A/N: Here it is! The last chapter. I will be posting a short epilogue tomorrow, and this chapter is particularly long. Think of it as a gift for sticking with me as I took FOREVER with this story! As always, let me know what you think. The sequel is already in the works. ;)

Chapter Twenty-Four: A New Normal

As with many happenings in Las Vegas, Nevada, the search for Whitney Adams ended as quickly as it began. Leads arose, but each led only to a dead end. After all, a reward was offered in exchange for the information leading to her arrest, so people were bound to try. Although she was presumed dead from exposure to the elements, a judge would need to rule on that decision. Declaring a person legally dead was a tedious process that could take months or longer, so any pending charges against Adams were shelved for the duration.

Shelved as well were the samples collected from the warehouse, although the unknown males' DNA had been entered into the database in case there was ever an opportunity to identify them. There was no way to tell whether the men who had been kept there before Greg were still alive, but their chances looked slim. Shelved were the paring knife, the ropes, the chains, the handcuffs, the carbon dioxide canister, and all of Whitney's other instruments of torture found at the scene of the accident and the warehouse. Each item had been bagged, sealed, and initialed then tucked neatly into cardboard boxes. Overlooked and mostly forgotten, among them nestled one of the smallest items collected from the scene: a women's watch.

Shortly after speaking with Sara, Nathan Phelps had traveled to Vegas seemingly of his own accord, and was suddenly very willing to help out the LVPD in any way he could. A persuasive, moderately threatening call from Captain Jim Brass may or may not have nudged the man onto the plane from New York City. Unfortunately, beyond what he'd disclosed to Sara, he didn't have much to tell about the details of what he knew about Adams since serving her sentence.

Apparently, the woman had been living a reasonably 'normal' life in the city after her release from jail. There was no evidence of any crime committed outside Nevada since her release. In the city, she'd dutifully stayed in touch with her parole officer and even retained a full-time marketing position at a respected company. If it weren't for her pseudonym-purchase of an abandoned warehouse across the country and her kidnapping and torture of a crime scene investigator, Whitney Adams was outwardly on the straight-and-narrow.

Brass kept his men on guard at Greg's door as long as he could, but eventually he was forced to pull them. All signs pointed to both of the suspects being deceased; hence, no one to guard against. However, this didn't keep Greg's discretely armed co-workers from organizing their own shifts either at his door or keeping him company in his room. Very little time passed that he was not guarded.

The Sanders had finally arrived. They'd been delayed for weeks by travel restrictions at the borders of the African village in which they'd been working. By the time they made it, most of Greg's exterior wounds had healed or were easy to hide—although you would never know it from his mom's reaction. She'd already been weeping upon entry to the hospital, and full-on sobbing by the time they reached his room. She'd clung to him for so long and so tightly. As much as she was aggravating hidden injuries, he did not protest; just tucked his face into her shoulder, rubbed her back soothingly, and told her he was okay. Even his father, never one to show much affection, had teary, red eyes as he tousled the hair at the back of Greg's head fondly.

The days and weeks crept by, and Greg thought that he would never be permitted to leave the hospital. His recovery was painstakingly slow, and he was restless from being still for so long. More than once he caught himself wishing he'd again been the victim of another lab explosion or gang beating because he would at least be free from the hospital by now. His independence was absent and his pride wounded, but Greg carried on fighting because he wanted more than anything to get back to the point of fending for himself.

The entire ordeal, but particularly the dehydration and the stress positions in which he'd spent so long tied, had taken a severe tole on Greg's system. He would continue on dialysis for his kidneys, a twice-weekly procedure to help filter toxins from his blood, until his lab work came back satisfactory. This could mean a time period of weeks to months, even following his release from the hospital. These sessions weren't as taxing on him as his physical therapy, but did cause him some nausea and lightheadedness. The feeling reminded him of how he felt when he was drugged by Whitney. During his first treatment, he was alone with the exception of the medical staff, and had been completely lost in his panic and delusion for at least an hour. Sara was with him for the second treatment. Greg learned very quickly that having someone that he knew and trusted present was a good thing…

He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes while the nurse glided yet another catheter into his vein. His arms were essentially pincushions. Greg felt a small squeeze on his hand, and looked up to see Sara smiling at his side. He did his best to return the gesture.

When Greg had asked her to stay with him that afternoon, it caught her off-guard. Normally during Greg's procedures and tests, he would insist on Sara using that time to get herself some rest. 'Of course,' was her answer with little hesitation, and she didn't request an explanation from him because one wasn't needed, even if she was curious.

The nurse, whose name was Rosie, talked as she worked. Her actions were quick and efficient, her words friendly but matter-of-fact. She explained the function and the possible side effects of the dialysis mostly for Sara's benefit since Greg had already been through this once before. After securing the catheter in place with clear medical tape, she attached it to a length of tubing. The tubing, a line normally used to deliver fluids to a patient, would instead act as a transport system for his own blood into the giant machine tucked against the wall next to Greg's bed. Rosie pressed a few buttons, and they all watched as Greg's blood filled the line and traveled into the machine which would filter toxins and other waste products from his bloodstream; a job that his kidneys should normally be doing.

Once satisfied that the dialysis was running correctly, Rosie turned back to them with a polite smile. "I'll check back in in twenty minutes or so. If you need anything at all, just press that red button."

Sara thanked her. She knew well where that button was.

Once the nurse left the room, Greg sighed and relaxed back against the pillows. Sara talked to him about happenings at the lab but she stuck to light topics and even gossip. Fifteen minutes into the treatment, she had so far managed to keep Greg distracted from the strange sensation of having a machine filter and return his blood to him. However, he hadn't responded to her at all for a minute or two, and Sara looked closely to see that his face had gone pale and a thin coat of sweat covered his forehead.

"You alright?" she prompted cautiously.

"No," he shook his head. "No, no, I feel—"

He began to desperately glance around the room, and she retrieved what she guessed he was looking for. As soon as he had the pan sitting in front of him, he threw up into it. Sara pressed the button to summon the nurse and placed a comforting hand on Greg's back. She hovered nervously over him as he continued to vomit until there was nothing left in his stomach. Tears streamed down his face and he trembled violently. His breaths were labored and broken up by coughs.

Rosie rushed in and listened to his chest with a stethoscope. She tucked the familiar tubes into his nostrils to supply extra oxygen then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and took a reading. Greg didn't take notice of her as she worked. Eyes closed tightly, he only leaned forward and clutched the pan in his lap even though he seemed to be done being sick.

"It's low," the nurse confirmed aloud, then turned to them and clarified: "Like I said, low blood pressure is unfortunately a known response to the dialysis. From reading your chart, Mr. Sanders, I suspected it might happen again this time, but hoped we could avoid it since you've had more time to heal. I'm going to increase the amount of fluids we're giving you for a few minutes and get this under control. Once your blood pressure is back up, the nausea will go away."

After adjusting a fluid pump attached to another catheter in Greg's opposite arm, Rosie bustled about, checking Greg's catheters and replacing the used pan with a new one. Sara had stepped back to give the nurse room to work, but now moved smoothly to his side once more. She reached to touch Greg's shoulder lightly but no sooner had her fingers grazed his skin, he jumped unexpectedly high, flinging the empty pan to the side and sending it clattering to the floor deafeningly.

"No, don't." His muttered plea hung in the air like a storm cloud as he clung onto the bed's opposite railing. He swiped a hand across his face, brushing the sweat away and knocking the oxygen tubing free. For a moment Greg looked like he might drag himself over the railing to get away, and the nurse moved in quickly. Sara wordlessly caught her eye and held up her index finger in a 'one moment' gesture. Rosie studied the monitors showing Greg's vitals for a moment then nodded tensely.

Sara took a seat in the chair again—looked at him on his level instead of standing over him—and spoke carefully. "Greg? It's just me."

Her voice broke through some of the man's confusion and he looked to her. In a matter of seconds his expression softened from that of a cornered animal, but he remained anchored to the railing. "Sara? How did…" His voice faded and he wheezed a few more breaths in and out.

Sara leaned forward. "How did what?"

"I feel…" He looked around the room and didn't even seem to notice the nurse anymore. "Amber?"

This last word was whispered under his breath, and Sara just made it out. Flashbacks and panic attacks were times that he used Whitney Adams's alias, and sometimes she did hear him mutter it in his sleep. It made her fear what sort of things Whitney did to force him to call her that.

Confident that Greg at least recognized her, if not where and when he was, Sara knew she could safely close the gap between them. Still moving slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed and placed an arm around his thin frame, careful to not interfere with the I.V.'s, monitors, and his injuries. "She's not here, Greg. Just me and a nurse."

He shuddered.

"I promise." She pulled him close and leaned her head against his. "It's okay."

Though he didn't pull away, Greg's breaths were ragged as he struggled to get enough air, so Sara carefully tucked the oxygen tubing back into place. She then wrapped her other arm around his front and gently unwound his fingers from the bed railing so that he didn't hurt himself. He clung to her instead.

As Sara comforted Greg, the nurse checked a few settings on the machines then slipped out of the room after another shared glance with her. Sara knew that she was likely going to fetch Dr. Holland.

He was trembling, but gradually returned completely to reality. His grasp on her loosened and he sighed shakily. When he spoke, he sounded weak and ashamed. "When they drugged me, I would get nauseous. My vision doubled, the world spun, and I'd dry-heave for what felt like hours. It hurt so bad."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she repeated, then turned her head away briefly to hide her grimace at the idea of getting sick with broken ribs and bruised kidneys.

"How long will this last?" he asked quietly.

"How long will what last?"

"When…when do I reach the point in this process where not everything reminds me of her?"

Sara studied his face and thought hard. The closest memory she had to reference was her encounter with Natalie Davis, and although it hadn't lasted as long as Greg's nightmare, it had its similarities and left its fair share of permanent scars in her mind. She wanted to comfort him, but also knew he wouldn't believe her if she lied or sugar-coated anything.

"I don't know the answer to that," she stated honestly. "But I do know that how you feel right now, it won't last forever. There may be a few things that always make you think of her, but it will happen less and less, and you will learn how to survive; how to thrive even."

After that incident, Greg was prescribed an as-needed antianxiety medication, as well as a rescue inhaler to use during his panic attacks. He was already taking plenty of once- or twice-daily supplements and painkillers, so Dr. Holland chose a medication that Greg had the option of using intermittently; such as prior to known triggers. The inhaler would help to relax his airway during attacks and flashbacks.

Sara spent as much time at the hospital with Greg as possible. Everyone else from the lab visited as well, but Nick and Sara were the most frequent fliers, and she basically lived there. She cared for him and enjoyed his company, but she was also there for him during his physical therapy and dialysis because they were hard on him. At first, Greg was embarrassed, although he'd never asked her to leave. He lost his patience with himself more than once, and although the rational part of his mind argued, he worried that she would lose respect and eventually her feelings for him would fade.

However, quite the opposite happened. Throughout every exam, needle-poke, exercise, hiss or groan of pain, and flashback when Greg couldn't quite catch his breath, Sara was only supportive and calm. Her demeanor in turn relaxed him, and occasionally he was able to imagine himself getting back to normal someday.

When she had to go back to work after her month off, Greg sometimes had to force her to go home and get some sleep once in a while. He enjoyed having Sara close, in fact he preferred it, but it was clear that she wasn't getting enough rest. Besides, Greg was feeling stronger and somewhat more confident. Although he still had nightmares where Whitney Adams hovered over his bedside while he slept, it was getting easier for him to see her as everyone else did: dead.

Surgeons repaired the break in Greg's right arm, although it would be weeks until it was out of the sling and he could begin working on the stiff shoulder muscles that had been damaged when it was dislocated. On the bright side, he would likely come out of the whole thing ambidextrous since he was using his left arm for nearly everything in the meantime. Also, the surgical team was able to remove the tracheal stent at the same time.

His right tibia and left knee required a total of three surgeries, each about a week apart. Approximately five weeks after he was rescued, Greg was allowed to start walking again. His muscles had atrophied from the days of starvation and the weeks of confinement to a bed. He lost over twenty-five pounds since he was kidnapped, and he had been a healthy weight before the incident so most was muscle loss. Building his body back up to what it had been was challenging and frustrating. However, he needed to move around and his mind needed the distraction, so within days he was getting around quite easily on crutches.

Dr. Holland was impressed with his patient's progress, but still insisted that Greg see a psychiatrist every few days while he was hospitalized. These visits would also be required if he was ever to return to the crime lab, so he swallowed his pride and went along with it. He was no stranger to therapists and knew they had their benefits.

The physical pain, like the emotional scarring, never fully went away. The stronger medicines dulled it, but he had gradually been weaned off the opioids to help avoid addiction. The non-steroidal anti-inflammatories did very little for the pain, even at high doses. No, the pain didn't go away, but Greg was learning to accept it as part of his new normal and could mostly ignore it.

A week after his last surgery, and following a total of seven weeks in the hospital, Greg was allowed to be discharged, but only if he could stay with someone for a couple of weeks to help him get back on his feet. Sara, Nick, and Catherine were present when Greg was given the news about his pending discharge. They all kept straight faces until the doctor left the room, then the visitors had whooped and hollered, jumping up and down in excitement. Even Greg hadn't been able to rid his face of a happy grin for hours. This was what he wanted, what he needed, what he worked so hard for. However, the question remained: Who would he stay with?

Greg's father had only been able to stay in Vegas a week but his mother insisted on hanging around until Greg was better. Now that her son was for the most part in the clear, she too had responsibilities to return to and had tried to convince him to come back to California for his recovery. He promised he would visit soon, but there was no way he would consider staying with his family long-term. Greg knew that his mother would try to get him to move back permanently. As much as he loved his parents, his relationship with them was one that was strongest with distance between them. His mom worried more when he was in sight—his father confirmed this—and it was this worry, and the guilt it carried that kept Greg away from California. That, and the fact that his life, his world was in Vegas now: career, friends, and of course Sara.

Nick was hosting for two of his siblings in his own house, otherwise he would have offered. So, Sara invited Greg to stay at her place. It only made sense to keep Greg in a safe place while Whitney was theoretically still on the loose, and Sara's apartment was in a busier part of town; nearer to the police station and crime lab. She had a spare bedroom, and her neighbors were just nosy enough to scare off any would-be criminal. Greg agreed, and although he was excited for some additional freedom, he was nervous about depending on Sara and worried to inconvenience her.

"Well, it's not much, but make yourself at home."

Greg's eyes followed Sara's hand as she gestured around her apartment. Of course he'd been here before, but since then she had obviously rearranged and done some major cleaning.

"What's the occasion?" he asked with a subtle wink.

She laughed. "Hey, I clean. I don't need an occasion."

He mouthed 'oh, okay' sarcastically, then grinned and slowly made his way to the overstuffed couch, which seemed to be beckoning. After leaning his crutches against the coffee table, Greg sat back against the cushions. The activity of his release from the hospital and traveling to Sara's apartment had been challenging. His body ached all over, but he tried hard to hide how much discomfort he was in.

Sara set his bags in the spare room, which was filled with things retrieved from Greg's place, then joined him in the living room. She thought he was asleep at first, but his shallow breaths proved he was still awake and winded. Sidling up close to him on the couch, she laid a hand on his chest: a gentle reminder to slow his breathing.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered to him. The words felt and sounded loaded because she meant them in multiple ways. She was happy to host him at her place, but also knew that events could have very easily ended up differently, with Greg absent from all of their lives.

"So am I," he breathed.

A half-hour later, Greg had dozed off and was gradually leaning against Sara's shoulder more and more. She'd tried to talk him into laying down in the bedroom, but he had refused, saying he'd spent enough time in a bed lately. Now, after another small shift, Sara chuckled softly and adjusted herself so that she could guide his upper body onto her lap. He went easily and nestled his head against her thighs.

Sara turned the television's volume down low and rested comfortably back against the cushions, one hand instinctively traveling to Greg's head to run her fingers through his hair. She had nearly drifted off when his voice surprised her.

"I heard things."

Her hand paused in its traced path on his hair. Was he talking in his sleep? She felt like she missed something. "What do you mean?"

"In the warehouse. I saw things, too, but mostly I heard things."

She was taken aback by his sudden desire to talk about the ordeal, and worried that she might say the wrong thing in response. Sara wanted Greg to be able to confide in her, and for that reason she had never read his statement or sought out any details from those that did. She still knew only a small amount of what happened to him during that week. Some details had come out while discussing the case with her coworkers, but Sara always wanted it to be Greg's choice what he chose to share with her. She didn't want to disrupt his train of thought, so instead of saying anything, she continued stroking his hair and moved her other hand in slow, gentle circles on his upper back.

"My Papa Olaf's voice, Nick's, yours. Nick…Nick helped me out a lot, you know, with the pep talks."

She smiled and stared past the television.

"His voice also seemed to uh, correspond with the scorpion I kept seeing. The yellow scorpion. The one that…" he trailed off momentarily before continuing. "You. Sara, your voice was so comforting, and you always knew just what to say. I guess since I was hallucinating, that was me saying the right things, but it wasn't unlike how you are in real life."

She wanted to disagree with him; remind him that she hadn't always been the most calming presence or the greatest of friends. But Greg wasn't done.

"She knew how to get to me, knew my weaknesses. Her games were inhuman, and the way that she talked to me…I was less than an animal to her. She couldn't get enough, and she was using me up. When she got bored, that's when she talked about you." Greg sniffed, and his next words left his lips in a whisper. "She wanted me to beg."

Sara cringed. The emotion in his trembling voice triggered a sharp pang in her chest.

"She wanted me to beg her not to take you or hurt you, and I did. But she still…I'm so sorry, Sara. Why did I think that would work?"

"Oh, Greg." She couldn't be silent anymore. Greg's tears soaked through her pant leg, and she leaned over to kiss his cheek and mumbled into his neck, "You saved me, remember? If anything, I should be sorry. But we've already gone over that."

They both laughed lightly through tears.

"We can keep going in circles and blaming ourselves," she added. "And knowing us, we will. But I'm going to tell you over and over that you have no reason to apologize."

Greg nodded against her lap.

After a few moments of quiet, Sara decided to ask him a question she had been wondering since he told her about his auditory hallucinations. "So, Nick was the scorpion?"

"Mm-hmm," he nodded once more and sounded half-asleep.

"Was I…anything?"

"The light," he muttered drowsily.

Sara sat speechless, wondered if she'd heard him correctly. What did that mean?

But he had dozed off again.

They spent the rest of the day on the couch. She played movies and television shows that were light and comedic, even though Greg slept through most of it. She was able to convince him to eat a small dinner, and by the time Sara had to head into work, Greg was so exhausted that he could barely support his own weight. The activity of the day had completely worn him out. She hated to leave him now but knew that he had everything in the spare room he could need, even if he couldn't move around very well.

She made him promise to call if anything happened, then helped him into his new bedroom and deposited him onto the bed. He was too tired to even object when Sara tucked him in. She quietly took her leave after seeing he'd fallen asleep.

Greg gasped awake, hurling himself upright in bed then immediately regretting the action as every muscle and bone protested painfully. The covers were tangled around his legs like bindings. He collapsed back onto the pillows and sluggishly kicked the sweaty sheets away. Memories of the vivid nightmare gradually faded in intensity, and Greg lay on his back, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

Dawn had broken, and grey light penetrated the thin drapes covering the room's windows. The light didn't bother him—he was accustomed to sleeping in the daytime. In fact, he could normally sleep anywhere, any time of day. Before working grueling graveyard shifts at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, Greg had spent time employed in both day and night shifts in his jobs, along with his schooling, and his body learned to accept sleep readily and gratefully when and where it was presented. He'd slept a ton in the hospital thanks to fatigue and good drugs, but had mostly been forced to a diurnal schedule there. In a few weeks, he would hopefully be allowed to return to work at some capacity, which meant he needed to work on his sleep schedule again.

Lately, what inevitably interrupted his rest were the dreams. Whitney's presence in them was guaranteed, and air was never a luxury afforded to him. He would fight for oxygen, fight for his life, but he never got relief from her games. He'd only awaken when the panic became overwhelming, and it took so long to recover that he was normally wide awake by the time his mind was somewhat calm.

Sometimes, the imagery in his dreams was verified as fact by corresponding scars on his body. Most of the time though, it was impossible to tell the difference between an unveiled memory and a piece of fiction that his creative imagination designed to break him down.

His breathing finally slowed, and Greg looked to his side to see that Sara had left a couple bottles of water on the bedside table, along with his medications and a granola bar. She had also leaned his crutches within reach. He smiled, grateful for her thoughtfulness. He barely remembered moving from the living room to the bedroom last night, but knew he hadn't slept all the way to dawn. The nightmares had jolted him awake more than once.

According to the digital clock, it was 5:32 a.m. and Sara wouldn't be home for another hour—that was if she didn't get stuck working overtime. Greg used his crutches to make a trip to the bathroom, then drank some water before laying back down stiffly and draping the sheet over his body. He missed Sara but refused to call or text because he didn't want to bother her over something that wasn't an emergency. He pulled the sheet up past his head, forced his eyelids shut, stared at the inside of them, and tried to rest.

It was after 7:00 a.m. when Sara arrived home from her shift. She hadn't heard anything from Greg all night, and had to keep herself from calling to check on him. The last thing she wanted was to smother him with worry. She checked on him silently then worked on preparing a light breakfast for the two. Ever since his week of starvation Greg's stomach was especially sensitive and he was prone to nausea if he consumed the wrong thing. Convincing him to eat could be difficult at times; the poor guy got sick of being sick and often tried to avoid food in order to avoid feeling nauseous. Dr. Holland had made it clear that it would take time and patience to get him back on a regular diet, and even then some of the effects of the torment on his digestive system could become long-term.

Carrying the plate of mixed fruit with yogurt, crepes, and strawberry syrup, Sara rapped her knuckles lightly on the door to the spare bedroom. There was no response, and she opened it slowly. "Greg?"

He was completely covered by the sheet, and only the outline of his body curled beneath the blue linen alerted Sara to his presence. The comforter had been crumpled and pushed to the foot of the bed.

"Greg?" she repeated softly, cautiously approaching the bed. She didn't want to startle him or interrupt his sleep, but he needed to eat.

A small groan emerged from under the sheet.

"I have breakfast."

His shape shifted very slightly. "And coffee?"

Sara smirked. "You know Dr. Holland said 'no coffee' for now. Too harsh on your stomach. Sorry."

Another, more dramatic groan.

"Come on, Greg. At least try to eat a little."

"Too comfy."

She smiled again. "It's comfy out here, too."

There was a pause, then: "Join me?"

Sara hesitated. Since their conversation on the first day of Greg's statement, the subject of 'them' hadn't exactly come up again. It wasn't even discussed after she'd asked him to move in with her for his recovery. She knew he needed time to process everything he went through, and was willing to wait as long as she needed.

Even if nothing was gained from this except for a closer bond with a good friend, she would be okay with that.

Grissom and Sara had finalized their divorce over three weeks ago, and although she and Grissom hadn't been close for the last part of their relationship, Sara was in no rush to jump back into anything too soon.

Nevertheless, the soft, warm sheets after a long shift, and the thought of being so close to Greg was tempting. She sighed, setting the plate onto the nightstand. "Only if you promise to try to eat."

"Deal," he approved without pause.

Sara slid into the bed, facing Greg but giving him plenty of space. She ducked under the sheet to see what all the fuss was about. The morning lighting in the room filtered through the sheet and she could easily see him in the azure glow when he turned to her. He wore sweatpants but no shirt, and huddled nearly into a fetal position as he watched her groggily with his brown eyes.

She smiled warmly at him. "Hi."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Hey." Dark half-moons framed the man's heavy eyelids. He clearly hadn't slept well, if at all.

"Dreams?" she prompted.

He shrugged. Sara noted the slight wince he gave at the movement. She wondered how much pain he still felt.

"Don't," Greg scolded lightly. He must have noticed the concern in her features.

Sara huffed. "Don't what?" she asked, playing dumb.

"Stop worrying. Please, could you just…lay here with me for a few minutes?"

"Okay," she agreed, placing a hand palm up onto the bare space on the mattress between them. After a small hesitation, he laid his own hand onto hers. She stroked his palm lightly with her thumb and he sighed.

She edged closer—close enough for their foreheads to touch lightly together. Greg's fingers traveled lightly from her palm to her arm, then ghosted up her arm to her shoulder and finally around her back to pull her to him.

There was no empty space between them; not anymore. Sara tucked her face into the curve between his shoulder and his neck, minding old injuries but breathing in his scent and closing her eyes, smiling. Minutes ago she'd thought to herself that she was in no rush to jump back into anything relationship-wise, and as Greg's hand reached her hair and his fingers wound through it, she found herself nearly laughing at her current position.

She pulled back and Greg withdrew his hand hastily. Their eyes met; Sara's expression one of uncertainty, Greg's of deep-seated longing. He opened his mouth to speak but Sara cut him off by swiftly and urgently leaning in and pressing her lips against his. He froze at first, eyes still open and shocked over what seemed to be happening. Was he dreaming? But this was too good to be one of his dreams—especially since that week with Whitney and Harris. Finally he relaxed into the kiss and his eyes closed.

His hand returned to her hair, more firmly this time, and Sara allowed her own hands to cup his face then lightly explore his chest and shoulders. She reveled in the feeling of his bare skin under her palms, and any doubts dissipated as quickly as the feeling of calm, of right encompassed her entirely for the first time in months.

Three months later

It was nearly five in the morning, and D.B. sent Greg home early instead of allowing him to process the evidence he'd collected at his scene with Catherine. Greg objected, but not with vigor. He'd been called in an hour early the previous evening, and was exhausted after the seven hours they took to process the immense scene. He'd already been back at work for two months; the first six weeks he spent stuck in the DNA lab feeling like a grounded child, the last two finally allowed back out in the field, but he wasn't feeling any more competent than his first night back.

Greg supposed he must be getting better because everybody told him he was, but he still couldn't work the hours he had before. His doctor said he was healing normally and just needed more time. If Greg was going to get back into the swing of things successfully, he was going to have to take it slow. Unfortunately, this meant that nearly every time he was forced from the lab and told to go home his teammates were still hard at work. Not that anyone acted bitter towards him; in fact, they all coddled him and his patience was beginning to grow thin.

Except for Sara. She can coddle me anytime, anyplace.

This morning, Grissom had met him just outside the crime lab. Greg was beginning to think his old and new bosses may have been worked together to organize this. Whatever this was.

He watched lights decorating the city streets drift by outside the passenger window and wondered if he was in danger. Not that he thought Grissom would let anything happen to him, but he was given no explanation of where they were going and his imagination ran amuck. "Today's supposed to be a scorcher, from what I hear." His voice was a bit higher than usual as he tried to make small-talk to distract himself from the sense of impending doom.

Grissom only grunted in response. He never was one for small talk.

That, and why waste words on somebody you're about to kill?

Greg was thankfully distracted from his morbid thoughts when Grissom parked the company SUV near the entrance to the New York-New York Hotel & Casino.

"What—Is this a scene?" Greg questioned hopefully. Grissom had parked in a loading zone, which hinted to Greg that perhaps they were there on official business.

Grissom only shook his head and exited the vehicle, apparently expecting Greg to follow. Which he did, but not before sighing loudly.

"Why are we here? This part isn't even open," Greg pointed out, lagging a few yards behind Grissom as the two rounded the front of the hotel and approached a small entry gate that appeared to lead into the outdoor area behind the hotel.

Lights glimmered their reflection against the surface of the key that Grissom held up for him to see. "For us, it is."

Greg's mouth fell open and his eyes searched the surroundings as if looking for a way to deal with this situation. This part of Las Vegas was never deserted, but 5:00 a.m. on a weekday was about as close as it got. The two men were now out of sight of the traffic on the main road, and no tourists occupied this area of the hotel's property.

No witnesses.

Greg gestured to the sign on the door: Employees Only. "But that says—" His comment was cut off when Grissom turned the key, unlatching the door and turning to Greg with eyebrows raised.

Confused into silence, something that didn't happen to him often, he merely followed. They passed a couple of maintenance workers, who paid them no attention, and made their way through some covered corridors then back out into the open. Above them towered the Big Apple Roller Coaster, dark and abandoned at this time of the morning.

Grissom led them through the gate leading to the ride's entrance, then up the steps to the coaster itself. A security guard sat at the controls, reading a magazine. He glanced up, saw Grissom, and held out two fingers lazily, as if holding an invisible cigarette. Greg watched almost dazedly as Grissom slipped a few folded bills between them. He followed once more, taking a seat next to the other man at the very front of the ride.

"Is he qualified to run this thing?" Greg asked worriedly about the guard.

Silence from Grissom. Just a small smirk.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be riding roller coasters yet," Greg tried again, jumping slightly when the safety bars dropped into position. Grissom didn't respond, and the coaster began to clank and rattle its way towards the top of the slope.

It was true that Greg thought Dr. Holland wouldn't approve, but he knew he was healed enough. The truth was, he hadn't been on a roller coaster in years. After spending so much time as a Crime Scene Investigator, he had mostly lost the urge to seek thrills. He stared at the top, eyes wide, and realized that none of his younger self remained; the freckled, recklessly boisterous kid that would ride roller coasters all day without batting an eye. Greg was terrified, and longed to be at home. Or at the very least, safely at ground level.

"We have to put up with a lot in our job," Grissom began next to him, seemingly out of the blue. These were the first words spoken by him since requesting Greg join him for a 'quick ride', outside of the lab. "And you, Greg, you've been through more than enough."

Greg looked over, saying nothing. He was tired, a bit scared, and wondering more than ever what the point of this trip was.

"Want to know how many times I almost walked away from the job?" Grissom prompted.

"Not really. And you did walk away."

The older man narrowed his eyes warningly. "I retired."

"You left. We needed you, and you left," Greg pointed out, raising his voice and finding that he didn't even try to stop the words or at least filter them.

Grissom nodded. "Yes, I did. And I apologize for how that happened. The timing, and the distance…but it needed to happen." He faced forward before adding, "And you stole my wife."

Greg's mouth hung wide open. What could he say to that?

"I'm only saying these things, Greg, because I sense that you're frustrated. The point I'm trying to make is that I don't want you to give up, because you're a fantastic investigator. You have made, and have yet to make, a substantial difference in countless good peoples' lives by giving them peace of mind."

"Thanks," Greg said, but he was still unsure why they were here of all places.

After another moment, Grissom's stern face became more relaxed. "You have to find a way to let it go, Greg."

"Wh-what are—" Greg stuttered, flabbergasted. "Let what go?"

A casual shrug, then: "Everything. Not forever. But give yourself a break here and there."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Another smirk and a pointed nod to their front was his only answer. Greg turned his eyes forward once more and realized they had reached the crest of the hill. It leveled out briefly before tilting downward. From this angle it appeared less like a hill and more like a ninety-degree drop. He braced his legs and clung to the bar in front of him as if his life depended on it. He heard Grissom laugh, and wondered briefly what was so funny before the falling sensation took over and Greg found it impossible to worry about anything at all.

If only for a short while, he let it all go.