(Note to my readers - I'm doing something I don't usually do, which is post a first chapter without really knowing where I'm going to take the story. My feeling for a while has been that Horatio is in a bad way, and I wanted to explore that. I would appreciate comments - if I'm way off the mark, tell me. And I will try to 'save' him…)

GOOD MAN TURNED BAD?

Chapter 1

It was about five. A faint light showed in the sky. Horatio closed his eyes again. He'd slept badly, as usual. He shifted onto his back, with a faint wince. The still-recent bullet wound gave him a twinge of pain if he lay on his right side. During the day, it would ache… A dull soreness across his belly, sometimes into his groin, down his right thigh. He suspected they'd left a fragment of metal inside him, knew he ought to get x-rayed, but couldn't be bothered. He didn't really care and recognised that he wouldn't do anything about it, even if he knew, so what was the point?

There seemed little point in anything at the moment. Any pleasure or satisfaction the job had given him seemed to have gone. He tried to work out when that had happened. Not at Marisol's death, though it could have done. And not the shooting, traumatic as it had been. Before that… He thought it went back to the prison breakout. Bad enough that he had to catch the bad guys, but twice? Three times, in the case of Jack Toller… And somewhere, amid the mayhem and manhunts, something had been lost. He couldn't label it exactly, but he knew he'd stopped caring. At least, he began caring more about the bad guys than the victims. His anger, usually well-controlled, had come to the surface. He'd become more violent - it had been remarked on. No one had reported him. He knew his team, for the most part, supported him and would back him regardless. Once he had thought he had earned a certain amount of respect and affection from them, but not now. He was conscious of letting them down. He believed in leading by example, but wondered what sort of example he was setting now.

It was Eric he felt worst about. His brother-in-law… He sometimes, lately, found it hard to meet his eyes. Eyes that looked to him for guidance, reassurance. And eyes that looked at him with love. He knew Eric would support him to the grave and beyond, and he felt he didn't deserve that devotion. It was Eric who had picked him up after Toller's arrest - literally lifted him off the ground and held him in his arms, when blood-loss and his damaged breathing had finally floored him. He remembered sobbing for breath against Eric's shoulder, fighting pain and dizziness, all the while feeling the younger man's strength trying to help him. Yes, Eric deserved better from him.

The others… He was less worried about them. Calleigh's strong character would carry her forward, whatever he did. Ryan… he'd survive; disappointed, maybe, but he'd move on. Natalia… he had a feeling it would be Natalia who would 'shop' him, find one of his forays into rough justice too much to keep silent about. He had caught her giving him odd looks, as much as to say 'Did you really do that?' In a way, he wished she'd get it over with.

Horatio sighed, swung himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He turned the shower on and looked at himself in the mirror as it warmed up. He'd lost weight. His present frame of mind left him un-hungry, slightly nauseous. He couldn't be bothered to eat properly. Couldn't be bothered with much… Although he still cared about his appearance - that little vanity hadn't gone. He had even bought new suits, as his weight dropped, rather than just tighten his belt.

He stepped under the shower, allowing the water to splash into his face, driving out the gritty sleepiness, trying to wake up. He felt old. And tired.

He was at his desk by seven, forcing himself to eat an energy bar and drink a coffee, and making a good imitation of working on his laptop. He hoped for a call-out. Something tough, messy… dangerous… It was about all that roused him from his despondency. Even then, as they had crashed into the scene of a shooting, the previous week, Frank Tripp had snapped at him, 'You got a death wish or something?' and he wondered if he had.

Not consciously… though it came into the category of not caring. He stared unseeing at the laptop screen, and wondered if he should seek help. He smiled slightly as a thought of his old enemy, Rick Stetler, flitted across his mind. Rick would have recommended counselling. It had been his stock response for any sort of mishap, and getting shot and half-drowned would certainly have qualified. Yet he fought shy of professional help. He couldn't see how any outsider could understand his sort of life. A friend would be better, but he had precious few of those. It was out of the question to use one of the team - they expected only strength from him. Maybe Frank… The detective was not directly under his command, they went back a long way, and they were the same age… Yet he knew that Frank would have a hard time identifying with him. Frank didn't have the same propensity to question everything. Didn't have any problem in dealing out a bit of rough justice. Hadn't - if they were being honest - had the same level of pain in his life.

Horatio tried to think about this logically. Self-pity didn't sit well with him. He wondered if life had really been so hard on him. He'd had an appalling childhood… but so had plenty of others. He'd seen at least two colleagues die in front of him… but so had Frank, and many others in law enforcement. He'd lost his brother… twice… Thought he was dead, discovered him alive, then seen him die for real. He smiled faintly - everything seemed to happen to him twice. He wondered if God had decided it was the only way to ram anything into his thick skull. Thinking of Ray made him think of Yelina. He had loved her… Kept his hands off for a long time, because of Ray… He wished she was here. Her, he could possibly talk to…

A death wish… well, maybe he had… Although, of course, dying would be very easy - he carried a loaded gun whenever he was out of the lab. But simple suicide wasn't in him, he knew that. It was more a case of not caring much if the job got him killed. That had started with the shooting. When he'd seen Marisol. Oh, he understood near-death experiences - lack of oxygen to the brain, etc., etc.. But he had been with her, talked to her, felt her hand, smelled her perfume… and then she had walked away, sent him back… Since then, that dream - for that was all it was, when it came down to it - had returned many times. He wanted to go, to be with her. But she always walked away…

Often, he brooded on his relationship with Marisol. He knew their marriage had surprised everyone. He had known her only a short time, she was half his age… It shocked people. He had - did - love her. Yet it was not - he felt guilty every time he admitted it to himself - a grand passion. Not soul mates. More than anything, he had wanted to spare her more pain. And spare Eric. If - when - her cancer returned, he would have given her the best care possible. He had never expected a long relationship, but, even in his worst moments, he had never foreseen that being his wife would get her killed. That was what hurt him most. He had set out to protect the whole of Miami, and managed not even to save his own wife. He lived with that guilt every day. He was amazed that Eric seemed to attach no blame to him. In fact, since Marisol's death, they had only grown closer.

There was a brief tap, and he looked up. Eric put his head round the door.

"Morning, boss."

"Eric…" He tried to smile, fairly unsuccessfully, he thought.

Eric frowned. "You OK?"

"Slept badly, that's all." Again, he found it hard to meet his colleague's eyes.

"Want some fresh air? We've got a body… Not even sure it's a crime, to be honest, but thought I'd take a trip out… If that's OK…"

"I'll come with you." He took his gun out of the drawer, clipped the holster to his belt, and followed Eric out of the door.