My soundtrack: "Mechanical" by Diefenbach, "Take Me Under" by Three Days Grace

Chapter Twenty: Mind Over Matter

Forty-eight hours after waking up from the induced coma, Greg had another CT scan performed. After going over the results, Dr. Holland reported to the investigators that the swelling in Greg's throat seemed improved. The primary goal was to get Greg breathing without the ventilator, so he was scheduled for anesthesia to remove the tracheostomy tube. After shift the day of the procedure, Grissom—who booked a hotel room in Vegas for at least the next two weeks—along with Catherine, Nick, and D.B. convinced Sara to go to breakfast with them. If they hadn't, she would have waited anxiously at the hospital, and likely not eaten anything. They'd practically needed to drag her from the lab to the diner, since she was accustomed to heading straight to the hospital to see Greg both on her breaks and every morning.

Not that she had scheduled shifts for which to report. Both Sara and Nick were technically on administrative leave. Ecklie and the city of Las Vegas dutifully apologized for their trouble and insisted they take some well-deserved, paid time off after their ordeal. Nick was forced to take at least a week to recover from the helicopter crash, and Sara a month. Although they broke the rules of administrative leave each time they entered the crime lab and especially when attending briefings, the higher-ups tended to show more leniency when one of their own was involved and the case still active.

The conversation over their morning meal inevitably shifted to the Adams case, because at least talking all of the facts through allowed them to believe they were accomplishing something. Search parties continued to scour a generous radius around the helicopter's crash site, but so far there was still no sign of Whitney Adams. The search effort itself was winding down; only so much manpower and resources should be utilized in a case where the missing person is more than likely deceased. An officer remained posted at the hospital for Greg, although they now took shifts at only his door instead of all entrances to the building. Sara also had her own police escort when she wasn't at work or with co-workers, but there were talks of suspending that soon if Whitney still hadn't been found.

The case overall was at a near standstill until more information was received. Archie had analyzed footage from the Harris's household security cameras and caught Harris coming and going during the time that his mother claimed she had no idea where he was. Although they knew she was far from innocent, the team was unable to pin Harris's mother with anything other than aiding and abetting a fugitive, and even that charge was shaky at best. The woman was inconsolable after Harris's death, and as long as she didn't cause any more trouble, so far it was the collective opinion of the LVPD and crime lab that the loss of her only son would be enough punishment.

Catherine was the first to bring up the subject after the small-talk dwindled. Earlier that morning, she had reviewed Harris's autopsy report with David Phillips, the assistant coroner, and she was eager to fill everyone in. "Turns out the guy met an elaborate fate. Not only was he thrown from the sedan during its first flips, but an extreme swelling in his foot was also noted during autopsy, along with the beginnings of infection and tissue necrosis. He sent a sample to tox, and the answer's in at last: scorpion toxin."

Grissom frowned. "What, did he have an extreme sensitivity, an allergy? There aren't any scorpions native to Nevada that should've caused a reaction that severe."

"Well, that's because it's not native to Vegas. The venom belonged to something called an 'Indian Red Scorpion'."

"Hottentotta tamulus?" Grissom exclaimed.

"Bless you," Nick mumbled between bites of pancakes.

Catherine rolled her eyes and went on. "Must have been somebody's escaped pet. But wait, there's more!" She paused for effect, drawing everyone's full, slightly irritated attention. "His throat was cut. Deep. Severed the carotid."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't there a knife found near the scene?"

"Yep, a paring knife, and according to Super Dave, it indeed did the deed."

"What the hell happened in that car?" Nick asked no one in particular.

With Whitney Adams still unaccounted for and Greg unable to tell his side of the story, the answer to that eluded them all. They knew that Greg, Harris, and Adams occupied the vehicle, and the evidence at the wreck told them that Adams drove. A large amount of Greg's blood was discovered in the trunk, along with a smaller amount in the backseat of the sedan, so he had been in both locations at some point. They knew that Adams was injured but survived, and that Greg was badly hurt and attacked further by Adams following the accident. Lastly, they knew Harris perished—from one of three possible causes. David informed Catherine what probably killed Harris first, but she would only share that information if absolutely necessary. Just like whose fingerprints were discovered on the handle. She knew it would all come out in the open eventually, but the lab had more important things to focus on than speculation and gossip.

"When I was in the warehouse, I noticed Whitney had a paring knife," Sara said thoughtfully after a moment, "and I don't know why I didn't remember until now, but a paring knife was the suspected type of blade used on Thomas O'Bryan. I always thought it was an odd choice, and we never were able to find the actual weapon."

"I'll have it compared to the pictures from the O'Bryan case." Catherine sighed. She thought about Greg's numerous cuts, and how the paring knife matched them as well.

Sara slowly digested this new information. New was good; new meant forward motion. Greg's procedure also meant forward motion, but that didn't keep her from worrying. "When Harris brought me to that warehouse, Whitney talked about how I didn't appreciate Greg, how he's liked me for so long—" She flushed and glanced briefly at Grissom. He only smiled supportively at her, and she continued. "Greg barely played a role in the Adams case ten years ago, at least not an obvious one. He still worked in the DNA lab at that time, so he was behind the scenes. He processed some of the evidence, but he never testified. He did come the day that I testified, as well as the day of the verdict. He knew that the case had me especially…riled, and wanted to be there for me. It just doesn't make any sense that she focused so much on him, though."

They all had a good idea why the case had affected her more than others. She grew up in foster care, just like the sisters. They were using their abuse in the system as an excuse for becoming murderous later in life, and that not only angered Sara but triggered some deeply rooted fears in her that she'd repressed for so long.

"There's a whole lot that still doesn't make sense," Catherine agreed. "Wasn't Doc Robbins's testimony before yours? If Whitney's going in order, like she said on the telephone call, wouldn't she have gone after him first?"

"Yes," Sara confirmed. "Maybe she's confused, or maybe it's because his testimony was a video recording because he couldn't be at the trial. He couldn't even be cross-examined."

"So, Whitney focused in on you because you testified in person, saw you hanging out with Greg and focused on him also?"

"Something like that." Sara's tone was defeated. She wished she could believe that once Greg told his story, the scattered bits of information would magically assemble themselves into a sensible mosaic, but she'd worked around enough psychopaths to know that what happened could never make sense.

"What about Phelps?" D.B. asked suddenly. He'd been quiet almost the entire conversation, eating his food while casually listening in on the others, and his question caught everyone—especially Sara—off-guard. Sara and Grissom knew immediately who he meant, but the others had to consider it a moment.

"Phelps?" Nick paused to think where he knew the name from. "Nathan Phelps? The prosecutor?"

D.B. nodded. "I mean, the guy basically led the firing squad against the sisters. We've all gone over the court transcripts. He didn't go easy on them. Wouldn't Whitney go after him first?"

"He's no longer in the area," Sara responded. "He moved away from Vegas not long after the Adams case. She probably couldn't find him."

Catherine chuckled lightly as she used her fork to stab at the remaining omelet on her plate. "How long did you date that guy, Sara?"

Nick's eyes widened. "That's right! How could I forget that?"

Sara flushed again and scowled at her coworkers. Around the time of the first Adams case, she'd been stressed with her career choices and angry with Grissom for being completely oblivious to her feelings, and she began dating Nathan after a case they were both involved in. He was a nice enough guy, but Sara soon realized that she'd been using him as a distraction and ended it. "We saw each other—casually—for a few months. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Someone should call and check in on him. If Whitney is still alive, he might be in danger."

"You're on that, right Sara?" Nick winked at her from across the table and she glared back.

They'd told him they were going to get him breathing on his own again. They'd told him they would hopefully be able to close that hole in his neck. That all sounded great, so Greg let them inject the induction drug into his I.V. line; not that he really had a choice with the restraints still in place. That familiar falling sensation fluttered in his stomach, and he was pulled under and into Whitney's lair once more. Her voice echoed throughout his mind…

"I told you to call me Amber, Greggy.

What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Oh no, that's right—I do. Ha!

Anyway, we still need to have a chat about that little stunt you pulled in the car. Do you remember that? How you seem to think you can do whatever you want, that your actions have no consequences? Well, I tried to demonstrate what happens to weak little men that make choices they have no right making. I nearly succeeded, too, but your so-called friends showed up just in time. How convenient.

Another thirty seconds and you'd have stayed dead.

Hmm. Where were these 'friends' when you needed them earlier? Do you plan to ask them?

And by the way, don't get the idea you could ever get away from me. I'll be right here, whenever you close your eyes.

And whenever you forget, I'll just give you another little taste of my very real hold on you.

Just…like…this."

Greg's ability to breathe is gone.

Not again.

This time, there is no gradient, no last second to suck in a bit more air; one moment there is oxygen, beautiful oxygen, and the next it's gone. It's her hands around his neck, squeezing; he knows it even though she took his eyes.

"What's wrong? Where's that spunk now?"

Fear rapidly upgrades to panic. He can't take this anymore. Her control over him isn't fair; she takes something from him that every living creature on earth has a right to.

Then, Nick's voice, close but not close enough: "What seems to be the problem?"

Greg wants to sob in relief, because help has arrived. Whether in the form of an imaginary scorpion, or a mere voice in his head, Nick never disappoints. Besides, when Nick is there, Amber is not.

Nick! Help me, please.

"Yeah, I'm here, man."

She has me again.

"I see that, and what am I supposed to do about it?"

He's shocked at first, because Nick isn't normally so condescending but Greg knows it's a good point. Amber cannot hurt him, not this Amber, because she's a manifestation of Greg's subconscious. What happened to the real Amber, he has no idea, but he's sure that he's still in the hospital. He remembers that Sara said he was safe and that nothing else could happen to him now. It's odd to harness such clarity in a nightmare, but it doesn't bring him as much hope as he thinks it should.

But using that same logic, Nick isn't really here either; so, can he even count on his advice?

If Amber—wait, how long have I been doing that?—if Whitney isn't actually here…then why can't I breathe?

"I think you're overcomplicating things, man," Nick reasons casually. "Maybe it's not that you can't breathe. Maybe you forgot how."

That's ridiculous, nobody forgets how to breathe.

"Then fucking breathe!"

Air dwindling, fading fast, he urgently tries to make sense of what Nick is demanding.

"Come on, Mr. Sanders, stop holding your breath."

What?! I'm not—

Suddenly, it was as if an airlock burst open and Greg greedily, desperately, inhaled an enormous volume of oxygen. It rushed into his chest, inflating his lungs further than the ventilator had, and stretching his still healing ribcage. His overwhelmed senses reacted to the crunching of bone-on-bone and pulling of stitches on skin by forcibly evicting the air in violent coughs.

Several voices now surrounded him, but none of them were Whitney or Nick. Or Sara. Through Greg's delirium he did recognize that of his doctor. Now he knew he was once more away from Whitney's hold. It was only now that he felt the pressure around his mouth and nose—a mask—and this sensation worried him more than anything else. A very small, timid voice in his head reminded him 'you're in a hospital, duh, hospitals use oxygen masks' but all he could think about was Whitney and her carbon dioxide.

His eyes flew open, but the world was all blinding light and color and haze. At least four shapes bustled around him, and when he tried to reach up and remove the mask, to sit up or at least roll onto his side, firm hands held him in place. All he wanted to do was get that thing off of his face; to curl around his aching body and wait for the agony to end, but the hands wouldn't let him.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Sanders? I need you to try to calm down, alright?"

Greg would have laughed at how absurd the request was if he hadn't been so busy freaking out. He shook his head from side to side, tried to use the pillow under him to push the mask off. He couldn't get a decent breath, and a much louder voice in his mind screamed that without it, he would be able to breathe normally.

He was starting to wonder how many different voices occupied his own head.

"Get the nasal canula," Dr. Holland asked a nurse calmly before looking back down at his patient. "Mr. Sanders, I need you to focus on me. The mask is supplying you with concentrated oxygen, which you need, but I'm going to trade it out for a tube that will go to your nose instead. Would that be better?"

Greg managed to bob his head. He bit his tongue, drawing blood when the movement provoked a sharp pull at the cut in his neck and the damaged tissues of his throat.

Right on cue, the nurse returned and the mask was thankfully replaced by plastic tubing that entered his nostrils and tucked behind his ears. It was uncomfortable, and he was a bit embarrassed by the reflexive jerk that he gave when the nurse's hand reached at his face, but it was nothing compared to the larger mask and the flashbacks it triggered. However, its absence neglected to calm Greg's breathing. He wheezed harshly and, in his panic, fought against the hands pinning him down.

"I know that you're in a lot of pain but we're pushing more opioids now, and it will help if you sit still," Dr. Holland's voice continued on, tone steady and soothing, but he was worried that if Greg didn't calm down soon, he would need to be heavily sedated and possibly even intubated again. His heart was racing and his breathing pattern ineffective.

The pain was everywhere and it was unlike any Greg had experienced before, even while still in that warehouse. He knew his movements weren't helping matters but they seemed to be out of his control. It was especially excruciating in his chest and throat when he tried to breathe and he wanted the doctor to put the damn tube back in, anything so that he didn't have to work so hard to stay alive.

"GREGORY! You can breathe on your own, and you will."

There was something in the doctor's near-shout that drew Greg's wild eyes to him. He felt caught, as if his thoughts had been read, and now Dr. Holland knew precisely how weak he was. Normally Greg would have brushed his self-pity into a dark corner of his mind, rationed it into tiny piles for those rare moments he allowed himself to indulge it. But his ability to suppress was gone, and he could only hope it returned before his friends did.

And, Dr. Holland called him Gregory. Only his mom did that.

"Good," the young doctor nodded and smiled kindly when their eyes met. "I understand it's tough but the slower you breathe, the less it will irritate your airway."

Greg made a noble effort to quiet himself down and slow his breathing, and it started to work. The coughs continued to interrupt both his inhalations and exhalations, but they grew further apart. His heartrate slowed. Finally, he lay flat on his back, no longer straining against the hands of the nurses. Waves of pain kept his muscles tense, but the medications were finally beginning to kick in and exhaustion took over. Greg wheezed weakly and sweat glistened on his forehead.

The doctor raised his eyebrows as he observed his patient. Greg nodded once: I'm good.

Dr. Holland nodded as well, but his was directed at the three nurses around the hospital bed. They pulled their hands tentatively away from Greg and busied themselves with other tasks, but were clearly ready to leap back to his side at a moment's notice if needed. Greg shakily reached up to his throat with his left arm.

"Don't—" Dr. Holland began, but stopped when he only briefly touched the bandage where the tube had once been, then lowered the arm lightly across his chest.

Breaths still strained but not nearly as panicked, a thought occurred to Greg. He raised his hand to his throat once more and parted his lips, eyes asking a silent question.

"With the tube removed, you are technically able to talk again. That being said, I would rather you do so minimally, and when you do, only whisper…" Dr. Holland went on. Greg tried hard to pay attention and process the words, but he found it difficult with the meds numbing everything. Eventually the doctor and nurses wandered away, and Greg stared at the ceiling in their absence as he fought to remain conscious.

When Sara returned to the hospital after breakfast, she caught herself tracing her memorized route through the hallways much faster than was warranted. She forced herself to slow down, reminding herself that the hospital would have called one of them if something had gone wrong. When she was two turns away from the ICU, Sara nearly ran into Dr. Holland as they both rounded a corner at the same time.

"Oh, Miss Sidle! Sorry about that."

Sara laughed lightly at his apology: she'd nearly knocked the man down. "It's alright, I'm at least partially to blame. I was just coming to check on Greg. Did everything—"

Dr. Holland was already nodding. "I was just heading to my office to call you. The tracheostomy tube is removed and the incision is closed. We had to improvise a bit, but Greg is breathing on his own and we've moved him into his own room."

She sighed in relief before realizing that the doctor had sandwiched a possible negative between a bunch of positives. "What do you mean, you had to improvise?"

"Don't worry. After we anesthetized Greg, we passed a scope down his trachea to make sure the swelling was resolved enough to remove the tube. The inflammation is much better than it was before, but his airway still only has the diameter of a drinking straw, which is less than ideal. The scar tissue forming around the damage is hindering us. However, I didn't want to continue to keep Greg tranquilized around the clock to ward off panic attacks triggered by the ventilator."

Sara grimaced at the memory of Greg's attack yesterday. She feared that simply fixing his ability to breathe would not fix all his reasons to panic.

The doctor continued, wanting to clarify. "I consulted with some colleagues, and made the decision to place a tracheal stent and go forward with closing the tracheostomy. A stent should be less irritating and less invasive to Greg, and he'll be able to talk. We could only expand it so much with the stent before risking perforating it, but we were able to widen it to just over a half-inch. This is still narrow, but it's enough to breathe through and better than what he was working with. My hope is that in a couple more weeks, we can go back in and remove it. Until then, we'll monitor his oxygen levels and keep him on high-flow oxygen by way of nasal cannulas. I'd prefer to use a mask because it's more effective, but…he won't tolerate it."

Sara swore. "The carbon dioxide."

Dr. Holland didn't feel the need to describe exactly how Greg woke up from surgery. He could still see the fear in his patient's eyes, but also the humiliation. The man was calm now, and desperately needed to retain what little dignity he had left. "I do remember you bringing up the that incident. I would have tried the mask either way, since it's the best way to supplement oxygen to him. As I said, we will continue to learn what his triggers are as his recovery progresses. Some may be obvious, but most he will be forced to face at some point. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I do know that avoidance is an ineffective healing technique."

She nodded and smiled sadly but gratefully. "You're right. Thank you, doctor."

"No problem. Feel free to go see him. He's in ward four, room five. He was awake last I checked, but his throat is going to be extremely sore for a long time and he needs to keep the talking to a minimum." He gave Sara brief directions before continuing on his way.

After making the rest of the trip to Greg's new accommodations, she hesitated just outside the open door to watch him. She listened to his shallow but steady breaths, now self-regulated, and she felt a surge of pride in him. Something as automatic—as mechanical—as breathing never looked the same once you see someone you care about hooked up to a ventilator.

The bed was slanted and his torso was propped upright with pillows. Narrow oxygen tubing entered each nostril and looped behind each ear to meet again over his heavily bandaged throat. His eyes were open and he stared at the ceiling, just like how she'd last seen him but minus the breathing tube.

Finally entering the room, Sara smiled as she took her usual seat. Even if he wasn't looking at her, she knew he could hear her smile in her voice. "Hi Greg."

His gaze travelled listlessly to hers. He was clearly still feeling the effects of the anesthesia that had been used for his procedure as well as the pain meds they had him on. Nevertheless, Greg's deep brown eyes showed recognition and appreciation when he saw who had arrived at his side. A small bandage was secured over where the tracheostomy device had been. She wondered if it too would leave a scar.

"Hey," The word left his lips in a hoarse whisper.

Sara laid her hand on his and leaned in to better hear him. "You don't need to talk if it hurts. I just wanted to visit and see how your procedure went. Your doctor says it went well."

"Well," Greg grimaced with the effort it took to form just a whisper, "No tube sticking out of my neck anymore, so I guess it could have gone worse." He ended his observation with a stiff, humorless smile.

She squeezed his hand, wishing he didn't always feel the need to joke around but grateful he was able now. Greg looked down at their hands, and Sara couldn't read his expression but it could have been unease. She was unsure of where even their friendship stood and didn't want to push him too far, so she quickly withdrew her hand. She missed the flash of disappointment on his features before it vanished in the blink of an eye and he looked down at the sheets.

Once his hand was free, he reached up to wiggle the tube on his nose.

"I don't think you're supposed to mess with that," Sara chided gently.

He pouted but lowered his hand.

Sara cleared her throat. Before Greg had the ability to talk, there was no simple way to tell what he remembered from the ordeal. At one point, Catherine tried to get him to write on a sheet of paper, but it had only frustrated him because his left hand was his non-dominant hand and it was the only one he could use. Dr. Holland quickly put an end to that. But now that Sara had a chance to find out, she was unsure how to go about it. How long should they wait before getting his story? Obviously, his throat needed to heal, but if they waited too long would he remember less?

Either way, there was something she needed him to know first. Whether Greg remembered this detail or not, he was bound to find out sooner or later: she left him there; ditched him at that warehouse. Because of her actions, he obtained even more injuries. Because of her actions, he had actually died.

The words left her mouth in a rush because she knew that if she didn't say anything now she might never get up the courage again. "I want to apologize to you. I know nothing I say will make up for what I did, and I don't even know what you remember from that place, but—"

"Sara," he interrupted. His throat ached, but Sara seemed upset and he needed to know why. His speaking her name simply prodded her to explain without so many words.

She took a deep breath. "I left you there, in that warehouse."

The realization finally hit him, and he shook his head slowly. "No. It made sense, Sara. I wasn't going anywhere, so I wanted you to go."

Tears welled in her eyes and one spilled down her cheek, nearly reaching her chin before she brushed it away. "But I should have done something more; something to help you faster than…hours later. I could have waited outside, ambushed them somehow."

He stared at her. Sara rarely cried, but recently she'd cried multiple times that he knew of, and he hated to think he was the cause. Her appearance tugged at his heart and he grabbed her hand again, clutching it despite how weak he felt. Any awkwardness that may have existed before had apparently vanished, and one corner of his mouth curved upward as he tried to cheer her up. "I heard them talking about it. You dodged them and stole their phone right out from under their noses? That's badass."

Sara chuckled sadly. "So, you do remember."

"You escaped and called for help, and because of that I'm alive."

She rested her other hand on top of his and squeezed it lightly. "Okay."

Sara believed Greg's claim that he held nothing against her and this brought her some relief. However, his avoidance of her comment about his memory bothered her slightly. She considered all of the possible implications of this, and wondered which would be worse: remembering everything, or nothing?

"And this?" Greg interrupted her internal reverie, catching her eyes once more then looking pointedly at their intertwined hands. "This, I could get used to."

She rewarded him with a smile, a real smile, and that one sight caused him to relax substantially.

He was clearly tiring, eyelids heavy, but when he glanced at her next his deep brown eyes were enquiring. Greg remembered most of his time in the warehouse, and he even remembered the wreck. What he couldn't seem to recall was his actual rescue and of course his time in the hospital before he woke up. The whole timeline was blurry to him since every minute in that warehouse felt like a year.

Sara seemed to read his thoughts. While he still had the breathing tube, the fragility of his condition had stopped her from delivering too much news to him. Her time with him had been primarily silence; an amicable companionship that brought both of them the comfort they required to be able to get some rest. Sara knew that the questions he had must be driving him nuts, and she couldn't protect him forever from the truth. "Do you want me to fill you in? At least, as much as I can?"

He nodded appreciatively and took a long, shaky breath.

"We believe you were taken from a bar after work missing for seven days. I was there, in that warehouse with you for the last night. You've been in the hospital for another six."

Greg squinted at her as she talked, finally noticing the stitched cut high on her forehead and partially concealed by stray wisps of dark hair. "Are you okay?" he worried, indicating the injury.

She smiled. "I'm fine, Greg. You don't have to worry about me at all."

He nodded again, but Sara caught him looking her over, undoubtedly checking for more. Once satisfied, he shifted his position and tried to get comfortable, wincing at the movement.

"Harris?" he suddenly asked, though his eyes had closed.

She hesitated. "Dead."

He frowned. "Whitney?"

She hesitated longer. "Greg, you really don't need to worry about any of this right now. You're safe now. Your only concerns should be resting and healing."

Soft brown eyes cracked open again, studied her carefully. "So, she's still out there."

"You're safe," she repeated quietly but firmly. A confirmatory answer in the form of a promise.

His gaze wandered over her shoulder, eyes glistening. This was what he had feared.

'I'll be right here, whenever you close your eyes. And whenever you forget, I'll just give you another little taste of my very real hold on you. Just…like…this.'

Greg's eyes slammed shut and his grip on Sara's hand tightened until it hurt.

A/N: There's an extra long long chapter to make up for the long wait. Hope you enjoyed! Thanks so much for the nonny love the past few chapters, also! Please let me know how I'm doing =)

*I changed the prosecutor (Phelps)'s first name to Nathan because it WAS William and I definitely already have a William in this story. Sure, it's a common name but that was just laziness (Extra fun fact: I changed it to Adam at first, then remembered that's the sisters' last name. How have I gotten this far in life? lmao)