He thinks maybe this is punishment. The vengeance of a bitter god who glares at him from an invisible world and shakes his fist angrily.
The bottle is half empty of the amber liquid. The rest flows in his veins as though it were a replacement for his own blood; he wonders what it would be like if he let himself join his precious lover, left his body behind for the other CSIs to find.
Phone ringing but he ignores it with another slug of the scotch. Calleigh speaks to his answering machine, only he doesn't care what she has to say.
(His love is gone. Buried and cold.)
Slowly he drags his drunken body out of the living room and stares at the expertly made up bed. A mismatched mess of green-and-blue plaid pillowcases, a black comforter, and yellow sheets.
He runs his fingers over the footboard, onto the blanket. Over the outline where Tim had sat down to button his shirt this morning.
Choking on the reality, he backs out of the room and looks around. He can see every last place marked by his partner's personality, his life.
He wants to scream, "Tim lived! He lived here!"
Only he couldn't and he wouldn't and how he wishes he could have said something to someone when Speed was alive. Tim had never believed that people could be happy for them.
He looks down at his chosen way to find oblivion.
Horatio swallows more of the liquor.