Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: I have never tried this writing style, but it seemed to work better this way.


The case is closed. The bad guys are put away. The innocent have received justice. You should be happy, but you're not. The case has opened an old wound that you were sure you sutured shut, years ago. You need a comforting presence.

Instead of going out for drinks like your friends you are drawn to autopsy where you know you will find him. You don't know at what point the room which smells strongly of different chemicals, has white walls, and silver slabs is the most comforting place to be.

He's there with his gray hair and white lab coat. Your eyes are drawn to the bow tie that at one time was thought of as comical you now find enduring.

The automatic doors sound your entrance and he is talking to one of his unanimated charges; a body from another team's case. He turns to you and spots you with his tranquil blue orbs. He instantly sees you are hurting and gestures you to sit down on one of the unoccupied tables.

"Would you like to talk?" he asks right beside you.

You shake your head. It's not that he doesn't have sage advice to give, he does. It is that you honestly don't need comforting words; you want a comforting presence…more specifically his. He feels like your surrogate grandfather, or father maybe. You know he views you as his own as well.

"That's fine," he responds to your not wanting to talk, "you know I had a friend once who for a period of time was an elective mute."

You listen to him, but not his words so much as his voice. His voice never reaches a harsh volume, and his Scottish accent now feels like a lullaby. At some point he knows your not listening, but keeps going. He's been working on the body for some time now, but for how long you're not sure. You don't even know if he is talking to you, himself, or the body anymore. You tune in long enough to hear him going on.

"Many songs and poems share the same common meter. For instance you can take the lyrics of Gilligan's Island theme song, and sing it to the tune of Amazing Grace."

You are not sure how elective mutism evolved into common meter, but you make a note to try interchanging Gilligan's Island and Amazing Grace.

You grin just slightly. He doesn't see it because you are huddled into yourself. You can feel the old wounds starting to close once more. He must be able to tell. He throws you his amiable smile and walks over to you after removing his gloves.

"Why don't you lie down dear one?"

He poses it as a question, but in reality he has already shepherded you into a lying position before he is done speaking.

You take your jacket off to use it as a pillow. He takes his lab coat off and covers you with it. He has another one in the back room. He turns off most of the lights because he has learned how to work this way.

You watch him tiredly as you feel like yourself again. You tell yourself you'll shut your eyes for just a little while. The sound of his voice and the machinery in the autopsy room become one hypnotizing hum. The sleeping world soon becomes inevitable. Somewhere before you fall asleep the sounds of the automatic doors are heard. Your colleague's voice is heard, but you don't open your eyes.

"Just fine," he responds to your colleague's inquiry about you "we talked," he finishes matter-of-factly.

You want to smile because there was no actual 'we' in the conversation. Instead, you fall further into sleep.

You didn't want his words you only wanted his calming presence.