When You Lose Something (You Can't Replace)
DESCRIPTION: "Greg knew even one life taken in self defense was too many to ask forgiveness for. Demetrius James haunted his dreams, and sometimes his reality. A vision at the corner of Greg's eye when he hadn't slept enough, but also a consistent weight on Greg's chest even when he had."
In the two weeks following the coroner's inquest - Greg Sanders pushes himself beyond his limits. His colleagues notice his behavior, but each only receives one piece of a much larger puzzle. By the time the night shift solves this case, it might be too late.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction is not entirely canon compliant! The plot I have created will mess with the timeline around the episodes of 7x04-7x09. It will also depict a more emotionally wrecked Greg Sanders than we see in canon during this time. I've tried to remain as accurate as possible with the help of a handy canon guide from addictedtostorytelling on Tumblr [tagged/meta:_greg].
According to canon – there is twenty-eight days between Greg's assault (October 12th, 2006) and the coroner's inquest (November 8/9, 2006). There is then nearly four months until the city settlement for the civil suit is announced to Greg (March 29th, 2007). This fanfiction's timeline primarily occurs during the two weeks directly following the inquest, months prior to the city settlement. I also make the assumption in this fanfiction (from my own experience as a crisis support worker at a precinct) that CSI's work twelve hour shifts, the night shift working 7pm to 7am. It should also be noted that I've eliminated any specific details regarding the miniature killer storyline (which also takes place throughout Season 7).
I've only written one other CSI fanfiction. This means I am working with this large cast of characters (some for the first time), and thus due to plot structuring and novice writing - some parts may feel OOC. This story will be told in third person omniscient. I had no beta, so all mistakes are my own. There is no slash (other than implied and canon-typical Grissom x Sara). Title is taken from Fix You by Coldplay and is meant to reference both the loss of Demetrius James and the loss of Greg's innocence.
All that being said –
Thank you for taking a chance on this. This fanfiction marks a lot of 'firsts' for me – and I appreciate and welcome all constructive feedback with suggestions for improvement. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Thursday November 16th, 2006. [12:00. Seven hours prior to Night Shift.]
Squatting before another dead body, Greg Sanders longed for a break.
While the flash of the camera painted his surroundings in bright white, Greg imagined what else he might do. He could escape into the mountains that made him feel small, or perhaps even towards the waves that made him feel weightless. Regardless of the plan, there was a part of him that longed to feel alive again, and to escape from the darkness of his work. A moment away from the murder-suicides, the domestic incidents, the kidnappings and assaults…
This life is what he said he wanted, no – what he knew he wanted. He loved his job. Working as a criminalist was the reason Greg had pushed himself towards betterment for the first time in his life. School had always come easy to him, as had forensic chemistry. Field work was the opposite. It was inherently challenging. It wasn't a natural skill like his previous studies, or surfing, or playing chess. It required careful consideration and cultivation. No longer could he breeze past his duties with low effort and expect positive results.
"When you finish with the body, can you take the perimeter?" Catherine asked, and Greg nodded in response.
The experience of becoming a criminalist had forced him to grow up a little bit, too. Quickly, Greg had to drop the playboy act, the tattered jeans, the practical jokes. He'd reconciled his own sense of identity with the identity that came with his new job title. Often, it had felt as though there wasn't enough room for him anymore. Thus, Greg had made the necessary changes and adjustments.
How much of myself have I lost in the past two years? Greg wondered, for more reasons than just a career change. Greg snapped off a final photograph and shoved the thought away. He groaned at the way his knees popped as he righted himself.
Despite the various changes, Greg could truthfully acknowledge that being a criminalist had brought him a deeper sense of purpose. In the process of seeking justice for others, the days began to feel less repetitive. They began to have meaning again. No longer was he working his predictable lab hours, nor dragging himself out of bed and repeating a routine. Instead, there was a force pushing him to seize every day as if it were his first… or last.
He doesn't regret any part of his decision to change careers, and he certainly doesn't mean to come across as ungrateful. Greg is thankful for the opportunities he's been given, for the wonderful and supportive folks he works with.
"You doing okay, Greg?" Catherine asked, a smile at the corner of her lips. "I think our vic' may have once had healthier sounding joints than you do."
It was an attempt at humor. One Greg would have probably played off of not too long ago. For now, all he can manage is a sad shake of his head. "I'm fine, Cath."
If Greg were truly being honest with himself – no leave of absence could solve the funk he's fallen into recently. In fact, as tired as he feels, he'd rather keep himself as distracted as possible. Idle hands would lead to an idle mind, and an idle mind meant Greg would replay the tape of one particular night. He would revisit every second repeatedly, searching for an alternative solution and playing out every 'what-if' he can possibly torture himself with.
The problem was this. Greg wasn't just tired because of the "all-hands-on-deck" call that had pulled him from a restless sleep. It was because since the Demetrius James incident, the reasons that propelled Greg towards betterment had become clouded in their clarity. Physically and psychologically, every minute spent sleeping or awake felt like a never-ending marathon. Simple actions were beginning to require more concentration. All of his energy units were spent keeping his mind from thinking too hard about the blood on his own hands.
He'd taken a good look around at his team. They'd all been through a traumatic incident at one time or another, and he didn't see them still struggling with it. Greg pushed himself so hard to play in the big leagues, and just because he was still struggling with his personal problems didn't mean he had the right to fumble the pitch. He swallowed his complaints and his thoughts about asking for help, and instead poured himself into his work. It's worked for a while, but it was taking a toll on the him.
It began to feel as though he was putting forth his best efforts to avoid any further mistakes. Any more faults wouldn't be tolerated after his monumental error, and could be perceived as another weapon against his character. Greg simply couldn't afford to let himself slip.
Hours passed quickly as both shifts and the small group of reinforcement cadets processed the surrounding blocks. It was thought that the suspect was still within the area and traveling on foot. It gave a wide radius for potential evidence. To make matters worse, rainfall was imminent which meant time was scarce. Greg quickly made his way outside to process the front yard, and side walkway. Four lives had been taken in an instant tonight, and this case would likely become a media storm within the next week. The more evidence he could collect, the less chance the department could be blamed for a lack of concrete answers.
"Almost done back here?" Catherine asked, as the sun began to set behind the thick storm clouds.
"I think so."
Nodding, Catherine motioned towards the vehicles. "Well, let's go check on Nick and Sara's progress then. Grissom said we'll likely be rolling out soon. The other teams will stick behind and we'll get a jumpstart on evidence processing. "
Greg packed up his kit methodically as Catherine left the area. He made a point of checking his evidence collection record twice to ensure all of his samples were securely packed away.
It was hard to believe you were a good person who was doing good work when you had a gravely different body count from your peers. Greg knew even one life taken in self defense was too many to ask forgiveness for. Demetrius James haunted his dreams, and sometimes his reality. A vision at the corner of Greg's eye when he hadn't slept enough, but also a consistent weight on Greg's chest even when he had. Since he'd watched the boy flatline in the room next to his, Greg couldn't alleviate the guilt. There was shame too, personified by the way Greg could no longer meet his own eyes in the mirror anymore.
Greg hadn't cared to notice when his own bruises had faded, mostly due to the lack of active perception - but he knew that he desperately missed the physical reminder of his sin.
It had been about a week since the trial had finished. Greg knew the family was pushing for another civil lawsuit, and part of Greg believed that was a just decision. Going about his days after the initial coroner's inquiry, Greg wondered how he was allowed to continue to interrogate other murder suspects when he sat before them as a free man with an equally guilty conscience. He wondered how he was still allowed to collect potential murder weapons as if his own fingerprints didn't sit on the wheel of the vehicle he'd used to run down a boy. His soul was as tainted as his reputation, and everyone in the department likely knew it.
The end of the night shift came sooner than expected. Greg meticulously swapped his work blazer for his leather jacket, closing the metal locker door with a sigh.
"You should really get some sleep, Greggo," Nick advised him, concern dripping from his tone.
Greg closed his eyes momentarily. He knew there were deep circles under his eyes betraying his wishes to keep his personal problems private, but he hated being perceived as weak.
In his time on the night shift, Greg had never seen any of the investigators look tired, much less admit to it. Just because he often felt like a fraud didn't mean he needed those around him to realize that reality. His only motivator for weeks now has been the approval of others, the validation that he's still worthy.
Plastering a smile on his face with surprising ease, Greg reopens his locker. "Actually, I think I'm going to stay a while."
Out of the corner of his eye, Greg watches Nick's hand pause on their intended path towards the keys that hang within his own locker. Nick's eyes watch with apprehension as Greg shrugs into a well-worn white lab coat. A few frayed seams dangle from the ends.
The younger investigator is halfway out the door when he hears Nick's voice. "I don't think any of us have any more overtime left this week, and I don't think you'll be able to get Ecklie to agree to sign off on more."
Greg leans against the door frame momentarily, and knows Nick's words to be true. It won't be an easy sell. He knows he doesn't want to go home to a cold bed, and to a restless sleep. In all fairness, Greg can recall hearing that day shift is down a lab tech. If he can't convince Ecklie to let him stay for hours on his own shift, maybe he can disguise it as help for the day shift.
"I don't want to leave this case alone, and there's a lot of evidence to analyze," Greg fibs, waving his hand as if to downplay the importance of leaving. "I'm sure we can work something out."
Nick holds his eyes for longer than normal, and searches for something Greg can't identify. It feels like a stalemate until Nick quickly checks his watch and nods. "Well, best of luck solving your case then."
"Thanks, Nick. Have a good night."
Monday November 20th, 2006. [05:37. Ten hours into Night Shift.]
Catherine disguises a cough into her elbow by following it with a fluid movement of pushing a stray hair over her shoulder.
She'd like to blame her recent throat ache and chills on something Lindsey has brought home from school, but the reality is that she spends more time at work than she does with her daughter. As if that realization wasn't painful enough, it is compounded by the fact that a strain of the flu is moving faster through the lab than most gossip does. It already hit Hodges, Warrick, Superdave, Wendy last month. The previous week it had managed to take down Henry, Nick, and even Grissom.
She knew it was inevitable that she'd be next, and she was right. While she'd felt fine at the early callout four nights ago, Catherine's throat is decidedly on fire today. As per her usual defiant attitude, she's pushing through it with some lozenges and hot tea. With day shift being down a tech, and the amount of people calling in - the pressure has been increased on every remaining individual. Catherine and Sara have been taking on some of the workload from their missing counterparts while others attempt to work from home. Wendy even enlisted Greg to aid in working the lab for the night.
Catherine makes her way to grab her results but is struck by an eerie feeling upon entering. The lab is quiet despite Greg's renewed presence within it. There is no music blaring. There is no lab instruments left out on the counter. There is no odd object upon his head. Years ago, she would have complained about such distractions or at least smiled at the man's antics. As it stands, the lab seems to be in an almost perfectly organized state. She'd hesitate to say it looks cleaner than how Wendy left it, even though Wendy herself is a well-kept individual. Where Greg has found the time to clean alongside processing results, she will never know.
"Greg?"
"Hey Cath," Greg acknowledged, not looking up from his work. "The results of your semen sample are in the outbox."
She frowns. Not that she doesn't appreciate the speed and undoubtedly accurate nature of Greg's work, but Greg always jumped at knowing how evidence applied to a case. The Greg she used to know always peered into how evidence fit in a constructing narrative. It was the first sign Grissom had picked up on when considering who they could add to the team.
While it wasn't his job to do Catherine's work for her or take interest, the disinterest in his tone didn't fit her natural perception of the man's curious nature.
Reaching for the file, Catherine quickly scans it and notes the results. The sample belongs to her victim's husband, which means it is only evidence within a specific context. She can hear the prosecutor tearing apart this evidence already. She'll need something else substantial if she wants to pin her suspicious sudden death on the husband.
Shutting the file with a sigh, Catherine observes the man in front of her. Greg's movements are precise, but his eyes are fighting sleep. The speed at which his eyes blink are exaggeratedly spaced out and seem to require a great deal of effort. Despite sitting still, his breathing has a great deal of depth. Under her gaze, Greg pauses his ministrations to stretch his neck from side to side. He keeps one hand on the tight muscles, massaging them as he resumes the DNA extraction process on another fresh sample.
Perhaps most odd, Greg seems to be whispering the steps of the process continually under his breath. Catherine has observed that people only tend to repeat things to themselves when they need to hold onto the information within their short term memory, much like reciting a grocery list or a set of numbers. A process as second nature to Greg shouldn't require this much concentration.
"Is everything alright, Greg?"
He looks up sharply at her. Greg's lip wavers before he stutters out a quick reply. "N-never better, Catherine. Is there a problem with the results?"
"No, everything looks right," Catherine explains, before coughing again into her elbow. "I was just hoping you weren't catching whatever this cold is, like the rest of us."
His lips become pursed and he begins nodding his head. "I might be feeling a bit run down, but I'm sure like you said - it is just a small cold."
It was as good of a reason as any, and one Catherine certainly can't argue against. If she pulled herself into work today, Greg must have done the same thing. Shaking her mug, she notices it is near empty. "Well, I'm going to grab a refill. Would you like any tea?"
"No, thank you."
Catherine nods and makes her way to the break room. Although her sense of smell will likely fail her within the next few days as she develops a stuffed nose, for now she breathes in the sharp scent of coffee. Not just any coffee - Greg's specialty Blue Hawaiian brew.
The pot is approximately two cups from empty. Knowing Greg isn't one to willingly share with anyone other than the night shift, Catherine sneaks another look at her colleague. Noticing Greg rubbing at his eyelids, Catherine begins to wonder just how much caffeine Greg has consumed in the past few hours.
Before she can think about asking Greg about it, her cell chimes with an alert. A domestic dispute is calling her name, the message from Brass indicating it is also a high profile case. This job could be unforgiving at times. Crime didn't stop because of a scratchy throat, and Catherine knew she had to get back at it.
Wednesday November 22nd, 2006. [23:42. Four hours into Night Shift.]
Warrick was feeling accomplished. He'd just closed two cases at once - a robbery and an assault. He'd found they were unexpectedly connected about a half day into the investigation. Once the connection had been made, the prime suspect finally had a motive to accompany a large content of evidence. While neither he nor Brass were able to pull a confession out of the guy, Warrick was certain his own testimony in court would be convincing enough to land a conviction.
Placing a 'SOLVED' magnet on the board and reaching for another, Warrick smiled and rocked on the balls of his feet. Nick was coming down the hall with a large box of evidence in his hands when he caught sight of the board.
"There is no way you solved two already tonight," Nick exclaimed in disbelief, adjusting his grip on the heavy box.
Warrick shrugged. "Read it and weep, Nicky. There's only room for one expert on this shift, and apparently the title is all mine."
"Is that so?" Grissom's voice boomed from behind the two criminalists, who turned around and met the smirk of their supervisor. "Congratulations on the double close, Warrick."
Warrick could tease Nick all he liked, but it felt nice to receive a rare compliment from Grissom. "Thanks, boss. Do you have anything new for me?"
Grissom held up the white slip in his grasp, as if it were only waiting for Warrick to ask. "I've got a body in the alley behind the Tangiers, and I'd like you to take Greg with you to process the scene."
"On it."
Warrick took the slip with care, and turned towards the whiteboard. Nick nudged Warrick's upper arm with his own elbow and nodded upwards. "Is it just me, or does Greg have a lot of cases open already?"
Tipping his head to the side, Warrick had to agree. All the slots were filled with various crimes, including two homicides. None of the cases had been solved yet. It was odd for Grissom to suggest Greg assist on primary scene collection when Greg was already juggling so much.
"I'll offer to help him out as soon as I close this new case," Warrick noted. Nick nodded and agreed he would also check-in with Greg soon.
The team was always willing to lend a hand, to aid when the work built up to an unmanageable level. The workload hit all of them at different times, and so the team adapted to keep everyone afloat. Right now, Greg seemed to be in the thick of a tough wave.
The drive to their scene was quiet. Warrick noted that Greg rested his head on the window of the Denali as they drove to the scene. It seemed to bob without resistance in time with each minor pothole and speed bump. The man didn't even complain when Warrick chose a mainstream pop music radio station, an action which normally would inspire a lengthy rant about how the genre of music people listen to describes everything Greg needs to know about them, and how the quality of music has deteriorated over time. Warrick would almost rather have that conversation now, for a silent Greg is eerie.
There is a part of Warrick that suspects many of the changes he's noticed in his colleague have occurred because of the attack. Greg's quick return to the lab and tendency to shy away from discussing details were telltale signs that the man couldn't conceal every part of his hurt. The experience has obviously changed him, but Warrick knows better than to ask about it. He isn't sure Greg would care to give him an honest answer even if he did. Greg seems happy enough with the walls he's built up to protect himself. Warrick is well familiar with steeling yourself from the memories that bring you pain, so who is he to ask Greg to forcibly open up about it?
He parks the vehicle, the less than smooth stopping motion jarring Greg from his short sleep. He wakes violently, the air surging into his nose as his eyes open quick. Looking around to orient himself, Greg closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. "Sorry, 'Rick. Must have fell asleep."
"No worries," Warrick notes. "Let's get started."
Warrick records the body position, the lack of a blood pool, and the lack of evidence surrounding the body and concludes they likely have a body dump on their hands. He knows they will still need to process this secondary scene as meticulously as if it were the primary, or else they may not be able to find their primary. Greg photographs the nearby tire treads while Warrick speaks with David Phillips about a potential identification.
As the two investigators begin to finish up the scene a few hours later, Warrick has noticed the kid has been leaning on nearby surfaces whenever he can. A shoulder against the alley wall here, a stabilizing hand on the ground there. When they were scanning the nearby dumpster, Greg had almost a white knuckle grip on the edge as his chest rested against the surface. It is almost as if Greg needs these motions to keep his balance, or to keep himself righted.
Warrick doesn't see the relevance in pointing this finding out to Greg, but it does weigh on the older man's mind. While they are packing the vehicle, Warrick offers to take Greg out for breakfast alongside the rest of the night shift as daylight rises above them. His own stomach is protesting from a lack of sustenance with a groan Warrick hopes isn't too audible.
"I think I'd rather try and catch some sleep. Thanks for the offer, though," Greg says sincerely. Warrick can't argue, because it sure looks like the kid could use the rest.
For all his earlier astute observations, Warrick gets caught up in a conversation with Nick in the locker room and doesn't catch that Greg doesn't join the team in leaving the crime lab. When he reaches his car, Warrick assumes Greg might have either snuck out earlier or stayed back to chat with Grissom. While a criminalist can't be expected to be correct in all their interpretations - Warrick's guesses are incorrect.
Friday November 24th, 2006. [01:01. Six hours into Night Shift.]
Nick is filling up his water bottle at the station outside of the men's washroom. It had been a tricky scene to process today. Shootouts always left a number of bullet tracings to clog up evidence processing. He is parched, and hopes this fountain will at least be cold enough to absolve him of how hot he currently feels. The little counter at the top of the water station thanks the lab for saving the earth from the equivalent of nearly fifty-six thousand and thirty one plastic bottles. Make that fifty-six thousand and thirty… two bottles, Nick smiles to himself as he finishes up.
The sound of running water before him stops, only for the distinct sound of running water to still echo in his ears. He turns his head towards the washroom before him, and acknowledges that it must just be someone washing up. Likely Greg, who had went in just moments before.
Nick decides to hang back and wait, and accompany the younger man to the break room. He hasn't seen Greg eat all night, and Nick decides the large sub he's brought with him tonight can easily feed two.
The water continues to run. Nick's eyebrow raises. It could be a leaky tap, but the water is running too fast. It could be a stuck automatic flusher, but the sound is continuous and only interrupted by what sounds like a constant and imperfect man-made motion.
Giving into his investigative nature, Nick grants himself access to the washroom. Greg stands before the counter, washing his hands.
"Almost ready to go?" Nick asks curiously.
Greg's eyes are staring at his hands with precision and dedication, as one hand reaches up to pump the soap dispenser. His movements are agitated as they spread the soap across the planes of his hands. Greg shakes his head slightly as he rinses the slippery white substance from his hands.
The man's knuckles and nails work in tandem to scrub at the skin's delicate surface, and Nick notes his hands have already turned a nasty shade of pink. Greg reaches up to the soap dispenser again, and adds more suds into the mix. When they rinse clean, Greg shakes his head even more ferociously and reaches up to the dispenser again.
He's almost whispering under his breath, and Nick thinks he hears Greg saying, "No… no… no…"
"Greg?"
Any other day, Nick would've passed Greg's inability to hear off as a side effect of often playing his walkman too loud. The form of silence before him is distinctly more alarming in nature. Greg reaches for the soap again, and Nick watches as his scrubbing begins to turn his hands from pink to an angry red.
Raising his voice, Nick commands his attention. "Greg, stop it!"
Greg seems to shake on the spot, reaching out suddenly to turn the tap off. His shoulders fall as his body exhales a heavy breath, and Greg shakes his head again as it hangs between his shoulder blades.
"Are you okay?"
Quickly righting himself, Greg paints a small smile on his face. In the span of a second, it is like nothing ever happened. "Just fine, Nick." Nick watches as Greg walks over to the paper towel, and carefully dries his hands. "I think I was just daydreaming, lost focus for a minute."
"That didn't look like losing focus," Nick counters, feeling himself become wary. He'd just seen the man trying to peel away his own skin, and Greg was standing before him and attempting to just write it off? The excuse was flat, and Greg had to know it.
Greg stares Nick down with a powerful glance, and Nick notices the depth of the circles under his eyes. Greg's tone grows angry at Nick's own, not that Nick could have known he'd cause such an adverse reaction with his accusation. "I've worked in the lab. I've stared at micro-organisms all day, and diseases, and things you can't even imagine. Forgive me for washing my hands properly."
"Greg-"
"I'm said I'm fine," Greg forces. "Let's get back to work."
Greg is out the door before Nick has even turned to follow. Nick spares a glance in the mirror before his own exit, and wonders what kind of friend he's being right now. Greg doesn't seem okay, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Where does that leave Nick? Nick knows after his own incident, he wasn't much for talking either.
Nick drops the issue for now, on account of the feelings he experienced himself only a few years ago. He does file the incident away in his mind however, and vows to keep a better eye out.
Saturday November 25th, 2006. [18:46. Fourteen minutes prior to Night Shift.]
Sara has been preoccupied the majority of the week. She'd admit that one of her flaws is getting caught up in her cases, tuning out the outside world until she can place the case to rest in both physical arrest and peace of mind. It is a single-minded focus that she's had for as long as she can remember. Sometimes it serves her well, other times it can blind her. Sara's been caught in a string of cases that have left her tied up in knots, and lost in a series of twists and unexpected results. Only today does she have the time to take a break. It's her chance to pop her head out of the ground and rejoin her coworkers for non-work related conversations.
To be fair, Sara isn't one for lab gossip. Nor does she really care to meddle in her coworkers affairs. At the times where she has been consumed by her search for the answer, she has often accidently lashed out at some coworkers with her short patience and high temper. It hasn't made her popular with the majority of the lab techs, although she does make the effort to smooth her actions over when Sara knows she's crossed the line. She is lucky (and she knows it) to have so many understanding coworkers who don't hold grudges.
There is a half completed crossword puzzle on Grissom's desk. She's alone in his office, awaiting the start of the night shift. Reaching for it, she notes his precise letters in the squared boxes and smiles. Everything about her supervisor was careful and exact, except for the state of his desk. Papers were strewn about in piles and orders in a code only Grissom himself could decipher. She liked how the disarray of papers next to the specific array of biological specimens accurately conveyed just how much of an enigma Grissom was as a person.
The answers already filled in on the crossword are completed in blue pen, so she retrieves a red one from the corner of his desk. Working through a few of the more obvious clues, she notes Grissom has already tackled most of the words attributed with literary references, such as Shakespeare. Not yet completed was vertical box 10, a ten letter word that Grissom's own previous answers suggested began with an 'E'. The clue specified it was a specific feeling synonymous with descriptions of being drained of vitality.
Sara pressed the tip of the ballpoint pen to the newspaper page, scrawling out the word 'enervation'.
She felt pleased to view her red swirls alongside his blue ones, piecing together the answers like the couple always seemed to do in life. No one in the lab knew yet, but Sara was finding it increasingly difficult to hide the way Grissom made her feel from the colleagues she considered to be her friends.
The sound of breaking glass pulls Sara from her sappy reverie.
"Fuck!"
It sounds close by, and sudden. It puts her on edge as she rises from her seat and cautiously steps into the hallway. All eyes are turned on the DNA lab, where Greg stands looking at the ground in frustration.
What happened? And why is Greg in the lab? Sara wonders. Not that it was entirely unexpected, but it is certainly strange. In all her time at the Vegas lab, she's never known Greg to (even accidentally) break lab equipment. There was never as much as a test tube with a crack in it, let alone the larger beaker broken. Sara can't fully tell what it once was now that glass lays on the ground in hundreds of shards.
Sara turns her gaze from the ground back to Greg, who she notes is clenching and unclenching his hands. The familiar dark eyes are lost in their gaze, staring into nothingness. His chest is heaving up and down in deep breaths, and his eyebrows are drawn together. In any other situation with any other male, Sara would attribute such clues as irrationally high anger.
The Greg that Sara knows has never been prone to anger.
Various other techs are also keeping a close eye on him in the wake of the sound of this incident. Greg meets each of their eyes, and his expression shifts to embarrassment. In a singular second, he's snapped out of his previous daze, and begins to rub one of his hands on the back of his neck.
"Sorry everyone, won't happen again," he mutters, just high enough to be perceived by his colleagues. Greg's voice is drained, as if each syllable is accompanied by pain.
The sentiment is enough to allow most of his colleagues to turn back to their own individual work, but Sara is undeterred and curious.
Sara lingers outside of the doorframe of the audio-visual lab and continues to watch from afar. She's a trained observant, and she can't help but notice Greg as he retrieves the broom and dustpan from behind the lab door. Greg is quick to sweep away the shards of his mistake, his motions hurried and bordering on panicked. There is a bead of sweat that drips from his upper lip. This in particular is odd, as it isn't nearly hot enough in the lab to cause such a reaction, nor is Greg exerting himself.
Greg brings the dustpan to the garbage hidden beneath the cupboard, and Sara's mouth falls open in shock at the sight before her. His hands – the steadiest in the laboratory – are shaking violently. The shards of glass on the pan leap into the trash rather than participating in a controlled gravitational fall. Greg straightens his body up, only to lean on the counter with his elbows, his head in his hands.
His eyes are closed, with the heels of his hands pushing into the sockets. Sara notices the way his breath hitches during his next inhale, and decides she's witnessed enough. Even if he's just feeling under the weather, someone needs to send him home. Something already tells Sara that Greg won't listen to her, but he might listen to a superior.
Sara checks her watch and makes her way to the break room for the start of shift. Her steps are renewed with a sense of purpose, her mind already running through the conversation she'll need to have with Grissom.
Saturday November 25th, 2006. [19:01. One minute into Night Shift.]
Grissom is just stepping back in from a meeting with Jim, as they'd discussed a possible charge to hold a suspect on while the investigation into a homicide continued. They were lucky enough to be able to hold the individual on a possession charge, but it was flimsy at best. He knew he might have to ask one of his CSI's for assistance on speeding up the trace evidence processing tonight if they wanted to have a chance at indicting the suspect.
It was the curse of the job – often watching innocent people have their time cut short, and then lacking the time and the funds to solidify the answers the people left behind needed to properly grieve.
Grissom was certain he would be able to ask Nick to help out, or even Sara. Each of their caseloads had recently lightened if his memory was correct. Catherine was angling to leave a few hours early for a family-related appointment, and Warrick would be leaving the lab at the start of shift to re-examine a scene.
Pausing outside his office, he verifies his previous observations by viewing the case board. Nick and Sara would likely have time on their hands tonight. Shifting his gaze to the right, he cocks his head in confusion. Last time he checked the board, Grissom hadn't realized Greg had so many cases on his plate. There is only one case solved, the rest are still open – and backdated beyond typical expectation.
Since passing his exam and spending additional shadowing time with Sara, Greg was more than capable of handling a heavy caseload. The kid had proven himself more times than Grissom could count on both hands. Greg's breadth of knowledge often provided the needed perspective to place evidence into context, and he was always looking to build up his assists and personal closing rate.
Grissom notes the dates of the open cases. It had now been nearly two weeks since Greg's trial, and about six weeks since his initial hospital release. Refusing medical leave, Greg had returned to work soon after his incident, bruises still fresh on his face. He'd also returned to work in record time despite the fact his open cases at the time had already been reassigned and dealt with. The cases currently on the board date back to prior and after Greg's inquest, with only one solved since the jury's verdict.
Even if Grissom factored in the days Greg has been taking off for court, there should have still been plenty of time for these other cases to be investigated. Stopping in his office to briefly glance at his mail and retrieve new case slips, Grissom makes his way to the break room and resigns himself to having a tough conversation with his youngest recruit.
The majority of his team is already sat as usual, and ready to bounce into their assignments. Nick is in the middle of an animated conversation with Warrick while Catherine is inspecting the staff fridge. She emerges from behind the door with a jar in hand. The green liquid inside is only contained by the evidence tape wrapped around the side of the lid.
"Grissom, what did we tell you about using the staff fridge for experiments? Cross-contamination is a real thing, you know?"
Grissom's eyebrow peaks, and he blinks owlishly. "I've tested what is in that jar. Despite the smell, I can assure you it is perfectly safe. I need to keep the sample cold to prevent it from mutating."
"Mutating?" Nick asks incredulously. "What kind of goo is that?"
"Irrelevant," Grissom brushes off, smirking. "Rest assured, your sandwich should be unaffected Catherine."
"I could the judge of that," Warrick offers, raising one hand while the other subtly rubs at his stomach.
Catherine shakes her head, and looks to the ceiling for deliverance. She could swear that she was looking after more than one child in her life.
"Where's Sara and Greg?" Grissom asks, noting the absent presences at the table. The chair on Nick's left and Catherine's right sits empty. There are no indications either individual has been by recently, not even a coffee mug or pencil in sight.
Sara chooses that moment to swing around the corner. One hand on the side banister for balance, her eyes relay her urgency. "Grissom, we need to talk. Now."
Perplexed, Grissom gestures towards the table. "I'm just about to hand out assignments, Sara. We can speak after."
"It's about Greg," Sara whispers, though not quietly enough. The expressions of the other three investigators in the room shift in concern.
Nick pulls himself from a slouch to sitting at attention. "What about Greg?"
Sara swallows, and kicks herself for not having a bit more diplomacy about the timing of this conversation. She knows Greg wouldn't appreciate everyone knowing, but her concern outweighs the fear of his potential reaction.
"I just saw him in the lab, and it looks like he's been in there a while, prior to our shift tonight. He looks exhausted and possibly ill. His hands were shaking, he was perspiring more than normal… Grissom, he dropped lab equipment. I think I might have caught him wiping a tear away. I don't know what's going on with him, but I think you should send him home."
The team was silent in the light of new information, their eyes not meeting one another as they waited on their supervisors response with baited breath.
"I've noticed his closing rate is slow since the assault, but it might just be stress-related. He'll bounce back. Greg is resilient. If he's not feeling well, I trust that he would come and tell me himself," Grissom reasoned.
"Would he?"
All eyes fell on Nick. His question spread doubt through Grissom like a shockwave.
Nick started explaining, his hands illustrating in front of him. "I caught Greg in the washroom, washing his hands until they were close to bleeding. It was such weird behavior for him. He told me he just lost focus. I didn't know what to say."
Warrick sat forward and leaned on the table. His left eyebrow began climbing towards his hairline. "I witnessed him acting weird too. Earlier this week, Greg seemed tired at our crime scene. It was like he was struggling to stay awake, and hold himself up."
Catherine nodded. "I noticed the same thing. Greg was in the lab again earlier this week, but it made sense because it was when the flu was going around and we were short staffed. It seemed like it was taking all his concentration to perform the extraction process. There was no music playing, and Greg seemed miserable. Does that sound like Greg to you?"
"But if we aren't short staffed, why is he still in the lab?" Nick asks. "More importantly – has anyone actually seen Greg leave the building since that early morning call out on the 16th?"
"I haven't, which is even more odd," Sara continued, "considering he also looked well into his work just now. It would mean he's pulling doubles, if not triple shifts within the span of the past ten days. Just how many hours is Greg spending in the lab on top of his investigative shifts?"
Grissom listened to his subordinates, his mind focused but also aching to get his hands on the timesheets located within his office. "So what I'm hearing is that Greg isn't pulling overtime on the night shift, but potentially has been overworking himself on the day shift…"
The team stared at him, awaiting an action from their unpredictable boss. In true Grissom fashion, the man suddenly turned and made his way down the hall without another word. Sara stood back to allow him to leave before looking at the team, who nodded and followed in their supervisor's wake.
Making his way to Ecklie's office, Grissom momentarily stopped in his own to retrieve the nightshift timesheet. He paid little attention to the investigators following in his footsteps, as his mind was running numbers together in an attempt to piece together the puzzle before him. He turned into the office of his supervisor just as Ecklie was ending a phone call.
"What can I do for you, Grissom?" Ecklie asked. "Grissom's team," he acknowledged in addition, with a raised eyebrow and half-cocked smile.
Not one for pleasantries, Grissom moved straight to the point. "Ecklie, I need to compare timesheets."
Ecklie stood from his desk. "Excuse me?"
"I'm not looking to subvert your authority, Ecklie," Grissom placated, raising one hand as if he were calming one of his specimens. "I've got a mystery on my hands as to why one of my investigators has been spending so much time in the lab."
Ecklie smiled, and it made Nick's skin crawl. "Sanders, right? He's been pulling some overtime for my shift, but I can assure you it has been both voluntary and mutually beneficial."
"Mutually beneficial?" Catherine asked angrily, and a bit maternally. "Have you seen him lately?"
Ecklie ignored the question and retrieved the timesheet from the drawer in his desk. He passed the paper along to Grissom who began to look it over through careful glances between corrective lenses.
"Sanders said he had some medical bills to pay off," Ecklie explained. "As you may already know, day shift is still short a lab technician. While I hadn't compared notes with you yet to calculate the precise order of hours, Sanders already assured me the times he was working wouldn't conflict with his investigative work. If you have a problem with his inability to balance his workload, you should be speaking with him."
Warrick was inflamed at Ecklie's biting comment at Greg's expense, but waited for Grissom's word. He couldn't afford another smudge on his record, despite the immense satisfaction lashing out at Ecklie would bring him.
"Ecklie, how many hours did you clear him to work per shift?"
"Six."
"Does he go home for a few hours following his night shift, or begin his extra hours directly after the night shift?"
"After the night shift, to my knowledge," Ecklie added, looking defensive. "Why am I being interrogated?"
Grissom looked up, slowly removing the spectacles from his face. "Something isn't adding up."
With that, Grissom left the office much the same way he left the break room. His team exchanged confused glances once more before following their supervisor out, none of them saying departing pleasantries to Ecklie.
"Hodges, where's Greg?" Grissom asked briskly as he approached the break room.
"Last time I saw him, Sanders was in the locker room. If you ask me though-"
Grissom turned and left again, Hodges mouth remaining open in an unfinished sentence indignantly. The team sped up their efforts to keep in line with Grissom's fast steps as the man approached the locker room.
Greg was standing before his locker, switching out a white lab coat for his investigative vest. At the sound of footsteps, Greg turned towards the entrance of the room. "Griss, what's on the docket for tonight?"
The older man looked at his youngest team member with renewed eyes. In light of the testimony from his colleagues and the evidence discrepancy from Ecklie's records, he began to verify for himself just how tired Greg appeared to be. The man's shoulders were slouching forward alarmingly. His face was sunken, devoid of passion. The red rim under his eyes confirmed Sara's testimony.
Greg scanned behind Grissom, looking at his team. All sets of eyes centered on him. He felt scrutinized, as if he were a specimen under a microscope. "What's going on?"
"How many hours have you been working for Ecklie?" Grissom asked, keeping his tone controlled in a typical manner.
Greg shrugged. "Well, what does the log say?"
"That's not what I asked, Greg. I'm asking you – how many hours have you been working for Ecklie?"
Greg swallowed uncomfortably. He didn't want to say the number, wasn't sure he could even properly quantify how many hours he's been pulling. This meant he'd have to settle for an incomplete answer. Greg feels his leg begin to shake, and he pops his neck in a move to spread out the anxiety overtaking him. "I haven't really been keeping track."
Grissom nods slowly. "Tell me when I'm getting close then, Greg. Ecklie says six hours per overtime shift, is that true?"
Swallowing, Greg slowly shakes his head from side to side.
"Eight to ten?"
"Warmer," Greg notes with a heartless laugh. It sounds harsh to his own ears. His head remains bowed in shame. Grissom had an internal detector for bullshit that often ran better than a lie detector, and Greg should've known better than to think he could have escaped this conversation.
"What about closer to a full twelve?" Greg opens his mouth to plead his defense, but is cut off by Grissom. "Your colleagues recall watching you come straight from the lab onto investigative shift, and Ecklie noted that you typically tack on your day shift hours after your night shift. This means no one has seen you leave the lab between shifts. When have you found the time to go home and sleep between the countless shifts you've been pulling during the past two weeks?"
Nick and Warrick exchange a look with one another, adding up the details in their heads as well. It spelt out a disturbing pattern of behavior.
"There's been a few breaks here and there," Greg tries to argue, his voice climbing an octave in frustration. "Like the Thursday before last, I believe. I think I got a few hours in."
"Thursday the 16th?" Nick asks incredulously, and Greg nods enthusiastically. "Greg, you were called in early for the quadruple homicide that night. You would've barely been home five hours. And I didn't see you leave in the morning after that night shift."
Greg stared at Nick in a mixture of confusion and betrayal. Nick didn't like airing these details, but it was no longer a secret as this had turned into an intervention. If Greg couldn't see the harm he was causing to himself, Nick wasn't going to keep his observations a secret any longer.
"Ecklie said you're picking up shifts because of the hospital stay you had. If you needed help paying your medical bills, why didn't you say something?" Catherine asks, worry seeping from her words. "You know we help one another out, just like we did with that patrol officer's family last year."
Greg turns back towards his locker, not looking at his team. He wants to explain his actions, but he doesn't know when he lost sight of his own motivations. How can he explain something he can't understand himself?
"It wasn't the medical bills. Or at least, it isn't anymore."
Sara sighs. "Greg, you can tell us anything."
"Can I?" Greg counters, suddenly feeling irritated. They were all here, focused on him like they've already decided he's guilty. Like they've managed to sniff out Greg's insecurities, and Greg's failures. He feels targeted, blinded by anger in the bright light being shed on his actions. "How can I, when I've said that I'm fine to nearly all of you, and you still went behind my back to figure this out?"
"Greg," Warrick counters, stepping forward. "We're just trying to help you out."
Greg's hand was resting on the edge of his locker door, but a burst of energy runs through the arm due to his rising aggravation. He slams the door shut, the sudden motion causing Warrick to flinch.
"Help me out? I've already told you, I'm fine. Investigators work long hours all the time. Everyone in this room is guilty of pushing themselves too far, and no intervention is held for them. Why are you holding me to a different standard?"
"We aren't Greg," Nick counters, his own displeasure rising in response to Greg's indifference. "But we've all seen it. Sara saw you just now, in the lab."
Greg plasters a smile on his face, but it makes Catherine cringe when it is so clearly devoid of real emotion.
"I just lost my grip, that's all."
"You're losing your grip alright," Sara snaps. "In more ways than one. I know your hands have been shaking."
Grissom's gaze shifts, and he can see for himself the trembles Greg is valiantly attempting to conceal. He's thrown back to the last time he saw the man's hands shake like this, shortly after the lab explosion. "Greg, we've talked about this-"
"-no, Grissom. It is nothing. It was a simple mistake. Test tubes get shattered every day. I said, I'm fine."
Grissom stepped forward slowly. "Even if that is true – I'm relieving you of duty for tonight. We can discuss this further tomorrow morning when you've had the chance to rest."
Greg tosses his vest onto the bench and crosses his arms. "I don't need rest. I have cases to solve."
"You are of no use to your cases, to the citizens of Las Vegas, or to your team when you are like this."
"It seems to me like none of you ever think I'm of any use!" Greg explodes. His voice booms in the small space, shocking his coworkers who have barely heard his voice in recent weeks. The force of his anger is as unprecedented as it is unexpected. "It doesn't even matter to any of you what role I play. On the scene, it's always 'Greg, take the perimeter'. In the lab, it's always 'Greg, process this pronto'. I work the worst aspects of this job for hours without hearing a simple 'please' or 'thank you'!"
Grissom was stunned. He sincerely hoped this wasn't a case of a Freudian slip, that Greg didn't actually feel this way. That Greg hadn't been bottling all of this up. Grissom could have sworn Greg lived and breathed forensics, which is why Greg's words now were so disheartening.
"Greg, that's not it. We only mean that exhaustion counts as a form of intoxication. You've been up for hours, you aren't thinking clearly-"
"-maybe I'm thinking more clearly than I have in years! The curtain has been peeled back, and I see it all now. The looks, the comments, the lack of respect. I thought you wanted me here, but none of you do! I'll always be the immature lab rat without a chance at playing with the pros."
"Greg, you can't think that to be true," Catherine whispered heartbrokenly. "Perhaps we don't always show it, but you mean the world to us."
A silence fell over the room, as only the sound of Greg's harsh breaths filled the room. The breaths didn't begin to slow, if anything they were dangerously picking up speed as his chest heaved. Catherine attempted to step forward and grab Greg's wrist to offer a source of grounding, but Greg shot backwards abruptly.
With a wild look in his eye of genuine fear, Greg ignited like a livewire. He yelled within the small space, "Don't touch me!"
Each member of the night team took a half-step back. Nick vaguely asked the team to not crowd the man in front of them. It was like they were trying not to back a dangerous animal into a corner, because Greg's responses were so unordinary that they truly didn't have a frame of reference on how to proceed. The sound of Greg's cry set a lightbulb off in Grissom's mind.
In a low voice, Grissom began. "You asked earlier why we were holding you to a different standard. I don't believe we are Greg, but you seem to be holding yourself to a higher standard. Is this because of Demetrius James?"
Greg's body perceptibly flinches, and Grissom knows he's hit a nerve in more ways than one. Greg quickly disregards the involuntary motion his body made and instead moves towards his locker once more. He tears the lock back open. Retrieving his things in a series of uncoordinated and erratic movements, he prepares to leave. There is no fluidity, every movement sharp and bordering on unnatural. Greg squirrels away odd items from his locker alongside the essentials, almost like he's throwing his entire life into the bag without rhyme or reason.
"Look, whatever. I get it. You all see me for what I am, and you don't want me here anymore."
Nick sighs. "See you as what? Greg, we're just asking you to get some sleep. Your job and your cases will still be here after you rest."
Greg slams the locker door again, this time with finality. "Will it? I'm sure Ecklie will be quick to push for my removal when he finds out about the extra hours, and why shouldn't he? My slate is certainly not as clean as all of yours. It wouldn't be hard for him to convince the committee to allow me to not return. Maybe I shouldn't. Why should a murderer be allowed to solve cases alongside qualified individuals-"
The team collectively gasped - partially at Greg's confession - but mostly because a thick line of crimson was beginning to fall from Greg's nose.
It gushed in a blast, painting skin red as it quickly dripped into his mouth which was still spouting angry comments.
Cries erupted from the team. "Greg!" "Stop!" "You need to calm down!"
"Why should I-"
Catherine raised her voice. "Greg, you're bleeding!"
Greg stopped speaking.
He raised the dorsal plane of his hand to his face, and swiped it shakily across the swell of his nose. Pulling his hand back, Greg quizzically examined the red liquid as his eyes took in the volume of blood coating his hand. His eyebrows were tightly knit in bewilderment, and his eyes blinked sluggishly. The man began to feel lightheaded, and swayed on the spot.
His voice was a whisper once more as he whispered, "What's happening?"
Attempting to take a step forward, Greg's footfall stuttered and his knee buckled under his weight. The entire team rushed forward to ensure he wouldn't injure himself further in his fall to the floor. Nick and Warrick supported Greg's weight as they carefully lowered him to the ground. Greg's eyes were rolled up in their sockets, his skin clammy to the touch.
Catherine was already on the line with dispatch requesting aid, as Grissom and Sara continued to investigate Greg's limp figure for other symptoms. The shakes in Greg's body slowly began to intensify in strength, and Nick and Warrick were quick to roll him onto his side and not hold too tight. Greg's body unremittingly convulsed on the ground in a weak seizure.
"C'mon Greggo, snap out of it," Nick whispered under his breath as he kept an eye on his watch to time the seizure.
In the short amount of time it took for the medics to arrive, Greg's seizure had already stopped but the man remained unresponsive. The previous argument and the presence of medics drew the attention of the various lab techs, who began forming a crowd outside the entrance of the locker room. Warrick and Sara tried to stand strategically to block the obvious eye-lines and provide Greg with some semblance of privacy.
The team was quick to give the details to the medics, who assured that Greg was stable. While not wanting to speculate, the medics stated that Greg likely suffered from a non-epileptic and stress-induced seizure. They were to transport him to Desert Palms for further testing, but it was likely he would be released by mid-morning.
Ecklie ordered the stragglers back to work, and spoke with Grissom privately in a lengthy meeting. The night shift picked up the case slips left behind by Grissom in the locker room and divided them up without prejudice or argument. Each of them poured themselves into their work, but were unable to tear their thoughts from their co-worker who had been suffering under their nose for so long.
What kind of investigators were they if they couldn't even look out for the obvious clues within their own colleagues behavior?
Wednesday November 29th, 2006. [09:26. Two hours since Night Shift.]
The sleep in which Greg awoke from was dreamless, and for that Greg was thankful. He couldn't remember the last time his dreams weren't full of accusations, screaming, and hurt. He inhaled air hungrily through his nose before opening his eyes to the stark white walls around him.
He remembered crimson on his hands… and then nothing. Greg raised his hands in front of him, and saw that they were clean, if only in the most literal of senses. It wasn't a repeat of that day in the bathroom, when he couldn't shake the image of another man's blood on his hands, but just because Greg couldn't see it didn't mean it had gone away.
Peering around his hospital room, Greg noted the entire team was here.
Nick, Warrick, and Sara were piled on a couch at the far end. They were leaning on one another, using shoulders and chests as makeshift pillows. Catherine sat in a chair to his left, also asleep. Greg turned his gaze to the right and saw Grissom's eyes peering back at him. He couldn't believe his luck. The entire team was here, even when Greg knew they all had other places to be.
"After everything I said, why are you all still here?"
Grissom nodded, pulling his chair another inch forward. "We were worried about you."
Greg thought hard about that statement, among other things.
"Why am I here?"
The irony was thick in Grissom's ears. Here Greg lay, sounding concerned for his own health for the first time in weeks in a cruelly ironic and devastating change of pace.
"What do you remember?"
The younger man frowned. "We were in the locker room. I said some things I shouldn't have. I had a nosebleed… but my memory is spotty after that."
Grissom simply nodded once more. "You collapsed at work, and the doctors wanted to run some tests. Cumulative fatigue can be brought on by sleep restriction, or extended hours of alertness over a series of days. You've been working for almost ten days straight, pushing yourself through with coffee and unanticipated short naps. You've placed a great strain on your heart, and on your mind. The nosebleed was caused by stress, the subsequent seizure as well. The doctors said it is likely a non-epileptic seizure brought on by your recent physical assault and mental state. You've been asleep for nearly a day and a half."
Greg sniffed. "Am I going to be okay?"
"The doctors have said so far everything looks good, but they were waiting for you to wake up. They'll want to keep you for another scan before you can leave, and they'd like to get your electrolytes up."
Greg bowed his head. A tear escaped the corner of his eye as he rasped, "I'm so sorry, Griss. I didn't mean to snap at you, or the team. I don't know what came over me. I certainly didn't intend to make your lives more difficult with my dramatics."
Grissom blinked and sat back in his chair. The team had spent so much time discussing how different Greg has seemed since his attack and recent episode, Grissom had almost forgotten what it was like to hear genuine reflective emotion in Greg's voice. "Emotional instability is a symptom of exhaustion, Greg. Also one of burnout. It isn't your fault. We should have noticed sooner that you need to take a break."
"Grissom, please," Greg still pleaded. "Don't make me. I don't need any more time alone."
Grissom sighed. Even after everything, Greg was refusing a break. "Why do you say that?"
Greg's next breath is unsteady as it rattles out from his lungs. He hung his head back on the pillow, feeling it squish beneath his weight. "Everyone assumes I'm upset about the beating. And I'll admit at times, it becomes hard to feel safe. But I'm more upset that I took a life, and no one around me seems to say aloud what I know to be true. I'm at fault.
"When I'm alone," Greg continued, pausing to sniff back emotions that were threatening to emerge. "I just keep thinking about all the options I had. All the decisions that put me in this present, and Demetrius James in the ground. I think about the way you all must perceive me. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Distracting myself with work doesn't leave me with time alone, which is good. Time alone is spent thinking about the fact I'm a monster."
It was hard to hear, as any emotional confession ever was. Grissom wasn't one to typically offer sympathy, but he could empathize with the strain the job places on the individual identity. He could also empathize with how much guilt and shame accompanies the action of taking a life in the line of duty.
"I am so afraid all the time," Greg continues. "Not just of people finding out, but of people in general. It feels like I'm always on alert. I was interrogating a suspect the other day when they pushed back their chair to stand… and I lost my hearing for a few seconds as I panicked! I thought the suspect was going to deck me, and all they were actually going to do was shuffle in their seat. Someone on the team mentions they're going to investigate an alley and my entire body tenses up involuntarily.
"It makes me feel inadequate. It makes me feel like I can't keep up with you all, because you go about your day unaffected, even by the cases that strike close to home. It makes me feel weak. I felt like I wasn't keeping up with you all in some ways, so I pushed myself in others. In ways I knew I was good at. Ecklie asked me to stay for one shift, and I kept pushing for more. I returned to my comfort zone in an effort to feel adequate again, but then I began to fail there too."
Grissom pondered during Greg's pause. "Do you believe you compromised evidence while in your emotional state?"
"No, nothing like that. I checked every report over and over again. But I'd be midway through the extraction process when the steps began to blur for just a moment. I couldn't even rely on muscle memory. My hands began to shake. I tried grabbing a nap here and there, but the couch in your office is not nearly as comfy as you'd think. I attempted to recharge but…" Greg paused, a tear slipping down his face. "Every time I dreamed, my mind would replay another memory. It didn't even have to twist it in some way, because the memory was real and vivid. I could see Demetrius flatline outside my own hospital room. I saw his brother threaten me in the courthouse washroom. I saw his mother screaming at me as I sat before the jury, saying I killed her boy.
"I can't take back what I've done… but I thought if I worked hard enough, punished myself in ways that weren't incarceration, saved enough lives… maybe the guilt would lessen somehow. But I'd go to the washroom, and I wouldn't be able to scrub away the blood I could still see on my hands. Nothing works, Grissom. I don't think anything can take this feeling away."
Greg fell silent in the wake of his depressing confession, and Grissom let him have a moment to collect himself. He knew he should have forced Greg to attend the counselling sessions offered to him, and shouldn't have let him back on the job so soon. But in those early days, even between court days, Grissom hadn't suspected the kid was suffering like this. Even if he couldn't spare the time, he should've sent someone from the lab to check in.
While some of Greg's perceptions and methods had been clouded by his emotional state, Greg had been right about one thing. Greg had spent too much time dealing with this on his own.
"Why do you think I gave you a second chance at qualifying for this job, Greg?" Grissom asks.
Hopelessly, Greg shakes his head.
"I saw potential. I saw talent. I saw the drive you had. You had this look in your eye, like you'd never be satisfied in the lab. I hadn't seen that look in a long time, not since my own early days as an investigator. I knew you had what it took to be a CSI then, and I still know that you have it now."
Grissom sat forward in his chair. "Hear me when I say this, Greg. I don't look at you and see the mistakes you've made. I don't see a monster. The people waiting inside this room for you don't either. We see the man you are and focus on the aspects that make you strong. Your unwillingness to leave a case unfinished, your dedication to the victim's families, your passion for your work – and last, but certainly not least, your willingness to lend a hand to those around you and lift them up alongside you."
Greg stared at his hands, and Grissom knew pandering to his ego (even with his rare praise) wouldn't fix this.
"Look at me, Greg," Grissom asked, and waited until Greg slowly obliged. "You were right. There is a tendency in this lab and in the department itself to push aside the traumatic things that happen to us. We believe our trauma is lesser because it happens due to the lives we choose to lead. We victim-blame ourselves into conforming into this toxic culture of not acknowledging our trauma because we believe it makes us stronger – but, it doesn't."
Grissom grasped Greg's hand tightly. "I can't tell you that in time you'll forget about Demetrius James. His name and his face will likely be on your mind for some time. Quite possibly forever. What you can do in the meantime is share the burden. Share it with a counsellor, and share it with us - your friends. Your family. You may have been assaulted alone, you may have hit Demetrius while alone, and you may have went to court alone. At some point you have to realize the strategy of going it alone isn't working."
Greg nodded, and Grissom liked to think some of his words were seeping through to the man before him.
Grissom continued. "You've been a CSI for almost two years now. You know we often judge suspects because of their past actions and convictions. You should also be familiar with the fact that we often learn that a person is not defined by their past. Plenty of young offenders have time to turn themselves around. Plenty of convicts choose to better themselves. We make choices every day to redeem, not just to condemn. If you continue to judge yourself harshly based on a singular action on a singular night, you'll never allow yourself to learn from your mistakes."
"What mistake could have been any pricier than taking a life?" Greg argued weakly, choking off his sentence with a sob.
Grissom felt the emotional pain radiating in the man before him as Greg began to accept the possibility of moving forward, but was still pulled back by his own conscience which likely felt guilty for leaving this incident behind him. Greg was right. The cost of this mistake was the highest a person could pay, especially when it happened to such a spiritual and empathetic person.
"Perhaps the only mistake worse than taking a life, is wasting the potential of another. We know what we are, but not what we may be."
Greg gave a singular laugh, and it sounded half shocked and completely authentic. "You're quoting Shakespeare right now? Really?"
Sprouting a sly twitch of the mouth, Grissom continued on. "While it could be critiqued for the way it comes across as 'cheesy' in the latest century, it is none the less applicable. If you truly feel as though there is an unpaid price to your actions, you can repent your guilt in ways that don't involve destroying yourself in the process. You do not know yet the positive impact you can have on others. It matters not what you've done on your worst day, but what you will do with the days remaining. We can, and we will find a way to support you through this."
The small smile on Greg's face since Grissom's untimely reference remained strongly planted upon his face. "Thanks, Griss."
His emotional outburst coupled with the way Greg's head continued to rest on the pillow led the man to quickly succumb back into a deep slumber. Grissom knew Greg had been coherent enough to hear him, and would likely remember this conversation.
Grissom hoped Greg would remember with blinding clarity – and just in case he ever forgot, he knew the night team would be vigilant in lending a hand to assist Greg in remembering his worth in the nights moving forward.