Author's Note: I know this a departure from my previous writings and is a bit dark but I promise it has happy outcome in the following chapters! SJ

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

Part I: No Hope

The darkest hour in one's own heart

Is the moment of contemplation

From which this world to depart,

By thine own hand. What a wretched temptation!

- Sally Jetson

He peers out into the darkening sky, noting the bleak weather that is heralding the end of autumn and the unwelcome approach of winter. In the few moments he has been standing in the shelter of the entryway of the building, the wind has risen to a fever pitch, sculpting the raindrops into what feel like tiny shards of glass. Not that he can feel them, he doesn't feel much these days, not even pain, just numbness, just an infinite black slate of numbness. He turns up his collar and huddles down in his coat as he crams his hands deep in his pockets. Certainly the weather can't make his exterior any colder than his interior, as he begins the nightly walk to his apartment, a daunting 40 blocks worth. But it is the only way he assures himself of any manner of sleep, by first, completely tiring himself out. The rain comes at him relentlessly, but it can't stop his thoughts. The same thoughts run compulsively through his mind at all hours of the day and night:

3 months since the conversation, in which she broke my heart;

2 months and 6 days, since I last worked a case with her, at which time, she spoke to me only about the case;

6 weeks and 3 days since she moved to the night shift, why? I can only guess;

4 weeks and 5 days since I saw her face to face, albeit brief, the shock in her eyes at the chance encounter, shattered any hope I had of reaching her;

1 week and 6 days, since I had any glimpse of her at all; she looked fragile, exhausted and defeated.

The thoughts are always the same, the only thing that changes are the count of the days. The count, he can always recall with stunning accuracy while everything else in his life is a muddle. It takes all his energy and extreme concentration to make it successfully through a day of work.

Therefore it is utterly amazing, that he hears the tiny mewing sound at all, as he passes the darkened alley. Why he even ventures into the alley, in search of the source of the pitiful sound is beyond comprehension. How he fishes out the soaked and bedraggled kitten from under the dumpster is completely undignified, down on his hands and knees, in a puddle of cold and dank water. Where he is taking the kitten, as he wrestles it into the deep pocket of his coat, is crazy, because the panicked creature, spits, claws and hisses until he firmly wedges it in there, whereupon it changes its defensive tactics to deep throated growling and high pitched squealing. What will be the state of his bathroom in the morning, he wonders, as he cringes in response to every ripping, shredding, bumping and thunking sound emanating through the paper thin walls. When the noise finally plays out several hours later, he knows he has to rid himself of the unruly and ferocious beast.

He sits hunkered down, on a stoop, outside an apartment building, in the early morning mist, waiting and watching. The driving rain and howling wind have subsided from the night before, but the weather is still bitterly cold. When his eyes latch onto the figure he is seeking, he rises stiffly to block further movement. The eyes, that meet his, register no emotion whatsoever. They are blank and unseeing, merely visual tools that are no longer connected to a soul or a heart. Those connections have long since been severed and it tears at his heart; the only emotion he has felt in weeks. He unceremoniously shoves a shoebox, tied with string, at her chest. She looks at it in confusion. He presses it to her chest, in a wordless demand. She places a cold, deathly white hand at each end. He quickly brushes by, without a word, and walks away.

Now there is nothing to differentiate the days for him. The weather waxes and wanes, the cases come and go, the people chatter and chuckle all around him, but all of it is the same to him; vague and shadowy images randomly floating by, to which he has no connection, that hold no meaning for him, and that cannot penetrate the gray, murky gloom that encases his mind, body, heart and soul. He does only what he needs to do, in order to keep his job, but now he wonders why he even needs a job. He rarely eats, rarely sleeps, never goes out, therefore he doesn't need money. What he does need, crave, and desire, money can't buy and he knows there is no way he can ever have it, so he has long since ceased needing, craving and desiring. He is the proverbial ship without an anchor, a Romeo that has lost his Juliet. He is not tragedy in the works; he is the epitome of tragedy itself.

The cursed chant plays through his mind again, the one that defines who he is and what he will become from this night forward.

4 months since the conversation, in which she broke my heart;

3 months and 6 days, since I last worked a case with her, at which time she spoke to me only about the case;

2 months, 2 weeks and 3 days since she moved to the night shift, why? I can only guess;

2 months and 5 days since I saw her face to face, albeit brief, the shock in her eyes at the chance encounter, shattered any hope I had of reaching her;

1 month, 1 week and 6 days, since I had any glimpse of her at all; she looked fragile, exhausted and defeated;

One month since I shoved that box at her and realized she was totally dead inside.

Today I am totally dead inside. I may as well be dead outside. There is no hope!

He knows he will find a peaceful haven at the bottom of the East River. He knows, from past family experience, how to fix it so that his body will never be found. He knows that where he is going, hope is not relevant, so that's where he wants to be.

He dresses in the most non-descript outfit he has, faded gray sweats. He walks to the door of his apartment and pauses to place each item that connects him, to the person who he used to be, on the table by the door: his keys, his wallet, his badge, his glasses and his phone, which he drops as if it were a burning ember, when it shrills loudly, once, and vibrates as if it is a live object, irate at being disturbed. The display illuminates and the id, of the caller, registers in his brain within a split second. It is the quickest reaction he has had to anything, within the past several weeks. A rock drops in his stomach sending a lump, the size of baseball, to lodge in his throat.

He sits on the couch, staring at the display, until the light fades away, but he can still see the caller's id on the back of his eyelids as he closes his eyes and tries to muddle his way to his next action. His consciousness cannot fathom the significance of the event; however, his subconscious, puppets his fingers through the motions of retrieving the accompanying text message.

The four words of the text message reiterate in his mind, replacing the cursed chant. He lies down on the couch and stares at the ceiling. The words of the new chant mimic the rhythm of the reflected lights, flickering on the ceiling, from the street lights below.