A few moments previously and Catherine had been in the DNA lab, looking into Greg's saddened eyes. Her heart had gone out to him, and she was determined that whatever he had to ask she would do her best to help him. She still felt she owed it to him.

'Catherine, you know I wouldn't ask this unless it was really important, and I.,' he took a deep breath,

'Oh God, I feel bad asking this when I know that everyone is so stressed but.' He looked so worried, and Catherine had the urge to hug him. She felt a knot forming in her stomach, because for a moment, a brief moment, she thought that Greg was going to quit. A few months ago and this would never have crossed her mind, but recently it was like not only was Greg possibly unhappy working there, but he was even perhaps a little scared. He double and triple-checked all his tasks, tasks which he used to do without batting an eyelash. Toxic chemicals that he used to mix and splash about like water he now handled with a wary frightened look. He had gone from being a confident (and sometimes cocky, she thought with a smile) chemist who knew every bottle and vial in his lab like his close friends, to acting like a nervous freshman who still wasn't sure if mixing sulphuric acid and calcium was a good idea.

'It's OK Greg,' she said soothingly, placing a hand over his now-shaking one. Greg didn't know why he was so nervous. It's just that he was, well ashamed. He knew that he hadn't been working anywhere near up to his usual standards-even five minute analyses were taking him ages, and this frustrated him. And now, admitting what he was about to admit would show him to be even weaker. He didn't want people to think that he was incompetent, but he just knew that realistically, at the pace he was going he would never get all this work done. He had to think about what he was risking, what was at stake. This wasn't about him, it was the cases. So he came out with it:

'Cath I think I need some help. A partner. I just don't think I can do all this, and I don't want to compromise any cases just because I can't get things done on time. I'm trying but I can't concentrate, every time I try I keep thinking.' he was talking faster and faster, he wanted to postpone seeing Catherine's reaction.

But he needn't have, for all that Catherine smiled. The truth was she was relieved, if a little shocked. Why was he so worried? They were all friends, he shouldn't have to be afraid to ask for the occasional favour.

'Greg, it's OK, really,' she said kindly. He looked so upset, she didn't know what to do.

She sat down beside him, and placed her other hand on his arm, trying to steady him.

'We've all been really worried about you Greg. I was going to talk to Grissom about it. I think he wants to send you home Greg.'

Seeing the look of panic flash on Greg's face, she hurriedly added,

'Just for a little bit, perhaps until after Christmas. You could rest, have a nice time, see your family.'

'No! I don't want to go home, I just need a little help. Please Catherine, you need everyone you have at the moment, and all my family are in New York.' He finished sadly.

'OK, I'll talk to Grissom. And Greg, don't feel bad. So you need a little help, it's no big deal. Heck, we could all use some help. No one will think less of you. We just want you to feel better so we can have our old Greg back.' She'd let go of his hands by now, and was getting up to leave.

Greg sat and fiddled with his gloves for a moment. Then, smiling, he took them off and flung his arms round Catherine.

'Thank you so much,' he said, almost tearful with relief.

'Anytime Greg.' She hugged him back squeezing his small frame hard.

'Oh, and Greg?' she pulled back slightly, 'Is that why you were crying. There's nothing else is there?'

Greg beamed, 'Nah,' he said chuckling, 'It's just the fever, and the lack of sleep getting to me. But,' he paused,

'I feel better already.'

'Cause of death was a single stab wound to the neck. Severed the jugular. Judging by the liver temperature he's been dead for about two days. I found some blue fluff, like the stuff you found on his clothes at the back of his throat. He was probably wrapped in something, or smothered, but this wasn't your cause of death.'

Doc Robbins looked at Nick, and saw the young Texan had a slightly puzzled look on his face.

'And the scratches?' Nick enquired.

'Well, he was definitely tortured. The scratches are deep and purposeful, and there's multiple bruising around his body, possibly a baseball bat judging by the size.'

'My God,' Nick murmured. 'Who did this to you buddy?' he asked the corpse.

Then to himself, 'And why?'