DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI

Alright, thank you C.H.W.13 for this great idea. As soon as you suggested the idea, this plot instantly formed in my head, so this story is deidcated to you!

This is the sequel to Don't You Want Me, so if you haven't read that yet, I suggest you read it first. Anyway, this story is another songfic, this time, it's based on Need You Now by Lady Antebellum. This story is about Grant from the last story, and how he threatens to ruin Catherine and Greg's happiness. I'm doing this in the same format as the last one, jumping between past and present. So this first chapter is set in the present, which is two years after the end of the last story. The chapters in the past will begin a few weeks after the last story, but might move forward months at a time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and please review if you want more.

Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor.

Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore.

Greg got up. He went into the kitchen and burnt himself some toast for breakfast. He spooned jam onto it, or was it the homemade chutney his mom had sent him? It didn't matter anyway. He didn't even taste it. Greg poured himself a cup of coffee, and added some whiskey from the little silver flask he kept by his bed. Greg's once heavnely Blue Hawaiin wasn't doing much for him these days, he needed an extra boost in it.

Greg went for a shower, turning the water up so high he couldn't see past the steam. Hot enough to rise welts and burn off skin. He stood there for a few seconds, melting, then turned the water all the way down to ice cold. He turned from red to blue in a few seconds, his body going numb. He didn't have any shampoo, he kept forgetting to buy some, so he improvised with soap. Not that it mattered what his hair looked like. Greg went for the same type of shower every day, took pleasure in the burning and freezing water. He wasn't sure why, it was just something he did. Routine was pretty much all Greg had now, so he was sure to stick to it. Greg always went for those showers, because he'd stopped feeling pain a long time ago. He'd stopped feeling anything.

He got to the lab and began to work immediantly. Grissom sent him to investigate an apparent suicide with Nick, who talked at him the whole way there. Greg let Nick go first. Of course. He wasn't allowed go in first, Nick had to go in first with his gun. Greg's had been taken off him. They didn't trust him with it. Of course, it wasn't a suicide. It had been staged. All over a money disagreement. They always were.

The team dragged him to the diner after shift and force-fed him breakfast. Or it could have been lunch. Or dinner. Or dessert. It could have been poison actually. Or else one of Grissom's wierd experiments that he kept in the fridge. Afterwards, Sara invited him for a drink but Greg said no. He headed to the casino and bet the money he seemed to be drowning in on a football game. He bet that the underdogs would win six nil. They did. Of course they did. Three hundred to one chance of them winning at all and they won by six goals. The casino owner gave Greg the money, which he accidentally doubled while playing blackjack. He bought himslef a few drinks, but the bartender seemed to feel sorry for him as he didn't charge him. Greg ended up stuffing some of the stupid money in a charity box, but he could hardly fit any in. So he walked home, with the stupid, useless, wastefull things in his pockets.

Greg had a lot of money. His family had been very well off, and his job paid pretty well. But money was nothing. It was suffocating him, drowning him, smothering him. He couldn't breathe. So many people had been killed over it, and yet it couldn't do anything. It couldn't bring her back. He wished he really couldn't breathe. All of Greg's attempts to permanently stop his heartbeat had failed, being interupted by Nick, Sara, Warrick or Grissom visitng him, or his mother ringing him, or the phone calls the P.D. kept getting, which would give Greg hope for a few hours. It never came to anything. These possible sightings and reported findings were either mistakes or some attention-seekers who ended up soending they year in lockup for wasting police time. That, and the fact that Nick had come round to his ouse and taken all his knives, sharp objects and any medication stronger than aspirin. They also put locks on his windows. So now he was overheating. And alive. He wasn't sure which one was worse.

When Greg got home he poured some tequila into a measuring cup. Every other utesil was in his sink, and would be until Sunday, the day that Sara came over. He then put the bottle into his cupboard, wondering how to keep it safe from Warrick, who came on Thursdays to confiscate any non-regulations items, e.g. alcohol, meds and any new devices that could be used in suicide. Greg checked the calendar. It was a Monday. Damn. He had to go to that guidence counsellor Grissom dragged him to once a week tomorrow. And then Nick's latest adventure on Saturday. He wondered what it would be? Probably football or something. And he could expect a call from his mom on Wednesday, and to be expected to exercise his social skills with some of the lab rats on Friday. This was Greg's typical week. That wasn't why he went to the calendar though. He went to cross of another box. Monday the 26th of February. The 57th day of the year. It was an anniversary too. Every day was. Greg opened up the journal his stupid psychiatrist had adivsed him to keep.

Tuesday, 26th of February

Dear diary,

Today I got up, ate, went for a shower, went to work. After work I went to a casino and then came home.

Then he closed the stupid book again. He really should print that onto one of those ink stamp things, it was almost exactly what he said every other day. Greg poured himself another drink. Then he remembered something. He opened up the plastic covered book, and wrote at the end of his message:

It has been two years, one month and seventeen days since I last saw Catherine.

Review if you want more!