A/N: You know what? I started driver's ed today. My fellow Michiganders might wanna watch out next time they're on the road… Oh, right, CSI, okay. Don't own it (although Abbie is an original character). Forzando is a sudden, forcing accent. There should be a couple in here. Maybe.

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Last Voice: A Concerto
3: Forzando

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I entered my lab.

It was weird – even after four months (okay, three and a half), I still thought of it as my lab. I always felt like I was home when I walked through those doors.

Well, more or less. There wasn't anything left of the explosion – it had been rebuilt, with replacements for most of the destroyed equipment already in place. A couple were still on the way, but other than that it looked much the same as before. I could almost forget that I'd almost been killed there.

But then again, I thought I'd made my peace with death, too.

"Hey, Greg."

I glanced up from my file at the speaker – Abbie Talbot, a blonde-haired blue-eyed young lab tech. A flirty young lab tech.

A flirty-with-me young lab tech.

"Hi, Abbie. I need—"

"Gre-e-eg. Are you blind?" she said, sounding like a whining little girl. I could envision her stomping her foot in frustration.

I looked up again. The CSI job must have really been getting to me – it took about five and a half seconds for me to notice her shirt. It was purple. With pink trim. And saying it was "snug" was like saying the Grand Canyon was a pothole.

Let's just say it didn't leave much to the imagination.

"Oh, umm…" I could practically feel the testosterone seeping into my brain. "Nice, umm, shirt."

Her eyebrows went up. My gaze flickered involuntarily and I cleared my throat, took a breath and trained my eyes pointedly back on her face.

She got a slightly pouty look. "You're turning into Grissom, you know. He gets like that when Sara's around, but he hides it better. So. Okay, come on, what do you want me to process?"

I swallowed. Yup, testosterone. It was practically oozing out my ears.

"Just a few swabs from our crime scene," I said, handing over the evidence boxes.

"A few?" Abbie looked inside the first one. "A few hundred, maybe."

"The voice of experience: get started as soon as possible."

Then, still very carefully averting my gaze, I charged out of the lab.

Amazing how one can want to throw up equally at a crime scene and after being hit on by a hot little technician.

Too bad, I told myself. No pity party, now. It's your choice, you know.

That made me snort. What choice did I really have?

Once I was far enough away, I sighed and reopened the manila folder. All the paperwork was there except for the photos (still being developed, thank God) and the autopsy report, which was where I was headed.

Yippee.

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"You don't have to do this."

"Yeah I do."

I stubbornly pulled on a glove. It snapped over my shaking hand.

My knees were weak and I wanted to vomit yet again.

Is it safe to say I was scared?

Oh yeah.

But I was not going to pull another stunt like I had earlier.

Dr. Al Robbins was already in the autopsy room. The vic was on the table. Some of the blood had been removed, so it wasn't nearly as horrible as before. The lack of the dark alley helped, too. Still slightly decomposed, and covered in bloodless cuts, bruises and scrapes. And her hair, was, indeed, dyed.

I kept my distance.

Catherine approached. "Hey, what's up?"

"Plaster ceiling and incandescent lights. Okay, your vic was definitely beaten. It appears all the wounds were made my the same weapon – something straight, but with a sharp end."

"Yeah, we found some potential murder weapons at the scene," I said, trying not to think about it – everything had blood on it. Nothing was ruled out.

"But that wasn't that killed her."

I blinked. "What?"

Just seeing the scene had almost killed me.

"Manual strangulation," Doc said, pointing out the hand-shaped bruises pressed over the vic's throat.

"Manual?" Catherine repeated. "That usually indicates a crime of passion."

I shuddered slightly.

"Sexual assault?"

"Not assault, maybe. In fact, she was pregnant."

I snapped up. "No way."

"Yes, way. Ten weeks or so. And if it wasn't for that, I'd be standing here telling you it looked like she hadn't had intercourse that recently. Judging by the lack of any scarring or tearing, I'd almost tell you she was a virgin. I'd almost go so far as to say she'd never had a pelvic exam."

"Except…" Catherine shook her head. "Hymen?"

"Ruptured, but that doesn't mean as much as most people think. It happens easily just with normal, everyday activity – sports, for instance."

I nodded. "I know, Doc, I took sex ed."

Catherine thought a moment. "Okay, we know she was killed about four days ago. We can also guess that it was at night, if no one heard this going on. The call was an anonymous tip, so we don't have anywhere to start with that."

The sound of a beeper assailed our ears.

"It's trace. They've probably got a result from AFIS," I said, looking at the number on the small LCD screen.

Catherine glanced from me to Doc, and I knew what she was thinking. It's time to cut.

Somehow, it annoyed me. They didn't think I could take it. "I'll go see what they've got."

"You'll miss the fun," Catherine put in quickly, apparently trying to make up for what she'd just done.

"That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

I left the room, and didn't look back.

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A/N: I soooooo loved writing that flirty scene. What's Greg's problem? Wait and see. And the reason for the, umm, *cough cough* conversation is probably because I just finished a "Health" class. I think I'm scarred for life. And, guys? I don't really know how it feels to have someone come onto you, especially not a girl, obviously. I confess. I am also just realizing how much of this chapter dealt with sex…