1. No Hope

**Author's Note:** I know this a departure from my previous writings and is a bit dark but I promise it has happy outcome in the following chapters! SJ

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

Part I: No Hope

_The darkest hour in one's own heart_

_Is the moment of contemplation_

_From which this world to depart,_

_By thine own hand. What a wretched temptation!_

_- Sally Jetson_

He peers out into the darkening sky, noting the bleak weather that is heralding the end of autumn and the unwelcome approach of winter. In the few moments he has been standing in the shelter of the entryway of the building, the wind has risen to a fever pitch, sculpting the raindrops into what feel like tiny shards of glass. Not that he can feel them, he doesn't feel much these days, not even pain, just numbness, just an infinite black slate of numbness. He turns up his collar and huddles down in his coat as he crams his hands deep in his pockets. Certainly the weather can't make his exterior any colder than his interior, as he begins the nightly walk to his apartment, a daunting 40 blocks worth. But it is the only way he assures himself of any manner of sleep, by first, completely tiring himself out. The rain comes at him relentlessly, but it can't stop his thoughts. The same thoughts run compulsively through his mind at all hours of the day and night:

_3 months since the conversation, in which she broke my heart; _

_2 months and 6 days, since I last worked a case with her, at which time, she spoke to me only about the case;_

_6 weeks and 3 days since she moved to the night shift, why? I can only guess; _

_4 weeks and 5 days since I saw her face to face, albeit brief, the shock in her eyes at the chance encounter, shattered any hope I had of reaching her;_

_1 week and 6 days, since I had any glimpse of her at all; she looked fragile, exhausted and defeated._

The thoughts are always the same, the only thing that changes are the count of the days. The count, he can always recall with stunning accuracy while everything else in his life is a muddle. It takes all his energy and extreme concentration to make it successfully through a day of work.

Therefore it is utterly amazing, that he hears the tiny mewing sound at all, as he passes the darkened alley. **_Why_** he even ventures into the alley, in search of the source of the pitiful sound is beyond comprehension. **_How _**he fishes out the soaked and bedraggled kitten from under the dumpster is completely undignified, down on his hands and knees, in a puddle of cold and dank water. **_Where_** he is taking the kitten, as he wrestles it into the deep pocket of his coat, is crazy, because the panicked creature, spits, claws and hisses until he firmly wedges it in there, whereupon it changes its defensive tactics to deep throated growling and high pitched squealing. **_What_** will be the state of his bathroom in the morning, he wonders, as he cringes in response to every ripping, shredding, bumping and thunking sound emanating through the paper thin walls. **_When_** the noise finally plays out several hours later, he knows he has to rid himself of the unruly and ferocious beast.

He sits hunkered down, on a stoop, outside an apartment building, in the early morning mist, waiting and watching. The driving rain and howling wind have subsided from the night before, but the weather is still bitterly cold. When his eyes latch onto the figure he is seeking, he rises stiffly to block further movement. The eyes, that meet his, register no emotion whatsoever. They are blank and unseeing, merely visual tools that are no longer connected to a soul or a heart. Those connections have long since been severed and it tears at his heart; the only emotion he has felt in weeks. He unceremoniously shoves a shoebox, tied with string, at her chest. She looks at it in confusion. He presses it to her chest, in a wordless demand. She places a cold, deathly white hand at each end. He quickly brushes by, without a word, and walks away.

Now there is nothing to differentiate the days for him. The weather waxes and wanes, the cases come and go, the people chatter and chuckle all around him, but all of it is the same to him; vague and shadowy images randomly floating by, to which he has no connection, that hold no meaning for him, and that cannot penetrate the gray, murky gloom that encases his mind, body, heart and soul. He does only what he needs to do, in order to keep his job, but now he wonders why he even needs a job. He rarely eats, rarely sleeps, never goes out, therefore he doesn't need money. What he does need, crave, and desire, money can't buy and he knows there is no way he can ever have it, so he has long since ceased needing, craving and desiring. He is the proverbial ship without an anchor, a Romeo that has lost his Juliet. He is not tragedy in the works; he is the epitome of tragedy itself.

The cursed chant plays through his mind again, the one that defines who he is and what he will become from this night forward.

_4 months since the conversation, in which she broke my heart; _

_3 months and 6 days, since I last worked a case with her, at which time she spoke to me only about the case; _

_2 months, 2 weeks and 3 days since she moved to the night shift, why? I can only guess;_

_2 months and 5 days since I saw her face to face, albeit brief, the shock in her eyes at the chance encounter, shattered any hope I had of reaching her; _

_1 month, 1 week and 6 days, since I had any glimpse of her at all; she looked fragile, exhausted and defeated;_

_One month since I shoved that box at her and realized she was totally dead inside._

_Today I am totally dead inside. I may as well be dead outside._ _There is no hope!_

He knows he will find a peaceful haven at the bottom of the East River. He knows, from past family experience, how to fix it so that his body will never be found. He knows that where he is going, hope is not relevant, so that's where he wants to be.

He dresses in the most non-descript outfit he has, faded gray sweats. He walks to the door of his apartment and pauses to place each item that connects him, to the person who he used to be, on the table by the door: his keys, his wallet, his badge, his glasses and his phone, which he drops as if it were a burning ember, when it shrills loudly, once, and vibrates as if it is a live object, irate at being disturbed. The display illuminates and the id, of the caller, registers in his brain within a split second. It is the quickest reaction he has had to anything, within the past several weeks. A rock drops in his stomach sending a lump, the size of baseball, to lodge in his throat.

He sits on the couch, staring at the display, until the light fades away, but he can still see the caller's id on the back of his eyelids as he closes his eyes and tries to muddle his way to his next action. His consciousness cannot fathom the significance of the event; however, his subconscious, puppets his fingers through the motions of retrieving the accompanying text message.

The four words of the text message reiterate in his mind, replacing the cursed chant. He lies down on the couch and stares at the ceiling. The words of the new chant mimic the rhythm of the reflected lights, flickering on the ceiling, from the street lights below.


	2. Is There Hope?

**Author's Note:** Thank you to _**everyone**_ who read and commented on the first part of this piece. I know it is a very **touchy** and **tough** subject with the expression of depression and allusion to suicide, but it is a personal issue to me as well and sometimes the best way to deal with personal issues is to let them out by some means. I responded via PM to everyone who reviewed however and unfortunately, FF is on the fritz so you may not see those responses for days! **_DistractedlyHere,_** I especially want to respond to you, please email me (email found on my profile page) if you feel so inclined to hear from me. _Sincerely, SJ_

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

Part II: Is There Hope?

_What is the curse of one _

_Shall be the hope of another. _

_- Sally Jetson _

She stares at the box in her hands, but with utter lack of contemplation. Because for far too long, her brain has been on autopilot, doing only what she needs to do, to eek out the meager existence, which, she knows doesn't even begin to resemble a life. She is not kidding herself; she is not in denial; she just is. She doesn't even turn around, when he abruptly pushes by her and leaves. And she just lets him go, because she just does.

She wearily walks up the stairs to her apartment and drops the box on the couch, along with the rest of her stuff, plods to the bed, strips down to her bra and panties, crawls under the covers and pulls them over her head to block the gray morning light that only reveals all flaws in oneself and all the ugliness in life. The night and the dark have become her refuge. She turns her mind completely off, as she drifts off into a black, meaningless void.

Hours later, she emerges from her cocoon of nothingness to face the bleakness, if only momentarily, to stumble to the kitchen, in response to her body's demand for water. As she passes the couch, an unearthly wail sends a shiver down her spine. She glances at the couch, out of the corner of her eyes, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary, distractedly attributes the eerie sound to the wind slithering through the cracked caulking in between the window panes. Then a movement catches, in the periphery of her vision. She pauses and her head dully turns full-face toward the movement. The box suddenly lurches off the couch, thuds to the floor, shaking, growling, hissing and wailing, while her body visibly starts, her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes widen. Her heart beats rapidly and her breath comes in shallow gasps. This is the most feeling she has had in her almost-comatose body for weeks. And it actually hurts, as an out-of-shape athlete experiences that tell-tale burn during the first weeks of spring training. Her senses are so atrophied; she cannot process what is happening before her. With impetus, which comes from somewhere within, but she knows not where, she rounds the couch and crouches unsteadily beside the seemingly possessed box. It stills, momentarily. She reaches toward the knot, in the string, securely clamping the lid to the box and she flinches back as the box begins its devil dance and hair raising song once again. Realizing she needs more skill to accomplish this deceivingly simple task, than she feels capable of at this moment, she searches, with her hand, along the couch for her purse, while keeping her eyes trained on the box. Once again, the box stills in peaceful slumber, like an active volcano, which misleadingly rests, before its next spew. She locates her purse, drags it down beside her and rifles through it, until her fingers close around the cold, metal object she is seeking. She withdraws a small pair of scissors which cast a dull glint from the weak late afternoon light that has begun to cast dim shadows across the room. She opens the scissors and carefully slides one blade under the string near the knot and clamps down on the handles. She doesn't even realize she is holding her breath and closing her eyes until she hears the click of the scissors as it cuts the string. When her ears register no other sound, she slowly opens her eyes and allows her breath to cautiously escape through pursed lips. Her pale, trembling hands push the string aside and tentatively lift the lid.

_What the…_

All she sees, in the box, is a wadded up, old, gray t-shirt. This does not make sense to a brain that barely functions at night, much less in the daytime, when she normally sleeps away the hours. She gingerly lifts an edge of the t-shirt and abruptly falls backwards as a micro explosion of dingy gray fur and terrified hissing and spitting, careens wildly from the box into the leg of the coffee table, causing a momentary daze, before skittering recklessly across the bare wood floor, scrambling for any paw-hold that will allow the terrified creature to gain as much distance between her and it. When it manages to find the paw-hold, it so desperately seeks, it high-tails to a bookcase against the wall. There it frantically tries to squeeze itself between the wall and the back of the bookcase. She approaches cautiously to do _what_, she doesn't know, because it is evident that the frantic kitten will fight to the death at this point, in its petrified state. Just as she reaches for it, it manages to contract its frail, little body that one extra millimeter and disappears, into relative safety, behind the bookcase. She cranes her neck against the wall, to allow herself to catch a glimpse of the kitten, but her body is blocking the light and all is inky blackness within the kitten's haven. She crawls back to her purse on the floor, dumps the contents and paws through the items until she locates a small flashlight. She approaches the bookcase, from the other side this time, in order to catch a glimpse of the kitten's face as she shines the light into the narrow space. The light catches glittering eyes and another indignant tirade of violent hissing and spitting greet her, which eventually festers into ferocious growling, when she does not remove the light in a timely manner.

_Alright… you win… for now…_she sighs heavily. She has no time left. She must go to work. Besides the only way to gain the trust of a cornered, frightened creature is through patience!

She tosses the items, scattered on the floor, back into her purse in a jumbled mess and throws it onto the couch. She wearily walks to her bedroom to dress, reminding herself to grab clean clothes from the closet, instead of the ones left, in a heap, by the bed. She is vaguely aware, of executing the remainder of her routine, carelessly brushing her hair and teeth. Walking back into the living room, she is reminded once again of the pathetic creature, holed up behind her bookcase, as that eerie wail sounds again, in desperation and warning, as she passes by the bookcase. She searches through the kitchen cabinets for any morsel of nourishment that the obviously half-starved kitten might eat. The contents are sparse, but a can of tuna, she discovers, pushed far back into the cabinet, is the best bet. She quickly opens it and dumps it on a plate, as the fishy odor assails her nostrils. She places it near the bookcase along with a bowl of water. She quickly dumps the dirt from a long since dead, potted plant into the shoe box and sets it in a corner of the living room on the other side of the bookcase away from the food and water.

And thus, this becomes her routine for the next month: set out fresh food and water; clean the litter box; and search vainly for the tiny kitten, before and after her respite of the mindless void of her sleep which blocks her vision of the cold and heartless world. The only signs, of the almost ghost-like creature during this time, are the timely disappearance of the food and the neat mound of dirt in the litter box each morning, when she returns from work.

The morning that she returns from the most heart-wrenching case she has ever worked, she mindlessly throws her stuff to the couch and walks by the empty food and water dishes, on her way, to bury herself completely in the only thing that gives her refuge, her mindless sleep. She unclips her cell, carelessly tosses it on the nightstand and drops her clothes in a heap to the floor. But as she wearily climbs into bed, she knows that today is different. Today, she doesn't know what has happened, but something has broken in her heart and the feelings, which she can no longer contain, seep and simmer into her consciousness. Her tears begin as a trickle then metamorphose into a cleansing torrent that wipes away all the numbness and leaves in its traumatic wake, an intense pain that barely leaves her able to breathe. And when the moon rises, in full face, twelve hours later, the stillness, of her night off, is overwhelming as she realizes she is completely alone with the intense pain that ebbs and flows, relentless as the ocean waves against the shore line. She closes her eyes in another futile attempt to block the pain, when she feels a touch, as light as a feather, brush along her cheek. It is a touch that renders a feeling of such sweetness and longing in her heart, that she cannot help but feel a glimmer of hope that there _**is**_ a way through this pain. As a tiny purr begins to reverberate against her chest, she realizes that connection, to another living being, _**is **_the way through this pain. Hope settles in her heart as she gropes along the nightstand for her phone and sends a text message of four little words.

**_YOU ARE MY HOPE! _**


	3. There Is Hope!

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

Part III: There is Hope!

_What a sincere 'touch' can evoke in a human being _

_Is worth the risk of rendering such a 'touch' _

_- Sally Jetson _

**_YOU ARE MY HOPE! _**

The four words of the text message reiterate in his mind, replacing the cursed chant. He lies down on the couch and stares at the ceiling. The words of the new chant mimic the rhythm of the reflected lights, flickering on the ceiling, from the street lights below.

As the rhythm of the new chant hammers away at the wall of numbness that surrounds him, each repetition removes a brick of bleakness and desolation until one thought, then a feeling, then another and another finally slips through, crashing down the remainder of the wall. The thoughts and feelings tear through his mind and heart like a wildfire on a parched, dry prairie. He doesn't know which feeling and which thought is _right…_ or _real…_ or _true._ His heart _wants_ to feel it, the tentative hope and joy, but his mind still denies it, when he remembers the deadened look in her eyes, the deadened look that had finally cast his heart into stone and obliterated his hope. Her deadened look swirls through his mind's eye like a nightmare. How does she look now? Then it becomes clear to him what he must do. He must look into her eyes and judge for himself, judge for himself whether he has the nerve to hope.

But he must physically get to her first. _Where is she?_ He hurriedly punches in a text message, unable to trust his emotions in hearing her voice just yet.

**_WHERE ARE YOU?_**

He quickly changes his clothes and gathers his keys, wallet and glasses replacing them on his person, returning himself, somewhat, to his former identity. He paces to expend the angst that is building in him, while awaiting her reply. The anticipated beep sends a tiny arrow of doubt into his heart, because his mind is still reeling from the abrupt change of events. His breath stills in his throat as her reply niggles its way into his consciousness.

**_HOME… PLEASE COME _**

He rushes out the door and down the steps. The night is cold, the wind is still but the moon is full and bright, guiding his footsteps to her door, where soon all will be revealed to him, whether there really is hope.

----------------------------------------------------

While she awaits any communication from him, her new found source of hope, her breath and her heart struggle against each other as one sticks in her throat while the other tries to pound its way into her throat. Maybe there isn't hope; maybe she is kidding herself; maybe she has already dashed her hope with the heartless actions of the past several months. Her actions were _heartless_, because she could not… would not… feel _her heart_ or _his heart_… reaching out to her. The angst is overwhelming and paralyzing.

Then the beep heralds a message that will destine her future to either continued heartache and misery, or genuine hope and healing. The three words, displayed on the screen, release the angst of the unknown from her body and mind. After she keys in her reply, her eyes close momentarily, her hands cross over her chest, the phone slips from her grasp as it relaxes and her breath and heart become allies once again.

Finally in a dreamlike state, she rises, dresses in something clean, from her closet, splashes cold water on her face and brushes her hair and teeth with an attendance that reflects the lift in her spirits. She waits in the living room, gazing out at the full moon, soaking its iridescent beams into her being.

The knock at her door is not loud and abrupt, but gentle and beckoning, reassuring her to place her trust in what lies just beyond. Can she really do it? Can she be _courageous enough_, to be _vulnerable enough_, to claim happiness for herself and enable it in another? She will only know the answer to that question when she sees his eyes. His eyes will tell her the outcome of her fate.

She opens the door slowly and meets his piercing blue eyes with her own soulful, doe-brown ones. He looks the same, with his sandy brown hair cropped close to his head and that handsome scraggle around his lips and chin, the glasses that can never dim the intensity of eyes, and the taut muscles that, even when relaxed, look poised for action at a moment's notice. And yet he looks different, as he gazes at her, with the question in his eyes that she longs to answer for him and confirm for herself.

He sees her as someone he once knew, before the light went out of her eyes. The light is present once again, reflecting the connection to her heart and soul, while her hair curves playfully around her face which ends at her chin that sports the characteristic cleft. Her petite body never looks frailer than it does at this moment, but he knows the strength which lies within.

He has met her halfway by coming to her threshold, with little more than a whisper from her and it is her turn to close the remaining distance between them physically, mentally and emotionally. Holding his questioning eyes, with her own beckoning ones, she pulls him into her apartment gently, by clasping one of his strong hands in one of her own soft, delicate ones. The sensation that tingles through their bodies is immediate upon the skin to skin contact and his breath quickens as her skin warms with a soft flush. He stares down at her as she looks steadily up at him, neither one still quite comprehending what is passing between them. And with her other hand she returns the touch that caused the glimmer of hope in her own being not more than an hour ago, as she lightly brushes her fingertips across his cheek, igniting the same sweetness and longing in his heart that she now feels in her own. His eyes close in blissful ecstasy, as his forehead leans against hers and he purses his lips against her fingers which have stalled upon his lips. The hands clasping at their sides, intertwine and he brings them to rest upon chest, over his heart. She can feel his breath upon her cheek and his nostrils are filled with her sweet fragrance. He wants to gather her into his arms in fierce joy but he knows that even though the connection has been made the path is newly laid; therefore he needs to let it be traveled slowly, with patience and understanding. But at least, **There is Hope!**

**Author's Note: **Whew... not sure if there is going to be an update to this or not... it takes a lot of emotion to write this piece even though I quite enjoy it. Please let me know what you think! _SJ_


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