A/N: Wow, so many reviews last chapter—thank you!! I continue to encourage such behavior! Warning: Next update at least a month away; I will be overseas. Some Greg abuse. Also, I had severe writer's block this chapter, so I might…improve…on it later. Thank you. your humble author.

Title Currently on Holiday in Barbados

It took an entire week to sort through the eight extra heads. With a little logic and a lot of inquiry, the team figured it out. Actually, it was Nick who started down the right trail towards an answer. Everyone assembled again—even David.

"Dr. Todd Fenton," Nick explained. "He's a forensic anthropologist at Michigan State University."

Everyone looked at each other, then back at Nick. Warrick voiced their concern. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"I was looking at the skulls when I noticed one of them had the typical Asian mouth; you know, a hyperbolic palate with shoveled upper incisors. It also showed no evidence of dental work with molars ground down to nearly flat. So I went through each skull and four more showed up like the first. Then I got to thinking about the recent AAFS meeting and all the things we take with us to those—"

"And you think that professor took a bag of skulls?" Sara interrupted.

"I don't think; I know. I talked to him this morning.

"He's alive?"

"Yeah, he sent the bones ahead of him and left two days ago for Michigan. He said he had five Native American skulls, two of African descent, and one European. I haven't finished the analysis, but he confirmed his luggage was on that plane. We've been looking for all sorts of possible crimes and murders, then it turns out nothing really happened."

David wrinkled his nose. "It just figures it would be an anthropologist. They think they're the only ones who can work with bones."

Catherine shot him an annoyed glance. "Just because you studied medicine doesn't make you a bone expert. Would you want a dentist setting your broken arm?"

"I think this would be a good time to end the meeting," Gil said, before David could dig a bigger hold for himself. "Good job, Nick, and next time you speak with Dr. Fenton, let him know to declare luggage like that; make our jobs a little easier."

Cashews. Cashews and fudgsicles. Except that the fudgsicles tended to melt in Las Vegas's mid-March, so Sara carried only the cashews on investigations, such as the one she was currently on with Grissom. The plane crash was a long two months behind them, and now someone had found a dead boy in an apartment's dumpster and called the police. The two CSI's entered their crime scene with care.

"Nothing's been touched," the officer in charge told them. "Guy freaked out when he saw the kid and didn't even dump his trash; dropped it and ran for a phone."

Grissom thanked the man and together, he and Sara took picture after picture, then picked through the garbage like archaeologists on a dig; piece by piece of rubbish until the entire body was uncovered and all important evidence bagged. In fact, Grissom did most of the digging and Sara most of the bagging, since her stomach got in the way. At nearly seven months, she hated her stomach. It got in the way over everything and maternity clothes—since she was not a celebrity and, thus, couldn't afford designer outfits—only reinforced her opinion that some alien was maturing in her.

She closed her eyes and shook her head sadly after a close look at the decedent; he looked less like a little boy and more like a black, blue, and red pile of skin. Fortunately, in terms of the investigation, he was only in the beginning of the first stage of decomposition. Fresh.

"Send your men to canvass further; this child hasn't been here for very long; I'd say an hour or two," Gil told the officer. "Let's process the data and see what Robbins can come up with. It looks like he may have been hit with a car."

Sara alternated her time in the path lab between paying rapt attention and struggling to keep her cashews in her stomach. The morning sickness was gone, but that darned sense of smell remained heightened. She still couldn't be anywhere near coffee.

"This kid did not die easily," Al said, pulling away the sheet to reveal a washed three-year old. "All injuries are perimorten, including a compound fracture of the left tibia, a spiral fracture of the left radius and another on the ulna, four broken left and one right ribs, a broken nose, skull fracture to the frontal bone, and massive inter-cranial trauma. This child was savagely beaten."

Professional but a little awestruck at such brutality, Gil pointed to boy's mouth and nose. "What happened there?"

"As far as I can tell, those are abrasions and rug burns. I think," he said, taking a deep breath, "that whoever did this grabbed the boy by the back of his head and repeatedly smashed his face into the carpet, resulting in the abrasions, broken nose, and fractured frontal bone. You know, we get a lot of evil in here, but stuff like this really makes me question humanity."

Back upstairs, among the offices and labs, they were finally able to discover the toddler's identity: Seth Weber. His mother had reported him missing three hours ago and he fit the description. Sara watched the woman weep inconsolably as she called her ex-husband. For a moment, Sara paused to frown; Ms. Weber wore a modest—almost Amish-like—dress, no makeup or jewelry, and she clutched a bible with white knuckles. It looked a little out of place in Las Vegas.

After the ex showed up and they recounted their information, Grissom and Sara left to process and organize the evidence. Shortly after, he interrupted her with a question.

"Sara?"

I'M NOT HAVING YOUR BABY! "Yes?"

"Did you get those fibers from around his mouth?"

"That's what I'm working on now; I think they might belong to a welcome mat rug. Doc Robbins's theory looks correct so far. Do you wanna look?" she asked, stepping away from the microscope.

"No, I trust you can determine that on your own. I would, however, like to discuss your involvement with the case. In your current…state…this may become personal, something we need to avoid for your sake as well as the victim's. I'm sure Nick or Warrick would be happy to—"

"I'm already involved. I think it should stay that way." Her tone left little room for argument, so Grissom didn't.

"Do you know the gender?" he asked casually, pointing to her stomach.

She nodded and put a hand on her belly, something that had become a reflex over the last few months. "No, it isn't really an issue for me."

"Have you two picked out any names yet?"

Her brow furrowed. Us two? Oh, Greg. "No, that's still a little while off; I haven't even bought one of those books, yet. Do you have any ideas?"

He shrugged. "I've never had cause to come up with any. Children are not my specialty; bugs and bodies—yes. Children—no."

"Then you've never thought of having kids?"

"Parenting is a grave responsibility and demands more time and attention than I could ever reasonably devote. To be honest, I don't believe I would be up to the challenge."

Boy, have I got news for you. She was about to comment that no one is prepared to be a parent when lights suddenly flashed before her eyes and then things went black for a moment. She gasped, stumbled into the desk, and recovered. To Grissom, she might as well have just grown a second head.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know; my vision went haywire. I'm just gonna sit down for a few minutes. I'll be fine."

He was not at all convinced. "Don't you think you ought to call your doctor?"

Struggling to contain a groan, Sara nodded. She'd read a lot on preeclampsia and the vision problems were only the latest in a string of symptoms. Hypertension? Had it. Edema? Had it. Headache, lower back pain, trouble catching her breath? Had it, had it, had it. A doctor's visit would mean a urine test, which would mean a check for proteinuria. Couldn't it wait the few more days until her scheduled appointment? The results would be the same either way. Namely, unpleasant.

"Bed rest," he said simply.

"Is that absolutely necessary?"

"Look, Ms. Sidle, you don't have to do anything I recommend; this is not a medical dictatorship. However, bed rest is best for the baby—and you. Preeclampsia is very serious. You're lucky it's not bad enough to warrant a two-month hospital stay. Now, should I write a letter to your boss?"

"Yeah, just put "dear daddy" at the salutation."

She moved into Greg's condo—platonically, of course. They had discussed it and decided she would need help with cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, errands, and other simple things usually limited by bed rest.

While the arrangements proved convenient and comfortable, the emotions did not. In all honesty, the longer Greg spent helping Sara, the more his fondness for her grew. It was getting difficult to refrain from putting an arm around her while they watched movies or staring at her face for prolonged periods. And, whether she would admit it or not, Sara's feelings had also started to change. Fortunately, Greg spent a lot of time working. Unfortunately, Sara wanted to be doing likewise, especially in regards to Seth Weber.

The hourly phone calls to Grissom and Greg (who had taken over for her on that case), as well as the grilling sessions as soon as Greg returned home nearly drove him to drink. If the truth of the matter wasn't so utterly repelling, he'd have been thrilled to finally tell her.

"Do you remember Seth's mom, Mary?"

"Yeah, she called in the missing person's report. Why? What did you find out?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Ms. Weber is…sick. About a year ago, Mr. Weber divorced her because she began taking their religious beliefs to a whole new level; she attended bible studies and church seven days a week, started donating large sums to different organizations, and just sort of went off the deep end. Of course, we didn't know that and because of her reaction, missing child's report, and cooperation, Gris never really considered her a suspect. Then, when we finally visited her apartment, we noticed that the bathroom rug matched the fibers on Seth's face. One warrant later, it turns out she read some verse in Isaiah about the child being responsible for a divorce. She thought if she got rid of Seth—punished him—Mr. Weber would take her back."

"So she did all that to him? The broken bones, the cracked ribs, abrasions?"

He nodded. "She had a lot of trouble because she's so small. She tried throwing him down the stairs, but it didn't kill him. So she just smashed his face into the floor over and over again until he stopped breathing. Disturbed doesn't even begin to describe her." Sighing, he asked, " Are you gonna be okay?"

"Of course," she replied calmly. "We see this stuff all the time."

Then, excusing herself for a nap, she went and cried until it made her nauseas.

With Sara on extended leave, Grissom began taking Greg to more scenes. Besides needing the extra help, he'd come strongly recommended by the departing CSI. He couldn't have been happier.

Shortly after they solved the Weber case, the two went to investigate an apparent suicide by gunshot. A rather reclusive older man in one of Vegas's less prominent districts had been found dead by a neighbor who heard the shot. They had seen no one enter the house or leave it, and the man was known to enjoy a large set of guns. The CSI's arrived in the dead of an unusually chilly night. Neither fact curbed Greg's enthusiasm.

Everything went quickly and smoothly; they would need some further testing, but it certainly appeared to be a suicide. They finished loading the SUV and said goodbye to the coroner and police. Soon they'd be back at the lab, where Greg would make some coffee. Which he couldn't drink at home. He knew—secretly—that his coffeepot scorned him.

"Gimme the evidence."

Grissom and Greg whirled around to see a man in a ski mask with a gun. He was calm and soft-spoken, repeating his demand. "I want that evidence. Now."

Neither was quite sure what to do. Obviously, the suicide was beginning to look like murder, and it would be hard to prosecute a murder without evidence. Every CSI knows they only get one chance with a crime scene; once they're done, it's gone. Still, Grissom also knew they had little chance against a gun, so he picked up the two boxes they'd collected.

"Gris—"

"Greg, every contact leaves a trace."

He handed them to the man and everything after that happened very fast. The man took the boxes, shoved Gil hard, and let off a shot as he ran away. For Gil's part, he fell backwards, hit his head against the curb, and lost consciousness. Greg, going into autopilot, watched the shooter run for a split second, then rushed to Grissom's side. Was he breathing? Had he been shot? Was Sara's baby going to enter the world daddy-less?

The younger man first established breathing, then quickly scanned for any sign of a gunshot wound. When he found none, he checked Gil's pupils and head, finding some slight bleeding, but nothing serious. Leaning back, he reached for the cell phone when he noticed red on his boss's side. Panicky, he ripped open the shirt only to find unharmed skin. He looked a little more, and found no other injuries than at the head. Greg even looked up, as though the blood might be falling from the sky. Finally, he looked down at himself.

Blood covered his shirt where he'd been shot and was dripping onto Grissom. A searing pain gripped Greg's stomach. "Oh…my…" he managed before falling over next to Gil.

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