Nick sighed loudly as he put his feet up onto the cluttered and dusty glass coffee table. He stretched his right hand out towards the empty couch, trying to find the remote hidden amidst the folds of his faded and tattered navy blue A&M blanket. Once he located the elusive remote, he pushed the power button and the large flat screen TV burst into life. Lucky for him, the football game was about to start. Too bad he didn't even know who was playing.

Nick had long since lost interest in sports. He no longer kept up with his favorite hockey and football teams … he no longer went to games … he no longer bothered or cared. He'd lost interest in a lot of his favorite pastimes when Greg went missing.

Some people out there who had lost loved ones somehow regained their old hobbies, but Nick hadn't. He couldn't. He used to watch the games with Greg, even though the younger man had no interest in any sports whatsoever. He, Greg, and Warrick would usually bet on who they thought would win the Grey Cup or the Stanley Cup. Not anymore. Not since five years ago. Five years ago on this day, to be exact.

It was kind of sad, honestly. Nick still remembered the date and time that he found out about Greg's kidnapping. If he wanted to get even more technical, he could probably find out the time frame for when Greg was abducted, but he didn't. He didn't want to bring up the past. Everyone else had already moved on, moved past the tragedy. Everyone else had resigned Greg to an untimely death. Everyone, that is, except Nick. He didn't know how.

Sure, he'd been sent to see psychologist after psychologist, but none had been able to help him cope. He'd had to do it himself, and this was where he had ended up … watching a football game that he would end up turning off halfway through because it hurt too much. He had ended up in an empty house, barely able to sleep at night, and every day he would get up to go slave away at a job that was slowly killing him.

Everyone could tell that Nick was dying, but no one could do anything about it. What was there to be done, anyways? Everything had already been said. They had all told Nick that he had to move past the whole ordeal, move past Greg, but he hadn't been able to do it. He couldn't let the younger man go, and that was that.

So just like everyone else had become accustomed to the fact that Greg was dead, they also began to accept the idea that soon Nick would be deceased too.

The Texan sighed theatrically again, muting the TV as a large slew of ads interrupted the game. Ford and beer commercials. How original, and yet how smart. Of course the corporations would target the middle-aged class of people who were watching the football game. Of course they would advertise pickup trucks and beer. Gee, what else would males be interested in?

Nick's cell phone rang, the ringtone almost invasive in the silence of the large house.

He looked over at it on the kitchen counter as it continued to ring, debating with himself about whether or not he should answer it. Usually on his days off, Nick just let it go to his voice mail. Sometimes it was important, but generally it was nothing to get excited over. Most of the time, it was just his sisters calling to see if he'd met a girl yet. For some reason, they still didn't understand that he was gay and that he never wanted to fall in love again.

The phone had fallen silent, and Nick's attention was returned to the TV, where the score of the game was being displayed. He was just about to un-mute it when his cell began to ring again.

"You have to be kidding me," the Texan said as he lumbered to his feet. It must be important if whoever was calling wasn't willing to leave a message. It had better not be a damned telemarketer informing him that he'd won a trip to Bermuda.

He picked up his cell phone, flipped it open, and glanced at the name. Grissom. Why was the head of the graveyard shift calling him on his day off? Hopefully there wasn't some huge murder that had happened and now Nick was needed to do what he did best and solve the case. Frankly, he was too tired. Too done.

And why hadn't he resigned yet, like he'd been planning to for the past five years …?

"Hello?" Nick answered, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. It'd just be easier to find out what the older man wanted.

"Nick, where are you?"

The Texan was struck dumb for a moment. There was an air of urgency and haste in Grissom's voice. Usually the older man was composed, in control of his emotions, but not now.

"I'm at home. What's happened? What's wrong?"

"How fast can you get to Mountain View Hospital?" Grissom asked, interrupting him.

Nick felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, and his pulse quickened dramatically. He swallowed and said, "Half an hour, probably. But why?"

Nick heard Grissom mutter something to someone else before saying, "Okay, we'll all meet you there in half an hour."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened!" the Texan said loudly, fighting to keep his voice down. His chest was heaving, and he felt shivers trailing up and down his spine. If someone was hurt … if someone was dying … he needed to know. Oh God, don't let it be Warrick.

"They found him. They found Greg," Grissom responded, his voice hoarse, and then a click as the line went dead.

Nick dropped his cell phone. His brand-spanking new cell phone that he had just bought on Monday was dropped to the cold, merciless tiles of the kitchen floor, and he didn't care.

Greg … Greg had been found.

Nick felt himself drop as well, his knees connecting with the floor. His hand groped for the counter as he tried to steady himself.

He'd been found.

Five years. Five years to the day. About 1825 days. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days without Greg, and now he'd been found.

In a flash, Nick was on his feet, sprinting to the front door. On his way out, he grasped his car keys, leaving his TV on, his front door unlocked, and his new cell phone on the floor. At that moment, who cared?

Greg had been found!