Title: Those Left Behind
Author: Terabithia
Pairing: gen
Rating: G
Disclaimer: CSI the characters and locals etc are the property of CBS and Alliance-Atlantis Communications.
Warnings: character death, suicide
Summary: Horatio's thoughts on the events of "Lost Son".

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Horatio's POV

I'd long suspected Tim had secrets he never let on to any of us. Hurts so deep they wouldn't heal. But he worked well. Maybe too well, total concentration. But since I often did the same, as did many of our team, I couldn't really complain. I had wondered if he was seeking death. But CSI was hardly the place to find it quickly. If that was really the case he would've picked the Bomb squad, or SWAT. So I kept my suspicions quite and my eyes open.

I watched him die a little more each day. Watched him smile less, move a little more mechanically. And finally I watched him draw his last breath choking on his own blood. He had drawn his weapon. I drew mine. Then the bullets started flying. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw him check his gun. Then my attention was focused completely on the shooter. Then just like that it was over. I turned and saw him down. I don't remember how I got to his side. I only dimly recall Calling for an ambulance. I knew he couldn't survive. I could see the damage. But still I urged him to hang on, still comforted him. When he went I thought my own heart would stop from the pain. I didn't move from his side when the first officers arrived. Didn't move for the paramedics. Didn't move when my team began to arrive. Finally Alex came. I let her take him from me. She would look after him. I trusted only her.

Any other case we could have handed off. Taken the time to grieve. But this was a kidnapping. There was still a little boy out there who needed us to save him. So we each buried our grief the best we could. Some managed better then others. And we carried on. We found little Joey. Reunited him with his mother.

I went home that night and put my fist through my hall wall. I wondered if I would cry, but no tears came. So anger and violence was the next best thing. I went to the firing range the next day and emptied several clips in to the targets. Others there looked at me knowingly. Everyone knew by now. As I left I passed Eric on this way in. I had no doubt Calleigh would show up at some point too.

The funeral came. I've never liked official funerals. While they honor the fallen hero, and allow the department and police community at large to mourn a fallen comrade, they don't allow those closest to him to grieve. Too many people, too many eyes watching. I added two more holes to my wall that night.

When we returned to work the following week nobody asked about my scraped and bruised knuckles. And I didn't question why Eric's locker now sported an ever-increasing number of dents and why his knuckles were colored too. Why Calleigh was suddenly logging so many hours at the firing range. Or Alex's sudden need to bring cookies and mother us all.

But crime continued and we started to develop a new routine around our missing man. I wasn't looking for a new CSI yet. We weren't ready, that's all there was to it. Any new person who came in would be resented for taking Tim's spot. Wouldn't have been fair to any of us.

It was a little over a week after the funeral that Mrs. Speedle came to see me. We said all the right things. Without ever saying the important things. She had brought a box of things they'd found sorting through Tim's belongings. Things that they thought were better suited to co-workers then to family or charity.

I took the box returned to my office and shut the door. I looked at the box for a long moment then removed the lid and set it aside. On top were several pictures in frames. They were of us. Them team at various department events. Christmas parties, picnics that kind of thing. Our faces smiling, laughing. Even Speed though his eyes didn't quite match the expression on his face. I would share these with the team when we were ready. Next in the box were some books. Procedure manuals and science texts. I set the books aside too. Then I looked into the bottom of the box, there were a few remaining things.

That was when I saw it. I stared at it for a long moment not knowing if I wanted to pick it up. But I did I reached down and picked up the small case that had grabbed my attention. My knees gave way and I sank in to my chair. I set the small case on my desk in front of me. I recognized it. It was a gun cleaning kit. The one I'd given him after the dispo day incident. I reached out again and cautiously opened the case. Hoping, almost praying I wouldn't see what I suspected I would find. Yet there it was. Everything. Every swab, every drop of oil. He'd never used it.

And in that instant I knew. It wasn't carelessness, or an accident. Speed chose this path. He wanted to die. For whatever reason he couldn't or wouldn't end his own life. His death needed legitimacy. Maybe he wanted it for us. His friends and family. To save us the grief of knowing. Knowing that we weren't enough for him. Enough to make him want to live.

I slowly close the kit, and suddenly there's a drop of water on the lid. It takes me a moment but then I feel the moisture on my face. I'm crying. I don't even make an effort to stop. I put my head in my hands and I cry. I cry for Speed, for myself, for everyone who lost him. Everyone he left behind.

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Speed's POV

It was no accident that my gun misfired. Not the first time or the last. No accident that the bullet slammed into my chest, ripping through vital tissue. Arteries, veins, lungs. My death came quickly and inevitably after that.

I stopped cleaning my gun ages ago. I was looking for a way to die. Then one day, working a case, the way fell into my lap. The victim had been beaten to death even though there was a gun on the primary scene. Why? Well, the gun failed due to poor maintenance. I still didn't exactly decide to stop cleaning my gun. I just found reasons to put it off. The first time it misfired I realized what had happened. But I still didn't clean the gun.

My past, I always kept well hidden. It was back in New York and there I wanted it to stay. Every part of it, most especially the grief. I didn't want it in Florida and I most certainly didn't want my co-workers to know. My parents were busy. Dad worked hard. And mom was always busy with someone else's child. Never noticing her own child's difficulties. Alone, no close friends, the bare minimum of not so close friends. No sibling until I was thirteen and then well what little time they had had for me all but disappeared with a new baby in the house. I spent my time with my books, quiet, no problems at school. Then I met Robin, my best friend in the world. Two science geeks who met in a library and hit it off. We became completely inseparable. Until that damn senior trip. One last trail we said. But the trail was icy and the light was fading. And in an instant all our plans, the summer in Europe, college together, were gone. Robin was paralyzed from the neck down.

I didn't go to Europe; I spent the summer visiting Robin in various hospitals and rehabilitation centers. I left for school alone. I studied like a demon, desperate to find a way to help Robin. For two years I worked and studied. The only things that ever distracted me were phone calls and e-mails form Robin. And the occasional trip home so I could visit. Then barely into my third year I got a phone call. Robin was gone. Complications during necessary surgery.

My life stopped. I tried to carry on for a while. But I just didn't care any more. Nothing mattered without Robin in my life. I tried to look forward, tried to continue. But I no longer could see where I was going. What I was trying to accomplish. All my hard work had been for Robin. Now there was no need for it. No e-mails to look forward to when I turned on my computer. No reason to pick up the phone. So one night I packed up my dorm room, and I left. At first I just drove, letting the road take me where it would. For two years I wandered. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of but I managed to keep moving all that time. Keep running from the pain.

Then finally that road ended. It brought me to Miami and I stumbled upon the life of a CSI. I liked what I saw for the first time in two years, something mattered to me. So I went back to school, quietly finished up my degree, and before I knew it I found myself working for ex-Bomb Squad Lieutenant with a drive very much like my own. We got along well. Our team formed and worked together solving these complex puzzles of evidence. We helped people, found answers for them, helped to make sure that those who had wronged them were punished.

But slowly manic energy the cases had ignited in me died out. The brilliant colors that I had seen in those puzzles faded away until all that was left was monochromatic grays. I could still fit the pieces and solve the puzzle, but the excitement; the draw of it was gone. I watched one too many guilty men get off on some detail. Saw too many lives destroyed. I worked mechanically at my tasks, as each one mattered less to me then the last. The pain in my heart began to grow again. Then along came that case, and I stopped cleaning my gun. It misfired on the range one day and I knew why. But I just quietly holstered my weapon and went home.

Not long after that came that damn dispo day attack. That should have been it. But that idiot didn't go for the headshot. Oh no, he shot me square in the Kevlar. I lived. Calliegh gave me hell, and cleaned my gun before she returned it to me. Then H gave me that gun cleaning kit. And it all made me think, these people cared for me. So I tired to live for a while. But it didn't last, it wasn't enough, and soon each day was like walking dream. Like I was already dead but my body was still moving. Each day I swore the sound of the pieces of my broken soul rattling around inside me got a little louder.

So when I saw the behavior of the employees at the jewelers I drew my gun, assumed my stance, and wondered if today would be the day it failed me. I moved so I was closer to the shooter. My gun failing would put both of us at risk; at least I could make myself the more available target. Then I pulled the trigger... and nothing happened. I looked down at the gun in amazement.

It *was* today. Then white-hot pain seared into my chest and the force of the bullet threw me back; the tile floor seemed to rush up to meet my falling body.

Time seemed to slow as I lay there on the floor and I didn't seem to be able to keep track of what was going on around me. I took a moment to hope that H would be okay. He had to find that little boy. I was so cold. I couldn't feel anything but that awful cold. Next thing I knew H was kneeling beside me. I saw the desperation in his eyes and I knew for sure, it was finally over. I would finally be free. He was talking I could see his mouth moving but I couldn't hear over the roar in my ears. I wished I could find the strength to tell him not to worry; this was what I wanted. I tried one last time and managed a few words. But they weren't enough. I couldn't even draw a breath. So I closed my eyes and stopped trying.

Then suddenly I felt fine. I opened my eyes and found myself standing a few feet from where I'd been. Where I still was, I realized. I was looking down at my own body laying on the floor surrounded by blood. At H hunched over me, his eyes clenched shut as though he could shut out what he'd just seen. As looked over the scene before me it occurred to me I should feel something. Pain, or loss, or maybe guilt. But none of those emotions came.

Then a movement in the doorway caught my attention. There, outlined by the brilliant light suddenly shining in through the glass doors was a figure. Whoever it was, I just knew they were waiting for me. So with one last look back I moved to the doorway; the figure's face becoming clear. It was Robin, waiting for me still. I paused a few feet away staring in awe, until Robin held out a hand to me. I reached out and took it, we turned together walking out the door and into that brilliant light.

In the end this path was perfect. I was finally free. No more pain. My friends and family will be spared the pain of a self-inflicted death. They will remember a hero, killed in the line of duty. I know I'm no hero. I'm far closer to a coward taking this way out. But now no one will ever know the truth.

END

Final Note: You may or may not have noticed I've left Robin as being fairly ambiguous. I couldn't find a reference either way as to the sex of Speed's friend. So I figured if who ever wrote the character profiles for the show can be ambiguous so can I. The interpretation of Robin male or female and the extent of the relationship is entirly up to you.

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