Jacqui
Police Officer
Hello: This takes place post 6.05, Gum Drops. I hope you enjoy and will continue if people like it.
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Nick Stokes returned home 48 hours after being pulled out of the Plexiglas box that Walter Gordon had put him in. His parents stayed with him for a few days; once he was reasonably assured that his Pancho was going to be okay, Bill Stokes returned home, but his wife stayed. Nick’s friends and co-workers, especially Warrick, came by his town home bringing food, movies, games, and stories, as well as gossip and case files, to entertain him. He was grateful for this, because he did not want to be alone. But soon enough, he took and passed the department-required psychological evaluation, and his mother went home to Texas, and he went back to work.
In relatively short order he was able to convince everyone, even Grissom and Warrick, that he was okay. And he really was – although he was easily rattled when he first went back into the field, his optimism, his positive outlook on life had not changed. Day by day his conscious thoughts of Walter Gordon’s sinister voice, of the crawling and biting ants, of the cold steel of his gun pressed into his throat by his own hand, of dirt in his nostrils, and the claustrophobia that made sense only occasionally faded. Within six months his therapist told him that he should come back only if he felt he needed to. He had a good head on his shoulders, he’d made great strides, he’d worked through the worst of the trauma.
But this was only during waking hours. Nightmares had set in the first time he’d dared to close his eyes in the hospital, and not a day went by when he didn’t experience one. He discussed them with the therapist, before she released him, and had tried different ways of coping with them that ranged from sleeping pills, which made him feel groggy the next day, to writing down what he remembered so she could analyze them. She reassured him that these were a normal symptom of PTSD and that he needed to explore the nightmares to get past what was causing them. In the end, however, Nick gave up. He allowed the nightmares to come, allowed the haunting images to disturb his sleep, allowed them to wake him with a start or a yell in a cold sweat. Certainly, he was tired of the horror, but he was even more tired of fighting it.
That was not to say that he had found no relief at all. He did find some things that helped – mostly femmy things he’d never admit to anyone with a Y chromosome. The Sounds of the Rainforest CD had been given to him by Sara, new fabric softener on new, softer sheets by his mother. Pillows sprayed with frou-frou aromatherapy spray was Catherine’s suggestion and leaving a light on was his own ingenious thought. The combination of these, his therapy, and time was having its effect, and the nightmares gradually became less intense and less frequent, although they flared occasionally, usually when he was handed a tough case.
Regardless, sleep eluded him. A good night in the beginning was two hours. It improved to four, but no more, and eventually Nick simply adjusted. It was his nature.
In Pioche, investigating the McBrides, he knew no sleep would come.
Forced to split a two-bed motel room with two other men, he volunteered himself for the sofa. If he ultimately wasn’t going to sleep, it would be unfair of him to take the more comfortable bed from Greg or Warrick, both of whom had been sawing logs for three hours before Nick’s eyes drooped for the first time.
Muffled pounding and his own name woke him woke him little more than an hour later and even when he opened his eyes to the darkness he could see the source of it in his mind – Cassie’s little fists pounding on Plexiglas. He struggled to catch his breath and sat up.
“Nicky.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear the deep voice of his newly-married colleague.
He paused to control his tone before replying, “Yeah, Warrick.”
“You okay?”
He waited a moment again. He needed control. “Yeah . . . I’m fine.”
“You and me both know that’s bullshit.” He rose to find Nick a drink of water in the darkness. Greg was still asleep.
Nick received the water gratefully and drank it quickly. Warrick sat on the corner of his bed, facing Nick. “You’re still havin’ nightmares.”
Nick nodded, but wouldn’t meet Warrick’s eyes. There wasn’t any point arguing with Warrick; the man was too intuitive and observant – useful traits in a criminalist. “Yeah. This case ain’t helpin’ any.”
“You want me to find you somethin’ a little stronger?” asked Warrick, pointing to Nick’s glass.
He chuckled. “Nah. It never helps. Just makes me feel like hell in the morning.”
“You want the bed?”
Nick wanted to make a joke about sharing a bed with Warrick, but didn’t have the heart just then. “No,” he said instead. “Don’t worry about me, man. It’s
just this case. . . . It’s getting better.” This was not a lie.
“You still in therapy?” Nick nodded silently in the darkness. “That’s good, Nicky.”
“I’m okay, Warrick. Really. You should get some sleep.”
“Are you?”
“I’m gonna try, if you shut up.”
Warrick chuckled and patted Nick’s shoulder. “Okay.” He rose to climb back into bed. “You need anything, you let me know.”
“Will do.” Nick laid back down on the couch, actually feeling better for the few words he’d just exchanged with his friend. Greg snored loudly.
“That boy sounds like a diesel truck,” observed Warrick as he settled in.
Nick laughed and closed his eyes, but no more sleep came.
When he arrived home following this case, the picture that Cassie had drawn for him was placed on his bedside table, right over a photo of all of his nieces and nephews. After showering, he went to the lab to wrap up the report while Cassie’s narrative was still fresh in his mind. It took a while to get through it, and when he did he was pretty low. This was supposed to be the end of it for him, but he feared that once he got home and laid down, he’d see Cassie’s slashed throat, her parents’ drowned bodies, her little fists banging on Plexiglas again.
He’d found her, and she was alive, but she was scarred in more ways than one and she was an orphan. After he had said goodbye to Cassie in her hospital room, he spoke with Sheriff Brackett before catching up with his colleagues for the drive back to Las Vegas.
“What’s gonna happen to Cassie now?” he had asked, hopeful.
The sheriff spoke sadly. “The wife and I’ll take her in,” he replied. “She’s got no other family – grandparents are all gone and Jude and Nina were only children.” As Nick nodded in understanding, grateful that someone she knew would care for her, Brackett shook his head. “How do you folks deal with this
every day and still want to get up in the morning?”
Nick smiled sadly. “One day at a time, Sheriff,” he replied, and then headed to the Tahoe.
At home, in his bedroom, he picked up Cassie’s drawing again. He smiled at the lake and the house and her printing: “Thanks for finding me!”
He swallowed and blinked back tears. “One day at a time, honey,” he told her quietly. “That’s how it’s done.” He placed the drawing back on the table gently, and then laid down and closed his eyes. For the first time since being buried alive, he slept for six solid hours.
__________________________________________________________
Nick Stokes returned home 48 hours after being pulled out of the Plexiglas box that Walter Gordon had put him in. His parents stayed with him for a few days; once he was reasonably assured that his Pancho was going to be okay, Bill Stokes returned home, but his wife stayed. Nick’s friends and co-workers, especially Warrick, came by his town home bringing food, movies, games, and stories, as well as gossip and case files, to entertain him. He was grateful for this, because he did not want to be alone. But soon enough, he took and passed the department-required psychological evaluation, and his mother went home to Texas, and he went back to work.
In relatively short order he was able to convince everyone, even Grissom and Warrick, that he was okay. And he really was – although he was easily rattled when he first went back into the field, his optimism, his positive outlook on life had not changed. Day by day his conscious thoughts of Walter Gordon’s sinister voice, of the crawling and biting ants, of the cold steel of his gun pressed into his throat by his own hand, of dirt in his nostrils, and the claustrophobia that made sense only occasionally faded. Within six months his therapist told him that he should come back only if he felt he needed to. He had a good head on his shoulders, he’d made great strides, he’d worked through the worst of the trauma.
But this was only during waking hours. Nightmares had set in the first time he’d dared to close his eyes in the hospital, and not a day went by when he didn’t experience one. He discussed them with the therapist, before she released him, and had tried different ways of coping with them that ranged from sleeping pills, which made him feel groggy the next day, to writing down what he remembered so she could analyze them. She reassured him that these were a normal symptom of PTSD and that he needed to explore the nightmares to get past what was causing them. In the end, however, Nick gave up. He allowed the nightmares to come, allowed the haunting images to disturb his sleep, allowed them to wake him with a start or a yell in a cold sweat. Certainly, he was tired of the horror, but he was even more tired of fighting it.
That was not to say that he had found no relief at all. He did find some things that helped – mostly femmy things he’d never admit to anyone with a Y chromosome. The Sounds of the Rainforest CD had been given to him by Sara, new fabric softener on new, softer sheets by his mother. Pillows sprayed with frou-frou aromatherapy spray was Catherine’s suggestion and leaving a light on was his own ingenious thought. The combination of these, his therapy, and time was having its effect, and the nightmares gradually became less intense and less frequent, although they flared occasionally, usually when he was handed a tough case.
Regardless, sleep eluded him. A good night in the beginning was two hours. It improved to four, but no more, and eventually Nick simply adjusted. It was his nature.
In Pioche, investigating the McBrides, he knew no sleep would come.
Forced to split a two-bed motel room with two other men, he volunteered himself for the sofa. If he ultimately wasn’t going to sleep, it would be unfair of him to take the more comfortable bed from Greg or Warrick, both of whom had been sawing logs for three hours before Nick’s eyes drooped for the first time.
Muffled pounding and his own name woke him woke him little more than an hour later and even when he opened his eyes to the darkness he could see the source of it in his mind – Cassie’s little fists pounding on Plexiglas. He struggled to catch his breath and sat up.
“Nicky.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear the deep voice of his newly-married colleague.
He paused to control his tone before replying, “Yeah, Warrick.”
“You okay?”
He waited a moment again. He needed control. “Yeah . . . I’m fine.”
“You and me both know that’s bullshit.” He rose to find Nick a drink of water in the darkness. Greg was still asleep.
Nick received the water gratefully and drank it quickly. Warrick sat on the corner of his bed, facing Nick. “You’re still havin’ nightmares.”
Nick nodded, but wouldn’t meet Warrick’s eyes. There wasn’t any point arguing with Warrick; the man was too intuitive and observant – useful traits in a criminalist. “Yeah. This case ain’t helpin’ any.”
“You want me to find you somethin’ a little stronger?” asked Warrick, pointing to Nick’s glass.
He chuckled. “Nah. It never helps. Just makes me feel like hell in the morning.”
“You want the bed?”
Nick wanted to make a joke about sharing a bed with Warrick, but didn’t have the heart just then. “No,” he said instead. “Don’t worry about me, man. It’s
just this case. . . . It’s getting better.” This was not a lie.
“You still in therapy?” Nick nodded silently in the darkness. “That’s good, Nicky.”
“I’m okay, Warrick. Really. You should get some sleep.”
“Are you?”
“I’m gonna try, if you shut up.”
Warrick chuckled and patted Nick’s shoulder. “Okay.” He rose to climb back into bed. “You need anything, you let me know.”
“Will do.” Nick laid back down on the couch, actually feeling better for the few words he’d just exchanged with his friend. Greg snored loudly.
“That boy sounds like a diesel truck,” observed Warrick as he settled in.
Nick laughed and closed his eyes, but no more sleep came.
When he arrived home following this case, the picture that Cassie had drawn for him was placed on his bedside table, right over a photo of all of his nieces and nephews. After showering, he went to the lab to wrap up the report while Cassie’s narrative was still fresh in his mind. It took a while to get through it, and when he did he was pretty low. This was supposed to be the end of it for him, but he feared that once he got home and laid down, he’d see Cassie’s slashed throat, her parents’ drowned bodies, her little fists banging on Plexiglas again.
He’d found her, and she was alive, but she was scarred in more ways than one and she was an orphan. After he had said goodbye to Cassie in her hospital room, he spoke with Sheriff Brackett before catching up with his colleagues for the drive back to Las Vegas.
“What’s gonna happen to Cassie now?” he had asked, hopeful.
The sheriff spoke sadly. “The wife and I’ll take her in,” he replied. “She’s got no other family – grandparents are all gone and Jude and Nina were only children.” As Nick nodded in understanding, grateful that someone she knew would care for her, Brackett shook his head. “How do you folks deal with this
every day and still want to get up in the morning?”
Nick smiled sadly. “One day at a time, Sheriff,” he replied, and then headed to the Tahoe.
At home, in his bedroom, he picked up Cassie’s drawing again. He smiled at the lake and the house and her printing: “Thanks for finding me!”
He swallowed and blinked back tears. “One day at a time, honey,” he told her quietly. “That’s how it’s done.” He placed the drawing back on the table gently, and then laid down and closed his eyes. For the first time since being buried alive, he slept for six solid hours.
