One night I lay awake in bed thinking up hot ways for Greg to suffer. I know, I'm evil like that. This is the result.
Carl Domsky wasn't a master criminal. He wasn't a master anything. This was made immediately apparent by his interrogation with Brass, where he cracked almost as soon as his body hit the chair. The charges against him were serious, but he was a perpetual small fish, one of those who is constantly revolving around the big sharks; doing their dirty work. Brass used him neatly to get to them. Of course this presented a problem for Carl, who already had a long rap sheet and was well-known for being the jail-house snitch. Now that he'd ratted out his former bosses, jail was the last place he wanted to be. He definitely wasn't going back. He just had to find a way. Desperation mixed with a rash recklessness took over his body as he waited impatiently to be taken.
Most of the night shift stood behind the two-way glass, staring at the man inside. Master criminal he may not be, but Carl knew all the nooks in Las Vegas, and it had taken their combined efforts to find him. Now they watched the interrogation with satisfaction. When it was over they filed out into the hallway, milling around. It was rare for them all to be in the police station at once, so they made plans to have lunch together. As they talked, Carl was led out of the room by Brass, hands cuffed together in front of his body. He glowered at them as he passed, but the team stood still, staring him down cooly.
Then it happened -- a tightening of the face, a resolve that hadn't been there before. It took only a fraction of a second, a fraction of an inch. The officer was standing just too close. Carl jerked into him violently, smashing his elbow into the man's nose. Confusion reigned as the officer tried to wrestle Carl away; they were tangled up and the other officers couldn't fire for fear of hurting their man. They rushed to help, but it was too late. He'd gotten it. Carl grabbed the officer triumphantly, pressing his gun into the side of his neck.
"Move and he dies!" shouted Carl, hands still shackled together but the gun firmly embedded in the officer's throat.
The room went deathly quiet. Everyone craned to look at the commotion. Nick and Warrick had drawn their guns too in response, but they couldn't do anything to risk the man's life. They followed the pair as Carl edged behind the officer, pulling him along backwards. A desperate hope filled Carl's face. He could make it, he could make it out. He stumbled backwards towards the elevator, Brass and a dozen officers following slowly, guns drawn at the ready. All eyes in the room were on the improbable hostage; all time slowed. Air crackling with tension, not a sound came from the shocked faces in the lobby. Carl licked his lips.
"Don't come any closer or he dies!" he yelled nervously. There would be only one shot at this, one chance. But he wasn't going back, not now.
Suddenly the elevator's oblivious chime sounded, louder than ever in the frozen room. Carl was standing in front of the doors as they rumbled open. Greg shifted his weight, ready to take a step out when he was grabbed by the front of his shirt and hauled out. Sara and Catherine took one look at his surprised face and jerked forward, cries on their lips, and the scene returned to life in one explosion of sound. Nick and Brass yelled in unison, but Greg could only stumble forward in the man's grip, arms coming up in defense. The man, now caring little except for his own blind panic, pushed the officer to the side. Greg was thrust forward into the room; he twisted around with the force of the man's push as the elevator doors began to close and the man slipped inside. Greg corrected his fall and came up, mouth open, when --
BANG!
-- the shout died on his lips. His body stiffened at the impact of the bullet as it entered and his mouth formed an "o" of surprise. With Carl safely inside, the elevator chimed happily as the doors slid shut.
"Greg! NO!" screamed Catherine, jerked into motion by the shocking sound that rent the air. Someone else screamed, dimly in the background as spectators reacted in delayed hysteria, but no one could move. All eyes were on the figure silhouetted at the front, eyes wide and staring into space. A crimson stain slowly blossomed and spread against the pale shirt from its epicentre over Greg's heart. Seconds elongated into an agonizing moment as his knees gave out and he sank, eyes still locked onto nothing, the stain spreading faster now, dripping with ferocity. He swayed when his knees found the floor, then crumpled to the side and came to rest on the floor with a dreadful finality.
Released from its spell, the room erupted in pandemonium, but the team saw nothing except Greg's still form, eyes blinking in shock. Grissom reached him first. He fell to his knees beside Greg and lifted his head, cradling his shoulders with one arm. Greg's eyes seemed to ask Grissom the one question he wasn't ready to answer -- why? His head lolled to the side, resting against Grissom's chest. Grissom supported his body, holding it close to his chest, a sob threatening to erupt. The blood had already started its journey down Greg's chest, soaking easily through the thin shirt, and Grissom could see but not accept that the cause was lost. He tried anyways, desperately hoping. Wadding up Greg's shirt he pressed it as hard as he could on the spot, right over his heart. Blood welled up through his fingers, and there was so much, so very much. It leaked out everywhere with a purpose of its own -- to leave Greg's struggling body as fast as it could.
"Hang on, Greg, just hang on," came a litany of muttering from around him as the team bent over the two forms in their midst. A stunned silence surrounded them as the entire room craned to look at the small group, bowing in grief.
"Don't struggle, Greg, just hang on," whispered Sara, tears working their way down her face. For Greg was trying to move, his breath coming in short gasps and eyes wide with panic. A strangled gurgling came from his throat and they could see the blood coming up, flecking his lips, which moved in an imitation of speech. His staring eyes met Grissom's and his hand twitched, then painstakingly inched up to grasp at Grissom's shirt, trying to latch on. Grissom caught the hand in his, trying to still it.
"Don't move, Greg, just stay still until help comes," he pleaded, but Greg shook his head sadly, coughing up blood, which dribbled out the side of his mouth. Sara shook with sobs and Catherine wrapped an arm around her shoulders, herself trying to stay strong. They yelled for someone, anyone, to do something, but there was nothing to do.
Greg's face screwed up, a slow hiss coming from his mouth; it worked haltingly, trying to make sound. Grissom bent close.
"Too late...Gris..sss..." he whispered, eyes filling with unshed tears.
"Don't say that, Greg," choked Grissom, but Greg's eyes still begged Grissom to listen, and he bent closer. The gurgling voice was only audible to Grissom; Greg seemed desperate for him only to hear his last words.
"I...'m...sorry," he cried, wrenching at Grissom's heart. "Sorry I dis...dis..appointed you, Grissom," he sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted. The blood welled faster and Grissom could no longer control it. He shook his head firmly, but Greg continued, slowly, faltering.
"Tha...aah...anks for giving me...a...second chance."
A great wet cough sent blood splashing over his chin and eyes rolling back. Grissom held Greg close, bowing his head. Why did Greg feel the need to apologize?
"I'm very proud of you, Greg," he whispered clearly, so everyone could hear. "We all are."
Greg's eyes showed his gratitude and he seemed to give up, head falling back in Grissom's arms. He could feel Greg's heartbeat slowing, skipping beats under his fingers. He pressed harder, but it was no use; there was nothing he could do to stop it!
"Hang on, Greg," pleaded Nick.
Greg stared up at them, pupils contracting with every painful rasp as his body gave up the fight.
"Can't..." came a strangled whisper. The red froth behind his lips bubbled up again and dripped from the corner of his mouth. His grip slackened and Grissom could feel the fight leave his body, leave his eyes. His head rolled back, its weight apparent now that there was no energy left to struggle with, and Grissom felt a gut-wrenching emptiness form in his heart. It was done, he was gone. His eyes stayed open, but blank, and Grissom looked away from their dark depths, unable to look anymore. Catherine muffled a sob and turned away, mouth covered. The others just stared, disbelief etched on their faces.
Grissom took a deep breath. He couldn't believe it...all in one instant, Greg was gone. Still cradling his head, Grissom carefully detached Greg's limp fingers and placed them over his chest. Grissom's shirt and hands were smeared with blood, but he just stared down at the still face. Finally he lowered Greg to the floor, where he looked even more frail and innocent. Except for those eyes. Their mute accusation tortured Grissom. How could you let this happen? Right in front of your eyes, you watched me bleed; did nothing to stop my fading life...
Compassionate hands guided the team away from their fallen friend, though they protested, but finally they stumbled on leaden legs towards Brass who stood with bowed head. Greg lay on the floor, blood seeping into the tiles around him, throwing his pale face into stark relief. Just as they stepped away Nick broke off and knelt beside the body. With a gentle hand he passed over Greg's eyes, closing them and leaving him at peace. Choking up, he stood shakily. Catherine and Sara took Nick's arms and led him away to where Grissom and Warrick were waiting, unable to tear their eyes away from the body. Spectators to the morbid scene moved out of the way for the team, faces radiating sympathy, but nothing could erase this moment from the team's memories. They had lost one of their own; the best of all of them.