DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI

Okay, this chapter is in the future. Italics are flashbacks.

It's a quater after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now

Said I wouldn't call, but I've lost all control and I need you now

Greg smiled. For the first time since he had found out that Catherine didn't know him, or love him, anymore, he smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile. Because he wasn't happy. How could he ever be happy again? The reason Greg was smiling was because he was finally doing something about it. It was cold smile, a harsh smile. Because Greg was finally doing something. But it was something bad.

He'd always said that if he was ever going to kill himself, he would plan it really well. And possibly set Ecklie up for his murder. Greg was a CSI after all. He knew everything there was to know about murder and suicide and how they investigate, and what sort of evidence does well in court. So why not bring somebody he hated down with him? But when the time came, there was no setting up. Not much planning either. It was just Greg, a photo of Catherine and a gun he'd stolen from balistics. As soon as he'd managed to get the gun, Greg hadn't been able to wait. He'd just ran until he found an empty room. Which happened to be the morgue, both coroners were on call-outs. He was going to die among dead people. That thought pleased him more than it should have.

As Greg traced his jaw with the gun, he wished that his suicide had been more poetic. He wished he thought that nobody in the world cared about him, that everybody hated him, that he wouldn't be missed, that death was the best thing to do, the only way out. But he didn't. In truth, Greg knew Grissom would be devastated, maybe blame himself for not being more supportive. He knew that Warrick He knew that Nick would probably cry, a lot. He would proably be mad at everyone for a while, maybe shut himself off. He knew that Archie, Wendy, Henry and Mandy would be upset, and that they would miss him a lot. He knew that even Hodges would be sad. And mainly, Greg knew that if he died, a part of Sara would die too. She would never be the same again. Also, Greg knew the whole lab would miss him, and care about his death. Greg knew that what he was about to do wasn't for the best. It wasn't the only thing he could do. It was the easy way out. Easy for him. since he had lost his feelings, his concious, his sense of what was right and wrong a long time ago. So he didn't even have to battle himself. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he didn't have to overcome those feelings. He didn't have to make himself do it. He would just do it. Greg wondered why he hadn't already done it. Then he realised he was just waiting for a better moment. He needed to die thinking something meaningful, needed his last thoughts on earth to be like something out of a movie. Because his whole life had been so fucked up, that he just had to do this one thing right. He had to die properly. Otherwise he would fade into nothing beside the bodies surrounding him. Greg would rot away to nothing amongst the faceless, nameless dead. He needed his last few moments to mean something to him.

Briefly, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had never met Catherine. It was as if someone had pressed a rewind button on his brain, and he found himself being transported back to that night when it all started.

Boy, she was hot. Greg knew she could probably feel his eyes on her, but he couldn't look away. She was different. The other girls here, they were all T&A. This girl was more then that. She turned around again, so she was now facing him. Even from twenty feet away and with all the people dancing in between them, her blue eyes shot through him like lasers. Behind her eyes, there was passion, intensity, fire.

"Hey, G, dude, that hot redhead girl is making eyes at you!"

The wolf whistles began.

"She is smokin' man, what does she see in you?"

"Shut up guys." Greg said playfully, finally breaking eye contact with the girl and turning to look at his friends. "Come on let's go get some drinks."

As they made their way through the dancefloor and over to the bar, Greg thought about the girl. He couldn't explain it. They immediantly had some sort of a connection, and he couldn't figure out why. He'd admired the girls here before. Tanya, Izabella, Zara and Sasha had all occupied his thoughts for a night at a time. This must be his twentieth time coming here, and he'd never seen this girl before. Soemthing gave him a feeling she wasn't new though, she looked experienced. He wasn't sure what was stopping him going over to this girl and handing her ten dollar bills like his friends would surely be doing, like he'd done himself the last weeks. He just knew it wouldn't feel right.

They'd had a connection, the very first time he'd seen her he'd known it. But what if that had been it? What if that night had been the first and last time he'd seen her? What if she wasn't there the next time when he came the night before Matt's wedding, him, Joey and Matt?

"What's your name?" she asked him, her pink tongue taunting him as it moved around her mouth.

"Greg. Greg Sanders." he told her. "What's yours?"

"You can call me Cat." She said, laying a hand on his shoulder. He felt electricity surge through him at her touch.

"Yo, man, get the hell outta the way, we wanna talk to her too!" An indignant guy yelled from behind Greg. But when he moved over tolet the guy in front, Cat stood up straight again and continued her dance. Greg went to find his friends. He couldn't keep watching her, it was driving him crazy. He was burning up with desire, not just to touch her and kiss her but to know her, to understand her. It was crazy.

He felt something else in his pocket. A pink post-it.

'I like your hair, muy caliente' it read, in neat italic handwriting. It was signed, Cat.

What if she wasn't there when he came with Joey, the night his girlfriend announced she was moving to Paris. That had been the night he'd gone to meet her outside the club, broken up her fight with Grant, took her home. That had been the night that he'd seen the drugs, the alcohol, the state of the house she'd lived in. And, using all his willpower, he had denied the opportunity to sleep with her, because he knew it wouldn't do her any good.

He broke away from the kiss and pushed her off of him.

"I can't do this." he whispered.

"But...Greg..." she began.

He cut her off "Listen, you need to get a new job. Or go to rehab. You need help."

Greg stood up, zipping his trousers and looking around for his Marilyn Manson t-shirt.

"I can't quit. I need the money."

"Get a new job. One thing you don't need is me. I can't do anything for you. Listen, I've got to go." Greg told her, heading for the door.

"Wait." Greg turned around. All of a sudden, she didn't look like a twenty nine year old exotic dancer anymore. She looked like a lost little girl. "Stay here. You make me feel safe." Tears were brimming in her eyes. "Please." And so, Greg kicked his shoes off again and walked back over to the bed. Cat curled up in his arms and soon, she was snoring softly. Eventually, Greg closed his eyes and let sleep take him too.

What if none of that had happened? Would he still be in Vegas? Still be at the lab? Would she? Would Greg still have such great friends as he had now? Maybe he'd have married some other girl. He might have had children by now. But it was not use dwelling on that. Because none of that had happened. He had met Catherine, saved her from herself, hurt her too many times to count and tumbled into love with her somewhere along the way. And th3ere was no going back. But he din't want to go forward. So he was stopping his course altogether.

Technically, it would be ruled as a suicide. But Greg knew better. Catherine Willow had killed him. Greg may have been the one who pulled the tigger, but it was her. The coroner may say the C.O.D. was a gunshot wound to the head, but Greg knew better. Because you can't live without a heart. And she was the one who had broken it.

That was poetic. Broken hearts. They were the type of thing to think about when you killed yourself. A stereotypical cliche, but it sounded good. He was broken-hearted. With this though Greg smiled again. And then he put his finger on the trigger. And pulled.

The funny thing was, people are supposed to feel pain when they died. But he felt nothing. In the last few second before your life is gone forever, people are supposed to feel regret, sadness, loss, love, pain. Not just in emotionally, but pyshically. A gunshot's gotta hurt, right? But as usual, Greg felt nothing. He told himself to close his eyes for the last time, and he did, repeating the think about being broken hearted in his head. The last thing he thought of was Catherine. And he wondered how she would react. Then everything went black.

Please review!