Disclaimer: I own nothing

Note: So here's the (hopefully) satisfying one-shot sequel to the unsatisfying ending on The Atom that Walked into the Bar. If you have NOT read that story, please find it under my profile and read it first or absolutely none of this will make sense.

Warning: Angst, a little bloody details (nothing worse than the last chapter of Atom), Sadness and mentions of male/male relationships

Note: Please remember that Warrick is still alive in this universe (considering I finished Atom with him still alive)

-o—o—o-

The Electron that Walked Out

Two-Shot Conclusion

Pt. I

-o—o—o-

I've never been in so much pain before.

I can't believe it. I can't wrap my mind around it – can't form it, fix it, make it make sense. Because I can't believe it in the first place.

Greg is dead.

And we weren't there.

Seconds. We were too late by seconds. I was there to see Grissom lean away from the window, tears flowing down cheeks that I've never seen wet before. I was there to see Grissom pull away from a hand that no one should ever let go.

But I wasn't there to catch it. I wasn't there to see him. To talk to him.

To save him.

No.

It was wrong – it was all so very wrong. You don't let go of Greg. He's the little brother we all protect. The rookie we all teach. The goofball that makes us all smile.

He's not someone you ever let go of – not someone you ever leave.

I remember screaming. I remember trying to get to him, to take that hand and stay by his side because Greg isn't the kind of person who should ever be alone.

And I know that it took all the strength Warrick had to hold me back. I know that Catherine held me in her arms as I collapsed, all but sobbing against them both. I know I made no sense as I screamed at them – begged them to let me go to him.

Because Greg isn't supposed to be alone.

Grissom had turned to us with more regret and sadness in his eyes than I had ever seen.

We were too fucking late. And nothing is the same anymore.

That day, as per procedure, the four bodies of the deceased were brought into our lab and examined by Doctor Robbins himself.

I had never seen him cry either.

Since then, it's been the Twilight Zone. Hodges is oddly quiet – some might even say compliant. Archie always has puffy red eyes and Mandy and Wendy work at their stations with mascara running down their cheeks.

Catherine is a zombie in human skin.

But what did we expect?

Greg is dead. He's dead – died in a traffic accident. On his way to California. On his way to a new life - a new beginning after trying to kill himself.

I've never believed in fate. I believe in God and his plan. But I don't believe in fate.

Fate is a fucking bitch that takes away your best friend as he's just decided to live. Fate whispers that it isn't your fault – gives you another entity to blame it on – while the rest of you screams that it is.

But I don't believe in Fate.

I haven't been able to sleep since that day. I can't get the image out of my head – the image of Greg in that car. Pale. Red. Unmoving.

Grissom pulling away.

But Greg isn't someone who should ever have to be alone.

I still blame my boss for letting go of his hand. Warrick for not driving fast enough. That white truck (some asshole named Bryan Manez) for not knowing how to drive in the first place.

But I'm blaming them all to hide away the fact that I blame myself for Greg's death.

For leaving him alone.

Because I'm the one who let him go.

Where would we be if I hadn't walked away from him? Would he be here, laughing at Catherine for the blank look in her face or Mandy for her puffy eyes and quivering lip, if I had stayed to talk for ten minutes more? Would it have made a difference?

Where would we be if I had just tried to convince him not to leave? Would Warrick still be struggling to keep me above water if I had managed to keep Greg in Vegas? Keep him off the highway?

Where would we be if I had told him I cared about him?

The funeral was…it was nice. Probably nothing that Greggo would have wanted (no rock and roll bands, no T-Shirts, no dazzlingly bright colors…no happy people) but it was what his family needed.

And Sara met us in California for the service. She flew in as she had when Greg was in the hospital weeks ago. That would have made him happy. Her sad, tearing face might not have.

I'd only seen his parents once – shortly after that beating. His mother had been crying then too, only she was trying to be brave, a bold front in the face of her bruised and nearly broken child.

Her husband had held her close to his chest, cradling her as I imagined she wanted to cradle her son. They had seemed like such nice, sweet people.

They stood side by side in the graveyard that day, shoulders touching as they stared at the small hole in the ground that would contain their son's remains.

Apparently, Greg didn't want a casket in the ground – no body in a box with six feet of dirt on top of him. I have a vague feeling I knew what that had to do with.

So there we were, standing as Greg's father moved over to the hole – it was just a hole…that's where Greg would remain for the rest of his life – and placed the urn into the ground. They said he wanted a tombstone, but not a casket.

What thirty-three year old decides they want a grave but no body to put in it?

I couldn't watch, so I watched them instead. There was no sobbing, no bold mask, no huddling together for the warmth and comfort of one another.

Just silent tears that flowed down both cheeks, mixing into the grass below.

Mike Sanders had been holding his son's remains – a silver urn with words written upon their base that I never got the chance to read. I hadn't really wanted to – how could I, when doing such would acknowledge Greg's death?

Jill Sanders was holding a hand-made structure of an atom.

I couldn't exactly wrap my mind around that either. So I used the confusion to cloud my thoughts and ignore what else was going around me.

Why the hell was she putting an atom structure in the ground beside her son?

I now use the image of that atom to keep out the image of Greg in that car…I use what I don't understand – a puzzle I must solve – to block out what I can't even begin to comprehend, let alone accept.

And somehow, two weeks have passed and I'm still here – thinking about that structure instead of his…

I sigh, replacing the crime scene photos on the layout table before me. I'm getting nowhere with this case – half of me threw myself into hard work – the other half stayed behind at that Californian graveyard.

I'm starting to think my brain was in that second half.

It's no surprise that Night Shift has fallen behind and again, a no-brainer that Ecklie is gloating. It gives us something to strive to – to come back and wipe that smug look off his face.

'As in he is apparently above the concept of two weeks notice and no longer works here.'

I lose my hold on my anger, my grief, everything, and punch the table. Which…I now regret because, fuck, my hand hurts! The pain helps me focus a little, but not that much on the case.

I've got to find a way around this, to block it out. Because I know I'm never going to get over it.

I run a hand through my hair, giving up with a groan and rubbing my tired face. I need a break.

Glancing to the clock, I'm surprised to find that my shift ended twenty minutes ago. How long have I been in the layout room?

Staring down at the crime scene photos that haven't revealed anything to me in the last two hours…I really don't want to know the answer to that question. With another sigh, this one caught between frustration and defeat, I leave the layout room.

Grissom is walking down the hall, staring hard at the file in his hands, reading through it for probably the hundredth time. As usual (and only having increased since Greg's – well, since recently) he is completely oblivious to the world and people around him and passes me without a word.

I spot Catherine near the entrance to the lab. She's obviously heading out – purse over her shoulder, jacket covering her thin frame. Part of me wants to stop her – the Texan part that was raised to be a good person – and tell her that she looks good or that I hope she had a good night or even good job on the case.

Anything to get her mind off Greg.

But I don't. I'm not sure I could. I've never been good at pretending to be alright when I'm not and I doubt I could pull it off long enough to comfort her.

The locker room is empty when I enter and I'm suddenly glad I forgot the time. I'm not sure I could deal with the small talk we all attempt at the end of the day – our desperate struggle to keep the day as normal as possible.

We had good times in here – I remember the day Warrick tripped over the bench (Mandy and Greg had set up his locker to explode with confetti on his birthday). I tried to catch him and the two of us ended up on the floor, both sporting bruised heads and elbows.

Or the time that Grissom walked in on Sara in the shower. I've never seen a man move that fast towards an exit.

Of course, I've never seen a woman turn quite that shade of red, either.

We'd had break downs in this room, laughs and trips and inside jokes in this room. Greg had given us a fashion show in his suit and 'pimp hat' in this room. I held Sara for half an hour while she cried in this room. Warrick and Catherine made out for twelve minutes in this room (all the while clueless that I was stuck hiding behind the back lockers).

This room had good memories. Memories of all of us – our good times, our bad times, the troubles and gains and ups and downs.

"Nick?"

I look up (when did I sit down?) through blurry eyes (when did I start crying?) to the wavering form of my best friend, standing in the doorway. I try to say something – anything – but my words break down into sobs and the next thing I know I'm doubled over and crying my heart out in the CSI locker room without any clue as to how it happened.

Warrick puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort me as he sits down beside me on the bench.

How many times had I done that for Greg? How many times had he hoped for more? How disappointed was he that I never gave it?

My hands tighten into fists as I recall our last conversation. What had I done? I'd broken my friend's – a man I would call my brother – heart.

"Need to get it off your chest?"

I turned surprised eyes towards Warrick at his gentle words. I knew I looked a mess, what with fat tears rolling down reddened cheeks from inflamed eyes. Crying isn't pretty on anyone and I am certainly no exception.

My best friend is staring at me with all the patience in the world but also worry. He's well aware of how not-fine I've been these last few weeks.

The whole lab is, I think.

But they don't understand. Warrick and Catherine and Mandy and Grissom and Archie – they couldn't understand. They're hurt because Greg's gone and they were all his friends, his colleagues. His family.

They're not the reason he tried to kill himself. They're not the reason behind his move.

I'm the reason he's dead.

"The…the last thing I ever said to him," I whisper through a choked throat. My entire neck is on fire and I would swear, if I didn't know any better, that my throat is bleeding. That's the only explanation for the sheer physical pain building in my esophagus.

I lick my lips and rub my eyes and try again, "The last thing I ever said to him…it-it was angry. It was mean and I meant it – I meant to hurt him, maybe even guilt him into staying in Vegas. And now…" my voice breaks off and I look away, practically burying my head between my knees. "And now they're the last memory I have of him."

Warrick is silent for a long time and I wonder if maybe he knows. Does he know that Greg…loved me? Is he already aware of why our precious lab rat, our little rookie, had died?

"Then don't remember them."

I look up at him in surprise, at his blurry, calm composure. Did…does….he wants me to just forget? I can never forget those words – that wretched thing I did and how all of it is my fault.

I won't!

Anger is boiling up inside of me and I can feel it beginning to pool under the surface. My fists tighten again, fingers digging into the skin of my palm.

"When you think of Greg, don't think of whatever you said to him or the highway that night." I turn to look at Warrick once more, some of my surprise and confusion replacing my anger as he continues, knowing well how close I was to blowing up at him.

But my best friend is still composed, staring at me with more wisdom than I have ever known in his eyes. "Think of…Cha-Cha dances in Jubilee headdresses and sitting through games and presentations just to get your lab results.

"Think of all the horrible music and awful dancing." Warrick makes a face and I can't help but laugh, picturing the geeky lab tech doing his best impression of a white boy that can't dance.

Only, some of us aren't sure it's an impression at all.

Now that he's got a steady rhythm going, a smile lighting both our faces as we chuckle through misty (and in my case drowning) eyes, he keeps it going. "Think of all the punk T-shirts and those corny science jokes. That – that – is the Greg that you should remember."

Science jokes. The atom. That night in the layout room – what case was it? The Miller case! – Greg had told me a joke about an atom. A dumb, cheesy joke a high school chem. teacher would tell to alleviate the boredom of his class.

It had meant something, I knew it had meant something by the way Greg had said it. It wasn't supposed to be funny or inappropriate or time wasting. He had been trying to tell me something and I was too blind to see it!

I stand up suddenly and Warrick is looking up at me, that concern back in his eyes and now mingling with confusion.

"Nick?"

"Science jokes," I mutter, turning to him with the brilliance of my epiphany written clear across my face. "The atom!"

Warrick doesn't seem to understand but I'm too caught up in my own revelation to really care. "Nick, man, what are you talking about?"

I smile suddenly, tears still running down my cheeks. I must be quite the sight to see. "Have you ever heard about the atom that walked into the bar?"

Now he's really looking at me oddly and I'm not surprised. This probably makes no sense to him but I don't have time to explain. I have to make a phone call. I swing my leg over the bench, throw open my locker and reach into its depths.

With a small, crumpled piece of paper securely grasped in my hand, I shut the metal door and turn back around. Warrick is still looking at me like he's thinking of calling the company shrink.

I give another smile – one I'm sure isn't all that consoling. "Thank you, Warrick!" Before he can say a word, I bolt from the locker room, hand patting my pocket to double check that my cell phone is still there.

I leave behind a very confused and slightly worried Warrick.

Before I've even reached the entrance to our lab, my cell is out. As I pass through the sliding doors, hit by the warm, stuffy outside air, the inked numbers on the worn piece of paper almost shine in the rising sun.

I've had it since the funeral, but could never bring myself to call. What would I say to the parents of the man who had lost his life because of me?

My fingers shake a little as I dial in the number; the distant sound of my phone beeping with each button reverberates in my ears, growing louder with each pulse. I put the phone up against my ear, closing my eyes and praying to God for all the courage He can give me.

"Hello, this is the Sanders residence. You're talking to Mike."

I panic and my gut reaction is to swallow – hard. I think my body just tried to swallow my tongue so I wouldn't have to talk.

"Hello?" That oddly cheerful voice – like the voice of an elder man who enjoys life for what it is and what he's given – brings fresh tears to my eyes.

I took away this man's son.

"H-Hi," I croak out and know, instantaneously, that Mr. Sanders can hear me crying through the line. "I…My name is N-Nick…"

"Ah, Mr. Stokes," the man acknowledges and I can hear the small smile through the phone. "You were a close friend of my son."

I nod, realizing too late he can't see it. "Y-Yes." I take a deep breath. Calm down, Stokes. You can do this, the man didn't hate you at the funeral and he's not going to now!

"How are you doing, son?" More tears are falling, coming from eyes that sting so harshly I want to press the heel of my hand into them until they stop or pop back into my skull.

"I…I have a question for you." I sniff, trying to clear my emotions away from the subject. The man on the other line waits patiently and all I can think about is how this is a good person that raised Greg.

And Greg had exemplified the best of his parents.

"Have…Does 'the atom that walked into the bar' mean anything to you?" I look upwards, trailing my gaze to the right to try and drain my eyes of the water they refuse to dam up themselves. "Was it a joke or something that Greg….that Greg knew?"

There was silence on the other line for several moments and I heard the shifting of fabric and the squeak of a chair as Mr. Sanders, I assume, sits down. "Yes." The reply seems not hesitant but uncertain on how to continue. Curious almost. "It was his favorite joke. A friend of his back in college turned it into a philosophy of sorts."

I close my eyes. I knew it. Relief floods through me and I nod several times, once more forgetting that he can't see it. "Is there any way I can talk to this friend? Do you have his contact information?"

With the relief of finally feeling back on track, feeling that something is finally working out, my body relaxes. I can feel tension that has been held tight in my back for three weeks slowly drain.

Greg was telling me something, and now I'll know what. I'll have something from him that might help me with his death; that will counter the guilt and the pain.

That will explain why he left.

"I'm sorry," Mike Sanders voice comes back after a moment. It sounds sadder than before, as if reminded of the unpleasantness that has been plaguing me. "Jeremy Hitchens died nine years ago. We…we buried out son next to him two weeks ago."

There's an echoing crash somewhere down in my feet as my heart plummets.

I don't know how to feel anymore – sad, lost, frustrated, angry, confused – I don't know how to do it anymore. I can't think. I don't know what to do next. My hope just crashed into a grave right beside the one I've been trying to deny and ignore for half a month.

A small hiccup breaks my thoughts as my body attempts to stop itself from sobbing, no thanks to my consciousness. I rub my creasing forehead, desperate for…for…I don't even know what for anymore. My voice is tight, straining within my throat. "Do you…happen to know what it meant?"

There's another pause on the other line. "The atom?" I nod again, this time to tired and drained to turn it into a verbal confirmation. "Did he tell you that joke?"

The question is almost prying but from the inflection of his voice, the curiosity in his question, I know he doesn't mean to sound suspicious. "Yes," I whisper weakly, nodding as I lean against the side of the CSI building.

The building Greg and I worked together in for eight years.

My skin digs into the rough exterior as I lay my forehead against my forearm. I briefly wonder if I look the very picture of defeat. "He told it to me a….a while ago."

"Live."

The one word comes so unexpectedly that it takes me several moments to register it at all. And when I finally do I realize that it makes no sense to me. "What?" I pick my head off my arm, staring at the wall and yet seeing nothing.

"It means live." The brisk words of the other man sound more like the Mike Sanders I knew from Greg's stories. I learned quickly after Greg's too hospitalizations that his father was a man of great humor but precise words. When he had something to tell you – and you could be sure it was important if he was taking the time to say it – you had better take it for all it's worth because he isn't going to tell you a second time and he isn't going to argue his point.

"Take what you've lost and live with it," he continues and I make sure to hear every word. "Life is filled with the things we lose and the things we gain. And atom can't achieve stability without them and neither can we."

I frown as the words slowly fill my head and my mind filters and deciphers them even slower. But when I get it…I get it.

And the revelation is somewhat shocking.

Live. Greg was telling me that night in the lab that I had to live with what happened to and around me. The world wasn't going to change for me, so I had to change for the world; adapt, fix my life to live with what I didn't have, what I lost or gained.

The simplest solution is usually the correct one. Grissom tells us that all the time; Greg just applied it to life in general. The simplest way of life was sometimes the best and to learn it we need only look to the simplest things.

A smile slowly spreads through my face despite the tears still falling. The atom. His last words for me.

Live.

"Greg believed that?" I ask softly as the smile grows. I lean my head against my arm once more. I can't help the memories that flash through my head.

Guess that Chemical Compound, lab gloves as hats and balloons and finger-puppet-people, morning meals of runny eggs and watered down coffee after a long shift, Blue Hawaiian searches and his horrified face when we'd found it and brewed it without him.

Warrick was right – they were all happy memories. And that is how I will remember Greg. Because I understand now; I'm supposed to be like an atom that lost the electron that gave it its balance.

I need to learn to survive without that electron. Even though I may lose another or gain a different one, I will have to survive without it.

"Most who've heard that story try and live by it." Mr. Sander's voice flows through the line and my mind feeds me another memory. I see Jill Sanders lowering that atomic structure into Greg's grave. She was smiling gently, even through her tears.

Just like I am now.

And the puzzle fits together, giving me a picture more grand and enlightening than I had ever thought it would be. "The atom you put in Greg's-"

Mr. Sanders cuts me off. "Yes. Number one – Hydrogen. Next year we'll bring flowers and Hellium. It's what he would have wanted."

And now I can hear it – the tears in the father's voice despite the cheerful tone and the happy pride in his words. He's just as sad as I am – maybe more so – but he's surviving.

Living with his loss.

'Thank you,' I whisper to myself, to Greg and his father, to God. I close my eyes. "Mr. Sanders, I have a favor to ask."

-o—o—o-

The Electron that Walked Out

Pt. I

End

-o—o—o-

This turned into a two-part one-shot sequel/follow up (that is a really long title).

I hope it's been enjoyable so far. I know it's not comical (but this is Nick, not Greg, so it can't be quite as funny) and it was mostly meant to make you cry or at least feel some strong emotion.

Author's Notes

The Choppiness of this chapter: Like The Atom that Walked into the Bar, this story was written from a person's point of view and I took into account the way the person talks and the way I believe the character would think. With Greg, the thoughts were comical and jumped all over the place. With Nick, they are far more strict and controlled, becoming incomplete thoughts and sentences as he gets more emotional.

Jill and Mike Sanders: Having read several various names for Mrs. Sanders, I found that even after trying to come up with my own, Ms Maggs' Jill/Jan/Jillian versions stuck with me the best. I give her and her wonderful stories full credit for this name in my story. Mike had no inspiration however. 8P

Grammatical Mistakes: I edited this myself shortly after writing it so I will not be surprised if you find any errors. Just let me know about them and I'll try and go back and fix them. I have a feeling most errors will be because of a missing 's'. My keyboard doesn't seem to like typing this letter much anymore!

End Author's Notes

Thank you all for reading and please review if you have the time!