This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

Up until that moment, the basement was as it always was, his constant, and his refuge: the air moist and carrying the lingering scents of pine, oak, walnut ... warm in the pool of light at his shoulder, at his work; dimming abruptly outside of the small bulb's light and, in the late evening hours, cooling and dark. The only sounds around him had been the soft rasp of the wood under his hands and the occasional soft thunk of glass meeting bench top.

Otherwise, it was silent ... forgiving. Time stood still down here some days; others, it flung itself backward, long into the past. Nights like tonight he could ignore the world upstairs, ignore the ghosts ... ignore the calendar. Ignore another morning that demanded he get up and move forward.

But then his front door banged open with such unaccustomed force and speed that he was reaching for his gun in the bare moments that passed before he heard a wholly uncharacteristic roar. "Gibbs!"

Familiar, but unfamiliar. He thought fleetingly that Taft sounded a little like Fornell when he was pissed off.

The smaller man stomped across his floorboards overhead, making a beeline for the basement door. His doctor had never ventured into his basement before, but that didn't mean he didn't know right where it was – or where to find him. Gibbs waited.

Just like so many others before him, Cyril Taft made his way down the steps, looking around in some apprehension at what he'd find. Like so many others, regaining some self-assurance in seeing Gibbs just sitting there quietly, working away at some wood, the surgeon stormed over to him, and then – hesitated. Gibbs would never know what it was, but there was always something about his working on an unoffensive piece of wood that checked his acquaintances' ire with him. Tamping down the observation and the urge to smirk at it, he spoke without looking up.

"Doc."

"What the hell is going on with you?"

"Told you. Been busy."

"That's not what I mean." Since Gibbs had announced, in response to his orders that he talk to someone, he would talk with only him, Taft not only had agreed but had sought him out, in a compelling mix of responsibility, empathy and curiosity. The men had met as many as a half dozen times for dinner or chess or even, one time, a short sail, but his last few calls to Gibbs had either been rebuffed or unanswered. All along, their meetings had been irregular largely because of Gibbs' erratic schedule. Or so he'd believed before. Now he wasn't so sure. "DiNozzo quit?"

"Yep."

"What the hell?" Taft repeated. "Why?"

"What does it matter?"

Taft stared at Gibbs for a long moment, as if he could find at least a clue as to what was going on in his patient's head. Unsuccessful, he tried, "well, from what I hear, there's no way Agent DiNozzo would have left you and your team if he hadn't been forced out, one way or another. And apparently the only thing that's changed about your team to do that has been you."

"And DiNozzo's mind. About the team. Apparently."

"Bullshit."

At that, Gibbs' eyes flickered up at the surgeon, whom he'd discovered chattered almost much as DiNozzo did, but to date had not so much as offered a mild oath between them. The next moment, though, disinterested again, Gibbs' eyes dropped back to his work.

"It's true, isn't it? You reportedly have described him as the best agent you've ever worked with; you handed him your team when you took off to Mexico. He's saved your life and you've saved his. He's turned down his own team more than once to stay on yours. He's been as good as he's ever been and ran your team this year while you recovered. But you get back and freeze him out of your life, of your team. So what the hell is going on with you?" Taft demanded again.

"You been spying on me, Doc?" Gibbs sidestepped coolly, his eyes and hands still focused on his project.

"Damn straight I have. You're so tied up in knots that you have physical symptoms – including a rather dramatic collapse in your office – but you won't see anyone professional? Worse yet, you announce that you will see me – on your terms." Taft's eyes sparked in anger. "No pressure there, Gibbs. You're damn right I looked to get as much information as I could about you, so maybe I could make some headway into that damn, rock hard head of yours before you self-destructed. It didn't occur to me that you'd aim at someone else and not yourself."

Despite himself, Gibbs looked up to glare at his surgeon, nettled by the extent of the man's unanticipated intrusion into his privacy. "So you talked to DiNozzo," he ground out.

"No. I don't know that anyone knows where to find him, even if I'd wanted to."

"Rule 3," Gibbs snorted under his breath, without thinking about it, as the obvious source of the doc's intel suddenly struck him. Ducky...

"I wondered when you'd start trying the Rules on me."

"Yeah, well Rule 3 is 'Never be unreachable.'"

"Even after being run off by you?" Taft baited. "DiNozzo's ready to quit because he's lost all faith in you and the job he loves and his trust that you respect him, because you won't – or can't – tell him what the hell's going on with you – and you still think he's still going to toe the line for you with your damn rules? Just how long did you think he could take ..." the doctor broke off, clearly answering his own question before finishing it. "Well, damn," he breathed, and, stunned, sat back against a nearby sawhorse. "That's not the question here, is it? The real question is whether you thought he didn't even have a breaking point – or that you knew he did." The enormity of each rolled over Taft in waves, until, anger suddenly drained and replaced by understanding, he ran a hand over his face, silent for several moments before finally admitting, "and honestly, Jethro ... I don't know which is worse."

Moments passed, the basement silent again. Ever stoic, giving nothing away, Gibbs stood to cross the room and pick up a jar of nails, dumping them on the worktop and blowing out the dust. Grabbing his bottle, he came back to pour another finger in his own glass first. But as he went to pour some in the empty jar, Taft spoke up.

"No – "

An odd sound in the man's voice caused Gibbs to look at him to find an expression of – what, dismay? – on his doctor's face. Gibbs looked at him blandly, waiting for the explanation that he knew would come.

"... I really don't want to have a drink with you right now."

The stoic expression didn't crack, but those who knew Gibbs better than Taft did would have quickly spotted one of his few tells – a slight twitch of a clenched jaw. He set the jar down with only a bit more force than necessary and sat back at his work, grabbing his own drink and knocking it back.

"DiNozzo's not my patient, but you are," Taft was back on his feet, again circling close. "And no matter what you may have convinced yourself, this isn't about him – it's about you. I'm not sure how much of this is your anger at his being younger than you are, or your anger that he's been loyal enough to stay on your team when he could have moved on and up long ago, or even just your anger at your own mortality." Watching Gibbs as he again lifted the wooden panel he had been working on, to all outward appearances as unmoved by the rant as if alone, Taft demanded, "What happened to your wanting to give him the team, when it was time?"

"Doesn't matter now. He wants out."

"It might matter to the team," Taft baited him again. "Do they even know? 'Cos I don't think Ducky does." He watched the agent closely and thought he might have hit a nerve, so pressed, "your team may not have the nerve to ask you what the hell's going on, Gibbs – or might not have even figured out that your senior field agent is out the door – but I do, and I'd like to know. The young cop you personally brought in, went out on a limb to get him at NCIS, mentored him – your legacy, as much as you can have one ..." Taft's mouth went dry at the reminder of their shared pain, but went on, "and he did nothing to deserve this, am I right? Nothing. Or ..." Taft's eyed narrowed. "Is that it? Your getting shot was his fault?"

"DiNozzo didn't pull the trigger," Gibbs grumbled.

"You can't say it, that it isn't his fault. Or won't, no matter what you really think." Taft said softly, in some surprise. "You do blame him..."

"No." Gibbs shook his head stubbornly.

"But you want him to suffer for it anyway?" Cyril asked, incredulous. At Gibbs' grunt of denial, he went on, "then what the hell are you playing at, Gibbs? If you're just pissed that all the years of injuries are finally catching up with you but not with DiNozzo yet, admit it to yourself, or figure out what else all this is. Or if you really have just been trying to push him out of the nest, so he can advance and take his rightful place as a team leader – you'd better rethink that little bit of genius, because it stinks."

When Gibbs just sat, silent, staring at the now-empty glass before him, Taft sighed, the energy from his anger now dissipating in his concern about just how deep Gibbs' psychological scars ran.

"No matter what's going on with you or why, Gibbs, you've run out of time. Things have taken a sudden turn with DiNozzo leaving, maybe for good. He admires the hell out of you. At this point, I don't have a clue how he still can; he's probably as fucked up as you are. But right now, he's feeling like you have no respect or use for him. No matter what else is in the way for you, you know that's not true. Tell him."

As Taft started to leave, Gibbs snorted softly. "Well, that it, Doc?" He had not meant to make it sound so derisive, but whether it was events, or the bourbon, or his mood, it came out sounding more dismissive than he intended.

"I don't know. I can't keep talking with you if I can't figure out what all this is," the doctor said quietly, "but I think it's more about you than him. For all your warts, Gibbs, deep down you're an honest guy, and when the scales fall from your eyes you're going to hate yourself for what you've done to this agent you mentored if you don't find a way around this. Why don't you give the kid a break just for once, and talk to him. Even if it's too late to fix him with the job, at least don't make it worse for him."

Twenty minutes later, the house back to silence, Gibbs still sat, stubborn and unyielding and playing the doc's words round and round in his head, drowning out the ghosts who usually came to visit him in his lair.

And even more ... Rule 3. No matter what, Tony was always reachable. Always ... unless he couldn't respond. Memories of those lost connections overwhelmed him: when Tony was with Jeffrey White; when he drugged and held captive in the sewers; when his car blew up and his phones with it ...

Unless drugged or kidnapped or dying of the plague, Tony DiNozzo had always been reachable, even when pissed, even when drunk, even when screwing the girl of the week. Always. DiNozzo was always dependable, always reliable.

Always had his six.

Gibbs didn't realize he had his cell in his hand until he hit the phone icon on his home screen and his thumb actually hesitated over the speed dial preset "1," before finally hitting send. This time, there was no ring, just an operator's pre-recorded voice.

"The wireless customer you are calling is not available at this time. This is recording 29B."

"It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone." John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent