Chapter Twenty-Five: Epilogue

"You could have prevented this."

Whitney Adam's voice was clear as day, and Sara's eyes sprung open. It was somehow dark once more, although it had been dawn when she laid down and she didn't believe she slept that long. The bedroom was pitch black, and the only source of light filtered from the cracked doorway of the bathroom. Steam billowed through, and the water could be heard running. Somewhere, a watch steadily ticked away the seconds.

"You had every chance to save him."

Sara made her way to the bathroom door, stepping softly. She didn't want to face what might greet her on the other side.

"You ran away, and he paid the price."

She carefully swung the door inward and stopped, at first unable to make out anything through the thick steam. Gradually it dissipated, and she tried to scream at the sight before her but no sound left her mouth.

This wasn't her master bathroom, but she recognized it. She'd seen it once in person and several times in the crime scene photos. The warehouse bathroom.

Whitney Adams was leaning over the bathtub; one arm submerged in water up to the elbow. The tub was completely full, but the faucet still gushed. Water so hot it boiled splashed over the sides as something thrashed at the bottom.

The now-blonde turned to Sara and beamed. "Wait, did I say 'paid'? I meant to say he's still paying the price."

Sara wanted to run over but found herself incapable of exceeding a snail's pace. As she neared Whitney, she could better make out the shape under the surface and froze.

Greg was held down, Whitney's hand pressing unrelenting against his chest. He grasped at Whitney's hand, her arm, her face, trying to fight his way to the top. Precious air bubbles rose from his mouth and nose as he formed inaudible cries for help. He locked eyes with Sara, silently begging for her help, but all she could do was look on.

The second hand of the invisible clock had become thunderous and nearly deafening, as if it now belonged to a giant clock tower. The running water also rose in volume and might as well have been a waterfall.

Greg's struggles weakened then gradually ceased altogether. His eyes were unblinking, seemingly condemning Sara even in death. Whitney giggled and withdrew her hand. Greg's body didn't float to the surface as it should have, but remained motionless and anchored at the bottom.

The clock stopped ticking.

The faucet became silent.

Then his mouth opened and the one word he shouted was not muffled by the water.

"RUN!"

Sara awoke abruptly, sitting straight up and looking wildly around the bedroom. Her sweat had dampened the sheets around her and nearly soaked her nightshirt. She noticed that it was still daytime, which meant she was longer trapped in her nightmare, forced to watch as Greg was drowned but unable to help him. She was safe. Greg was safe.

Greg.

She felt the sudden urge to look at him, to touch him, so she turned to her left side, eyes scanning over the empty mattress next to her: Greg's side of the bed. The two had officially shared an apartment for nearly two months now. Unofficially, they hadn't lived apart since his release from the hospital six months ago, but they stayed at Sara's place until Greg's lease was up, then rented a new apartment close to the lab. The slight change of scenery had been good for both of them and their relationship was stronger than ever.

Her ears finally picked up the shower running in the bathroom and noted the door was cracked open with some steam escaping through the narrow space. She threw the blankets off, reached for her nightstand and the revolver within it, and prepared to dash in. This time, she would save him. "Greg!"

"Sara? Everything okay?" Greg called over the water, his tone quite casual.

Sara shook her head and let out a deep breath. He was simply taking a shower. Whitney Adams wasn't in there with him, and he wasn't in any danger.

"Nothing," she responded, loud enough for him to hear. "I just…nothing. Enjoy your shower." Sara swung her legs over the side of the bed and wiped the sweat from her face with trembling hands. She was still in this position when the shower shut off and Greg emerged a few minutes later wearing only his boxers and rubbing a towel over his head.

His eyes landed on her, and he tossed the towel into the laundry hamper and crawled across the bed so he was just behind her. He wound his arms around the front of her shoulders and kissed a trail up the side of her neck. "Good morning," he mumbled between kisses.

She sighed and leaned her head to the side. "It's five in the afternoon."

"Well yeah. That's our morning." Sensing her lingering anxiety, Greg shifted so that he was sitting next to her, their hips and arms touching. His still-damp skin felt cool against hers as he placed a hand on her thigh.

She looked to Greg and watched him as he stared at the floor. The bruises and scrapes from his week of hell had vanished. The cuts, stabs, and some of the bindings left scars that remained, now a dark purplish-red. Hopefully, their pigment would lighten and they would become nearly invisible with time. There was a long line down the inside of his right arm where pins and a plate had been inserted to hold the break steady, then removed when the bone healed. The scars from his knee surgeries were barely noticeable, but he still walked with a limp on his right leg. It was so slight that only those who knew Greg the most knew it was there.

The mark that troubled Sara the most was located on his neck: the long cut from the knife that had come frighteningly close to vital veins and arteries. It reminded her how easily Greg could have been taken; how close his life had come to being snuffed out like a candle that was only just lit. This wound had taken the longest to heal, and from time to time it still became inflamed and bothered him. He described it as an itch too deep to scratch, and Sara often caught him scratching it—usually when something was worrying him.

Greg glanced over after a moment and grinned nervously, feeling scrutinized. "What?"

"Nothing." Sara rested her forehead on his shoulder. The nightmare had left her feeling insecure, apprehensive, and a bit paranoid. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Greg's body wash, shampoo, and underneath all that the scent of him. "I don't know how much longer I can do this," she finally mumbled against him.

Greg immediately straightened. "You mean…us?" he asked cautiously.

"No! Not us, I'm sorry. I mean this job. It wears me down, and I wonder if I could be happier doing something else—somewhere else. I've tried to leave, but I just keep getting drawn back in."

Greg nodded slowly, then planted a kiss on the top of her head before turning back to his feet and the carpet. He had sensed that a conversation like this might be coming. He could tell that the job was beginning to overwhelm her again. She also wasn't sleeping well, and he knew she worried about him. "It's because you're amazing at it, Sara."

"If I'm such an amazing CSI, why do the bad guys keep winning? Either they hurt me, hurt the people I love…The memories, the paranoia of what might be coming next makes sleep impossible. Shouldn't I run while I can? Find a safer way to make a living?"

"Hey," he reached over and touched her cheek. "Maybe it's because I'm psychic, or maybe I'm not ready to leave this job so I don't want you to either, but I really do believe you are meant to do this. You've helped so many people, Sara, and you can still help so many more." Greg realized he was giving Sara the same pep-talk that Grissom had given him, and paused. Then he shrugged, putting on his best 'aloof' façade. "If you feel you need to run, then you should, I guess. In the end hopefully you're happy with the choices you've made."

She smirked at him, "I'm at least happy with some of the choices I've made."

He gave her a crooked grin then kissed her, his mouth lingering on hers. When they parted, his eyes were sweltering. She leaned back in swiftly and their mouths met again, urgently. He laid back on the bed, pulling her with him.

Sara began to nibble his earlobe and Greg sighed as goosebumps arose on his flesh. "Just promise me one thing," he mumbled, eyes closed and enjoying her touch.

"What's that?" Sara asked, only pausing momentarily in her exploration of Greg's skin. She started to move her mouth downward, being much gentler with the tender skin of his neck than she was with his ear. She reached his collarbone, and Greg moaned quietly before continuing: "If you run, take me with you?"

Her head lifted and she met his eyes. "I won't run away without you. I promise."

He smiled. Her head dipped down again, and her lips found his chest, his stomach, his navel, the edge of his boxers. Sara paid special attention to each scar she encountered on the way.

A soft chuckle forced her to pause again. "What?"

"If somebody had told me a year ago that Sara-freaking-Sidle would be about to—"

"Stop talking, Greg."

"Okay."

He pushed all negative thoughts from his mind. Everything would be alright. Although scar tissue will remain, both the mind and body heal with time. He would learn to thrive again, and having his best friend along for the ride could only help.

Beyond both Sara and Greg's view, across the street and inside another apartment, a pair of binoculars observed the show through thin drapes. Strands of red hair blew in the warm, gentle breeze entering the open window. The binoculars lowered and a sudden animalistic scream of hatred rung out. The occupants of two neighboring apartments called 9-1-1, believing someone was being attacked.

The police arrived within minutes to check on the tenant of apartment 405. She saw a mouse and had screamed. She blushed and apologized for worrying anyone. This explanation, along with her petite, feminine figure and flirty green eyes satisfied the responding officers and they left without filing a report.

Carrie Bell, formerly Amber Lewis and originally Whitney Adams, returned to her window and returned the binoculars to her eyes. The lights were turned off in the room she had been observing. She smiled faintly and reminded herself to be patient. The time for revenge would come, and she licked her lips at the idea of how sweet it would taste.

A/N: There it was! Can I just say how freaking proud I am of myself that I actually finished a story?! Go me! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (although writing it was quite painful at times-I blame life and writer's block). As I've said, a sequel is in the works. Would you like a preview? If yes, let me know in a review!