A/N:  As always, I need to thank all my loyal reviewers.  Your kind words are truly appreciated.  I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Chapter 4:  Collecting

Two long hours had dragged by when Catherine came back to the living room.  Grissom had worked his way around the room, and was collecting blood sample number thirty from the last wall.  Catherine watched as he meticulously swabbed the area, clicked the protective cover into place, and slipped the swab into a narrow box.  He seemed to be doing his job as always, but inside she knew he was fighting just to stay focused and upright.

He had been working constantly all this time without a complaint or a break.  Even though Grissom was technically the supervisor, he considered himself part of the team; since they were working, he was working.  He didn't even consider giving himself special treatment because he was sick.

As he pulled out a Sharpie to label the last box, Catherine noticed that he blinked hard, several times, before he was able to write in the space on the small cardboard.  She knew that if his hands had been free, he would have been rubbing his obviously burning and blurry eyes again.

Sara had come up behind Catherine quietly, and had witnessed the same display as the older woman.  "He's so tired," Sara commented, verbalizing what they both were thinking.  "I don't know how he's still going."

"Me either," Catherine agreed.  "I really want to get him out of here, but there's just so much that still has to be done."

At that moment, Grissom felt a sudden tickle in his throat that he couldn't resist.  He turned away from the evidence-spattered wall, and coughed into his jacket sleeve until the sensation passed.  Then, since he had finished with the walls, he moved his attention to beginning work on the floor.

"He needs a break and some fluids," Catherine told Sara.  "Do you have any more water in your truck?"

She nodded.  "I've got a few bottles left.  I'll run out and grab a couple."

They both still had their gazes locked on Grissom.  "Why don't you take him with you?" Catherine suggested.  "I'm sure he could use some air, too."

"Sure.  Hey, Grissom?" she called over to him.

He looked up, noticing the two women for the first time, then stood, wincing at the soreness in his stressed muscles.

"Come over here for a minute," Sara continued.

"Make sure he takes these," Catherine said, handing Sara two capsules.

Grissom now stood beside the women.  "We're going to step outside," Sara informed him.

Silently grateful for the break, he slipped off his shoe covers and gloves, and followed Sara into the early morning air.

"Working hard in that living room, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," he responded, passing a hand over his eyes, "but I got the walls finished."  He grabbed some tissues from his pocket and faced away from Sara as he sneezed a few times and then began coughing until his throat was clear.

When it was over, Sara offered, "Bless you."

"Thanks," he murmured through the tissue still covering his mouth.

It was clear that he wasn't any better.  What amazed Sara was that the whole time they had been working in the house, she had heard hardly any sign of Grissom's illness—no sneezing, coughing, or anything—until the very end when she and Catherine were watching him.  Now that they had crossed the yellow crime scene tape, though, the physical effects of his illness had become completely obvious; he just had that little fit of sneezing and coughing, and he had been shaking with chills since they had moved out of the climate-controlled interior of the house.  The only explanation Sara could think of for this was pure willpower.  Grissom knew how important the evidence was, and he hadn't wanted to contaminate anything with his own DNA, so he had somehow forced his body to cooperate.  But now Sara could tell he wouldn't be able to keep it up much longer.

"Thirsty?" she asked him, pulling a bottle of water out of the case in her back seat.

"Yeah, thanks," he said.

She handed him the medicine.  "Catherine said you should take these."

He swallowed them with a gulp of water.

"Do you want to sit in the car for a while?" she wondered.  "I can turn on the heat."

"I'll sit," he told her, "but don't worry about the heat.  Even though I'm cold, the fresh air is a nice change."

"Anything's better than that smell in there," Sara agreed, smiling.

Grissom nodded.  Although they were outside, he still felt like the thick metallic smell of the blood was clinging to him and his clothes.  Thinking about the unpleasant odor pervading the house caused his stomach to lurch uncomfortably, and he tried to put it out of his mind.

Sara opened the passenger door of her SUV, and Grissom settled himself into the seat, exhaling in relief as he finally relaxed his sore body.  He positioned himself sideways—his shoulder leaning on the seatback, his legs out the open door, his feet resting on the running board.  Sara stood in front of him, noticing how dulled his eyes were as he met her gaze.

"You must be pretty achy all over, huh?  And wiped out."

"You have no idea," he replied, the distress evident in his hushed voice.  He took another drink of the water.

"And this stubborn fever isn't going away," she added sympathetically.

"Doesn't seem to be."

"Can I check?" she asked gently.

"I guess so."

She moved closer to him, extending a hand toward his face.  She brushed the backs of her fingers lightly against his forehead, and he closed his eyes reflexively—her touch was pleasantly cool on his heated skin.  Sara turned her hands around, palms out, and placed them gently on his cheeks, then slowly slid them down his neck.

"You're hot," she said.

He opened his eyes and raised a curious brow at her.

"Your temperature," she explained, playfully alleviating any confusion over the meaning of her words.  "It's at least as high as it was this afternoon—probably higher.  That's not good, Grissom."

"Nothing I can do about it," he replied tiredly.  "I've been taking all the fever reducers Catherine's been giving me."

"There's something we can do about it," she pointed out.  "We can get you home and into bed where you belong, so you can rest and then you'll recover much more quickly."

"I can't just leave, Sara.  There's too much work to be done.  You three can't handle it all."

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

"We don't have a choice right now."

Giving up the fruitless argument, Sara stood there silently until he sneezed, carefully into a tissue, once again.  Then she muttered, "Bless you."

"Thanks," he replied, blowing his nose.  After one more gulp of water, he added, "I guess we should get back to work."

Nodding, Sara took his arm and helped him out of the Yukon.  Right as they reached the open front door, he turned to her and offered, "Sara, I just want to say… thank you…for your concern."

"Just trying to help, Grissom."

"I know," he assured her, giving her hand a squeeze before they crossed the threshold back into the blood-soaked crime scene.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom and Catherine were processing the living room floor.  They had sketched and photographed the different blood spatters and patterns, and were taking swabs of everything as well.  Luckily the floor was lacquered hardwood and not carpeting, which made their collecting a good deal easier.

Catherine had noticed that, over the past hour, it had become impossible for Grissom to concentrate.  He would catalog something, then his attention would drift upward and he would stare into space or at a spot on one of the walls.  After a few seconds, he would shake his head and go back to what he had been doing with the evidence.  She realized that no matter how much remained to be done, she needed to get him out of here now.  "Grissom?" she called softly, and although he was right next to her, he didn't seem to hear her.  "Grissom?"  She touched his arm and gave him a little shake.  "Hey?"

She watched him come back to the situation at hand.  As the glazed veil lifted, his fatigue-faded blue eyes met hers.

"Pack up," she instructed.  "We're getting out of here."

He looked around, trying to see if he had completed the collecting without realizing it.  His expression pointed out the obviously unfinished job on the surface around them.

"You're done, Gil," she began.  "I know that we aren't finished, but you've done as much as you possibly can.  So, get your stuff together."

His first instinct was to argue with her, but he quickly understood that she was right, as she was most of the time.  He had become a hindrance rather than a help to the team.  He could serve them best right now by returning to the lab with Catherine.  "Okay," he agreed quietly, gathering up his things.

Catherine stood and was about to go find Sara when her phone rang.  "Willows…  Hey, Warrick!  How's Nicky?  What's the latest?"  She listened, and seemed to be receiving good news.  "That's great.  So you're taking him home now?  After you get him settled we need you at this scene…  Yeah, call Brass and he'll give you the details…  Send Nicky our best…  Okay, bye."

"Nick's all right?" Grissom asked, clarifying the half of the conversation he had overheard.

"Yeah, it's just a bad sprain.  He'll have to stay off his foot for a few days, but he'll be fine."

"Glad to hear it."

"I asked Warrick to come out here to help finish with all the evidence."

"Good," Grissom replied.

"I'm gonna go fill Sara in, and then we're out of here."

He nodded, almost too tired to even form words any longer.

Catherine informed Sara about Nick's condition, and then told her to send Greg back to the lab once Warrick arrived.  They would need him there to start the huge amount of processing.

"Are you taking Grissom home?" Sara asked.

"I wish I could," Catherine answered, exhaling impatiently.  "But we've got all this evidence that has to get to the lab."  She held up the bags of stuff Sara and Greg had collected and handed off to her.  "Plus what Grissom and I amassed.  This case is hot, we've got two others ongoing, and we're still gonna be short-handed, so Grissom can't go home yet."

"Just make sure he gets some rest," Sara said.  "Even if you have to stash him in Brass's office again."  She smiled.

Catherine smiled back.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of him.  See you later."

She walked back into the living room, and stowed Sara and Greg's swabs and bindles in her bag.  She noticed that everything had been packed up and squared away, and Grissom was standing next to the door, kit in hand.

"Let's go," she instructed, and he followed her outside.

Catherine loaded their evidence-filled kits into the rear, then opened the passenger door for Grissom.  The seatback was still reclined, and he climbed in and got settled.  It was obvious to both of them that he would be catching another short nap on the way back to the lab.  Catherine could tell that he could barely keep his eyes open.  He knew that she was very tired also.  And although he felt bad that he wouldn't be keeping her company on the ride, and that he would be resting while she had to stay alert, he had no choice but to give in to what his ailing, overtaxed body required right now.

Catherine grabbed the blanket she always kept in the back and covered him with it.  "There you go," she said.

"Thanks, Cath," he replied, meeting her eyes.

"You're welcome."  She closed his door and then went around to the driver's side.  She got in, started the Denali, turned on some heat for Grissom, and pulled away from the house.

*                                                                     *                                                                                   *                      *                                                                       *                                                                                   *                      *

She had been driving for about ten minutes, and had looked over at Grissom at least once during each of those minutes.  Catherine had not been at all surprised that he had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the cushioned seatback.

From what she could hear over the hum of the engine, his breathing sounded freer.  She thought that maybe the medicine had finally helped.  She had switched to something different for his last dose—an over-the-counter flu product that contained a combination of ingredients.  Maybe she had finally chosen something that had worked to relieve his symptoms.  She just hoped it would have a positive effect on his fever, too.  That's what worried her the most.

At first, Grissom floated contentedly in the darkness.  His body and his focus were completely spent, and he relished the opportunity to sleep without thoughts or images invading his mind.  But, without warning, the soft and welcoming blackness contorted into something else, something no longer comfortable and inviting, but ominous and overpowering.  Torrid spatters of red, with harsh, rough edges swirled all around him; he couldn't escape them.  Everywhere he turned, behind his closed lids he saw flickers of burning red, and they seared into his eyes, causing him to squeeze them closed even tighter.  He was soon surrounded by the redness, and he realized the patterns were blood stains—like at the house they had just left.  The weaving, tidal wave of blood closed in on him, suffocating, smothering, and he began to panic as he realized he couldn't breathe…

Catherine's head snapped toward him as she heard a strangled gasp escape from his throat.  She noticed that his breathing had inexplicably become rapid and shallow all of a sudden.

Her entire body tensed with concern as she attempted to keep her attention on him and the road at the same time.  "Gil?" she called loudly, reaching over to shake him out of the grip of the nightmare.  But her fingers only barely brushed his arm.  He was leaning away from her, and she was unable to stretch any further while still keeping one hand on the steering wheel.

The choking feeling of the blood around him lifted slightly, but before he could relax, the intense scent of the impossible amount of blood assailed him.  The thick odor was ten times stronger than it had been at the crime scene; it was like endless sheets of freshly-cut copper—the sour metallic tang overwhelmingly filling the air.  He felt his stomach start to churn in reaction to the smell, as he fought his way out of the grasp of the sensory assault...

Catherine had been deciding whether or not to stop the car, when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grissom sit bolt upright in the seat next to her.  He blinked and looked around, seemingly unsure of where he was.

"Gil, you okay?" she asked breathlessly.

Before he could answer, his mind suddenly caught up with his body.  He registered the horribly unpleasant and uncontrollable waves of nausea roiling up from his stomach, and he struggled to keep everything down just a little longer.  He reached out and shakily touched Catherine's arm.  He was almost afraid to open his mouth to speak, but he managed, "Catherine, you need to pull over…please."

She glanced at him, saw that he had broken out in a sweat, and knew immediately why he had made that desperate plea.  "All right, just hang on, Grissom," she said.  She tried to merge to the right, but cut the wheel back when she noticed a vehicle in her blind spot.  "Damn!" she cried.  Then she added more calmly, "Just hold on, I'll get over as soon as I can."  As soon as the offending car had sped away, she moved first into the rightmost lane, and then smoothly slowed onto a flat portion of the shoulder.

The instant they stopped moving, Grissom had flung off the blanket and had the car door open.  He started to stagger away from the Yukon and toward the nearby shrubs, but his legs felt unsteady and weak, and he knew he wouldn't get very far anyway.  Sliding his hand along the hood of the SUV for support, he made it as far as the front bumper before the contents of his stomach made an unbidden return trip, and began spilling out onto the surface of the roadside.

Catherine had jumped out as quickly as she could, but she didn't make it to Grissom's side in time.  She circled around the front of the car, giving him a wide berth so she didn't get accidentally splattered, and then came up behind him.

When his stomach was completely empty once again, he spit to clear his mouth and then wiped the back of his hand across his chin.

"Are you all right?" she asked, gently rubbing his shoulder.  She was glad that all he'd had to eat in recent memory was some soup and a few crackers—it had meant there was less for his stomach to reject.

He nodded in response to her question.  He was still doubled over, leaning on the corner of the hood.

"Don't move," she instructed.  "I'll find something you can use to clean up."

She rummaged around in the rear of the SUV and finally found the container of Wet Ones she kept there—mainly for Lindsey, since it's almost impossible for a child to stay spotless all the time.  She pulled a couple of the small, moistened towels out and went back to Grissom.  She passed them to him.

"Thanks," he muttered, as he wiped his face and then his hand.  As he finished with the towel, he straightened up and said, his voice soft, "Cath, I'm sorry."

She looked at him, confused.  What could he possibly be apologizing for?  Certainly not for being sick, she wondered silently, slight annoyance creeping into her thoughts.  Like he has any control over that.  Then she saw the answer clearly on his wan, pained face.  He was apologizing for the trouble and unpleasantness he thought this was causing her.  Why did he insist on believing that caring about him and helping him was a chore?  She tried to reassure him that it wasn't—not at all.  "What, for this?" she asked, indicating the mess on the ground.  "I have an eight-year-old, Gil, this is nothing."  She paused, then injected levity into her tone as she continued, "Although my daughter does have better aim than you."  She smiled.  "But at least you waited until you got out of the car.  I know this is new, but the interior's already been detailed once thanks to Lindsey and a badly-timed combination of cotton candy and corn dogs."

He almost smiled at her in return, and she felt satisfied that she had made him feel at least a little better.

She studied him as he stood there, silhouetted against the bright headlights, and frowned as her eyes traced down his legs.  "I think you got your pants," she said, squatting down next to him.  She dabbed at the small spots just above his shoes with a fresh Wet One, but she knew that wouldn't completely get them out.  "Do you have a spare set of clothes in your locker at work?" she asked, standing up again.

"Yeah, I think so," he replied.

"Good," she said.  "So let's get going.  Ready?"

He assessed the sensations in his uneasy stomach, and then nodded.

She helped him back into the car through the still-open passenger door.

He laid back and closed his eyes, but as the Denali rumbled to life and they headed to the lab, he didn't think sleep would come this time.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *