Waiting rooms always reminded him vaguely of libraries, quiet, somber places where people read away their troubles and tried to pretend that they were around for nothing more serious than a headache. In waiting rooms, when they were full, he got the same sense of camaraderie that he found at his work. Everyone was there for a common goal, yet no one really wanted to talk to him, and he really had no desire to speak to anyone else.

This time, though, the waiting room was empty, a giant cocoon of fear and worry that surrounded him like a suffocating blanket. He smiled a faint, enigmatical smile and wondered briefly if the blanket was angora. His thoughts constantly cited cases these days.

His mind moved back to his childhood and adolescence, to those years when he'd been so obsessed with deafness that it was all he could dream about. He thought about how certain he'd been that he wanted it, how beautiful his mother's laughter was to him. He still used poetry and music to practice signing. What he couldn't understand was why his hopes had waited until he'd understood the beauty of the spoken word.

Empty waiting rooms always extended the wait, amplified it until madness began to set in. With other people there, at least there was the opportunity to stare and wonder and try not to meet their eyes. With no one else, though, every sign and symptom appeared in his mind in sharp relief, catalogued and staring at him. Was he now, finally, going deaf?

He thought about his work. In the past several years, it had become far more than a simple job to him. It was an extension of his personality. And he was beginning to suspect that he would have to leave it behind. Certainly Sara had begun to notice far more than he. Her senses were acute, well-trained to pick up even the tiniest details. She was meticulous to a fault, and obsessive enough to find all the solutions instead of the most obvious ones.

He would, of course, recommend that Catherine take over when he left. If he left. It could just be a passing phase, he conceded, still nervous. He knew she would probably choose Warrick as the CSI she worked most often with. She had a strong rapport with him, much as Grissom did with Sara. He wondered, briefly, what would happen to Sara. She had come to Las Vegas because he'd needed her help, had stayed because he'd asked her to. If he left, would she?

He rose as the nurse walked into the room, setting aside the magazine he wasn't reading. Following her took him down a long hall with grey carpet and walls that were dusty rose. The colors were meant to be soothing, he knew. He wondered why all doctors thought dusty rose was soothing. The room they arrived in was no more soothing than the waiting room had been, and he settled in for a long wait.