Title: Ghost Of You

By: Misile

Disclaimer: While I'm flattered that anyone would think I own the rights to CSI and its characters… I don't. I wish I did, but no. I don't even own the title-that's a My Chemical Romance song. I don't own them, either. I'm pretty sure they own themselves. Ghost Of You is, however, a wicked song, so check it out. Be warned, though- the music video's a tearjerker. :(

A/N: Chapter 2 is the Chapter That Almost Wasn't. It's quite horrible. Really. I fell asleep and the notebook with this story in it was on my bed; when I woke up, it wasn't. Panic set in. I feared that my mother, in one of her cleaning splurges, may have thrown out my notebook, since she's been throwing out a lot of things lately in case we move. (Interesting fact: The amount of stuff thrown out after three moves is the equivalent of what is lost in one house fire.) Then, paranoia hit and I worried that maybe my notebook had been boarded up under our new loft flooring. The horror! It was like the Tell Tale Heart. All my hard work, trapped under the floor. I nearly died. Then, hurrah! I found the notebook in my tote bag, under my bed. Huh. So that's my excuse for posting late. The neighbours last chapter were based on my grandparents. True story. Greg should have Jack Skellington slippers. My opinion. Thank you thank you thank you for all of your wonderful reviews! I hardly expected any. Now I'm horrified that you're all going to be disappointed by this chapter. :O Mma63, I was listening to a commentary on the CSI DVDs and they mentioned Greg and Grissom sharing a room, so there's my reference, if that helps.

Chapter Two: Nightmare

"Greg? What did you say you were doing?" Grissom asked, watching quizzically as his youngest CSI tugged on his well-worn pair of Converse All-Stars. Greg had looked surprised to see Grissom awake, but chose to ignore him as he dressed. He had pulled a hoodie on over his too-large pajama shirt, not bothering to change out of the open-ankle sweat pants he'd worn to bed. Greg hadn't specifically told Grissom what he was planning on doing, had simply muttered something unintelligible as he stumbled out of bed and switched on the light.

"I'm going on a walk. Can't sleep." His back was to Grissom as he stood, but that didn't stop the entomologist from seeing he light sheen of sweat on Greg's forehead. "I'm so nocturnal now. I can't sleep at night." He offered a half-hearted smile. "Don't worry- I'll be back. Can't just abandon the case, right?" And then he was gone, out the door before Grissom could utter so much as a word of protest. A brief flash of worry that Greg would be exhausted at the scene tomorrow made Grissom feel slightly hypocritical, so he went to turn out the light, stubbing his toe on the way, and fell back into bed.

He found that sleep came no more easily with Greg out of the room.

Greg wasn't in the room when Grissom woke up, after catching only a few hours' sleep, but his things had been cleared off the bed. After a moment of indecisiveness, Grissom chose not to call Greg and find out his whereabouts. He figured that Greg would just turn up at the crime scene and, if not, then he would call.

The small, brick house was still roped off with yellow tape when Grissom arrived, though all of the curious neighbours and onlookers had long since dispersed, all of their morbid curiosity dying after the sun had risen. Since the scene was nearly two hours away from the lab, Grissom had opted to stay the night and process the scene in the revealing light of day. Catherine offered to transport evidence back to the lab, and the local PD had graciously offered to lend the Vegas CSIs use of their interrogation rooms.

When he pulled up to the scene, Grissom was unsurprised to find Catherine and Nick's vehicles already parked in front of the scene. He had been slow in leaving the hotel, still groggy from lack of sleep. Catherine waved from her position on the front lawn; examining what was probably a flower bed- the victim had apparently lacked any sort of green in his thumb- for any footprints. Since her starch and setting materials were unused beside her, Grissom doubted she was having any luck.

"Greg and Nick are inside." She offered by way of greeting. Grissom nodded in acknowledgment and made his way inside where, as promised, Nick and Greg were processing.

The coroner had already carted the body away, leaving a small pool of drying blood on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Nick was hunched over the dining room table, dusting it for prints, while Greg lay sprawled on his stomach on the living room floor, waving his flashlight around under the couch.

"Hey, Griss." Nick said, not looking up from his work. "I've got the kitchen and Greg's processing the living room. Your pick of bedroom or bathroom." The house was a cozy, one-story affair, sparsely decorated as is the way with divorced bachelors. The front door led the a kitchen the doubled as a dining room, with an open wall to the living room. A short hallway led the bedroom and bathroom.

"The bedroom." Grissom claimed, immediately after walking to the back of the house and eyeing the unhygienic bathroom with obvious distaste. The bedroom turned out to be little better; rumpled sheets were falling off the mattress in a heap, dirty clothes were strewn haphazardly across the carpet, and there was a layer of dust so think Grissom had at first mistaken it for paint. Though tempted to alert HazMat to the possible health danger, Grissom say it as his solemn duty to process the dangerously unclean room. Quashing an urge to organize the mess, Grissom stepped tentatively around piles of clothing, trying not to disturb anything. Whipping out his trusty ALS and putting on the orange-tinted glasses, he swept the light across the mussed bedding, and wasn't sure whether or not he should be surprised when they lit up.

The victim had been divorced, living alone here after moving out of the home he and his ex-wife had shared for the entirety of their marriage. No one had made any mention of a girlfriend, but Grissom wouldn't have been surprised is no one had known about her. The fighting neighbours had made it clear that they hadn't been very close to the vic, only speaking with him occasionally, such as when one spouse locked the other out. It was clear, to Grissom, at least, that if Brian Caris had a girlfriend, these neighbours wouldn't have been the ones to know.

It also became apparent, as Grissom continued sifting through the pieces of Brian Caris' life, that he hadn't had many friends. There was no evidence of a social life besides the sheets; ne messages on the phone, no photographs, nothing. After bagging a swab from the sheets, Grissom finished photographing the room and headed back to the living area to help finish processing that room, then use his powers of seniority to pass the laborious task of collecting evidence from the bathroom onto Nick or Greg.

"What'd you see?" Nick's harsh whisper was concerned, and as soon as Grissom came into the room he could see the worry in his face as he focused on Greg. Greg's eyes were too big for his suddenly pale face, looking at Nick but not really seeing him. Nick had one hand on Greg's shoulder, as if anchoring him to reality.

Grissom announced his entrance with a cough, and Nick immediately dropped his hand. The younger CSIs quickly stepped away from each other, and Grissom couldn't help but feel that he was walking in on a secret.

"Am I interrupting something?" He questioned, setting his kit down on the kitchen table after making sure the prints had already been lifted. Nick's face tinted pink, while Greg regained his composure, though his eyes remained wide and haunted. Obviously somewhat embarrassed that Grissom had caught them in an expression of human emotion, both CSIs returned to their previous tasks.

Nick was examining the blood poll for any evidence caught in the coagulated red substance, or for any droplets leading away from the mess of blood and tissue. He seemed to be having some luck, pulling a short blonde hair from the pool with his tweezers. Greg had moved from processing th underbelly of the couch to fingerprinting the door handle.

"Greg, when you're done with that, I want you to get to work in the bathroom."

Apparently recovered from the brief episode Nick had been worrying over, Greg quirked an eyebrow, obviously finding some humour in the request.

"Greg…" Grissom cautioned.

Greg groaned in protest. "Come on, Gris! Have you seen that room? It's not safe for carbon-based life forms!"

"That may be, but I'm your supervisor and it's my right to assign you to the bathroom."

Greg, admitting defeat, rolled his eyes and finished taping the prints and loading them into his kit before walking past Grissom in a huff on his way to the Nasty Bathroom From Hell.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, Griss?" Nick replied from his place on the kitchen floor.

"What was that, with Greg?" If the question made Nick uncomfortable, he didn't show it.

"Oh. He felt a little lightheaded, thought he might be sick. I'm sure it's nothing- probably just not enough sleep last night. You see the bags under his eyes?" Grissom had seen them, dark sleeping bruises that circled under Greg's tired eyes. He wondered if Greg had gotten any sleep after leaving the hotel last night. Accepting Nick's explanation, despite the fact that it didn't explain Nick asking Greg what he'd seen, Grissom dropped the subject. For now.

After a few moments of silence, broken only by a few complaints from the bathroom about the stench, Nick straightened, stretching. "Alright, Grissom. I think I've got all I can from this- I'm gonna take this out to Catherine's car, then head back to the hotel and go over we've got on this guy. Maybe I'll try to find out about the ex-wife."

Grissom nodded absently, continuing to focus on whatever evidence he could find. Noting his dismissal, Nick took his kit and left Grissom and Greg alone in the crime scene. Greg's voice had stopped calling from the bathroom, and the house was left eerily silent.

Processing the living room took little effort on Grissom's part; Greg had done a surprisingly thorough job. No, not surprisingly, Grissom reminded himself, Greg's becoming an excellent CSI. After organizing the evidence bags to fit into his kit, and feeling guilty (if only slightly) about condemning Greg to the hideous bachelor bathroom, he rose, deciding to offer what help he could before taking his evidence to Catherine.

"Greg?" He called, walking down the hall. No answer. Thinking that Greg was giving him the cold shoulder in revenge for having to process the bathroom, Grissom sighed at the immaturity of it all. "Greg, I'm…" he greeted as he opened the door.

And stopped.

Greg wasn't collecting evidence. Greg wasn't doing much of anything, really, except breathing, ragged, gasping breaths as if he couldn't pull enough oxygen into his lungs. He was leaning shakily against the counter, white knuckled hands gripping the edge as if it were the only thing standing. Looking at the state of the younger CSI, Grissom realized that it probably was. His lips moved silently, rapidly mouthing words even Grissom couldn't read. His eyes, wide and panicked, stared through Grissom and into a world that only Greg could see.

-fin-

A/N- Dang, these seem so much longer in my notebook. For some reason, I started writing in cursive in the middle of this chapter, and my cursive writing is surprisingly good, since this is the first time I've voluntarily written like that in years. Only problem is when I get lazy, I start writing unintelligible squiggles instead of actual words. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I'm sorry if it disappoints. Maybe I'll revise it someday, but right now all I want to do is get the story in my head onto paper before I forget it. Since I have such problems focusing, I usually can't finish even a chapter of a story, but I got a new notebook made specifically for my fanfics, and on the advice of a friend, I wrote a note to myself in the beginning reminding myself that I'm only allowed to start a new story once I've finished the first. Now I'm worried I'm going to try and wrap this one up too fast, so I can start on one of the other Ideas I've got flying around.