, Fresno, California. That one stuck, but he managed to escape on the way to prison. Changed his name, changed his story..."

Grissom looked at the mug shot of Carpenter, grainy though it was from the faxing and printing process. It was the man standing outside the car Tina had gotten into.

"Changed his partnerships," he finished.

*****************************************************************************

Nick unconsciously held his breath as he opened the front door to Warrick's apartment.

"Welcome home, Rick," he said, trying to disguise his misgivings.

Warrick gave him a confused look. Home? This isn't my home.

They walked in to the living room, and Nick flipped on the switch that lit the entryway, partially illuminating the living room.

Warrick looked around, taking in all the pieces of what was supposed to have been his life. TV. Sofa, couple of old chairs. Musical equipment - electronic keyboard, drum machine, couple of guitars, a digital recording "studio". Lots of CD's, well-organized. Lots of books, not as well-organized. Photos. Yes, there was Grandma. Mama. Aunt Bertha. Cousin Andre, Cousin Lorraine, Uncle James. Nick, in a couple of photos obviously taken at leisure. Catherine...why hadn't he remembered that day? A pretty, dark-haired woman, in a couple of portraits, one with him. A couple of kids, boys in their teens, one with a note attached to it thanking him for...what? "They've moved up my parole hearing, and I hope to get a chance to maybe have dinner with you to say thanks..."

For what?

Warrick moved over to the musical equipment, Nick right behind him.

"Think you remember how to play?"

Warrick smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Nah. Not right now."

Nick sat down on the chair closest to the gear. "You were really good, you know. I mean like professional-good. And you sang, man..." Nick shook his head, grinning. "Used to love hearing you sing."

Warrick picked up one of the guitars, an acoustic, and propped it on his thigh as he leaned against the wall and planted a foot against it. He tried fingering the frets. The steel strings were hard and cold after days of non-use, taking their time warming and becoming pliable to his touch. The instrument was still relatively in tune. He took in the smells, the spray he occasionally used to ease his hand's glide up and down the neck of the instrument. The nondescript "new item smell" of the studio unit. The vinyl of the stool nearby. Faint traces of incense, long since burned away, aromas of sturdy sandalwood and exotic nag champa. Almost unconsciously, he began strumming chords. Just isolated chords at first, then a slow, rather melancholic progression. Nick thought he recognized it.

"What is that? I've heard you play it before."

"I don't even remember." Warrick sighed, trying to form lyrics in his mind that fit the song. "You don't either?"

"I'm trying to remember, I swear. I don't know if it's a country song...or old rock, I'm trying to remember."

Warrick smiled and set the guitar down. "Now you know how I feel."

As they headed toward the bedroom, Nick kept trying to remember the lyrics to that mystery song. Something about..."trading heroes for ghosts"? Only that one line came to mind.

Warrick flipped on the overhead light in the bedroom. The bed had been made up, everything was very neat in here. He wasn't sure he really approved of that. A little relaxed mess, organized chaos, was reassuring...like Nick's room. This was just too...neat. Structured. Tight. Confining. He leaned over, pressed on the bed mattress with his hands. It felt stiff.

"Familiar?" Nick tried.

Warrick shook his head, then gave him a sly smile. "Think we'd get in trouble if, we, ah...got up on this and tried to bring back a few..."

"Yeah, I think we'd get in a lot of trouble." Nick couldn't help a smile at the untimely proposition. "Keep your mind on the job, Rick. Fun time's later."

Warrick sat on the edge of the bed, looking around. The whole environment just sort of...blended. It resisted his attempts to sort it, categorize it, study it. He felt uncomfortable. He ran his hands on the bedspread. Chenille. He wondered why it wasn't plain cotton, like Nick's, that was so much more comfortable, wouldn't leave "bumps" on your skin when you got up. He tried to detect smells. No incense in here. Maybe a slight...

He reached toward the headboard, pulled a pillow out from under the spread. He brought it to his face, smelled it. Smelled it again, more deeply. Amber. Some kind of...fruit mixed in. Thick. Powerful. Something hit him hard. He trembled for a moment, then looked around the room as if he'd just been dropped there by some alien spacecraft. His eyes showed his confusion.

Nick sat next to him. "What is it?"

Warrick wore an unnerved, troubled expression.

"Tina?"

**************************************************************

Grissom stepped into Brass' office and shut the door behind him.

"You said you found something?"

"Someone, more like. Sit down."

As Grissom sat, Brass reached into the lower cabinet of his desk and pulled out his decanter of Scotch.

Grissom frowned. "On duty?"

"We're both past golden time and headed toward platinum, Gil. Consider this medicinal. You're gonna need it."

Grissom took the small glass from Brass and sat back. "Must be big."

"Gil, they found Tara McGuinn's body dumped half a mile off I-15 near the California border."

Eyes wide, Grissom took a sip of the liquor. "They're sure."

"Confirmed it. They ran it. It's Tara."

"Any sign of Tina or of Carpenter?"

"None. There's an APB out on the car - Nevada State Police, California Highway Patrol, hell, they could be most of the way to L.A. by now."

"You notified local law enforcement in Southern California?"

"Yep. LAPD and about five hundred little podunk city departments. Every orange grove and lifeguard shack out there seems to have a station."

Grissom had finished his scotch before he'd realized it. "Mm-hmm. You think they'll dump it and get fresh wheels?"

"Well, if they'll dump Tara McGuinn, they're not going to hesitate to dump a car, Gil."

"I wonder if he's going to dump Tina Brown next."

"Or if he's using her to replace Tara. Out with the old, in with the new?"

Grissom nodded. It bothered him that Tina appeared to have made the same move. Out with Warrick, in with Derek. It didn't make any sense. She'd seemed crazy about him, and vice versa. They'd been married...what, four months? He tried to reason that idea away. She might very well be a hostage in fear for her life. A participant in a scheme that just got out of hand. With her sister dead, what terror might be going through her mind?

Follow the evidence, he told himself.

************************************************************************

Sara walked into the room where Catherine had various scraps of charred fabric, twisted metal and melted glass laid out on a table.

"Don't tell me you actually got something out of that pile of nothing."

"It isn't 'nothing', Sara," Catherine retorted. "It just looks like nothing. You know the old saying about the whole being greater than the sum of the parts."

"Of course."

"Here..." Catherine pointed a gloved finger at the mangled metal. "This is part of what Greg brought in. Looks like what's left of...oh, I don't know. What normally has small gears, coated wires, a friction-based ignition mechanism, and traces of ammonium nitrate?"

Sara's eyes widened, and she stepped closer to the table. "What? You got that out of that..."

"Look closer." Catherine handed her the plastic magnifier. "The gears are melted into something larger. There are traces of the wire covering, you can still actually see the color of the plastic. I had Archie run the trace. I'm going to compare it to a sample we got from Gavin McGuinn's main distributor."

Sara peered through the magnifier and saw exactly what Catherine had pointed out.

"This is nuts. Results back?"

"Not yet. It'll be a while. They're swamped back there. He put it on high pri, though. Now look at this..." Catherine held up a swatch of the damaged fabric, about three by three inches. "What does this look like to you?"

Sara looked both through the magnifier and with naked eye.

"Large pores. Melting rather than burning indicates synthetics."

"Doesn't it look like that stuff they're making backpacks with lately?"

Sara gave her a smile, but the kind that generally denoted "get to the point". "You have a theory."

"We were all talking about a timed device in a backpack, right?"

"Yeah...you're saying this was the backpack? Catherine, this could belong to anyone who was close to..."

"I sent a snip of it to Archie. That already came back positive for ammonium nitrate."

"You're serious."

"Oh, it gets better." Catherine's eyes got the bright look they always had when she was about to nail something down for good, like a lioness about to pounce. "Greg brought these items in. He had the backpack theory. He suggested we run anything he brought in for ammonium nitrate. And he also brought in..." Catherine held up a twisted metal brace, only a couple of inches in size, but obviously the kind designed to attach one electronic device to another. It was in a plastic bag with a slip of paper attached, the paper larger than the bag itself. "Greg managed to find a runable smudge of blood in the corner of this - they must have cut themselves slightly when they attached the timer to the fuel."

"How did a drop of blood survive that blast?"

"I have no idea. It had to have been protected by the normal bend of the metal somehow. Maybe the blast force blew it out so far so quickly that it managed to avoid the amount of heat that would have rendered it unusable. This piece was blown out so far, it was embedded in the wall near where that wing joined the main mall. And it was barely a drop...but it was just enough, and just barely intact enough for a DNA pull."

"ID?"

"Matched a certain tortoise-shell brush Nick brought in the other day."

Sara's jaw dropped. "Please tell me..."

"Listen. Someone else brings in the backpack, maybe Tara McGuinn, leaves it in a certain stall. Might have been marked 'out of order'. No room for the timing device, maybe it would have been unstable with it attached before it was in place. Tina Neal brings in the timer in one of those big frigging purses she always uses, snaps it into place, maybe got a little careless and cut her finger while she was attaching it. Soon as it's in place, she's out the door..."

"And in her sister's car," Sara finished. She thought for a long moment, then looked up. "Why did you call her Tina Neal? It's legally Brown."

Catherine's eyes flashed. "Do you want her associated with Warrick right now?" She looked back down at the laid-out debris. "Sorry. Maybe it was Freudian."

Sara shook her head. "No. I agree."

********************************************************************

Nick hadn't said a word on the drive back to the lab. In the back seat was a duffel bag full mainly of Warrick's clothes and a couple pairs of shoes, but also some CD's, a couple of books, and his toothbrush, razor and hair comb. Warrick had also tucked his reading glasses into his breast pocket; although his vision had recovered fully, "full recovery" was still, for him, in need of assistance when he read.

Warrick was bothered by the silence. Something about him remembering something had bothered Nick. Tina...soon as he'd said her name, Nick had looked like he wanted to cry, or to run, or to scream. Things were piecing themselves together in his mind, the puzzle pieces falling into place, but...

"Nicky?"

"Mm?"

"Nick, talk to me. Please."

"'Bout what?"

"About anything. You haven't said a word to me since we left the apartment."

"Your apartment."

"It didn't feel like my apartment. Your place feels like home. That's why we brought my stuff along."

Nick sighed. He still felt ill, a cold chill in his gut. "Well, it is your place. You have a wife. You remembered her."

"Yeah, kinda..." Warrick frowned. "Is that what's bugging you?"

Nick glanced sideways at him, still fighting the urge to cry. "I should never have followed you into this...whatever it is you made up for yourself to take the place of reality. You're back in the real world and I don't know where the hell I am."

Warrick understood. "Nicky..." He put a hand on Nick's thigh. Nick pushed it away. He looked more hurt than angry. Warrick felt desperate. "Nick...just because I remember what happened before the bomb...doesn't mean I've forgotten what's happened since."

Nick felt himself growing too shaky, too upset to drive. He pulled over, finding a fairly deserted sidestreet, and parked. He turned to Warrick.

"You're telling me you remember..."

"The shower?" Warrick's eyes welled up. "You think I forgot that? You think I forgot about how you felt in my arms when we were just lying in bed together, relaxing? You think I forgot the first time we kissed, and the way that made me feel like I'd finally found myself again? Holy shit, Nicky..." A tear started down one dark cheek. "You think this was all because I was out of my mind or something? You think I never, ever had any thoughts about us being together like that. You really think that. You think I'd change one thing I've done with you in the past two days..."

Nick bowed his head. He didn't know what to think.

"Warrick...all's I'm saying is...I don't know where we are now."

"Somewhere still in love, I hope."

Words refused to come to Nick's rescue; he floundered silently.

"Maybe this was all just something that's been inside both of us for years," Warrick continued. "Maybe...the explosion knocked all the safeguards and barricades out of my psyche, I don't know. I came to it purely, Nick. It wasn't that I had false memories...I guess I just needed to support what I knew I felt with...something. But I was a willing party to everything we did."

Nick finally looked up at Warrick, He reached over, brushed the tear from his face.

"I am...still in love. It's you that's got two love lives going on right now."

"No, Nick. I got a marriage, I remember how she looked, smelled, felt...but I don't remember how I felt with her. For some reason, that part of me's just...numb right now."

"What's gonna happen when you remember?"

"I told you. This is my reality. What we did, everything we...Nicky, it's real to me. I was a willing participant and, damn it, Nick, I still am. This is more real than anything I feel for any other person. Whether we're working, or driving, or making love, or eating dinner, or..." Warrick turned his face to the side, barely choking back a sob. "Nicky, I just wanna go home...to your place. I wanna go to bed...I just want to feel you, and that's all I want to feel. I'm tired of trying to dig through my mind and decide what's real and what's not. I'm tired of it. Take me home."

"We gotta clock out," Nick sighed, his conscience aching. "I'll tell Gris you're not feeling well. He'll let us off the hook, I'm sure."

"Fine. Just..." Warrick bowed his head, covering his face with one hand. He swallowed, trying to keep his composure. He raised his other hand, making a weak wave of resignation.

Nick caressed Warrick's shoulder.

"Keep it together, just til we clock out. It'll be okay."

"They're gonna know," Warrick barely whispered.

Nick sighed heavily, staring out the windshield.

"Maybe."

Greg headed toward the break room, more than ready for another cup of his high-powered coffee, and saw Archie coming the other way. The young lab tech looked solemn, far away in thought.

"Hey, Arch," Greg called.

No response. Archie continued silently toward the lab.

Greg frowned, watching him walk away. He debated with himself whether or not to have a talk with him, when David Phillips came up.

"Greggo. You in for a while?"

"Probably. What's up, Super Dave?"

"You need to keep an eye on Archie."

Greg's expression fell. "What happened to him?"

"I think he's ready to snap. He was down here after break and he saw me wheel in the last body for prep. It was a kid, some poor little...maybe four, five years old. Archie came running over and said he recognized the shirt the kid was wearing. Said he'd given it to his nephew for his birthday. Anyway...he looked at the kid, and it wasn't his nephew. Just wearing the exact same shirt. You know how it is, kids clothes..."

Greg didn't, but he nodded anyway.

"Got ya."

"Anyway, it shook him up pretty bad. He's going back to work, but I'm not sure he should...you know what I mean?"

"I'll check up on him. Thanks, man."

Greg walked quickly back to the lab area, but didn't see Archie. He did see an exhausted Hodges sealing a vial up with a bag and index tag.

"Hodges, you seen Archie?"

Hodges looked ready to collapse. "Try the locker room. I think I'm gonna be right behind him. He was here a few minutes ago...he was working on this one ID for a long time...too long a time. He looked like he was ready to lose it. He got up and went for coffee." He looked up. "That was ten minutes ago. I think the kid needs more than coffee. I think he needs about two weeks sleep and a couple Valium."

"Thanks." Greg turned and headed back to the locker room. Slipping in, he saw Archie sitting on the bench across from his locker, shoulders rigid, expression one of mingled panic, grief and rage. He didn't move, didn't make a sound.

Greg approached him carefully.

"Archie?"

No reply.

"Hey, Archie." Greg sat beside him. "Talk to me, dude."

"She was seventy-nine years old," Archie said, his voice flat and expressionless. "Widowed. Mrs. Levine. She lived upstairs from me." He looked up at Greg, the barely-controlled emotions evident in his obsidian-dark eyes. "She used to bring me stuff all the time, cake, cookies, goodies. She didn't have any family here in Vegas." He looked back down. "She was from Brooklyn. Came out here for the dry weather. After 9/11, she said it was the best move she ever made..." He scoffed. "She was probably out buying little presents for all her neighbors. She always did that. It was her 'Chanukkah-Christmas-what-have-you present', she said. It was like having an upstairs grandma..."

A hint of a smile almost curled Archie's lip, but it faded quickly as his jaw tightened. His eyes glistened.

Greg understood. He was about to say something, when Archie suddenly slammed his locker shut and stood, kicking it.

"Damn it! FUCK!!"

Archie yanked off his shoes and flung them the length of the locker room, then pulled off his shirt, wadded it up and hurled it down. With a wordless scream of rage, he slammed his fists against the locker door.

Alarmed, Greg grabbed his arms. "Hey, you're gonna hurt yourself..."

Archie threw a wild punch at him that missed, then grazed Greg's cheek with a hard left. Greg stepped deftly behind him and wrapped his arms around him, struggling to keep him still. Archie pulled and wriggled, then finally gave up, sinking limply against Greg.

Greg helped Archie back to the bench, keeping an arm around his shoulders. Archie was hyperventilating now, looking as if he would implode.

"Arch," Greg pleaded, "let it out."

Archie swallowed, panted, stared blankly outward. He felt dizzy, as if in a free fall. He began to tremble.

"God, Archie, please," Greg repeated, "let it out."

Archie felt paralyzed; his body felt like some separate entity now. He could no longer control it, not the shaking, nor the loss of equilibrium, nor the tears that started silently down his face.

"That's it," Greg said, squeezing him. "That's the way. Let it out. You'll be fine."

Archie closed his eyes and leaned against Greg, letting the tears fall of their own accord. "It hurts," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"If it didn't, then you should worry," Greg assured him. "Just give yourself permission to be human."

Archie still felt as if he were free falling, but Greg's presence told him he at least wasn't going to crash and burn.

*****************************************************************************************

A sudden poke in the shoulder jolted Brass out of a sound sleep.

"Wh-huh?"

His eyes opened, and he saw Detective Vartann standing over the small vinyl sofa on which he'd curled up to catch a brief nap. According to the clock on his wall, it had been almost three hours.

"They got 'em, Cap'n," Vartann said. "L.A.P.D., caught Derek Carpenter and Tina Brown about to board a plane to Acapulco. They're flying 'em out here right now."

"Flying?" Brass rubbed his eyes and sat up. "It's only what, a four hour, five hour drive..."

"Flash floods in the desert. Besides, looks like they want these two nailed almost as bad as we do."

"How's that?"

"They almost had Carpenter under an alias, three years ago, on a conspiracy charge. Seems he and a couple of friends were plotting to blow up Bradley Terminal. By the time they caught on to his real ID, he'd skipped town in a used car he bought cash, never registered, and dumped in Kansas. Guy's been slippery as a greased pig."

Brass tensed, stretched, and stood. "When's their ETA at McCarran?"

"Eight-twenty p.m."

"Good." Brass straightened his jacket. "I'll have time for a shower and a shave first. I want my game face on for this son of a bitch."

Vartann looked concerned. "Cap'n...you think Tina was in on it?"

Brass sighed. "I hope not, obviously. For now, we have to assume she was. If we show her favoritism..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. Vartann nodded.

**********************************************************************

Nick felt more relaxed than he ever had in his life. He lay sprawled atop Warrick, peaceful, drained, enjoying the warmth of his love's skin and of his passionate affection. Sinking into his contours and riding the rhythm of his slow, peaceful breathing. Relaxed. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. Nothing had gone as he'd expected, and everything had been perfect.

He'd expected to be afraid. Not that Warrick would allow that; he actually went overboard being certain Nick wanted this, was sure, was very sure, wanted this configuration, was relaxed, massaged and "prepared" for him, really wanted it this way, did he want to be the "aggressor" first...it had actually made Nick laugh, which eased both their concerns. Yes, he had wanted to receive him, to make Warrick feel as if he were in charge at least of this aspect of his life right now. But Warrick had his own need...to see Nick's face this time. And Warrick's telling him so allayed the few fears that Nick had left. The traces of the doubts he'd felt since his teens, the shame he feared. All melted away in one simple request. All vanished as Warrick kissed his way down from Nick's forehead, down his face, neck, torso, across his hips, taking him into his mouth just long enough to draw away his last misgivings and make Nick not only ready, but frantic for the next step.

He'd expected it to hurt. Despite their earlier affections, penetration was going to be new to him. Yes, Warrick had been careful and attentive. He'd insisted upon lying on his back, Nick straddling him so that he could control the depth and angle. Certainly, preparations, lubrication and care notwithstanding, there had been some discomfort, but Nick thought of it as "losing his virginity", in a manner of speaking. He concentrated on relaxing, not only for his own enjoyment and the lessening of the discomfort, but to ease Warrick's ingress, increase his pleasure and sense of control. Warrick had been slow at first, gentle, letting Nick dictate their rhythm and intensity. As Nick relaxed, easing down on him, Warrick increased his own movement, at first caressing Nick's taut abdomen, then sliding his hands down, one on Nick's hip, the other stroking him gently, consistently. Soon, the discomfort was gone, replaced by a sense of complete, all-encompassing stimulation that Nick had never thought possible.

He'd expected awkwardness, when most of that awkwardness had been shed in the shower that first time. Coming in front of another man, in front of his best friend...he had felt utterly exposed. Vulnerable as a newborn kitten. But there was no threat here, only protection. Even though Warrick watched his face intently as Nick neared climax, he felt...empowered. Bold. Unashamed of their love and their sex and their passion. He'd never experienced it like that, as good as sex may have been in his past; this was the next level, the higher degree. He knew Warrick could see the moment approaching in his eyes, from the encouragements and endearments he whispered until Nick had reached his limit, head thrown back, rocking and bucking madly as he came with an intensity he had not thought himself capable of, unconsciously letting faint cries loose with every pant as he drained every drop of semen, tension and passion from every corner of his body, out through the conduit of rigid flesh that Warrick so expertly attended to, rocking and gasping until he felt Warrick's fingers dig into his hips, felt a series of quick, deep, almost pleasantly painful thrusts and a soft throb and warm release inside him, opened his eyes and saw Warrick, head likewise back, mouth open, panting, letting loose a moaning grunt as his own orgasm at last subsided, his tight grip loosened, his breathing slowed...

He'd expected to second guess himself until Warrick pulled him down, holding him, his fingers tracing stream-of-consciousness patterns on Nick's back and buttocks, then caressing him, fingertips following the currents of life up and down his spine.

He'd expected to be exhausted. He felt renewed.

They didn't say anything. They didn't need to. Nick had expected them to both roll over and go to sleep, but this was better, much better. More refreshing even than sleep.

Considering they had to go back in at ten, they needed every ounce of relaxation they could find.

**************************************************************************

Greg splashed his face with water from the sink, then turned off the flow, reaching for a paper towel, wiping off the excess.

He looked in the mirror. He was sprouting two days' worth of facial hair, dark circles under his eyes, a haunted and traumatized look in his eyes. It scared him.

Greg Sanders wasn't there anymore. Here was some automaton, some piece of sentient clay molding into the rough surface of The Job. No humor, no rock music, no smartassed verbosity.

He felt as if Greg Sanders, Past Tense had died in that mall.

Slowly, reluctantly, he left the men's room and headed back toward the lab when Ecklie stopped him.

"Greg, I've been looking for you."

Greg gave him a resentful look. "What did I screw up this time, Conrad?"

Ecklie ignored the sarcasm-soaked delivery of his first name. "Nothing. Nothing, in fact...I wanted to make you aware of something." He stepped closer to the young CSI. "I just wanted you to know, David Hodges just handed me a memo with a commendation for you."

Greg gave him a skeptical look. "Hodges?!"

"He used his coffee break to type out a commendation for you because of the way you handled Archie Johnson."

Greg shrugged. "Archie just needed to step back. That's all. I just..."

"No, Archie just told me what you did, and it showed great leadership, Greg. As far as Archie, I'm recommending a week of paid medical leave for him starting tomorrow. But you...Greg, what you did demonstrated a maturity I have to admit I never thought I'd see from you. It was exemplary. You have one hell of a future here."

Meeting Ecklie's firm but tired gaze, Greg countered, "No, I don't think so. I'm no good at playing politics."

"You're young, you'll learn. You have to. For your own survival, Greg. And I want you to survive." Turning back toward his office, Ecklie reiterated, "I want you to survive."

Greg mulled the words over in his mind. He didn't know whether to consider it a blessing or a curse that Conrad Ecklie suddenly wanted him to "survive". And he was frustrated that it wouldn't become apparent to him for weeks, after things returned to what passed for "normal" in the LVPD forensics lab.

And even then, he probably wouldn't understand it until Sara, or Warrick, or Nick pointed it out to him.

***************************************************************************

Nick, Warrick, and Catherine all stood in the anteroom of the interrogation room, safely behind the one-way mirror glass, watching as Brass and Grissom pressed Tina for answers. She looked bedraggled, her beauty not badly marred by fatigue and three days on the run, but she was obviously tired.

Nick and Catherine glanced toward Warrick on occasion, their concern visible. When he had seen Tina in the hallway, he had been tempted to run to her, to embrace her...but the only look she had given him was at first surprise, then disappointment as she looked away. Understandably, he had been confused. His friends were dreading what would happen when the hurt sank in.

"When did you meet Derek Carpenter?" Brass asked.

"A few years ago, when my sister started dating him."

"Tara."

"Yes." The mention of her dead sister obviously unnerved Tina. "I'm four years younger than Tara. Derek...took care of me like an older brother would."

"Did that change in recent years?"

"After she married Gavin?" Tina shrugged. "Maybe. Not that she was into Derek any less. Gavin was a target of opportunity."

"The ammonium nitrate," Grissom ventured.

Tina gave him a grudging look of approval. "Give the old guy a gold star. Yeah, that was the plan."

"How long were you in on 'the plan'?" Brass asked.

"Almost from jump street. Soon as Tara realized I had brains and the skills to contribute, she talked to Derek, and the deal was on."

"But then you started an involvement with Carpenter. When?"

"Maybe a year ago. Not sure exactly, I don't keep a diary." The last sentence was tinged with sarcasm.

"Before you married Warrick Brown."

"Another target of opportunity," Tina said calmly, "just like my job at Desert Palms, and just like Derek's gig in mall maintenance. I had an ear to the ground as far as what you guys knew about us."

"He told you..."

"Didn't have to. I hacked into his laptop when he was asleep."

Catherine looked quickly toward Warrick. He had no outward reaction, although his eyes were beginning to show the heartache.

"Did Derek plant the explosives," asked Grissom, "or did Tara?"

"Tara. I popped on the timer-detonator on-site so it wouldn't blow on the way. Derek just roped off one stall the night before with out-of-order tape so we could use it. Everything went as planned...almost."

"Except that you were caught," Brass quipped.

"No shit," Tina retorted. "That...and that Warrick Brown survived."

Grissom frowned. "Excuse me?"

"He wasn't supposed to," Tina snapped. "If he'd stayed where he was supposed to, he wouldn't have. If he were dead, how hard would you have been looking for me? As hard as you did?"

Grissom couldn't answer the question honestly. Not to her.

She continued. "His survival was collateral damage. The kids? That was intentional."

Warrick's eyes narrowed in mingled confusion and disgust. Nick's fists doubled as he swallowed his rage. Catherine simply stared in disbelief.

Brass glared at Tina. "Okay, here it comes. Why?"

"You think radical Islam is the only enemy this country has made? You think all the mistakes you've made and the innocent civilians you've killed have been overseas? Boy, you're naive." Tina leaned back, arms folded. "Tim McVeigh was playing for the wrong sandlot team, but boy, he sure got attention, didn't he?"

"Got a name for your particular...sandlot team?"

"Don't need one." Tina smirked, "We know who we are. We're one big, happy family."

"Gonna give us your relatives' names, then?"

"Why should I? Your evidence has me for the needle. Figure it out yourself."

Grissom could only turn away, angered, and beyond that baffled as to how Warrick could have been so deceived.

Brass signalled to the door, and a pair of deputies came in.

"Get her ass out of here," Brass snapped. "I don't want to see her again until trial."

In the anteroom, Warrick watched in stunned disbelief as Tina was led away. Nick reached over, sliding his hand around Warrick's and squeezing.

Catherine gave Warrick a look of compassion. "You okay, Rick?"

He swallowed, tears filling his eyes. His voice was soft and hoarse.

"I don't want to remember anymore."

Catherine rubbed his upper back gently, wishing she knew how to comfort him, then turned to Nick and whispered, "Take him home. Be good to him." She squeezed both men's shoulders, then turned toward the door.

As she left, Warrick whispered, "She knows."

"It's okay," Nick assured him. Somehow, he thought, she had known before they did.

*******************************************************************

Sara knocked at the door jamb to the Trace lab.

No answer. Hodges had finally gone home, and Mia was napping in a vacant office. Bobby was over running CODIS matches on cases not involved with the mall bombing. Archie had left. Life was slowly drifting back to normal.

And in a chair in the corner, Greg sat, leaning against the wall, asleep.

He looked awful. Sara, worried, pulled a wheeled office chair over next to the one he occupied and sat next to him. For a long moment, she just watched, then she reached up, slid her arms around his shoulders, and pulled him over so that he leaned against her, head nestled on her shoulder. She rested her head against his, at once glad she had helped him focus so intently on the details of the evidence, and sorry it had seemed to send him into an overdrive he was now crashing from. She was genuinely worried. As amused as she'd always been by his clumsy attempts at romancing her, she had always liked him. He was a good kid. Now, he was a good man. You could only ask so much more of a fellow.

"Good work, Greggo," she whispered.

From her angle, she couldn't see the slight smile that faintly bowed his lips.

******************************************************************

Grissom shut the light off in his office, and started toward the locker room , when he heard a disturbance at the rear end of the hallway. He didn't really want to know about anything else happening right now, it was day shift's "baby", but his inate curiosity got the better of him.

All he saw was a group of deputies headed out the rear door.

Frowning, he headed back in his intended direction.

Halfway to the locker room, he saw Brass and Detective Vartann headed toward the back as well. Grissom gave them a curious look.

"Did something happen?"

Brass scowled. "I'll say. That slippery little snake that's about to become Warrick's ex-wife just wiggled out of custody. I had four fucking cops on her during transport. Four!!"

Vartann sighed. "There was a distraction. I'm guessing they had help."

Brass snapped, "Oh, you think?"

Grissom sighed. "If any of us see her..."

"For the love of God," Brass said, grabbing Grissom's arm, "keep her away from Warrick. If she tries to go back to their place..."

"She'll know we're watching the place," Grissom countered. "I doubt she'll surface in Las Vegas again anytime soon."

Brass sighed. "In a way, I hope you're right. Let the Feds have her. It's in their hands now, once we give them our report."

"My contribution's on your desk."

"Going home?"

"I guess I am now."

"Good. Get outa here. Get some sleep." Brass patted Grissom on the back as they went their separate paths.

Grissom got to the locker room and stopped. Warrick was sitting on the bench by his locker, head in hands. Nick was sitting next to him, rubbing his back, whispering encouragements. He sighed, then walked in silently, clocked out, and headed toward the door again.

"Gris?"

Grissom turned when he heard Nick's voice. "Yeah?"

"We're gonna be okay. I just want you to know that. Don't worry about us."

Grissom simply gave him a light smile. "Good." He patted Warrick gently on the shoulder. "I'm here if you need me, Rick."

Warrick straightened and nodded. His eyes were reddened.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Deciding he could say little more of any import, at least anything that would help at that moment, he left. Tina's escape was a non-factor for now. She knew better than to come "home". Even Warrick wasn't going there now. He'd be safe. For now.

******************************************************

Nick didn't have the radio on for the drive home. He wanted the space between him and Warrick to be unadulterated by other input. There was still a lot to sort out. They were about two miles from his apartment when Warrick, who had been silent up to now, began to sing softly.

"So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?"

Nick glanced to the side, then back to the road ahead. He remembered the rest of those lyrics now.

And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

He could hear Warrick's guitar playing in his mind, the plaintive chords that sang of heartache and loss even between the words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. No, I'm not going to say it. I can't say it. I told myself years ago, if this ever happened, that I wouldn't say it. It'd be the lamest, dumbest, cheesiest, worst thing I could say anyway. Best to not say anything...

"I love you, Rick."

The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and he cringed.

Warrick silently took Nick's right hand, squeezed it, held it to his lips for a long moment, then pressed it to his heart. When Nick glanced at him, he saw that Warrick's eyes were closed, that his face showed emotion too overwhelming to fit into words. He didn't have to say "I love you" back right now. He'd said it many times before, when Nick had least expected it and most needed it. He'd proved it, kneeling in a hole that was about to explode, ready to die with him rather than walk away and live. He'd given it new color and shape in bed, defining it with concern and caring, bringing it hue with passion and humor and enthusiasm. He'd say it again, as always, at the right time. Nick squeezed Warrick's hand and released it, moving his own to the wheel as he turned left.

"You feeling okay?"

"I feel...unbalanced."

"Understandable."

"No...wierd. I...I'm not...this sounds stupid right now. In fact you're gonna think I'm insane. I'm too twisted up to feel horny but..." Warrick gazed at Nick with an intensity he could feel without looking. "Still...when we get home, I need to make love to you."

Nick grinned slightly. "Comfort sex? Nothin' so crazy about that, I'm definitely not opposed."

"I mean, we just made love a few hours ago..."

"So?" Nick gave him an affectionate glance. "Why, you afraid I'll get tired of you? Not ever gonna happen, babe. It's okay, I understand. I'll even light some candles if you like, give us a little atmosphere..."

"Other way this time."

"Hmm? Other way?"

"I just want..." Warrick took a deep breath, exhaled hard, swallowed. "Don't ask why. this is...I feel crazy enough even saying this, so please...I just need to feel you inside me. I don't know if I'll feel safer or stronger or more complete or what...maybe it's just so...definite...but I need you to wrap yourself around me and claim every inch of me. Including inside. Don't question it, please. I know this is what I want..." He chuckled self-consciously. "I'm serious, man. Please just don't question it. I've questioned myself enough today for a lifetime."

Nick turned in to the driveway and parked the car. He met Warrick's gaze, and felt his emotional heat spread to him and through him. He leaned over and gave Warrick a light kiss on the jawline, and ran one index finger softly along the crest of the taller man's bottom lip. He smiled.

"Anything you like, Rick."

********************THE END...?********************************

Lyrics to "Amnesia" by F. Waybill/P.Prince/V. Welnick/R. Steen/B. Spooner/R. Anderson/M. Cotten
Lyrics to "Wish You Were Here" by R. Waters and D. Gilmour

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