A/N: Sorry for the delay! Thank you so much for the reviews!

My soundtrack: "Carry You" by Ruelle, "Caveman" by Scott Thomas

Sara studied Catherine closely when she finally reemerged from the trauma unit. She needed to know what to prepare herself for since it was her turn next to sit with Greg. To any stranger, the blonde appeared composed, but Sara could see that she was quite shaken by her first look at him. A silent agreement passed between the two that the findings of Greg's processing didn't need to be discussed just yet. There were more pressing matters to attend to; the man was not yet out of the woods, and Nick was still missing in action. After confirming that hospital security took her earlier warning seriously, Catherine would meet up with Brass and help search for Nick. The women embraced briefly and promised to keep each other updated. Sara's phone had either not yet been found or sat sealed in an evidence bag somewhere, so she had been supplied with an extra that Catherine kept in her collection kit.

Immediately following the older investigator's departure, several uniformed officers sent by Brass arrived at the hospital, providing guidance and reinforcement to hospital security staff. Now there were enough men to have someone posted at each entrance to the building, as well as all emergency access points. They were supplied with pictures of who they needed to look out for. If Whitney did survive the helicopter crash and against all odds made it back to the city, she should have no opportunity to enter the hospital unnoticed.

Sara's own doctor had officially discharged her after forcing her to eat an entire hospital meal then checking additional bloodwork and ensuring she was adequately rehydrated. He also knew that Sara planned to stay at the hospital, so he could check in on her later. A nurse aid pulled a seat to Greg's bedside and pointed out the call button's location in case she needed anything. She thanked him before he wandered off to tend to other patients.

She pulled the chair as close as possible, sunk into it, and lowered the safety rail on this side of the hospital bed. For the first time since this all started, Sara allowed herself to really look at Greg. No dusky faux-dungeon, no distraction of excessive action surrounding them, and each uncovered injury vividly and horrendously illuminated in the bright lighting of the hospital.

'His scars from the laboratory explosion and the alley beating will be nothing compared to this,' she thought grimly.

A thin white sheet covered him to mid-chest, offering both exterior warmth and some modesty to the man under it. Bruises, scrapes, burns, and angry red cuts marred nearly every inch of his pale skin. An I.V. catheter was secured with medical tape into the crook of his left elbow, as well as on the right side of his chest, just beneath his collarbone. One carried a blood transfusion, the other fluids and medications.

Now that he was receiving hydration, his parched body savoring every drop, he began to react appropriately to the fever and his skin gleamed with sweat. His neck was covered in a cool damp cloth, likely to aid with the swelling, and Sara was relieved. She didn't think she could face the rope burns, the bruises in the shape of an arm and the pattern of chains; the unadulterated reminders of the torture Greg had suffered over the past week. In her mind, they were the most upsetting symbol of Whitney Adams' previously held control over him.

A breathing tube that extended from under the cloth attached to a ventilator set up on the opposite side of the bed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest correspond with the whirring of the machine and the dip and climb of the accordion-shaped bellows in the clear chamber.

Greg's lips were so dry and cracked that they bled. A very small section of the left side of his head had been shaved to assess and suture a cut. The two nearly symmetrical cuts on each side of his chest, which Sara recalled from the warehouse, were now covered with dressings. His broken right arm was elevated at his side and wrapped with several towels to keep it mostly immobile. Both of his legs also looked to be elevated under the sheet. Most of his left forearm was wrapped in a thick bandage, and Sara remembered what lay hidden under that wrap: the deep cut Greg sustained while giving her an opportunity to escape.

She thought about his condition, still very critical, and how many months—even years—his physical and emotional recovery could take. Greg was a tough guy, stronger than most people knew, than even Sara knew until recently. His only downfall, like any qualified crime scene investigator on their shift: bottling and dodging his emotions like a professional. He would need to learn how to open himself up to others and admit he could not do this alone.

But first, he needed to heal physically. Fearful of harming him with a mere touch, Sara cautiously took his left hand into both of her own. His fingers were cold despite his fever, and a small tear trailed from the corner of one eye. She knew that Greg was currently being given strong I.V. opiates, and he should not have been feeling any pain. She used her thumb to gently blot the moisture away, hoping that it was an automatic act of his broken body and not a reaction to a nightmare that he could not escape.

Hopefully, it was a sign he would wake up as soon as his doctor allowed.

A fan whooshed air past Nick's head, and the draft felt nice.

He rolled leisurely to his back. Something brushed against his short hair.

"Mm. Just a couple more minutes."

A man shouted, and Nick's eyes opened. This was not his bedroom, and that was not a gentle breeze or a frisky lover trying to rouse him.

"Oh, f—" Nick dodged away from the helicopter blade, which somehow rotated at a low speed despite the crash. He was outside of the aircraft; the door had been thrown open during the wreck and he must have been dumped out. The occasional wafts of air heavy with fuel vapors suggested he should be further, so he army-crawled low through desert vegetation that scraped his face and bare arms and tore his clothing.

Then he remembered the shout, and looked back.

Wisps of smoke rose from the front of the aircraft. Not good.

Another shout, although now more of a scream. Also not good.

After patting himself down frantically, Nick discovered that his satellite phone was no longer clipped to him. He felt a sharp pull in his left shoulder but disregarded it and crawled back toward the crash site.

The chopper's blade was finally slowing. He hesitated long enough for it to come to a complete stop before rising to a crouch and making his way guardedly into the mangled wreckage. The front of the craft had flattened itself against the desert's surface and received the worst of the damage. All he could do to access the pilot was stick his arm in a narrow opening in bent metal and try to feel a pulse or movement. He felt nothing, and his arm came back dripping with blood that he supposed belonged to the deceased pilot.

He turned his eyes to the back of the cabin, attention caught by a faint groan. It was Sanchez. In his rush to check on the officer, Nick stumbled over something soft. It was too dark in the craft to visualize much on the floor, so he sucked it up and reached blindly. There was a vest, a badge, and a body. No pulse, but there was a satellite phone, which he borrowed. He continued the rest of the way to Sanchez, who had not been buckled in due to the ordeal with Adams, and was obviously tossed about quite a bit. The young officer bled from several small cuts and one particularly deep laceration on his forehead, and everyone knows how much head wounds bleed. The man was painstakingly working on propping himself against one of the helicopter's seats.

"Hey, hey man, let me help you out." Nick crouched and ducked under Sanchez's arm, taking a lot of his weight and helping the guy stand up. They made their way clumsily around the body and debris thrown everywhere on the floor. Going this way was downhill, and so involved quite a few stumbles and falls. Normally Nick would not advocate for jostling an accident victim around in case of spinal damage, but the smell of fuel had strengthened and smoke became thicker in the air around them.

Once positioned at what Nick hoped was a safe distance from the helicopter, he deposited Sanchez onto the ground and checked on him while mashing Captain Brass's number into the satellite phone's keypad.

"Melvin?" Brass answered. He must have caller identification.

"Oh, no. This isn't Melvin. Melvin's, uh—" Nick struggled with the simplest of words. The sharp ache in his shoulder was becoming rather difficult to ignore, the world wobbled around him, and he wondered briefly if he was hurt worse than he initially believed.

"Stokes?!"

"Yeah, we need fire and medical. Helicopter's down."

"Damn. Where are you? Hold on, I'll have you tracked." Some muffled conversation could be heard as the captain gave orders to the men around him, then he spoke into the phone again. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. And I-I've got Sanchez here. He's alive. I can't find most of the team."

"That's fine, we'll find them. I'm getting in my car now; you're not that far. I'll be there soon, and emergency services are on their way. Are you safe?"

Nick glanced back toward the aircraft, assuming that was what Brass meant with his question. "We're far enough, but there are definitely going to be flames soon. I should go back and—"

"No!" Brass warned sternly. "Don't be a hero. Stay where you are."

"Fine," Nick relented, not putting up much of a fight. He remembered the condition of the other team members that were still on the helicopter, and admitted that it wasn't worth getting blown up dragging bodies from the wreckage.

It would be a cold day in hell before Nick set foot in another helicopter anytime soon, and he had already decided he would catch a ride back to the city with Brass. Sanchez seemed stable, and Nick had him putting pressure on the still-bleeding cut on his head.

After disconnecting the call, Nick searched a small area surrounding the crash, keeping plenty of space between the helicopter and himself to keep his promise to Brass. He could not find any more members of the team, and soberly concluded they had either been ejected earlier or were under the wreckage.

He also could not find Whitney Adams. Nick realized now that was probably why Brass asked if he was safe. Not only did they have an exploding helicopter to worry about, but what if Adams had survived the crash? She would certainly want to finish what she'd started. A part of him hoped she was trapped under the aircraft; still alive but experiencing a slow, painful death…

Somehow, that scenario seemed an inadequate fate for her.

Sara held onto Greg's hand with her own and gently stroked his unruly hair with the other until her fatigue became overwhelming. She rested her head on the bed near his arm, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires, and closed her eyes. She only slept for a few minutes before she sensed a presence, heard a quiet shuffle, and jumped. Her sleep-deprived senses had already convinced her that Whitney Adams was there, ready and eager to finish the two investigators off. She turned to see Catherine standing just behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sorry to startle you. They found Nick."

Sara pivoted further in her seat, entirely alert now. "Is he—"

Catherine nodded. "He's alright, but he's hurt. Brass has him and they're on their way here. The helicopter went down. The whole crew…All but Nick and one officer died. Sara, Whitney Adams hasn't been found."

Sara's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "That's impossible. She was in a major car wreck, she was shot—Nick shot her—then, she went down in a freaking helicopter! There is no way she could have gone through all that and escaped."

"I'm just as confused as you," Catherine agreed, "but Brass said they're still clearing the scene, so maybe she's under the debris. I'm going to make some more calls in the hallway, then take off. I had only just pulled out of the parking garage when Brass called. Do you need anything here, Sara?"

The younger woman looked down at her current attire. She'd had to give up her clothing to get processed earlier, so she now wore old, baggy scrubs that the hospital supplied her with.

"I'll get you something else to wear." When she noticed Sara patting her pockets instinctively, she stopped her. "We have your keys. You left them in your vehicle at the scene."

"Right, thank you. Greg might need some things from his place when—uh, if he…But Nick has a copy of his key, and…" Sara trailed off. The strain from the past week the ordeal the previous night and day were all quickly catching up with her.

"I'll handle it," Catherine reassured her with a gentle smile. "Stay here, but try to get some rest. You're technically on administrative leave. You were kidnapped too, Sara. Greg will need someone he knows and trusts when he comes around. Talk to Nick when he gets here, see if he can give us any hints on where Whitney might be headed if she did escape." Catherine put a hand on Sara's shoulder again. "Greg's going to be okay. He's tough as nails."

Sara nodded, still holding back tears. She thought that she was doing well at concealing her true feelings towards Greg, but she looked down and remembered she was still holding his hand. Despite that, she had a sense that Catherine caught on long ago: Greg and Sara shared a relationship more intimate than coworkers, and a bond much warmer than friendship.

Still blind, still deaf. The air is humid, thick.

There is no way to tell time here; no way to know how long he has occupied this place with no walls, no ceiling, and no floor. It's felt like an eternity, but what hasn't recently?

She stripped everything from him. All he has left is her voice in his head and the pain.

Mostly, Whitney whispers to him. She tells him not to worry, because she'll never leave him. She says this as if it should be comforting. She discusses the fun they've had together, and wants to know Greg's favorite part. His response is silence, because she's also stolen his voice.

Sometimes, she speaks with her sister. She tells Lacey about the exciting plans she has in store for Greg, talks them through in vivid detail. He thinks Lacey might be in his head too, because at one point there is a response: she is proud of her little sister.

Often, Whitney gets bored of talking and wants to play. During these times, he takes to reciting the periodic tables. It's something on which he's relied a few times in the past when mental absence presents itself as an effective, if inappropriate coping mechanism.

Carried on a stretcher away from his smoldering lab, the burnt walls and blasted-out windows marching by in a wobbly, slow-motion procession. In a physical stupor with only ringing in his ears and echoing, uneasy thoughts of 'oh shit, what did I do, I blew up the lab, is everyone okay' bouncing around in his head, he turned to chemistry.

Hydrogen helium lithium beryllium…

Greg turned to chemistry even more so, during that gap of time between the gang leaving him in the alley and backup arriving. The sun crept over the horizon, and even as his eyes swelled shut some light penetrated his lids. The entire time, he speculated whether his attackers would risk coming back to finish him off. Sofia arrived before the ambulance, cleared the scene quickly, and checked him first. He still recalls her worried voice interrupting his internal recitation halfway through the lanthanoids.

"Greg? Greg, are you with me?"

Here, now, chemistry is literally all he has as Whitney breathes down the back of his neck.

…aluminum silicon phosphorous sulfur chlorine…

She yawns, and it's drawn out and exaggerated. "Boring."

…argon potassium calcium…

One of her arms snakes around his neck. The other hand clamps over his mouth and nose. He feels her weight on his shoulders, but can't move, can't even sink to the ground in submission. "Can you focus on your periodic table now, Greg?"

…scandium t-titanium vanadium…

She nestles against his back; grip unrelenting. "You go on and be stubborn. I've got all day."

…manganese shit ch-chromium manganese i-iron…

Suddenly, the pain isn't all he can feel. There is a warmth throughout his left hand, and although strange in its remoteness, it also brought comfort in the form of a small glimpse of light.

Two hours after Catherine delivered Sara the news about Nick, the man sat next to Sara at Greg's bedside. He was in a wheelchair: the only way he could talk his doctor into letting him visit his friends. Nick had a dislocated shoulder that had already been put back into place by the medical team, a concussion, and several cuts and bruises but overall things certainly could have been worse considering the severity of the crash. Physically, he was feeling decent thanks to the pain medications. Mentally, he was exhausted, foggy from the concussion, and fuming.

"I can't believe I lost her, Sara," Nick grumbled as he watched over Greg, who was still motionless except for the machine that was performing the job his own body could not.

"There was nothing you could have done." Despite going on very little sleep, Sara was wide awake. She'd managed to nod off for about an hour while waiting on Nick, but Brass woke her unintentionally when he stopped by to check on her and Greg. She updated him hurriedly before he had to leave again, and when Nick joined her, she'd had to update him also. Sara was already growing weary of describing Greg's condition.

"She shot the pilot. She almost shot me. I should have made sure she wasn't going anywhere." Nick shook his head slowly, red-rimmed eyes not leaving the young man.

"It wasn't your fault, Nick. Nobody is blaming you but yourself. I'm just happy you're alright." She offered him a genuinely grateful smile and patted his good shoulder.

He sighed. "I just want this to be over with as soon as possible."

"Me too."

A new, piercing beeping tone drew both of their attentions to the heart monitor, which now flashed a red light, then down to their friend, whose color was suddenly much lighter than before. Before they could register what was happening, Greg's fists clenched and his body became rigid.

"Shit." Nick jumped up from the wheelchair and started toward the nurses' station as Sara pressed the call button attached to the bed. Three nurses were already on their way, and pushed Nick and Sara to the side as they surrounded Greg's bed. One used a phone to send a 9-1-1 page to Dr. Holland, then helped the others attempt to steady their patient as his body began to convulse violently.

At a safe distance and out of the way, Nick pulled Sara into his arms as she started to cry.

"He's seizing!" one of the nurses shouted, as if it wasn't obvious, just as Dr. Holland rushed into the area at a near-sprint. He glanced briefly at Nick and Sara before tending to his patient.

"Okay, let's get him four milligrams of lorazepam, I.V., slow. Watch his catheters. Put a hand on his forehead, keep him still."

Sara pressed her face into Nick's vest. She couldn't watch. He held her tight and looked on anxiously. Twenty minutes later, the organized turmoil around Greg's bed ceased and only the doctor remained. He turned to his patient's friends and gestured at them to take their seats.

"The seizures are under control now. Unfortunately, it is a side effect from the lack of circulation to his brain, and we expected to deal with this at some point."

"He's in a medically induced coma, how can he have seizures?" asked Nick as he sat heavily back into 'his' wheelchair.

"Greg seems to be resistant to some medications, which is very problematic because I prefer to keep his doses low."

"How often is this going to happen?" Sara inquired shakily.

"Hopefully, it won't happen again. We have his anticonvulsant dosage increased for now. When he's strong enough to wake up, we will wean him off the medications slowly. Like I said before, there is no conclusive way to tell how much his brain function is impacted until he regains consciousness." Dr. Holland studied the two concerned CSIs. "I shouldn't be saying this, but it's a bit of a slow night. Why don't you two catch some sleep in those empty beds? Doctor's orders." He winked at them, trying to lighten the mood somewhat.

Nick agreed to lay down in a neighboring bed, but Sara insisted on staying at Greg's side, hand on his and head resting on her own arm. Both managed to fall asleep, but their dreams brimmed with their failure to rescue their friend sooner.

The next several days merged themselves in one long marathon of time, carrying intertwined images of Greg's gradually healing body, feelings of anxiety, sadness and anger, and the monotonous clicks, beeps, and whirs of the machinery keeping him alive. Sara couldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time in her own apartment nightmares startling her awake, so most of her time was spent at Greg's side. Nick also spent a lot of time there. He was supposed to be taking a few days off but like Sara couldn't stand to be at his own place for long. Each CSI still had individual protection assigned to them, as well as round-the-clock guards at the hospital. D.B. and Brass agreed this would continue until Whitney was located.

It wasn't that Sara didn't trust the policemen standing guard at the hospital to protect Greg. Her mind was simply more at ease when she had him in her own sights. Maybe that made her self-centered, but at this point she didn't care; she just wanted Greg to wake up. Sara wanted Greg to wake up, to laugh, to crack jokes; hell, she would even welcome a few of his horribly timed, inappropriate anecdotes that would normally make her eyes roll. Anything would be better than his current state, which was very un-Greg-like in its excruciating stillness.

On the fourth night of Greg's hospitalization, Sara sat in her normal position at his left side. The chair's padding was worn and impressionable, and she was sure she had left a permanent cast of her ass there during the hours upon hours she occupied it. It was Nick's first night back at work, and he had reluctantly left Sara and Greg to report to the lab.

Yesterday, Greg was relocated from the trauma unit to the intensive care unit. This was an upgrade from the much louder and more active environment to one where Greg at least had a large corner to himself and partial walls instead of only curtains for privacy. Nurses and doctors checked in frequently. They asked questions, checked vitals, and administered medications. Sometimes they wheeled Greg away for more testing. Sara stayed out of the way during these visits, thankful that so far no one asked her to leave when visiting hours ended at night. Most of the staff was aware of Greg's story, or at least some of it. His disappearance and rescue were all over the news, quickly making national headlines. The presence of the uniformed officers, standing guard 24/7, was also hard to explain. So, they let Sara visit whenever—which was nearly always, knowing that she was also associated with law enforcement and involved in the protection of their patient.

Dr. Holland was one of Greg's most frequent visitors. Sara thought that the man must get less than two hours of sleep a day, because he seemed to always be at the hospital. He kept Sara updated on Greg's condition, asked her questions, and sometimes just sat and talked. He still did not want to risk surgery on his patient's broken appendages, even though the longer they waited, scar formation around the shattered bones was more likely to complicate the procedures. He worried seriously about Greg's liver and kidneys after the battering they'd endured, and he preferred to wait until his bloodwork values looked better.

Most of the time, this new area was peaceful. Quiet murmurings could be heard from staff members in other areas of the unit as they went about their jobs and took care of their patients. The atmosphere could become frenzied at times, however. Sara witnessed several different incidents of crash codes, which were bound to get every staff member on the move, with purpose. Not many were brought back, as is real life, and each time she would be reminded of how lucky they were to successfully resuscitate Greg. Each time, she would grip his hand harder and will him not to be next.

So, on this fourth day like the previous three, Sara sat as close to Greg as she could without interfering with the machinery, wires, and I.V. lines. She always lowered the guardrail while she was by him to better access his hand. She gripped it with her left hand and held the book she was barely able to focus on in her right. The words blurred in front of her, and a low buzzing sounded in her ears. She was sure she had read the same paragraph about twenty times. Stress and lack of both sleep and appetite for such an extended time—not only the four days since they rescued Greg but also the seven days that he was missing—left her in a surreal, fugue-like state.

This was why, when Greg's hand twitched in hers, Sara was certain she imagined it. But then it twitched again, and she dropped the book in realization. It flapped to the floor forgotten as she leaned in, clutching his hand and looking to his still-bruised features for some other sign of life. "Greg?"

For nearly five minutes she sat like this, barely even blinking, so tense that her back and shoulders began to ache. Her heart leapt when one of his eyes finally cracked open, and slowly the other followed suit. His heartrate sped up, illustrated by the waves on the electrocardiogram's screen on the opposite side of the bed as well as narrated by the soft beeps emanating from the same machine. He groggily scanned the room through slit eyes.

Sara enclosed his hand with both of her own and spoke softly, the welling tears of relief showing through in her voice. "You're in the hospital, Greg. You're safe." His tired eyes found her, and his heart slowed once again to a steady rhythm. Sara smiled as reassuringly as she could bear. "Hey there."

Greg assumed he was in a dream, one much more comforting than the nightmare he had lived previously, in which he was lucky if he was able to see Sara. If he saw her, she was either dead, dying, or running from him. Most of the time he could only listen as her voice echoed in his head. Her cries and screams, calling out for help but out of reach in some internal but distant land.

This was different. Soft daylight graced Sara's features, her dark hair curled and tucked loosely behind her ears. She smiled at him, and he knew the warm touch on his hand belonged to her; had always belonged to her.

One of his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, causing her smile to widen. He managed to squeeze her hand weakly, then opened his mouth to try to speak. Greg didn't want this dream to end, and tried to tell her so, but no sound left his lips.

"No, Greg, don't talk. You won't be able to. You have a tube going into your neck to help you breathe."

He tried a sigh of frustration instead, but his breath was met with resistance. It was a foreign sensation, and Greg was not a fan of it. It wasn't the same as when Whitney had her fun with him, but it was similar enough to serve as a stark reminder. He looked around at his surroundings again, feeling more awake now and second guessing that this was a dream.

He tried to turn his head, his heart sped up further, and he attempted to reach up to his neck. A wire taped to his left arm pulled against him, and his right arm barely responded to his brain's commands to move. His chest heaved as he attempted to breathe through his mouth and nose but was blocked by the tube entering his trachea from his neck.

Sara reached and pressed the call button repeatedly then stood and leaned over him, trying to catch his attention. "Look at me. Don't fight it."

The agony, which had briefly alleviated when he first awoke, returned to him when he began to thrash. It was intense and spread throughout his entire being in a fraction of a second.

That's okay. I can deal with the pain.

He needed to get Whitney off him.

Wait…where is Sara?

As he continued to attempt to reach to his throat, seemingly forgetting she was there, Sara was forced to hold his wrists. He appeared to be flashing back into a recent memory, unaware of his actual surroundings. She despised the thought of doing further damage to his already bruised and cut arms, but she needed to stop him from tearing out any of his catheters or worse, the tube in his neck.

"Nurse, somebody?!" Sara yelled, trying not to panic herself as she watched Greg lose his mind. "I need some help over here!"

Once again retreating into that far-off land, Sara yelled syllables that did not make any sense. Was Whitney hurting her again? More urgent voices joined in, ones he did not recognize, and the grip on his wrists was released but immediately replaced by firm holds on his shoulders and ankles. Several shadows bustled at his sides, and Greg struggled with all his might until his fight was chemically stolen from him. He sagged back against the bed, mind still racing but body stripped of strength.

On the ceiling, scorpion-Nick waved at him with two thin legs.