Title: Smoke and Mirrors
Author: Knightmusic Rating: R
Pairing: see author's notes
Challenge: in response to slow_mo_panda's request for someone to write her a Grissom Gas Chamber Fic.
Summary: Abducted and held in a strange prison, Gil Grissom has to find a way to outsmart his mysterious captor. But he's running out of time, and the air itself is slowly turning to poison.
Author's Note/Warnings: Okay, about the pairing. This is VERY Grissom-centric. The only characters for most of it are him and his abductor, so this story is mostly Gen, with a very lightly pre-slash ending. I wanted this piece to be a complete fic in and of itself, and trying to add slash after all the drama had played out just really doesn't work. So, I'm working on the companion piece which WILL be slashy. Don't want to give away the pairing, though.
As far as warnings....much Gil!owwie ahead, but mostly a hurt/comfort fic. Keep in mind the thing about me and happy endings....;)
Muchos gracias, Mille Grazie, Vielen Dank, and many, many thanks to laurelgardner and faeryfroggy for being betas.
Disclaimer: Wouldn't it be cool if I really WAS Anthony Zuiker or Jerry Bruckheimer? And I was hiding out on LJ communities, reading and writing fic, and finding out what the fans really thought of the show? And taking some of the slashy vibes and making them canon? Wouldn't that be cool? Yeah, well, I'm not.
EDIT: Thought I should make something a little clearer: This is NOT a death fic. Those just aren't my cup of tea.

Grissom's head hurt.

A screaming, ripping, biting, yellow pain started behind his eyes and didn't seem to understand that it was supposed to be merely a headache, was paralyzing his entire body. He groaned, almost felt like crying, because to get to his migraine medication, he would have to get up. He'd rather be unconscious. Oh, and the back of his right arm hurt like a bitch. For a while, he lay there, hoping he could just fall back to sleep and wake up when he felt better.

But something felt wrong. He wasn't used to this sense of disorientation upon waking; he wasn't used to waking up anywhere other than his own bed. But something wasn't right, and he couldn't quite place it. All he had was this vague, desperate sense of confusion because he was lying on something cold and hard that definitely was not his bed.

Despite the nagging suspicion that it would make things spectacularly worse to do so, he opened his eyes and sat up.

It was pitch black. Not the kind of dark you get in a bedroom at night, but darkroom black. Cave black. No light at all; his eyes wouldn't acclimate. Out of curiosity, he raised his hand and determined that he couldn't see it in front of his face.

Where the hell was he? He tried to remember what had happened last, but between the disorientation and the pain, he couldn't persuade his memory to process.

"I'm glad to see you're awake," a voice said suddenly, and Gil jumped, scooting back and hitting the wall. Futilely, he turned his head, trying to find the source of the sound. "I feared I had miscalculated the dosage I gave you."

Dosage?

His arm. He reached back and touched the place that ached. There was a welt; like he'd been stung. Or injected. Knocked unconscious.

He didn't remember it happening. He'd come home, dropped his keys on the table….and then…? Someone had gotten into his house. Someone had gotten that close to him without him noticing. He felt suddenly queasy.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You‘re my guest," the voice answered.

He grimaced at that and felt around him in the dark. The wall and floor were cold and hard, and just the slightest bit slick; like polished stone. He stood up, running his hands along the wall for balance. His shoes clicked on the floor, but there was no echo. He stopped and clapped his hands. Nothing.

Only small rooms were that dead. And even though size was not, in its very nature, a malevolent attribute, at the moment he couldn't think of many wholesome uses for small, confined spaces.

But he tried not to think about that. Action was a better choice than fretting. But even though he could make himself move and start feeling his way around in the dark, he couldn't stop the tight, clenching, twisting feeling in his stomach. He could try to ignore it. At best, he could act in spite of it.

"How are you feeling?" said the voice. It was male, and Gil almost recognized the timbre, but he couldn't place why. Another thing to feel nervous about.

Visions of Poe - pendulums, living entombment, pits in the darkness - played out in the empty darkness before him.

"I have a headache," he said, guardedly.

"Ah, I thought you might," the voice said, sounding genuinely regretful. "I am sorry about that."

After a few steps, his foot struck something on the floor and he jumped in surprise, breath catching and heart accelerating, before realizing that he recognized the sound the object made as it fell over. He crouched down and put out a hand; searching and then finding. It was a plastic bottle.

"That water should help."

Gil passed the bottle back and forth between his hands, chewing on his lower lip in consternation. He was on the verge of asking how his host could know what he was doing in here, but the voice kept speaking.

"You needn't be so worried," the voice said, tinged with amusement. "It's perfectly safe."

Gil opened the bottle, hearing and feeling the safety seal being broken. First the sound and then the smell told him it was water. That didn't mean it hadn't been tampered with.

But he was so thirsty. He took a small sip. It wasn't like he had a choice in trusting his captor's words.

"If you are to die in here, it won't be because of what's in that bottle."

He almost spat it out anyway.

It wasn't as though the thought hadn't occurred to him already. More than that; it had been distracting him, an unacknowledged but persistent thought, since he had woken. Hearing his fear spoken aloud drove it home in a sudden, violent gesture. The rank, tongue-swelling taste of bile tickled the back of his throat.

"If I die in here?" he asked, making sure his voice stayed steady.

"Well, that will depend on you," the voice said. "I would be…most impressed if you managed to find your way out of here."

"Who are you?" Gil asked.

He heard the voice hum in amusement. "I am a ghost, Mr. Grissom," he said. "I am the wind. Form without substance. Unless I choose to be substance without form."

Gil frowned, wondering if there was supposed to be meaning in that, or if it was just mindless rambling.

"Perhaps I'll leave you to explore your quarters," he continued. "We'll speak again, soon." There was a click, like the sound of an intercom turning off. And all of a sudden the room went from black to white. Gil ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut in surprise and pain. The light was nearly as debilitating as the darkness had been.

Eventually the screaming whiteness dulled and he opened his eyes. It was not what he had been expecting.

He was in a hexagonal chamber. The walls and floor were not any kind of polished stone; they were mirrors. In the center, stretching up to the ceiling was a large, bronze tree. Thoughts of Poe melted, but he recognized what he was looking at.

"The equatorial forest," Grissom muttered.

And certainly, the effect of the tree being reflected infinite times in the mirrors did create an optical illusion of standing in a kind of forest. He was in a replica, albeit on a smaller scale, of the Opera Ghost's torture chamber from Leroux's novel. A deliberate architectural choice, but a confusing one.

He turned to the walls. Each of the six mirrored panels were smooth, and he while he could see joints between them, there were no hinges or locks or anything to suggest a door. He tested each with his fingers, knuckles and palms. All made the same dead, thick thumping sound. It was impossible to tell if there was empty air behind them, or something more impenetrable like brick or even dirt. All he could tell was that they were thick. He had no chance of breaking through.

He looked up at the ceiling. In contrast to the walls and floor, it was made of glass, reinforced by strips of metal. In the center was a trap door at the end of an inverted chute. Through the glass, he could see the sturdy bolts fastening the chute to ceiling, and beyond that the heavy chains and bolts holding the trapdoor closed. Presumably, that was how he had been brought into the chamber.

He put a hand to his lips, thinking, and realized that he was sweating. When had it gotten so hot? The lights in the ceiling were mercilessly bright; he couldn't look directly at them. They must be giving off tremendous heat as well. He shrugged his jacket off, but it didn't help matters much.

Feeling a dangerous, warning sense of foreboding, he stepped up to the tree, walking around it. He found what he was looking for.

One of the sturdiest branches stuck out level about two feet over his head. Sitting, coiled, on the branch, waiting to be useful, was a noose. For an instant, Grissom felt very cold, in spite of the heat. He was being given a way to take his own life. The implication being that something worse would happen if he didn't.

He shook his head, looking away, clearing the image and the thought. And his eyes caught something on the floor near the base of the tree. A square panel, about a foot on each side. He touched it, and felt a spring release. It popped open. Inside were two carved bronze figures, each small enough to fit in his palm. One was a scorpion, the other a grasshopper. Each sat on a pedestal and looked as though they could be turned like the knobs on a faucet.

"Ah! You found them! I thought you might prove to be so clever!"

Grissom hated being startled, but sudden, loud exclamations from a disembodied voice could hardly produce any other response. He looked up and around, trying to find out where the voice might be coming from. And how the speaker seemed to know so much about what he was doing in here.

The first was easy. At the top of one of the panels he saw a speaker. An intercom, then. He kept looking and finally saw something else through the glass of the ceiling. High above him, in the dark, was a steady red light. From a camera, perhaps?

"And what is your answer, Mr. Grissom?" the voice continued.

Gil frowned. "How can I answer if I don't know the question?" he asked.

"Oh, it's a very simple question. Do you want to live, or die?"

Grissom's eyes went wide. He started to speak, but was interrupted.

"Allow me to explain," the voice said. "Turn the grasshopper and everything ends. All the fear, the uncertainty that you're feeling right now as you wonder what's going to happen to you, it will all be over. Quickly. I promise it will be painless."

Gil swallowed, with difficulty, and tried to suppress a shudder.

"On the other hand," the voice continued. "You can turn the scorpion. You will stay alive, and pit your wits against my creation. If you are as clever as your reputation suggests, you'll find your way out of this little puzzle-box. If you're not, however…" he trailed off and allowed a pregnant, meaningful pause.

"There will be…repercussions, of course."

That was hardly a choice. And frankly, he didn't like either option.

"But you must choose, Mr. Grissom, and choose quickly," the voice said, sternly. "If you don't, I will choose for you." Underneath the words, Gil heard the start of a faint hissing sound. He looked around and noticed tiny ventilation holes along the perimeter of the floor.

"And just so you can make an informed decision," it sounded like the speaker was smiling. Gil thought it must be an unpleasant smile. "I'll give you a demonstration of what I'm capable of."

Smoke was filling the chamber. And if the smell was an indication, it was probably more than smoke; likely gas as well. All the worry and fear he'd been carefully managing since he woke up turned into full-blown terror.

"If you are to die in here…"

It didn't take long for the smoke to fill the chamber. He could still see, but at the rate his eyes were watering he probably wouldn't be able to for very long. He started to cough, and then doubled over, dizziness taking hold as his vision faded.

* * *

This time when he woke, his headache had dulled, and in its place he felt dizzy and nauseous. He closed his eyes again - "up" and "down" suddenly seemed like very arbitrary delineations - and tried to restore his equilibrium. He tried to stand up, but the room pitched to one side when he moved and threw him back to the floor. Falling knocked the wind out of him, and he lay gasping for a few seconds.

Gil rose again, more carefully this time; resting on his knees first, then pulling himself up with one hand on the tree. The dizziness was fading, but the refracted images he saw in the mirrors every time he looked up nearly negated what recovery he was making. He kept his eyes trained on the base of the tree instead.

The base of the tree. Where the scorpion and the grasshopper lay waiting for him. The gas had been a show of power; meant to prove to him that his life was wholly in another's hands. So why the meaningless props? If he wanted Grissom dead, and obviously had the power to do so, why not just kill him?

Because maybe his death wasn't the objective. Maybe what this guy wanted was the show. The suffering. And he wants me to choose the suffering, Grissom realized.

He wondered how much time he had before his captor would demand his choice. There wasn't much of a choice to be made; he wouldn't give up his own life without a fight. But if he could avoid the start of whatever games lay in store for him, he would prefer it.

He leaned against the tree, closing his eyes and trying to make sense of this. He wanted to believe that this wasn't real. Wasn't happening. Couldn't happen.

It didn't matter how many cases he'd worked, how many victims he'd discovered or how many times he'd seen what humans were capable of doing to each other. He knew that no one was ever really safe; that there were people out there against whom there was no protection. If someone wanted to get you, odds were disturbingly high that you'd be gotten.

But even with that cold knowledge born of his profession, part of him still believed, in an unacknowledged, untested way, that these things happened to other people. Victims were the ones he was supposed to help. He was not supposed to be counted among their ranks.

He wondered who would be investigating his case. He wondered if anyone even knew he was missing yet. How long had he been in here? He had no way to gauge. His personal affects had been taken, including his watch.

How long before he got hungry? He'd eaten on his way home, so that bought him some time. His captor had provided water once, would he provide food? Or would he starve to death in here?

He could be a DB in a few days. A 419. CSI's called to the scene. If they ever found the scene.

For his own sake, he hoped that one of his team would handle it. If anyone was going to get that close, he wished it would be Catherine, or maybe Warrick.

But for the sakes of everyone on his team, he hoped that someone from Ecklie's team handled it.

The morbid thoughts were making him sick. He was going to find a way out of this.

As he straightened up, he noticed something out of place on the tree trunk. In the midst of the curling bronze loops and keys was a white button about the size of a nickel. He pressed it. He heard the sound, from far away, of a doorbell.

"I'm terribly sorry," the voice startled him. "I should have warned you about that doorbell." Gil frowned in puzzlement.

"I hope you haven't been trying to get my attention for long," the voice continued. "It's a capricious little thing. Trouble with the wiring." His tone was smug, implying something. It took Gil a second, but he caught the reference.

"Hmm," Grissom said, smiling even though he didn't feel particularly jovial. "Sartre," he said. "No Exit. I'm surprised you didn't choose Second Empire furnishings instead of this," he tapped the tree.

"I had my reasons for choosing it," the voice said. "What do you think of my design, Mr. Grissom? I built it solely for you."

"It has its flaws," Grissom said. "And I intend to find them."

"By all means try!" the voice sounded genuinely please. "I would very much like to see who wins."

"So this is a game to you?" Gil said with equal parts horror and disdain.

"Isn't everything a game?" the voice laughed.

"I'll bear that in mind," Gil said, grimly. "Is there any chance you'll give me your name?" he asked.

There was laughter, soft and almost pleasant. "I think that would be most unwise of me," he said. "And as a matter of fact, you already have my name. Although you've forgotten that I belong to it."

Gil froze. "We've met before?" The voice was familiar…

"I wondered if I had failed somehow. You saw the truth when everyone else saw only the lie. My greatest lie. Did I tip my hand, somehow? Or is it just impossible to fool you. Tell me, Mr. Grissom, how often do you meet someone who can outsmart you?"

Gil paused, considering his answer. "I'm not infallible," he said, finally.

The voice laughed. "No, indeed you're not!"

Gil was thinking hard. He met so many people, many of whom were perfectly capable of locking another person in a torture chamber. He tried not to think of the things he had seen. But his memory, that often served him so well in producing details and pieces of evidence, served up every ghastly, gruesome case he'd ever seen.

"You'll have to excuse me, then," Gil said, his tone belying the thoughts in his head. "I have a good memory for faces, but not voices, I'm afraid."

"I can assure you that I've taken no offence," the voice said. "Identity can be so fluid, anyway. I'm sure it will come to you, in time."

"For now," he continued. "Perhaps you could call me Erik. I've always felt a particular affinity with that name."

Gil cast a pointed, meaningful look at the tree and the walls of his prison. "I can't imagine why," he said, dryly.

"Well, if that is too overt for your taste, perhaps something with more anonymity? How does Mr. White suit you?" he asked.

"Why am I here, Erik?" Gil asked.

"The way it ends, Mr. Grissom," Erik answered. "'Not with a bang, but with a whimper.' Do I have your answer yet? Or shall I choose the grasshopper for you?"

Gil stared down at the figures in the floor panel. "Why would you think I'd choose death?" he asked.

Erik hummed, genially. "It seemed only fair to give you the option."

Grissom snorted. "It's hardly a choice, and you know it." But nevertheless, he bent down and reached into the alcove. There was no reason to believe that Erik could be trusted. It was quite possible that turning the scorpion would be the thing that killed him.

He hesitated.

"Hurry, Mr. Grissom!" Erik laughed. "I'll make your choice for you!" And Gil heard the tell-tale sounds of the gas vents opening. "What will it be? Quickly!"

Grissom turned the scorpion.

Erik laughed. "And it begins!" he yelled. But the gas didn't stop. It rolled in faster, and Grissom's heart raced in panic.

"Erik!" Gil yelled, but the intercom shut off, and foul-smelling smoke filled the chamber.

* * *

Gil woke up coughing. He rolled onto his side, coughing furiously enough that he could feel how raw his throat was becoming. It seemed as though he'd never stop: that each attack made him feel worse instead of better and he would never again be able to inhale or exhale comfortably.

He lay there, utterly helpless, as rasping, retching, grating cough after cough tore itself out of him, robbing him of breath and forcing tears from his itchy, watery eyes. Intermittently, he would gain control long enough to take a few shaky breaths, but those only served to trigger further irritation to his lungs and set him off again. All he could do was wait it out, sobbing involuntarily.

Eventually the fit subsided, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes and gasping brokenly for his breath back. His chest and throat ached and tickled warningly. He inhaled shallowly, trying to avoid tripping another spell.

Next to him was a fresh bottle of water, and he was far too grateful for it to wonder at why it was there in the first place. One more thing to make him uncomfortable hardly seemed to matter at this point. More reason to find a way out of here as soon as possible.

He leaned against a wall, trying to think, and staring at his own reflections in the mirrors. He looked terrible. If he was going to be completely honest, he looked like death. He was flushed from the heat of the lights, eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, posture sagging and broken. He didn't look like he had the energy to stand, and he didn't feel like it either.

He closed his eyes, weary of staring at this twisted, literary amalgamation. The Phantom's torture chamber and Sartre's prison of Hell. Oh, and an execution room worthy of Poe.

Maybe someone would find him. If anyone could, it would be his colleagues. His friends. They must be looking now. The rumbling in his stomach told him he'd been in here for longer than it felt like.

But most likely no one would ever know what had happened to him. He'd be another missing person: a face on the news for a while, and then he would disappear completely. The world would go on with his name on a cold case file, and he would be here forever. Alone with his reflections.

He eyed the gas vents warily. Would he have any warning before they opened up again? How many doses would it take before he reached a lethal exposure? Was this all "Erik" had in store for him?

It bothered him that he couldn't recognize Erik's voice. That they apparently knew each other did not sit well in Grissom's mind, either. Somehow, he doubted Erik was a fellow entymologist. He'd never had suspects or perps decide to target him after an investigation, but he knew it wasn't unheard of.

Grissom had, presumably, outsmarted his man once, and now he wanted to even the score. But in order for that to be fair, for Erik to know he had won, there would have to be a legitimate way out, wouldn't there?

Not necessarily. This could all be about revenge. But he would lose nothing by looking anyway. He'd eliminated all physical means of freeing himself. Now he had to be smarter than his captor; put together the clues that Erik had left for him. He thought hard, but couldn't remember how the escape from the Opera Ghost's torture chamber had been managed. He thought it had something to do with a hidden switch.

Well, that was something to look for. He started with the tree. The branches had felt solid enough, but he banged on the trunk and some of the lower hanging branches. It sounded thick and solid. He sighed. And his eyes were watering again. There was no smoke this time, no hiss of open vents, so most likely this was still in reaction to his first exposure.

Somehow, he didn't think it would be the last. Whatever it was, being powerful enough to knock him out, it could possibly kill him, given enough time. He had to find the way out of here. If he didn't…

"If you are to die in here…"

Grissom shuddered. If he didn't find the way out, the only way he would ever leave would be on his way to Al Robbins's table. He felt sick - tongue swelling and throat constricting - at the thought. But it wasn't the thought of his death that distressed him the most.

Albert would have a friend on his slab. Would probably have to do an autopsy. He tried to stop himself from imagining it, but looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror, and suddenly he couldn't see anything else. He blinked at himself, trying to destroy the image, but it got stronger.

His body lying on a table in that so familiar room.

He'd been there too many times, been to too many Posts with Robbins, asked the questions himself that someone would have to ask about him. "Cause of death?" "I sent a sample of his blood to tox." "No defensive wounds."

He closed his eyes, trying to make the thought go away. He needed to be here, focusing on what was actually happening, not imagining something that he might well avoid. He fought; tried to force his brain to look at the walls, the tree, to find the way out, but a malicious, morbid part of him kept pulling him back.

This would end for him, one way or another. He was running on borrowed time, and even though there was no clock in this room, not even his own watch, he could hear the seconds ticking away as loudly as if he had a timepiece pressed against his ear. And while he didn't expect that the world would stop for anyone if the worst happened to him, but he knew that, for a few people, it would be a blow.

For the victims, no matter how horrific their ordeal had been, by the time he saw them - most of them - it was over. Forever. For their friends and families, the nightmare was just beginning. He didn't want to put anyone through that. And he knew Catherine wouldn't stay away, wouldn't let someone else do the job. She'd get involved, she'd find out what happened to him.

He remembered what losing Eddie had done to her. He'd never wanted her to feel that way again, and he refused to be the cause it, not for her, not for Al, not for anyone else in his lab-

-or his mother.

If he didn't get out of here, someone would have to tell his mother. That thought chilled him as thoroughly as if he'd been submerged in ice water. He knew what that did to a person. It didn't matter that he was an adult, autonomous and not as good about visiting as he should be; losing a child was losing a child.

His mother had never cried often, not where he could see it, but he knew what it looked like. And he hated that face. It made him sick to imagine it.

He would find a way out of here. The alternatives were unacceptable.

He tried to stand up, to look again for the piece he had missed, but the motion prompted another coughing fit and he sank back down to the floor by the base of the tree. His eyes, when he could keep them open, were so blurred with tears that he could barely focus, and he was becoming so very tired.

He leaned against the tree, feeling as though every breath was a battle, and finally gave in to the weariness.

* * *

This time, when Gil woke up, he wished he hadn't. His skin tingled all over, and he wasn't immediately sure whether he was lying on his stomach or his back. It felt like the world was sliding past him: like he was falling. He opened his eyes and the moving sensations ceased abruptly, causing a sudden, shuddering sense of motion-sickness. He closed his eyes again and curled up on his side. He never wanted to move again.

It was so quiet in the room.

When his hearing had begun to fail, he'd feared silence; feared that sense of emptiness and aloneness in the blank, isolated world that waited for him. During that time, the words of John Cage to, "GET THEE TO AN AN-ECHOIC CHAMBER AND HEAR THEE THERE THY HEART AND LUNGS," had been reminded to him. The idea that, as long as you were alive, true silence could not exist.

In a few hours there would be true silence in this chamber.

He was afraid. For the first time since he had realized where he was, he was genuinely frightened.

"Erik?" he called. His throat hurt and his voice was evidence of it. There was no answer. He considered trying the doorbell again, and wondered what it meant that he wanted to talk to Erik again. Anything would be better than this still, empty, lonely feeling.

He curled himself tighter and tried to find the strength to get up and fight his way out of here. He'd refused the option of killing himself actively, and he sure as hell wasn't going to sit and let it happen passively. He was smarter than this. The pieces were there, and he could put them together. He had to.

But even as he insisted to himself, defeat and despair prowled in his heart. He didn't need to stand to examine this room again. He knew all of it now. There wasn't much to know. Whatever puzzle this was, the solution was eluding him, and he couldn't find the will to keep looking for it.

"If you are to die in here…"

Perhaps death wouldn't be so bad. If he kept losing consciousness, presumably all that would happen is that one of these times he wouldn't wake up again. He'd certainly seen far worse ways to die. This might be…peaceful.

If it ended here.

His mind free-associated of its own accord. He tried to call it back, focus it, direct it, but to no avail. It played out a fully realized depiction of what the rest of his life might well look like.

Right now he was tired and miserable. He felt sick, hungry but too nauseous to even want to eat, his eyes were on fire, his lungs burned, and his throat bled. But he was still whole and healthy. What else might happen? Physical torture? Dismemberment? That wasn't what he feared. There were worse things one could do than mutilate the body.

He feared the destruction of his mind.

He could feel it starting already; see it on his face when he looked in the mirror. His own eyes frightened him. He didn't have much hope left, and he could see it. His mind felt dull and thick, like a heavy, unwieldy tool. Everything was breaking; all his strengths, his abilities. And fear, despair, and anguish were taking over.

Hell had no mirrors. That probably would have been a blessing.

Something cold and wet ran down his jaw and over his neck. He hadn't even realized that he was crying. He rolled onto his back, slowly, giving his body time to adjust to the change.

If he'd been standing, he would have jumped in surprise.

On the ceiling of the chamber was a man. He was sitting on the inverted trap-door chute and watching Gil intently. He was dressed in black and white formal wear with a broad brimmed black hat. His face was shadowed.

"'And now doth which I would not have it do,'" the man said. "'Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.'"

Gil wiped his eyes, not so much ashamed of being caught crying as angry at the mockery. He sat up, slowly, leaning against the wall to look up at Erik.

"What do you want, Erik?" he said the name as much with ironic vehemence as he could muster. It wasn't much. "The costumes, the set, the props, why all the nonsense? If you want me dead, why not just kill me?" He didn't have the strength to shout, and just tried to keep his voice from breaking.

"Because all the world's a stage," Erik said. "And life needs its theatrical accouterments. For it ‘struts and frets its hour-'"

"Yes," Gil said, closing his eyes, too tired to be irritated. "I know how it goes. So this is all for your own entertainment?"

"Perception is a marvelous thing, isn't it?" Erik said, standing and pacing over the ceiling. "The way I look to you, the way you look to me, the way this room looks to both of us. We see the same things, but which of us sees the truth?"

Gil closed his eyes. He could no longer tell when Erik was posing a genuine riddle and when he was simply rambling.

"How does the world look to a madman?" Gil asked.

Erik laughed. "Now, you see! You're starting to understand!"

"You have a remarkable mind, Gil Grissom," he continued. "Such a shame that it's at the mercy of your body and perceptions. We would have made great friends, you and I."

"Let me go, Erik," Gil whispered. He would beg, he knew it. If he had to; if he thought it would get him out of here; he would do it.

"You're a prisoner of your own mind, Mr. Grissom. I cannot liberate you from there."

"Please," Gil said, so softly he barely heard it himself. He did hear the soft swish of fabric moving through the air. He looked up; Erik had removed his hat. Without the shadow across his face, Gil could see the white half-mask he wore. A masquerade mask, covering his face from nose to forehead.

"Look," Erik said, and reached up to remove the mask. "If you can see."

He pulled the mask away and Gil looked upon the face of his captor. He couldn't say that he recognized him. The features looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place a name to them.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Erik crouched down. "That is the key," he said, and dropped the mask. He turned then and left.

Gil stared at the ceiling, feeling more confused and lost than ever. The answer was there, so close he should be able to reach out and grab it, but the more he chased the further it danced away.

Erik's mask looked down at him, watching his struggle. That too seemed awfully familiar. He tried to tell himself that of course it did, it's a recognizable costume piece, but something in his mind insisted that there was more that he was missing.

Erik's last words echoed in his mind; "That is the key." What was he supposed to garner from that? Would he be trapped in here until he unraveled "Erik's" true identity? Was that the riddle? Then, presumably, there were clues to lead him to that answer. He stared at the mask, the tree, the mirrored walls…

Suddenly his eyes went wide.

"Mr. White," he whispered, remember the alternate name Erik had given him. "Mr. White! Erik White!" He looked around him, really looked at it for the first time since he had woken up and tried to see it for what it was and not what literary icons it resembled.

"Erik White," he whispered again, feeling like all kinds of a fool. He'd heard the name and referenced the wrong Erik. "Ehrich Weiss," he whispered. Ehrich Weiss, who later became Harry Houdini, among whose most famous tricks, had been the escape from the milk-can.

He wasn't in a torture-chamber, he was in a magic trick.

His eyes snapped open and fixed on the mask as another connection impacted his brain. "I am a ghost, Mr. Grissom, I am the wind." The wind, the masquerade mask. Again, the answer had been plainly visible.

Zephyr.

Illusion and misdirection, all of it. All the literary references, all the visual clues, all had been put there to distract him from the truth. And he had fallen for it. He'd been the entertainment and the audience for Zephyr's latest trick.

He tried to stand up, ready to look at this puzzle with fresh eyes, but started to gray out the minute he moved. When he eventually made it to his feet, he stood still for several seconds, bracing himself against the tree. He was shaking and he barely had the strength to stand, but he forced himself to stay upright.

He'd read about Houdini's tricks, and he knew how the milk can worked. The bolts and locks were meant to misdirect. They were a way of making observers think the prison was secure. He looked up at the ceiling.

Feeling shaky and weak, but riding adrenaline, he grabbed a branch and started to climb the tree.

He didn't get very far before another coughing fit nearly knocked him back down. He clung tightly to the branch, gasping for breath and riding the attack out. His eyes were watering again, and he relied on his hands to tell him where to go.

He reached the top of the chute and heard the hiss of the gas vents opening again. In the state he was in, he wouldn't have much time before he passed out again, and this time if the gas didn't kill him, the fall probably would. But he wasn't turning back.

Now that he knew what to look for, he was amazed that he hadn't seen it earlier. The double panes of glass lay tightly against each other, pressure keeping them in place since the bolts, he confirmed with a glance, were frauds. They didn't penetrate the layers; they were there for show only. He reached up, pressing his hands against the locked trap-door lid and pushed.

For a moment he thought he had gotten it all wrong, and that he really was going to die in here, but then the glass gave. The chute lifted cleanly, screaming in protest as glass scraped against glass. And then it was off. He tossed it aside and hauled himself up and out of the chamber.

All he wanted to do was collapse and catch his breath, but the glass ceiling felt unstable, even though he'd seen it support Zephyr's weight. He turned his head, rolling a little and found the ladder still propped up against the side of chamber. Somehow, through sheer force of will, he crawled over to it and climbed down.

He collapsed on the floor, panting, and watching dark spots appear in his vision. The sounds of his breathing and occasional coughs were loud in his ears, but he thought he could hear something else. Faint, but coming closer; the sounds of footsteps and voices.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

"Some days on this job, I'd rather be lucky than good."

Jim remembered saying that to Gil. It hadn't been the first time he'd ever thought it, and it hadn't been the last. Luck may be a scientific anomaly, but it didn't make it any less valuable a tool.

So far they'd been lucky.

Gil's abductor had planned his attack well; if they hadn't needed Grissom to come in to do an insect analysis, it would have been two days before he missed a shift and anyone noticed he was gone. Pure luck.

After that, skill took over, sure. Brass had never seen so many CSI's swarm to a crime scene, picking it clean of evidence. And while Grissom's team had done their jobs harder, faster, and better than they ever had in their lives, Brass had felt suddenly impotent and useless.

He didn't have the legwork to do on this one. Sure, Gil had secrets, but he wasn't about to go pawing through the man's private life anymore than he had to. He'd done what he could, had any information Catherine needed even before she knew she needed it, but it didn't feel like enough.

It felt like every moment he was standing here breathing he was letting Grissom down a little more.

Time was slipping past them so quickly, but at the same time it felt like he could have lived three lifetimes in the twelve hours from the time Grissom had vanished to the moment when Catherine called with the name of a suspect.

He didn't know how CSI had found him; he was barely aware of his own actions that got them a location. All he could think about was that he had the name. The name of the man who'd gone after Gil Grissom.

And that man had better hope that another officer, one who was being more rational about this whole situation, got to him before Jim did.

He followed the other squad cars and the ambulance to a decrepit, condemned theatre building. The main doors were unlocked and he was the first one in.

"Las Vegas Police!" he shouted, gun out and sweeping the room. "Zephyr Dillinger? You're under arrest!"

Where was he? Where the fuck was he?

"Captain!" one of the other officers shouted and Brass followed the sound across the room.

"Where is he?" Brass demanded as two officers grabbed the man by the shoulders, cuffing him.

Zephyr smiled. He looked genuinely pleased with himself, and Brass had to stomp down hard on the impulse to backhand him with his gun.

"Gil Grissom. Where is he?" Brass shouted. Zephyr's smile got wider and he pressed his lips shut, but his eyes flicked, just for a second, to his left. Brass wheeled around and stared at the stage. Something huge and glass was standing in the middle. One of Zephyr's magic trick boxes, probably. A ladder leaned up against it. And something was lying on the floor in front of it.

No, Brass realized as he started to run. Not something, someone.

"Gil!" he shouted, leaping up the stairs to the stage. "Gil!" he shouted again, stopping next to his friend's body and kneeling down.

"Jesus Christ, Gil, don't do this!" He felt on the man's neck for a pulse, and was shaking so badly himself that he nearly missed it. But it was there. "We need a medic!" he shouted, but EMT's were already racing for the stage.

"Come on Gil, stay with me," he said, grabbing Grissom's hand. "We're gonna get you out of here, just hang on." For a second it looked like Grissom's eyes opened just the slightest, but then Jim was being pushed out of the way. Gil was loaded onto the gurney and pushed out the door to the ambulance.

Jim stood up and looked back. Every member of the graveyard shift was frozen, watching their boss being carried out. Catherine looked back first, catching Jim's eyes. They both looked at the glass monstrosity that, presumably, had been Gil's prison for the past twelve hours.

"Right," said Catherine, a hard, angry, determined edge on her voice. "Let's get to work."

* * *

When Gil woke up, it was dark. He tried to look around, but couldn't see a thing through the pitch. There was a terrible, throbbing pain in his right arm.

He tried to sit up, fear and panic telling him that he hadn't made it, that everything was about to start over, that it would likely be worse this time, that there would be no chance of escape now. But when he tried to move, something pulled at his arm, not quite restraining him, but connecting him to something. He looked, terrified of what he might find.

It was an IV needle.

Suddenly the dark, amorphous shadows around him made sense. He was in a hospital. Someone had found him. It was over.

For the span of three deep breaths he felt calm, relaxed, joyous relief. And then his world fell apart. He had nearly died. He had nearly died. He could have been a corpse in the morgue. If he hadn't figured things out when he did…

Gil curled up on his side and tucked his head into the pillow. It didn't surprise him that he started crying, and he didn't try to stop it. In fact, he let it go. Every bit of fear, terror and despair he'd felt but controlled in that chamber charged forward and seeped out in his tears. He'd never felt so alone and vulnerable as he did right now.

He heard sounds of movement behind him, but didn't look to find out what or who they belonged to. He wasn't in control of himself anymore. This was far too big; all he could do was lie there and cry.

And then someone was taking his hand. Someone was saying his name. Someone was sitting on the bed next to him, easing an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

"Hey, Gil, it's okay." He knew that voice. He trusted that voice. "It's over."

"Jim," Gil whimpered, sitting up a little. He'd never clung to anyone or anything the way he did then. The most intense, unbearable relief overwhelmed him. Jim was here. Everything was all right now.

Jim pulled him closer, tucking Gil's head against his shoulder and running a hand over his back. Tears that had been manageable choked him, his breath hitched, and his composure shattered. He sobbed, as hysterically as a child, into Jim's shoulder. And Jim let him.

"It's okay, Gil. It's over. I'm here."