Chapter Three: Devolution

At the start of shift the next night, Morgan, Sara, and Greg entered the crime lab and made their way toward the conference room to await the night's assignments. Their trip in together had been mostly quiet; a mysterious unease in the air that no one could fully rationalize.

Greg's body still ached from his run-in with the robbery suspect, but he had finally managed to catch a couple hours of sleep that didn't teem with nightmares. The voice he heard earlier in the kitchen, which at the time seemed disturbingly real, was now difficult to see as anything but a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination. He'd woken to Sara huddled close, her hands exploring and memorizing him beneath the sheets. With a 'morning' like that it was easy to have a positive outlook on the coming day, and he believed working through the pain would be bearable.

When the small group passed Russell's office, Greg's name was shouted from within and they all stopped in their tracks. The women looked confused and Greg shrugged, although he was fairly certain he knew what this was about.

"Go on ahead. I'll meet you in a few," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. They went on their way but Sara continued to look back over her shoulder. Greg waved and ducked into the dimly lit office.

"Close the door," Russell directed. The man's voice was stern; a quality he reserved for only the most serious occasions.

Heart pounding and mind racing, Greg did as he was told and sat across the desk from his supervisor.

Russell leaned forward, propping his arms on the desk's edge. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay, and you?"

"You're lying," Russell admonished. "You're in pain. You took your seat like a ninety-year-old."

Greg swallowed. "Listen—"

"No, you listen. You shouldn't have come in tonight."

"Well, that's news to me."

"It shouldn't be. It's in the report that you declined the emergency doctor's orders. He wanted to observe you for the night and keep you off work for a week."

"So they give that info away to anybody? Isn't that illegal?"

Russell shook his head. "You already know it's not. Not when it involves your ability to safely perform your duties. I called the hospital this evening after reading Nick's statement. You also failed to mention to Brass that you lost consciousness."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I wish everybody would just trust me when I say I'm fine. It's a couple of bruises, and I'll live. I've had worse."

"Don't remind me." Russell leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him. "Go home, Greg."

"Seriously?" Greg stood abruptly. He felt attacked, despite being subconsciously aware that Russell was right and he was overreacting. His headache was ramping up again, the stitches in his arm pulled and itched dully beneath the bandage. All he wanted to do was focus on a case. Why wouldn't anyone let him do his job?

"Yeah, seriously," returned Russell simply.

"So, what? I'm suspended?"

"No. Just hear me out for a second, will you? After what happened last year, I had to fight the higher-ups to get you back on the field. Not because you're incompetent, but because what you went through would put anyone in a psych ward. Not to mention, at that point, we thought one of your attackers might still be out there. It would have been easier to keep you safe inside of this building. That woman might not be out there, but a whole bunch of other baddies are. You need to be vigilant. You have to be at the top of your game."

"Oh, and I was supposed to know the perp was there, in a house that was supposedly cleared before I arrived? How is this on me?"

"That's not what I meant. I'm talking about future performance, not past." Russell stood too and rounded his desk. He cautiously approached Greg, who was visibly on edge. "I can't have one of my investigators running around in the field at less than one-hundred percent. This team has lost too much already."

"I'm okay, really!"

"Look at yourself, Greg. You wouldn't normally react to anything by becoming so upset. You're not…you."

Greg looked down at his trembling hands and sighed deeply. He shoved them into his pockets. "Sorry. I can't not work, Russell. Not now."

Russell narrowed his eyes. "I know, which is why I'm letting you come back tomorrow night."

A small grin broke out on Greg's face. He couldn't believe his luck! Although he still didn't want to be sent home tonight, he decided to cut his losses. "Thank you."

"Report to the DNA lab when you get here. Henry will appreciate the help."

Greg's grin vanished. "You're making me work in the lab?"

Russell nodded.

"For a week?"

"For two weeks."

"Why is he sending you home now?"

"I don't know," Greg shrugged as he opened his locker to retrieve the items that had only been there a few minutes.

"But it doesn't make any sense. He could have called and told you," Sara pointed out.

"Maybe he wanted to see my soul die in person when he banished me to lab duty."

When Greg stopped into the conference room to tell Sara he was leaving for the night, she had followed him to the locker room to ask questions. Questions that he had hoped to avoid for now. He knew he should be honest, but he didn't want her to know how he left the hospital. Sara already lost enough sleep over him. Like he'd told Russell, he had worse injuries in the past. Why worry her when he was fine?

She crossed her arms and leaned against the locker next to his, looking thoughtful. Before she could voice any other thoughts, Greg pocketed his keys and swung the locker door shut a bit too loudly, causing them both to jump.

"Let me know when you're out. I'll make breakfast," he said after laughing lightly.

Sara mouthed 'okay' and leaned in for a kiss. She squeezed his hand briefly and left to retrieve her assignment.

Greg left the crime lab, but he didn't go directly home. He drove around the city for over an hour, thoughts and worries circling his mind and threatening to make him dizzy.

Worst case scenario? Russell was right. Greg was endangering his coworkers by working injured in the field. But he truly didn't believe he was injured. Sure, he was on antibiotics for the cut on his arm, and more of his back was bruised than not. He could still feel the goose egg on the back of his head every time he ran a hand through his hair, and the persistent headache raged on.

As he listed each item, he became aware how serious it all sounded. Maybe he should have accepted a few days off, but two weeks banished to the lab seemed excessive. He was sure it was Russell's way of teaching him to take his health more seriously, but he couldn't help but see it as a demotion.

By the time he finally unlocked the door to his and Sara's apartment and let himself in, it was after two in the morning. He secured the deadbolt behind him and made his way through the pitch-black apartment. He changed into sweatpants and grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen before sitting on the couch and switching on the television. Not much was on at this hour, but that was fine because Greg wasn't looking for entertainment, only background noise.

He munched on chips while flipping through his phone, infomercials playing quietly in the background. As he scrolled, his phone vibrated with an incoming text message from Sara.

We are at a pig farm and Nick just stepped in manure. Thought you'd like to know.

Greg laughed to himself and typed a reply: Thanks. Sorry I missed it.

Get some rest. See you in a few hours.

He was in the middle of typing a response when unexpected words drifted from the television and caught his attention:

"Do you ever get the urge to just end everything?"

He looked up to see that a new infomercial had started. The host of this one looked similar to the last, but wore grim features and an all-black suit.

"I see I have your attention." The sixty-something-year-old man smiled sadly.

'What's this poor sod selling?' Greg wondered as he squinted at the television, determined to find some sort of logo or product name. There wasn't even a phone number, just the man standing against a white background.

"Unlike the guy before me, I'm not here to sell you anything. I'm only here to guide you."

Great, it was some spiritual mumbo-jumbo. Greg would need to find different background noise. His phone vibrated again, distracting him.

Love you

He smiled.

"Do you ever feel like those closest to you are lying?" the host inquired.

"Alright, that's it," Greg said aloud, dropping the phone and picking up the remote. Unfortunately, the power button wouldn't work. Had the batteries really died already?

"You feel like you're only good at one thing, right? Worrying people?"

The host's gaze was cold and judgmental, and Greg froze in it.

"You worry your girlfriend, you worry your coworkers, you worry your boss, and you worry your mom. The only person smart enough to keep their distance is your father."

Greg realized he must have fallen asleep on the couch. It was the only explanation for this.

"Do you ever think that they'd be better off without you?"

Greg stood and approached the television slowly. The host stared into his soul with steel gray eyes. He dropped to his knees in front of the screen and reached for the power button.

"Now, don't be hasty. As I said, I'm not selling anything. The things I ask are meant to be thought-provoking. Like this: how would you do it?"

He pressed the button, but nothing happened.

"Where are you going?" the host beseeched. "I'm trying to help you."

Suddenly out of breath, Greg reached behind the television stand and forcefully pulled the power cord from the wall. Finally the announcer went silent and the television black. He stood and backed slowly out of the living room, as if sudden movements might plug the television back in. He retreated to the bedroom and did not come out for the rest of the night.

Across town, Sara frowned at her phone before returning to the evidence she was processing. It wasn't like Greg to not respond to those words, but then again if it meant he had fallen asleep it was a good thing. She shook her head and tried to focus on her work as the time crept by.

The next evening

The fill-in DNA technician was not in a good mood. Every CSI that stopped by with samples could sense the hostility at once. They only got through the derivative 'can't stay away from the lab, can ya, Sanders?' before understanding they should just sign over their samples and leave. The lab had become backed up in the past few weeks so his presence there was useful, but that didn't make the fact that it was punishment any more tolerable.

Sara knew earlier when she arrived home that something was wrong. She always did. Greg said he was still upset about being sent home, but otherwise he felt fine. This was partially the truth. He apologized for not responding to her last message the previous night, citing the excuse that he had fallen asleep quickly. This was a full lie, because he actually lay awake all night. Sara knew what it was but pushed no further.

Greg wondered why he couldn't stop lying. He made the decision to call his doctor the next day, and hoped for easy answers.

"So, how does it feel to be back?"

He looked up from the machine he was working at, combining the movement with an eyeroll in response to Morgan's question. She smiled sympathetically and leaned against the counter next to him.

"Nothing is where it used to be…where it should be. Whoever rearranged this place has the organizational skills of a dodo." He rolled his chair back and faced her, grateful for the break from loading samples and pressing buttons.

"Hey, be nice to Henry," Morgan defended the lab tech with a smirk. "He's at least as organized as a…um, what are those birds that decorate their nests? Magpies?"

"Magpies steal shiny things and make their nests into a shrine. That's not organization, it's kleptomania. They also hijack other birds' nests, so I guess that part is accurate."

She laughed. "But you flew on to bigger and better places. Where is Henry, anyway?"

"Out sick, the bum."

"Well, it's good of you to pick up his slack."

"Out of the kindness of my heart," he smirked.

Morgan laughed again. She looked about the room as if thinking, and for the first time Greg noticed she wasn't carrying a sample.

"Wait. Were you sent here to check on me?"

"No," Morgan lied, but after meeting his eyes she sighed. "Fine. I'm supposed to ask how you're feeling."

"Russell?"

She shrugged.

"I'm fantastic. Tell him I've never been better."

"Your initials are G.S., not B.S."

Greg stared at her.

"Sorry. Off the record?" she tried.

"I'm fine," he sighed, feeling like a broken record.

"When was the last time you took a vacation?"

"When was the last time any of us took a vacation?"

"I'm asking you."

He thought for a moment. "Does a hospital count? If so, very recently."

Morgan ignored him. "Maybe you could take some time off with Sara."

He snorted. The idea of Sara taking a vacation was even more outlandish than the idea of him taking one.

"Why is that funny? How long were you out when…that happened?"

"Longer than I needed. I didn't need it then, and I don't need it a year later."

"Even so, maybe it would get Russell off your back if you show him that you've given yourself time to recover. And not just from your acrobatics attempt the other night."

He shrugged. Perhaps Morgan had a point—even if that point came directly from their supervisor's mouth. "I guess it has been a while since I saw my family."

"There you go. Have they met Sara?"

"Yeah," Greg responded vaguely. He was hospitalized when his parents were last in Vegas—it was what brought them—and although he recalled seeing them interact with Sara, he didn't know how much they had talked. "Everybody's in Oslo right now, anyway. My parents spend at least a couple of months a year there."

"Why not go to Oslo? A couple of weeks from now would be the perfect time. We'll be transitioning into the slower season, and Hodges keeps pushing for more field experience so we'll just give him all the dirty work we would normally give you."

Greg scowled. "Don't you have a case to work? You know, important CSI stuff?"

She hit him lightly on the shoulder before heading towards the door. "We would all be happy to cover for you guys for a week or two. Just think about it, alright?"

The sound of splashing water flowed into his dream and instantly triggered fear. Greg sprung upright in bed, inhaling hungrily as if he'd been submerged. A quick look around and a moment to fully wake up assured him that he was safe in their apartment, and Sara was in the bathroom showering. He was shocked when he saw that it was already past five. Greg jumped out of bed and grabbed his cell phone from where it lay charging on the dresser.

He stepped into the steam-filled bathroom. "Sara?"

She poked her head around the shower curtain. Her dark hair was sudsy and she squinted at him through the soap in her eyes. "Hey!"

"I'm going to get the mail."

"Okay. You're wearing that?"

Greg looked down at his boxers. "Am I overdressed?"

Sara laughed and ducked back into the shower.

"Wait!"

She peeked back out. "Huh?"

He hurried over and kissed her. "You, are stunning."

"Good thing you're easy to impress."

Greg slipped on some pants and a shirt and left the apartment, cellphone in hand. He immediately dialed the number to his doctor's office and started down the stairs to the mailboxes on the first floor. The receptionist at the office was able to transfer him directly to Dr. Holland.

"Hi, Greg?"

"Yeah, hi. Thanks for taking my call," he rushed, anticipating that this conversation could easily turn into a disaster.

Dr. Holland had been his primary physician since the kidnapping. Greg obviously had several different health professionals overseeing his care at that time, but to this day he trusted Dr. Holland for quick and dependable advice. The man was only a few years older than Greg, and was generally laidback and easy to talk to. The difficulty in this call would be the subject matter, and stating his concerns in a way that wouldn't make him sound crazy.

"Of course. Actually, I was going to give you a call first thing in the morning. The E.R. finally got around to faxing your report, and I—"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Greg interrupted. "I mean, that's not why I'm calling. I had a question about my medications."

Even a year after his kidnapping, Greg required supportive care through daily medications. He hoped that he wouldn't always need them. His kidneys were improving so he didn't need dialysis anymore, but he did have some prescriptions to help them function correctly. He was also taking a pill for anxiety since Whitney Adams had left him with a plethora of acquired phobias, and had a supply of stronger pain meds reserved for bad days.

"Any one in particular?"

"Not really. Yesterday I had a really vivid dream." There was one other resident retrieving their mail when Greg reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner. He lowered his voice exponentially. "A uh, a nightmare I guess?"

"A nightmare?"

"I-I think so."

"Perhaps I'm misunderstanding you, but I was under the impression that you still have occasional nightmares. Which is, of course, to be expected. How was yesterday different?"

Greg sighed dramatically when he got to his and Sara's mailbox and realized that he had forgotten the key to it. He turned and started back up the stairs, much slower this time, silently cursing the building managers for not repairing the elevator yet.

"Well, it was different because…I was awake."

Dr. Holland paused. "What did you see?"

"Does that matter? I guess I just wanted to know if something like that could be a side effect of the meds."

Another hesitation, and Greg knew he shouldn't have called. Dr. Holland would send someone right over to put him a straitjacket.

"You're a chemist, Greg. You know that your body is accustomed to the medications by now. There haven't been any recent changes in dosing, right?"

"Right."

"And you're still getting blood work done every month?"

"Yes." Greg instinctively rubbed the inside of his arm where the blood was drawn. He'd arrived back at his floor but stayed behind the door to the stairway, not wanting to risk Sara overhearing this conversation.

"I can look up the last labs we ran on you, but I should tell you I'm a bit concerned. The staff that took care of you on emergency said that you refused further monitoring. You could have bleeding somewhere that's only now becoming a problem. If you're experiencing hallucinations, you should really—"

"It wasn't a hallucination."

"Okay, but you were awake?"

"Actually, you know what? I was sleeping. It felt so real, that's why I thought I was awake. It took talking it through to remind me. I was taking a nap."

"…You're sure?"

"Definitely. Sorry to bother you."

"It's never a bother, Greg. Can you come by the office tomorrow morning after work? I'd like to catch up some more with you."

"Uh, sure."

"Nine-thirty?"

"Okay."

By the time Greg got off the phone, he was convinced he thoroughly freaked the doctor out. He'd have to think up something good to tell him tomorrow. Cursing at himself, he walked back to the apartment, then froze with his hand hovering over the doorknob. He'd locked it because Sara was in the shower. His house key was dangling right by the mailbox key, inside of the apartment. This day needed a reset button. He knocked, hoping that Sara was out of the shower and could hear him.

The door opened, but only as far as the chain allowed. A vaguely familiar man peered out at him.

"Oh, I'm—" Greg glanced up at the brass numbers. 18. That was his apartment, but a glimpse of the strange furnishings visible beyond the man's shoulder indicated otherwise. He focused on the man again, trying to identify where he knew him from. Something caught Greg's eye: a red, inch-thick scar encircling his neck.

On closer inspection, the guy's eyes were bloodshot and his lips blue.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

The familiar stranger's voice was hoarse and wobbly, and his head tilted slightly as he asked the question. Greg swore he heard a creak as the man moved, resembling that of a door's hingers in need of oiling.

Run. Run. Run.

"I-I must be on the wrong floor. I'm so sorry." He spun and retreated toward the stairway, fists clenched at his sides.

"Wait, I do know you!" the man called after him. "You were at my house the other day. Did I do something to upset you?"

This made Greg halt. What was that supposed to mean? He looked back, expecting to see the guy following him, but no one was there. He must have retreated back into his apartment.

Back in the enclosed stairway, he looked at the inside of the door, which was labeled with each floor's number. This was the seventh floor. His floor. There went his last theory.

He looked up the stairs, then down. Opened the door, stepped out, and closed it. Greg carefully retraced his route to the apartment door, seeing that it was the same as always. His fist paused above its surface, poised to knock, but his nerves forced him to lower it.

'I do know you.'

The words drifted back into his mind, and Greg sucked in an uneasy breath. There was a vice grip around his chest as he pictured the abrasion on his neck.

'Did I do something to upset you?'

The memories of the scene returned abruptly, and Greg remembered where he knew him from. The knowledge only caused more trepidation, because they'd only 'met' a week ago at the scene of a suicide. Dominic Schultz. Goosebumps rose along his arms and the back of his neck, and he felt his airway narrow.

The panic attacks were a frequent and unwelcome visitor. They were intensified by the fact that the tissues in his throat would never be the same; a lingering remnant of his time with Whitney Adams. Because of this, an attack could turn into a life-threatening emergency. They were so bad at times that Greg needed to keep an inhaler around. It had been over a month since the last, however, and he'd started to think he outgrew them.

"Okay, okay," he whispered, holding his head in his hands. "Pull yourself together."

He paced in front of the door several times before remembering his phone. He could call Sara and have her come to the door. He pulled the phone from his pocket and tried to find Sara's number with trembling hands. Pain flared through his skull and he felt lightheaded. Breathing was more difficult by the second. He staggered, one hand pressed to his chest and the other dropping the cellphone and reaching to brace himself against the wall.

After finishing her shower, Sara had thought it odd that Greg still wasn't back from getting the mail. Even climbing the stairs, he shouldn't have taken this long. Then, she had spotted his keys hanging next to hers near the door. She quickly dressed and left to check on him, but didn't have to go far. He stood a few feet outside their apartment, bracing himself against the opposite wall. She recognized the whistling, rapid breaths and was immediately concerned.

"Greg?"

He seemed startled when she spoke and spun around, nearly losing his balance in the process. She instinctively stepped closer to steady him, but when she placed a hand on his arm he jumped and moved away. Sara pulled back. He stared at her for a what felt like an eternity before his eyes widened as if he'd only then realized who she was. His hands shot up to grip her shoulders. It wasn't painful, but the unexpected motion alarmed Sara and she was left speechless.

Greg lowered his hands. He looked at the doorway behind her, eyes confused and scared.

"Are you alone in there?" His voice cracked.

"Of course I'm alone. Why would you ask that?"

He peered into the apartment as if he'd never seen it before.

"Greg?!"

Ignoring her, he breezed by, taking long strides into their place. He began to look into each room, behind doors and in closets. Sara followed him in and closed the door, but stayed near it. She was at a complete loss. She'd helped him through countless attacks and comforted him while lingering nightmares kept him awake, but this was different than she had ever seen him.

Once he searched the whole place, Greg returned to the living room. He paced a few times before collapsing onto the couch, where his hands returned to his face. Sara could see and hear that his breathing was only worsening and fear gripped her. She scanned the counter, spotting his inhaler where it sat near his wallet, and snagged it on the way to the living room.

"Greg," she tried again.

He said nothing. He was sweating through his shirt and his shoulders heaved as he fought to get his breathing under control.

She moved in front of him and sat down on the coffee table. She touched him lightly on his knee first to test his reaction before taking his hand, pulling it firmly away from his face, and placing the inhaler into his palm. He regarded it questioningly before meeting her eyes.

"It'll help," she encouraged.

He shook his head slowly. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

Wheezing harshly, Greg grimaced and looked like he might be sick. "I-I think I'm losing my mind."

"No, you're—" Sara stopped and simply watched him. Reassuring was a difficult task when she had no idea what happened when he went to get the mail.

He had seemed normal when he told her where he was going. Now, unshed tears glistened in his eyes and his skin was shockingly pale. She snatched the inhaler from his trembling hand and sat next to him on the couch, one knee folded under her so she could face him.

"Here, sit back."

Sara guided him until he leaned against the back of the couch. He resisted, but only weakly, and she raised the inhaler to his lips.

Embarrassed and feeling guilty for making her worry, Greg raised a hand to hold the device himself. He shook so badly that he was somewhat grateful Sara refused to take her own hand away.

Once she had helped him use it, Sara set the inhaler onto the coffee table. She leaned back on the couch on her side and laid a hand on his chest. When he didn't tense or shy away, she moved closer and rested her chin lightly on his shoulder.

Silently counting his breaths, Sara struggled to make sense of what had happened. The incident was so peculiar and unexpected that it could have been a dream. It had been some time since his last serious panic attack, and nearly a year since she had witnessed one on this level. Back then, weakened substantially by his ordeal with Whitney Adams and William Harris, he had been less able to control his attacks and flashbacks.

'Back then' may have been a misrepresentation; those words imply a distant time in the past. Eleven months was no time at all when considering how he suffered. But Greg made it seem longer because he recovered more quickly than expected from his physical injuries. As for the emotional ones, well, he certainly had everyone convinced that he was better.

Still shaking but breathing slower, Greg covered her hand with both of his. With a weak sigh he relaxed his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Sara still knew little of what he went through in the warehouse at the hands of Adams and Harris. She knew only what he told her and what she'd overheard. She knew small facts that Nick and Brass had verbalized, but never accessed their notes or listened to the audio from Greg's statement.

She knew the scars covering his body that were mementos of the torture inflicted upon him, witnessed the sleepless nights and the jump every time something seemingly insignificant startled him, and noticed the self-conscious smile when he tried to play it off.

And of course, Sara knew what she witnessed first-hand when she was held in the same room as him for one night; what she still saw now and then when she closed her eyes.

For nearly twenty minutes, they didn't move. Sara stroked his chest lightly with her fingers, still counting his breaths and thudding heartbeats. When she was convinced that he was sufficiently recovered, she kissed his shoulder. "Greg, what happened?"

He turned his head slightly. Twice he took a breath as if to speak, but changed his mind. Finally, he shook his head. "N-Nothing. It was just a mistake."

Sara didn't believe him, and from the way he avoided meeting her eyes, she suspected he didn't either.

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than usual! Enjoy!