COMPOSURE

Part of the Quote Swap Challenge. My random selection was Mac Taylor, Autopsy and the quote that you will find highlighted in the story (originally spoken by Lindsay). I loved the thought of a one-shot that involved Mac, Sid and Adam and I couldn't get this quirky scenario out of my head. Blame the quote - and don't read on if you're squeamish (or eating!). Here it is. I hope you like it...

-xx-

"Why me?" Adam groaned for the umpteenth time.

"Everyone else seems to be conveniently busy." Mac's smile was grim.

"Okay - but why you? You're the boss. Don't you get... well, immunity from this kind of thing? No offense..."

"None taken." As the doors closed, he leaned back and let the motion of the elevator soothe his ruffled spirits. Everyone on his team had their own private weak spot; the one thing that curdled their stomach. Even a former marine. "I take my turn. Besides, this is my case. Yours too, now, Adam. No one ever said this job was glamorous."

"So, um, how bad is it really? I mean, Danny's told me stories." Adam sounded nervous yet determined. He stared at his reflection in the shining walls and tried to avoid Mac's eye. "Hawkes, too. Graphic... very graphic stories."

"I'm not going to lie to you. It's unpleasant. Try not to think about it. You've got a clean set of clothes in your locker, right?"

"Right." He winced. "And Lindsay gave me two bottles of shower gel. That kinda freaked me out, okay? Two. Am I going to need 'em?"

"Yes," Mac said firmly.

"And I thought poop was bad," Adam muttered.

Mac swallowed his laughter. The poor man sounded so forlorn.

"So - where did we find this, um... 'body'?"

"Trunk of a limousine. Lower Manhattan." Recalling the unsavoury moment made it even more difficult to keep his face straight. "Not really the highlight of Flack's day."

"No kidding." Adam flashed him a wobbly grin. As he did so, the elevator lurched to a halt and Mac's gut lurched with it.

"You okay, boss?"

Sometimes he forgot how observant the younger man was. "I'm fine. Ready, Adam?"

Together, they sucked in what promised to be their last clean breath of air for quite some time. "Ready," Adam confirmed, and Mac had to give him points for determination.

They strode through the door. Not surprisingly, the morgue was deserted. A lone figure greeted them.

"Ah, gentlemen. There you are. This way, if you please."

No-one could make scrubs look dapper like Dr. Sid Hammerback. Waving them through the main area to a little side-room, rarely used and rather dingy, he beamed like the gracious host of a ghoulish cocktail party. Fighting against their better instincts, they stepped up to the lonely table with its unwholesome offering. Mac's throat tightened against the smell. Adam was silent; a bad sign if ever there was one.

"You seem happy, Sid."

"Of course." The M.E. sounded almost surprised as he closed the door. "A decomp is always quite the puzzle, wouldn't you say, Mac? So little to go on; so much to solve." He gestured to the vat which contained... well, the only word that sprang to mind was 'soup'.

Strike that from the menu tonight, Mac thought. He'd better warn Christine.

"Mr. Ross," Sid continued, with a gleam in his eye that Mac found more than a little suspicious. "Your first decomp? Come on, take a closer look. It's fascinating, I assure you."

Adam made a strangled noise that sounded like a plea for help, before peeking into the vat. Both Sid and Mac watched curiously, Mac's fingers twitching towards a handy bowl. Three minutes. He gave the man three minutes, at the most.

"Smells... familiar," Adam said, full of surprise. "Like... my grandmother's stew. Kinda looks like it, too."

Sid's bark of laughter broke through his reverie, making him jump. Mac shook his head. "Your grandmother must have been a terrible cook," he observed.

"Oh, she was." A weight of meaning behind those words. "Sunday lunch was bad. Had to eat it, though..." Adam fell silent, stepping back. Gritting his teeth, Mac took his place.

"Find anything useful, Sid?"

"Not so much. I was waiting for you." As though he had saved them a treat, Mac thought, with an inward sigh. Sometimes he wondered about Sid Hammerback. "You might want to wear some protection for this part," the doctor added, pointing to a group of aprons hanging up along the wall. Ever helpful, Adam darted across to fetch them, donning one on his way back and handing out the others.

"After we drained the trunk, Sheldon took the clothes, or what was left of them," Sid continued. "So sad. A cocktail dress - designer, I'd say; what was once some very nice underwear - and a pair of shoes. Ferragamo..."

How...? Mac wondered briefly.

Never mind.

"That fits in with my theory," he sighed.

"Oh - then you know who this is?" Sid's hooded eyes were full of sympathy.

"Was. I think it was Jennifer Karlson."

"The heiress? Daughter of Harold Karlson, the Cruise King? Yes, I remember the case. Over two months ago, wasn't it, when she went missing?" He shook his head. "Poor child. So this is what became of her. DNA will confirm it, of course."

"And something else," Mac said. "A gold necklace - one that she always wore. A gift from her mother; the last thing she gave to her daughter before she passed away. According to Mr. Karlson, Jennifer never took it off."

The three of them stared at the vat.

"In there?" Adam said, uncertainly.

"In there," Mac nodded. Already, the bile was rising in his throat. He set his jaw firmly, determined to lead by example. Next to him, Adam was fighting his own battle, stubborn as ever. We're comrades in arms, Mac thought wryly.

Sid donned a pair of elbow-length gloves and gestured for the two men to do the same. He grasped the container, tilting it sideways until the gooey mass began to trickle out. Mac closed his eyes...

... Sunlight. Baking sunlight and a barren land that stripped the soul and laid it bare.

The flash of metal...

Beads of sweat burst out across his forehead. His eyes sprang open. Hiding his growing discomfort, he glared at the liquid and stretched out his fingers towards it.

No; not 'it', his conscience accused him. Jennifer. Locked in a trunk, in the full heat of summer. Abandoned. Murdered...

... The rest of his unit hung back, waiting silently. Mac slammed the butt of his gun across the padlock and it fell away, severed in two. He swallowed, hard. A Marine Corps weapons locker, left out in the middle of the desert? No way could this story have a happy ending.

"Shouldn't we be waiting for E.O.D?" the gunnery sergeant muttered.

"This isn't a bomb." Mac's tone was bleak. "Can't you smell it?"

His answer was written all over the other man's face...

Mac couldn't resist peering sideways. He watched with veiled respect as Adam plunged his gloved hands into the seeping mass and began to feel around. The look in his eyes was indescribable.

Very well, then. If Adam Ross could do this...

... As he lifted the metal lid, Mac fell back in horror. Instinct and training had taught him what to expect, but knowledge was nothing compared to this full-scale assault on the senses. He stifled his groan of disgust with a shaking hand. Then he reached into the chest. Three long minutes later, his fist came out, clutching a pair of dog-tags.

Captain Elizabeth Hunt. M.I.A. no longer.

His heart sank. Even though he had barely known the captain, he could see her face. So hard, to reconcile that memory with the sight before him. And the smell... Behind him, the rest of his team-mates were retching into the bone-dry sand.

He dropped the lid and staggered to his feet.

"What now, sir?" the gunny said quietly.

Mac bowed his shoulders and claimed the burden. "Closure. We carry her home..."

"Got it!" Adam raised his hand with a cry, not of triumph but sheer relief. Mac felt sick when he saw what was hanging from it. There was no doubt in his mind now that Jennifer Karlson was dead. This cold, repulsive mass had once been a vibrant young woman - just like Captain Hunt. Echoes taunted him; past became present. Mac clutched the rim of the table, his knuckles as white as his face.

Beside him, Adam faltered.

"Boss..." he groaned, swaying unhappily.

"Oh dear. Mac, I think our friend here is in trouble." Sid snagged the necklace and popped it into a nearby dish. "That takes care of that. I'll let you know what else I find. May I suggest...?" Smiling kindly, he tipped his head in the direction of the door.

Mac nodded. Was it shameful, he wondered, to feel so relieved? He wrenched the gloves from his own shaking hands. Then he reached out to Adam, who accepted his support with gratitude. Together they left Sid to his rancid task and wove their way through the empty morgue. Adam's eyes followed the stumbling movement of his feet. Mac could hear his quick, high breathing.

"Don't feel guilty," he offered. The comment rebounded and he felt its irony. "You did well."

"Oh! Don't worry, boss - I'm okay now. Thank you."

Adam raised his head and met Mac's gaze with a bright look that surprised him. Something passed between them, subtle as a whisper. Flustered, the other man tried to hide it quickly.

Too late. Mac let go of his elbow and stared at him. Suddenly, his understanding shifted - and there it was; the answer to the riddle, clear as day.

"Did you just...?" he began.

"Just what?" Adam's blue eyes tried to look innocent.

Never mind. No need to say it. Sometimes the hidden thoughts held the most meaning.

Glancing down, Mac smiled when he saw that his hands were steady.