His door was ajar when she walked up to it. She touched it with careful fingertips, rocking it on its hinges. The security chain on rattled. She crouched, and eyed the keyhole. It looked un-damaged, with no tell-tale scratches that meant someone had tried to force the door. Well, that or whoever picked the lock was an expert, she thought uneasily.
"Deeks? You in?" she called softly, and listened hard for a reply.
The air conditioning clicked off. Dead silence answered her. She frowned, setting the mail and food down next to the door so she could draw her gun. Training trumped worry, and she eased carefully through the door, sucking in a choked breath as she saw the ruined living room.
Chairs and tables had been over turned, fabric torn and wood splintered. The old books he hoarded so carefully had been pulled from their shelves and scattered on the floor, pages strewn like fallen leaves. Glass crunched under her feet. She risked a glance down, seeing the shattered remains of a vodka bottle. Deeks doesn't drink vodka, she thought, and frowned again.
Quickly, she checked the kitchen and bathroom, finding the same utter destruction there. In the kitchen, the crockery had been pulled from the cupboards and smashed on the floor. Beer soaked the tiles from a dozen shattered bottles. The bathroom had escaped the worst of it-only the large mirror on the wall about the sink had been broken.
The wanton violence made her heart race, but her hands were steady around her gun. This doesn't make any sense, she thought, as she moved back towards the living room. His wallet and watch still sat on the shelf by the door, seemingly untouched. The widescreen TV they'd spent so many hours watching old movies on lay on the floor, screen smashed beyond repair.
Not a robbery, then. She looked around, seeing the things he valued destroyed so thoroughly, and had to wonder what could cause such hatred. Another thought struck her, one she didn't like at all. Did you do this, Deeks?
Some small sound drew her towards the bedroom. She pushed the door open with the toe of her boot and scanned the room, checking for danger. More books and clothes lay on the floor. She caught sight of his favourite t-shirt torn into rags and winced, blinking back tears. No-one jumped out at her, so she stepped inside, turning the corner towards the bed.
And froze, a long, shocked second as her mind scrambled to take in what she was looking at. It did, and she bolted towards the bed, snatching up a towel from the back of a chair as she passed. Goosebumps raced over her skin, leaving her cold and shaking.
Deeks lay on his side, back facing towards her. One arm was tucked under the pillows under his head. The other was flung across the bed, outstretched as if he was reaching for something. Blood pooled under his wrist from a long, ragged tear in his skin. Perspiration plastered his hair to his skin.
She knelt behind him on the bed, reaching over his body to wrap the towel tightly around his wrist. Blood soaked into the terrycloth, smearing against her as she lifted his arm, holding it against her body to raise the wound above his heart.
He didn't move, body limp and un-responsive. It scared her more than the blood soaking into her white shirt. She pressed her fingers against his neck, shaking so hard she could barley feel his pulse. It beat faintly against her fingertips.
"Deeks!" she called sharply, patting his cheek. Her fingers left blood on his skin. Stubble rasped against her fingers.
He shuddered, a soft, hitching breath moving his shoulders. The bare skin of his back felt cold and damp against her jean-clad legs. His lips moved, saying words that she couldn't understand.
"Damn it, Deeks," she muttered and fished one-handed in her pocket for her cell phone. "Don't you dare die on me."
The phone rang three times before he answered the call. She didn't give him chance to speak. "Callen. I need an ambulance at Deeks' apartment." Her throat closed over the words. They hurt when she forced them out. "I don't know what's going on, but it looks like he tried to kill himself."