Final Chapter - Takes place a few days after the last episode of Season 15.

Tim watched his boss from the other side of the bull pen.

Gibbs was always a man of few words but there were times when he seemed even quieter than usual; a different, deeper kind of silence which never came about during good times.

Careful not to giveaway his surveillance, Tim watched with deepening concern as Gibbs rubbed at his knuckle; a subtle tic that had slowly subsided over the past 9 months.

Tim hadn't seen it since before the case with Fornell, but since the director had gone missing Tim had caught the his boss pressing on the still misshapen joint a few times.

With a sudden jolt, Tim realized he was wrong; the first time he had seen the restlessness was before Vance had gone missing. The day before, after Sloane's break down. Gibbs had been agitated and had rubbed at his finger while informing the team he was leaving with Vance for a few hours.

Now, as Tim watched, Gibbs shifted in his chair and then, subtly, unthinking, Gibbs' right hand left the desk and rubbed at his chest, right above where he had been shot 3 years ago.

It was only for a second but in that second Tim's breath froze in his lungs. Gibbs never did that. Not even when he came back early and had to have still been in pain.

The terrifying moment when Gibbs had collapsed at his desk that year flashed through Tim's mind and a pit formed in his stomach.

He glanced to Bishop but she had her ear buds in, totally focused on some NSA surveillance report. Torres was leaning on his desk, facing away and playing with a pencil as he waited on hold with the state department. He knew Ducky was at home and Abbey...well, Abbey was in London and no longer an available go-to for all things Gibbs.

Tim looked back to his boss in time to see him swallow and push away from his desk, walking with purpose to the men's room.

Looking around one more time, convinced he was the only one sensing anything wrong, Tim stood and followed, hesitating a beat before entering the restroom.

Gibbs was over the sink, splashing water on his face.

Tim's step faltered.

"What is it McGee?" Gibbs didn't bother looking at him, just reaching for a paper towel and pressing it to his face.

"You okay, Boss?" Tim tilted his head, waiting, not moving from his position a few steps in front of the door.

The paper towel came down and Gibbs glared at Tim through the mirror's reflection.

For a moment the young probie inside of him squirmed but Tim stood firm, even as he allowed his body language to soften, "Gibbs…" He prodded gently.

With a grunt Gibbs balled up the paper towel and tossed it into the trash can. "I'm fine." He grumbled. "Just fine."

Tim let his disbelief show on his face.

"What?" Gibbs retorted, "If you have news on the director then spit it out, if not," he finished the sentence by gesturing to move along with his thumb.

"I have nothing new." Tim shook his head, "I just thought…something seemed…" he shrugged.

Gibbs shook his head. "SecNav called this morning; until we get Vance back here I'm officially acting director so I suggest you get back to work and find something new before someone comes at me with papers to sign."

Tim's eyes widened as he allowed Gibbs to brush by him. Appointing an acting director was not a good indicator from SecNav. No wonder Gibbs was so agitated.

"Boss." He called out before the other man opened the door. Gibbs paused, hand on the knob, looking over his shoulder and waiting. Tim shifted and swallowed, "I just, uh, wondered, if maybe you've talked to Dr. Confalone. Maybe, you might.."

With a roll of his eyes and a snort, Gibbs heaved the door open and stalked back to the bullpen.

Tim clenched his teeth and exhaled through his nose.

This was not good. He had worked enough tough cases to know that this one was not going to be solved quickly or cleanly. And he had been around long enough to see Gibbs take on the Acting Director role before. It never ended well for anyone; and those had always been short stints when they knew the director was alive and well or at least getting better.

He had seen Gibbs agitated in the past but this agitated? For an indeterminate amount of time? This had potential to be very, very bad.

His hand closed around his phone in his pocket. He knew what he was contemplating was dangerously close, if not actually crossing the line.

But he also knew that when the tables were turned, Gibbs hadn't sat idly by.

Tim had continued to see Dr Confalone through last fall. As Delilah's pregnancy continued, Tim found it harder and harder to stave off the worry, but once the babies were born there was a weird mix of reborn faith in humanity and exhaustion that kept Tim from his regular meetings in Maryland.

But then there had been a series of cases which had Tim's imagination working overdrive; parents walking in on their adult daughter's suicide and a family fearing separation. Those had been immediately preceded by a case where he and Gibbs had to pretend to be held captive. It wasn't long and Bishop didn't even really tie their hands, but the rope against his still scarred wrists was enough to flip his stomach.

He began sleeping less and focusing on work more, leaning on coffee and then Caff-Pow to get himself through each day. Eventually Abbey and Reeves had sat him down for a half hearted intervention. He had successfully waived them off and thought he was in the clear.

It wasn't until that evening that Gibbs, on his way to Fornell's, had pulled Tim in to the elevator that he realized the other agent had also been paying attention and was not so easily dismissed. Gibbs had told him that he had a scheduled appointment with Dr. Confalone and that he was not allowed to do any extra-curricular work until he talked with the doctor.

McGee had initially been annoyed, but the check-in with the psychologist had been exactly what he needed to get back on track and shake the anxiety that had been growing over the previous month.

Reminding himself of how good it felt to realize that Gibbs had noticed and cared, McGee opened his contacts and scrolled to a familiar number…

"Damnit!" Gibbs cursed as the wood cracked under the clamp he had thoughtlessly overtightened.

With a disgusted grunt and sharp movements he released the tool and tossed the useless wood onto the bench.

Frustration steeped as he looked to his wood pile; that had been the last decent piece he had; he had cracked or miscut the last 4.

Bracing his hands, he hung his head and exhaled. He had to slow down, just focus on the work. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out…

Soon the darkness of his eyelids was replaced by the memory of the scars on Sloane's back and the her halted explanation of what happened echoed in the silence.

He felt his pulse quicken and heat flush under his collar. He rolled his neck, blinking at the ceiling.

Of course, he had known about her time as a POW; he had pulled her file as soon as she had pulled that nonsense at his house when she first transferred. But the file had been text, no pictures, and he hadn't known her yet. Hadn't cared about her as a coworker and friend. Knowing her experience had helped him trust her but it hadn't impacted him like it was now after facing it in person.

When he saw her now, all he could see was her imprisonment; and despite knowing she was held in Afghanistan, in his mind, her prison always seemed to resemble a rusted out old ship.

Was she woken with a baseball bat? Did they use a car battery to get the information they wanted? Waterboarded?

Unbidden his imagination conjured images, her in his place and then he was there with her and then, Leon was there, enduring the same thing but they couldn't reach him and the pain and fear and helplessness was back.

A buzzing noise interrupted the dark spiral and he choked out and opened his eyes, pushing away from the workbench.

His phone was ringing in one of the screw jars. It was probably Sloane, wanting to get together and work on tracking Vance. He ignored it.

His fingers were clenched so tightly that his hands had begun to hurt and he shook his head, trying to clear away the thoughts.

Reaching behind him he picked up a sanding block but then frowned at the boat; nothing needed the steady repetitive sanding that would help center him and clear his mind. He clenched his teeth before grabbing the wood he had cracked earlier. It was useless as a cross brace but he could still use it for this. He lay it across the bench and began sanding long, slow strokes, with the grain.

He was beginning to feel a little clearer when the doorbell began to ring.

For a moment he considered ignoring it, but having ignored his phone once and with Vance still missing it might be important. He put down the sander and jogged up the stairs, slowing when he realized who was standing on his front porch.

He waited a beat, only opening the door when Grace Confalone tilted her head and glared at him through the glass.

"Don't answer your phone anymore?" She asked, breezing past him to stand in the middle of his living room.

"What are you doing here, Doc?" He countered her question with one of his own.

"Well, I haven't heard from you in weeks." She clasped her hands in front of her, "Thought I'd just swing by and check-in."

He narrowed his eyes, her ease was overly forced.

He pointed a finger, "No you didn't."

She rolled her eyes and shrugged, "Okay, you're right. McGee called me."

"Damnit Tim." Gibbs muttered.

He didn't know what the younger man may have said to the shrink but he knew just that they had talked was enough that she would not be easy to dismiss. With resignation he passed her, returning to the basement, leaving her blinking after him.

"Gibbs?"

He paused at the top of the stairs, "You coming or not?"

With a nod she left her purse on the kitchen counter and followed him down to the basement. Where it was warm and dry and smelled of wood and memories of home and family and safety.

Sitting back on a saw horse he again picked up the sanding block and wood, resuming the methodical movements from before and waited.

Grace watched him for a minute, tightening her mouth as she tilted her head.

"Tim only called because he's concerned." She started levelly.

"I'm fine." Came his reply that was so automatic that Grace didn't even wait for him to finish speaking to counter.

"Of course you are; that's why you're sanding a broken piece of wood and ignoring phone calls." Her eyes made exaggerated movements to the hastily discarded clamp as if to tell him she knew exactly what had transpired down here.

Relenting, he lay the wood across his lap and looked at her, "Isn't there some kind of ethical reason why you and Tim shouldn't be talking about me?"

"You mean like all those times you haven't talked about Tim this year? With the twins and the hospital and the lack of sleep and the criminal in his apartment?" She crossed her arms. "It's not right for me to talk about what anyone says in their sessions but that's not what happened here. A friend of yours called me saying he was concerned."

"Yeah? Did he say about what?" Gibbs resisted the urge to squirm.

She shook her head, "He didn't give specifics. But I can guess. I watch the news, I know Director Vance is missing, suspected hostage of a known war criminal? That's got to be upsetting."

"Mhrm…" Gibbs nodded, looking down and lightly running the sanding block over the wood in his lap.

Grace sighed, "Gibbs. What's with the brick wall? All year you've been great, but since Miss Scuito and Agent Reeves were shot you've shut down. I hear Abbey left NCIS and I know that had to have been conflicting for you to deal with on top of loosing an agent."

"Officer." Gibbs corrected quietly.

"Pardon?" Grace blinked.

"Officer Clayton Reeves." Gibbs didn't look up from the wood, "Reeves was a liaison officer with MI-6; he was not an American agent."

"So…" She squinted, "What? You going to tell me that means you cared less?"

He rolled his eyes, "Just thought you should use his proper title." He caught the look she was giving him and exhaled with a shake of his head, "Reeves was a good man, and I was glad he chose to stay at NCIS and even if he hadn't have saved Abbey's life, any agency related death is hard." He clenched his jaw, "But I'm used to it by now."

Grace nodded slowly, "And Abbey? Being shot and leaving?"

"What about it?" Gibbs snapped.

She shrugged, "You were close. You've known her as long as you've been in DC; shared a lot. I know you cared for her like family."

Gibbs swallowed. Unbidden his eyes tracked to where the forensic scientist had stood years earlier, tearily confronting his secret and asking if he would still love her.

"They're all like family." He replied quietly. "And if you love someone, you want what's best for them. Abbey needed a break. Her heart is too pure to keep facing the worst of humanity. She's okay so I'm okay."

Grace looked down, seemingly accepting the honesty of his words.

Pulling up a second saw horse, she sat across from him, leaning over, her elbows braced on her knees. "Okay. So how about I stop guessing. How about you tell me why McGee is concerned and you've clammed up."

"McGee has enough of his own to deal with to waste time worrying about me." Gibbs bit out, internally disbelieving Tim had actually called Confalone.

"You know that's ridiculous." Grace shook her head, "Even if you two hadn't been through what you've been through together, Tim would always be caring about you. Why do you think he got off the chopper to begin with? He cares. Just like you care about him and every other member of your team. Stop dismissing that."

"Well that's just great." Gibbs could feel his chest tightening again as the frustration mounted. He really did not need to be reminded that he was the reason Tim had suffered all he had last summer.

As if she could tell something was mounting Grace leaned back, "Gibbs? Talk to me… Just tell me…"

Talk…just talk…everyone wanted him to talk, talking would fix everything they claimed…her and Taft and Bishop and McGee and Sloane…and Leon….

"WHY?!" With a sudden blaze of anger he threw the sanding block as hard as he could against the wall, shaking the shelf above it and sending nails and screws clattering to the bench top.

He ignored it, eyes blazing as he stood, glaring down at the diminutive psychologist in front of him. "Talking is the answer? Will make things better? I've spent the last 3 years talking. This past year more than I have in my whole life and what's gotten better? Not only am I down here having flashbacks, but now I've pulled my friends into it and I can't help them and talking just means having to relive it out loud so what the HELL is the point? Unless you know where Leon Vance is, you can't help me. Or can tell me with surety that he doesn't have a water soaked rag currently pressed over his face. Or, you know what would really help? If you could go back in time and keep Sloane from being tortured and whipped in some Afghan cave or if you keep Tim from getting off that damn helo. That would be helpful. Can you do that?! Can you do any of that? CAN You?!"

To her credit, Grace Confalone didn't flinch or shudder. She just looked back with infinitely patient eyes until Gibbs felt the anger disappear as fast as it had grown, leaving him feeling empty.

It wasn't until his hands began to shake that Grace moved, standing and placing a hand on his arm, "Sit back down. Right here. It's okay."

He released a shaky exhale and looked down, "I'm…"

"I thought apologizing was against the rules." She cut him off with a raised eyebrow.

He just stared back at her, feeling completely blank and exhausted.

She gave him a tight smile, "Okay, so it's been such a struggle to get you to open up, that it seems noone has given you the disclaimer."

He squinted, not yet ready to provide any kind of sarcastic response.

She placed a hand on his knee, "Talking, therapy, it all helps. It doesn't fix. What happened to you happened. And nothing is going to change that or rewrite it to be less traumatic. Our reactions to our hardest memories aren't always the same; they ebb and flow. One minute you can be embracing gratitude for being alive, and the next have a crippling wave of depression. The goal of therapy is minimize the distance between the ebbs and the flows; to help you find your normal and keep the pulling in either direction to a minimum. That's how we build stability."

Gibbs swallowed, his mouth a little less dry than a moment ago, "So no cure?"

"No cure." Grace shook her head. "We can't be cured of our past. And I suspect if you thought about it, you wouldn't want to."

He narrowed his eyes in question and Grace smiled, "Your wife and daughter. The pain for you is very real because their loss was so very difficult. But loosing Shannon and Kelly was hard because you loved them so much. To cure your pain would require dulling the memory of their love." She tilted her head, "I doubt it would be worth that."

Gibbs looked down, pressing at his thumb and not replying.

She leaned back, "And I understand your worry about Director Vance; and am sorry to hear about what happened to your other friend. But internalizing everything will not help either of them. From what I've been told investigations require a cool-headed focus."

He looked to the ceiling, "But I can't focus. I just keep thinking about the people I care about having to endure the same thing I did."

Grace nodded, "And that is where the talking can help. Articulating and sharing your concerns helps build a buffer against unwanted intrusions. You can always call me. Agent McGee called me because he could see warning signs building the last few days. When you feel yourself approaching a breaking point, you call me. Or talk to Tim…or even Sloane who sounds like she might be an understanding ear. Anything to open the release valve before you become so wrapped in your own head that you can't exist in the present world or work the case in front of you."

Gibbs nodded, reluctant to admit that along with the sense of depletion, he felt better than he had since Sloane had showed him her scars. As if a pressure had been released.

He frowned, the thought of Sloane and the physical reminder of her abuse stirring something inside. "What if the same things keep making it start up?"

Grace shrugged, "Some will fade. Some won't. You told me there was a time you couldn't go to Shannon and Kelly's grave."

He swallowed, "I went last week. Shannon's birthday."

Grace nodded, "And?"

"It wasn't easy." He admitted.

"But possible." Grace affirmed.

"Possible." He repeated. Mulling over the word. Maybe there would be a day when Sloane's scars wouldn't cause him to relive his own torture…but he would always be reminded. It was how he reacted to those memories.

"So, no matter how much talking…there is no end to any of this." He restated, looking Confalone in the eye.

"Right. There is no cure and there is no end." She confirmed, "But there is healing; in the ebb and flow there is healing."