By Bob J Montonelli

Fandom: CSI: Miami

He drives until the clock reads four, until he blurs, tired, eases his car into its parking space. The stairs in the apartment building are daunting, dizzying, and he rides the elevator up, huddled in a corner, body catching up with mind's exhaustion. He doesn't want to think. Just sleep, just a little while...

He stumbles into his apartment, kicks the door shut, doesn't bother locking it. If someone wants to rob him, they won't find much. If it's a killer, hell, his team'll be on it and the suspect will be caught in less than a week.

The couch rushes to meet him, little technicolor whorls in the darkness, and by the time his head hits the cushioned arm, he's asleep, out, knocked cold, fit to be dead.

A streetlight zaps out. The wind blows somewhere. A small puddle of drool collects on the floor, a spider-silk thin rope clinging to Horatio's slack lips. Dogs bark and inside, it's quiet, so still, so alone.

Silent.

END