"I got it, H.  I promise I won't do anything wrong."

            Gimme my gun…come on…just gimme it and let this be done with.

            "Alright." He shifts and walks to his desk, opens the top drawer, where it is secured inside my holster still as though no one even checked to see if it was loaded.  But that probably is a good thing, considering there is one round in the chamber.  He probably would have taken it the wrong way, if he had found it, because I've been told repeatedly to not do so.  Being a bit suicidal wouldn't have helped that either.

            He grips my wrist in a gesture of unwanted comfort, "This is the only thing you are doing today.  When we get back from the incinerator, you're staying in the lab running evidence.  No field work for right now."

            I'm not going to argue.  I'm not.  I'm back at work where I wanted to be – where I belong – so I'm just not going to argue about how protective he's being.

            Changing the subject somewhat, "When do we leave?"

            "As soon as Calleigh and Eric finish testing." He replies, lacking hesitation, "Juni wants to see you at the end of the day.  And on Wednesday, she wants to see you and Jude together."

            Really?  Nice to know my fucking therapist can volunteer my family for sessions with me.  Who's next?  Gabbie?  My heart thrills in my chest – that's going to be a possibility come Saturday.

            Can't think of that now, Tim.  Keep your mind on the job.

            "Where's Pat Hollis?" I ask to avoid screaming about being able to take care of myself.

            "Mentally, still in bed with his wife." The drippy content voice from behind me informs, causing me to whip around to see my friend standing in the doorway, "Physically, I'm trying to remain standing."

            "You're jokes get sadder and sadder everyday." I toss at him.

            "Oh, and yours are so much better?  Lemme tell ya' – don't quit your day job."

            H whistles to get our attention, "I have to do more paperwork before we leave, so do me a favor – get out." He moves to his desk and settles into his snug chair.

            I do what he says, parting with Pat for a few minutes to go in search of my coworkers, but find they are busily hunched over bags of cocaine and meth.  So I switch and seek out my best friend, who's sitting in the breakroom with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, "Meg?"

            She grins, wanly, "Are you sure about this?  You've only been out of the hospital for a few hours, you've got to want to…"

            "Do my job." I finish for her, "I need to work.  I need to be here, Megan.  This is where I am supposed to be.  And H doesn't even have me working an actual case anyway.  All I'm to do is be in the truck for the dispo then come back and sit on my ass."

            I hate being idle.  It is not conducive to taking part in the non-destructive behaviors they are trying to teach me, and H knows it.  Except he's probably more afraid of leaving me unsupervised on a scene with whatever evidence there is that could possibly be destroyed, which I have to hand it to him – he's got some actual foresight into the workings of my mind.

            With nothing more to do, I sit down beside her, "I guess I should call Juni so she knows that the only thing I'm interested with my weapon is professional."

            She nods and snorts, patting me on the shoulder as she leaves the room in pursuit of Yelena Salas, who has emerged from the elevator.

            My cell phone beeps as I dial out the numbers and hear the woman pick up, "Hello."

            "What no sarcastic comment about me mothering you?" She throws at me, "No annoyance at my insecurities in reference to your choice to be discharged or my adamant request that you not be given a weapon?"

            "Not at the moment because Calleigh's coming to get me, which means I've got to get to the van.  So listen, H gave me back my gun.  I promise I have no desire to hurt myself or anyone else, okay?"

            I know that does nothing to soothe her nerves.  But that is not my desired goal, anyhow, as this call is only to appease her.  She mumbles something when my coworker reaches the room, "One sec." I tell Cal, leaching out, "Bye, Juni." Before rising and following the blonde toward the garage, while the various other people stare, whisper, and basically forget all manners to discuss my sudden return to CSI.

            "Eric and I are going to hang around here for any cases while you and H are out." She mentions.

            To take my attentions from the idiocy around me.  I nod anyway, and stop at the door.  I have to ask her, have to comprehend, "Why didn't you or Eric come see me?"

            Sighing, sniffling, "I didn't want to see you like that.  Horatio told us how you were doing…I was afraid that if we went to the hospital that we would make you worse."

            Translation: I wasn't brave enough to go there because I was afraid of you getting angry at me.

            "See ya', Calleigh." I begin to walk away from her, manage to pass to the truck when the redhead lands a hand on my shoulder.  He gives me that look of understanding mixed with a hint of anger.

            I shrug it off and shuffle open the door when he decides to speak, "You're doing good, Speed." That's all he forces out, before slipping out the garage's open door to embark the CSI Hummer currently assigned to him.

            A little random, are we?

            Pat's already comfortable behind the wheel, tapping his fingers to a song playing through the mesh-metal speakers, "Hey.  Hope you don't mind that I commandeered the radio.  Once we get going, it's gotta go kaput anyway."

            "I know."

            And now…

            "Tim, you…ah…wanna talk?"

            Of course.

            Would everyone around me please take two minutes to think before they ask stupid questions, "No.  I've been forced to do more talking in the last week than in my lifetime."

            "You sure?"

            "I am.  But I think you want to ask anyway." I fully understand the details he desires to be informed of, and I'll gladly educate him – if I could truly see something other than pity and curiosity in his eyes.

            He shakes his head, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

            "Thank you."

            The doors of the truck are slammed shut, someone pounds on them and we're moving.  The boss in point and an RMP behind us, we exit the lot to follow the pre-planned route drawn out on the map I hold tight in my fist.

            The ride is quiet.  Every so often Hollis spits out something about his kids – Mikey's three year old escapades involving a mudbath, Kayla learning to walk.  I'm not really listening enough, thought, to supply any response beyond, "That's nice, Pat." At some locus during the travel, I pull off my shirt to get my Kevlar on.

            He says nothing when he looks at me, as though inspecting my skin for injuries.  I choose to pretend that I didn't notice, redressed, and ignored my friend.

            Dispatch comes through and Horatio responds, another indeterminable stretch of silence runs through us as we head toward the intersection.  A funeral procession comes down beside us.  We let them pass and I turn to attempt to speak when the redhead's voice comes back through.

            And all hell breaks loose.

            The hearse is hit by a car, a woman starts screaming, and before my brain even has a chance to catch up, the bullets start flying.

            My gun.  Fuck.  Take it out of the holster, you fucking idiot!  Holsters…I'm keeping this thing in my pants next time.  I jack open the door, stick the gun in edge of the window frame, but the spray of ammunition is too deadly for me to even get a shot off.

            I grab Pat, who's apparently lifeless, and pull he and I from the cab to the hard gray asphalt with a hard thud.  I see Horatio race from the Hummer to the woman, when my eyesight snags the black-clad man coming toward me.  I raise the gun. Struggle away from my friend's body and the approaching armed assailant; I stop when he raises his weapon and I raise my own.

            It clicks helplessly at the murderer standing in front of me.  Oh, Christ almighty – it's jammed!

            He fires one shot, hits me in the chest and I unwillingly re-enter the blackness that is my dreams.

            Yet the unconsciousness is brief, maybe just a few seconds.  I'm not sure, all I know is I can't breathe and H is running at me, full speed yelling my nickname in that graveled voice that means he's a stone away from becoming enraged.

            I can't really hear anything; my ears ring and repeat the tense sound of the gunshot, my ribs feel like someone is tightening them within the muscles of my torso.

            Finally my ears catch up when he lays a hand on my neck and tells me to keep breathing.

            As opposed to what I've been doing for the last few minutes, which was holding my breath?  Good morning, Lieutenant, I know it's early but could you flip on your frontal lobe?!

            He screams for a rescue, and works a hand under my vest, past my still bandaged wounds, splaying it across my chest.  I know he's trying to get the pressure of the blow away from my body while working at the Velcro clasps, but it still burns excruciatingly.  It finally is ripped away, and I get in a massive gulp of air.

            Sirens fill the desolate waste land that was once our convoy.

            "Okay, Tim." He finally downshifts from overdrive, "Keep breathing, buddy." He lifts up my white undershirt, checking at the laceration on my belly to ensure it isn't bleeding and examining the already-forming bruise.

            The ambulance pulls up; I hear the screech of tires.

            Horatio grabs my arms to check them over.  The lines of scabs completely healed a day or so prior, and there are only the memory and a paper-thin white line to remind me of what I'd done.

            "Sir, please." Someone pleads.  One of the EMTs trying to get H away from me, as an oxygen mask is fitted over my nose and mouth.  A stethoscope is pressed, warm, to a spot not purple and the second emergency tech checks my pulse after I am lifted to the stretcher.

            The worried looks they wear calmly fade away and one smiles, directs his coworker, "Go check the others.  He just needs some oxygen." He looks at me, "Do you want to sit up?"

            I glare.  Do I look like I wanna sit up just yet?

            H comes into my line of sight when I tug at the mask, "Leave it on for now."

            "I'm okay." I hope he ignores the glazed eyes I'm well aware are painted into my gaze as well as the harsh breathing that causes me to pant every intake.

            He tosses a glance to the paramedic, "I think we'll be the judge of that.  Leave it on, it's an order." I hate when he pulls rank…makes me want to pull out each strand of my hair one by one.  Then he gestures to the arriving personnel, and strolls toward Hagan who tosses the CRIME SCENE tape at another officer.

            Someone yells out for information.

            Great, the Press has arrived.  Don't these people have a shred of decency in them?  I'm pretty sure Pat just died and they're here like vultures for any information I may give them.  It's putrid.

            "Okay, Detective." The guy lisps, "Just going lift this up a little bit, try to get you elevated a bit." He informs me, before the head of the stretcher is pushed up to an acute angle.  He pulls a water bottle out seemingly nowhere, uncapping it and approaching me.  He shifts the mask, "Could you drink a little of this for me?"

            Remember before when I said I get ticked off easily when being treated as though I were a child?  Well, if this moron continues to treat me in this manner, that bottle's going to be relocated to somewhere a lot less pleasant.

            I rip it from him and slug down a few sips, but my chest still aches.  I can't get much down my abused esophagus.

            "Alright.  Well, I think you just narrowly avoided a trip to the ER.  Let's get you sitting up." He grasps my shoulders and gets me moving, removing the tatters of my shirt as he does so.  Once my legs dangle over the side, he quickly wraps my arm in a blood pressure cuff and finally allows me to take this fucking mask off.

            H once again is at my side, "How is he?" He asks as soon as the cuff is gone.

            "BP's 140/100." He answers, "Chest contusion from the impact of the projectile's what took the wind out of him.  If his lungs were collapsed, he'd be blue by now."

            "Okay.  Thank you." He turns to me, and I see the dark look, the way he won't look directly at me.

            "Hollis?"

            The reply is automatic, "No.  You okay?"

            "I'm fine." I respond.

            But I'm not.

            I'm not and all I want are my knives, my blades.  I need to bleed.  I have to see the slick red substance empty out and leak away these sudden thoughts.