A/N: I am very sorry this is so late in getting out. Unfortunately, I couldn't work it while I was away and I've been plagued with writer's block. We get to meet Greg's family in this. I have them speaking German in place of Norwegian, since I only know the former. Bear with me. I cannot overemphasize how much I appreciate your constructive reviews. Thank you and keep writing them, please. –your humble author

Family Secrets

The surgeon filled Sara, Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Catherine, Jim, Al, David, and a few others in on Greg's condition. The seasoned doctor could not recall, in all of his experience, filling in so many people at once.

"Mr. Sanders's injuries were rather extensive. The bullet sliced through his liver and stomach, then bisected his spleen. We were able to repair, as best we could, the stomach and liver, but the spleen had to be removed. He lost a considerable amount of blood both internally and externally, so he's been given two transfusions. I have him listed as critical. However, his prognosis, barring any unforeseen complications, is good. I cannot give you a certainty, but I believe he'll survive."

The mass heaved a communal sigh, which made the doctor question whether he'd relayed the information appropriately. Greg's injuries were traumatic and severe, complicated by an invasive surgery. He started to clarify when Sara interrupted.

"When can I see him?"

"At the moment, he's sleeping; Mr. Sanders is receiving morphine and antibiotics intravenously and will probably remain asleep for a few more hours. When he does wakeup, he'll be extremely weak and groggy. May I assume you're his wife?"

Everyone stood silently for a moment, especially Sara. How was she supposed to answer? No, but I'm carrying his child? No, but everyone here thinks I'm carrying his child when, in fact, it's our boss's? No, but if you don't take me there to see him right now, I'll sit on you with my giant, fat, pregnant body? Catherine simplified everything by lying. "Yes, this is his wife and she's extremely concerned."

"Then I'll take you to his room. The rest of you will have to wait here. Mrs. Sanders, if you'll follow me," he suggested, gesturing to the door. They exited, leaving half of the lab's employees milling around in the waiting room. That prompted the nurses to prompt the doctor to prompt the visitors to go home, which they did. Even Grissom left, but only to go work on finding Greg's shooter. In fact, Liz and Gefjon arrived only a couple hours later to find the waiting room unusually empty.

"Excuse me," Liz said, getting the attention of the receptionist, "I'm looking for a Gregory Sanders; could you please tell me which room he's in?"

The receptionist hailed the nurse who had been keeping an eye on Greg and his vitals. "Are you a relation?"

"I'm his sister. Could you direct me to his room and inform me of his condition, please?"

The nurse walked them to Greg's room, explaining along the way that Greg was critical, but stable. She stopped at a door and ushered them in, where they found a pregnant, sleeping woman in a chair. The nurse smiled sadly. "Poor thing hasn't left his room since she got here; now that's a devoted wife if I ever saw one."

As soon as Greg's family walked into the room, Sara roused from her sleep. The two women stared at each other for a moment, taking in the sights.

Sara, with her sharp intellect and deductive skills, immediately started summing up the visitors: A well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties; tall, fair, worried, and poised. A girl in street clothes and just entering her teens; petite, dark, anxious, and intense. From the mental pictures Greg had drawn her of his family, they could only be his sister and niece.

Liz, gracious and down to earth despite her upbringing, saw a woman with red, puffy eyes, holding her brother's hand. Sara. It had to be Sara. The stomach gave it away. Besides, she was everything Greg had described her to be: Pretty, a little stiff, burdened, strong. Liz smiled at her.

Gefjon only frowned and took up a spot by her uncle's side.

"How do you do?"

"Hi."

"I'm Liz Larson. You must be Sara; Greg has only the kindest things to say about you."

At which point, Sara—despite the fact that she hated herself for it—began crying again. This was not how she had planned on spending her last trimester. "I'm sorry," she managed between sobs, "but I can't seem to help it."

"It's okay; I spent most of my time on the plane crying. Why don't we talk about stuff that's a little happier, like puppies or chocolate?"

With that, they regressed into pleasantly meaningless conversation until, just over an hour later, Greg opened his eyes and met Gefjon's stare. He didn't say anything—he couldn't muster that much strength—but the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

"Mama, er wacht auf."

"Greg!" Sara and Liz exclaimed when they saw his eyes open. The latter (as she could move faster) ran out to get the doctor while Sara grabbed Greg's hand.

"Are you okay?"

Was he dreaming? Was she really holding his hand and looking at him as if her life would never be the same without him? What were they giving him and why were the walls moving? He could get none of his questions answered because Liz and the doctor chose that moment to reenter the room.

"I'm glad to see you awake, Mr. Sanders; you had an awful lot of people worried. How are you feeling?" he asked while he checked machine readouts and IV drips.

"Bad." Why was his mouth so dry? How come he could barely keep his eyes open? Where had all those cats come from? He could hear them meowing right outside the door. Doctors shouldn't let cats into a hospital. "Cats."

Everyone did a mental double take. Cats? Liz approached him. "Cats, honey? What do you want with a cat?"

"I hear cats."

Liz, Sara, and Gefjon looked completely at a loss, but the doctor held up a hand before they could ask any more questions. "I'll see about those cats as soon as we're done, Mr. Sanders. Now, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain…?"

When he was done with the examination, Dr. Meyer talked with the women outside. "Don't worry about the cat thing. Some people don't respond very well to morphine and he's experiencing a minor auditory hallucination; I'll see about putting him on a different painkiller. As for his health, Greg's vital signs are excellent and he's doing remarkably well, all things considered.

"Now, Mrs. Sanders, your husband is going to be asleep for quite some time. While you're under no obligations to take my advice, I think it would be a good idea for you to go home and get some rest. We can easily call you if anything comes up, but there's little you can do at the moment. Besides, when he's more conscious, he'll need you to be at your peak."

She didn't argue; exhaustion had taken its toll about seven months ago. She gave Dr. Meyer Greg's home phone, her cell phone, the work number, and even her email address. Following the doctor's advice and Sara's example, Liz gave him her cell phone number, Gefjon's, her husband's, her home, her parents' home and cell phone numbers, and the hotel's number. Satisfied, they headed outside.

"I can call us a taxi," Sara said, pulling out her phone. "A colleague brought me here, so I don't have my car."

Liz shook her head, pulling out her own phone. "It's all right; I'll have our driver drop you off at Greg's before he takes us to the hotel. Just gimme a second." A few minutes later, a shiny black Lincoln drove up before them and a man jumped out to get the doors. "Now, just tell the driver Greg's address and he should know how to get there."

Surprised, Sara mumbled the address and sat back. A driver and a Lincoln? Was Greg's sister wealthy? No one talked, but when they pulled up, Liz patted Sara's shoulder and gave her a piece of paper. "It's our number at the Four Seasons; call us if you need anything at all, especially a lift to the hospital. Will you be okay here by yourself?"

"Yes, of course."

"All right, and remember: Anything at all, just ring us up."

Liz and Geffy drove away, leaving Sara to enter the dark condo by herself. She did so, sighed, sat on the couch, and began bawling so hard that she could scarcely breathe. The scene was slightly reminiscent of earlier…

Catherine rang the doorbell and waited in the dark for Sara. How could she do this? How could she tell Sara that her baby's father (and boyfriend? fiancé? friend?) had been shot and might not make it? Catherine had to take a few deep breaths to keep from crying again.

Inside, Sara waddled her way from the bed to the door, not a little annoyed. Who on earth would be ringing the doorbell so early? Sadly, her first thought was that it had better be a matter of life or death, and when she saw Cath's face through the peephole, her throat clenched.

"What happened?" she asked as she threw open the door.

"Sara, let's sit down."

…she dried her eyes, reflecting on her fortune that Greg did not die. The doctor appeared hopeful, which gave her hope in turn. But that fear for his life had been so complete and frightening; if he died, she knew, she would be losing a fantastic friend and amazing human being.

And maybe more? Despite the fact that he reminded her everyday of her duty to tell Grissom, the lie seemed real. Three would still have a father if Greg died, a little voiced assured Sara in the hospital. But could Grissom ever be as good as Greg? another voice countered. It's not like you ever gave Gris a chance, was the first voice's rebuttal. She was starting to feel schizophrenic.

Putting in one of Greg's recorded I Love The 80s tapes, she let herself fall asleep to 1981.

"Liz—"

"Don't you even think about arguing with me, Gregory James!"

"The mere thought," said Greg with utmost seriousness, "hadn't even begun to speculate," he continued, still staring at his sister gravely, "about the merest possibility of crossing my mind."

Sara watched from the doorway, where she stood with Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. Grissom had barely left his office, except to go to the crime scene. Everyone knew he felt responsible for Greg getting shot. He hadn't made any strides in the two whole days he'd been working, but that hardly deterred him.

"Are we interrupting something?" Warrick asked carefully, a little nervous to enter the battle. "'Cause we can go."

Greg smiled. "Come on in! Liz was just telling me what to do with my life—"

"Greg!"

"But she seems done now. What did you bring me?"

The room already overflowed with cards, flowers, candy, and balloons from various CSI's, techs, and family. "Man, I already brought you flowers and balloons," Nick retorted, settling into a chair and opening a box of chocolates. "What more do you want?"

"You could stop eating my candy."

"It's not like you can eat it."

Greg sat back and rolled his eyes. They had him on a clear liquid diet for the moment, which meant chicken broth, juice, and Jell-o. If he never saw Jell-o again, it would be too soon.

Everyone talked amongst themselves, making bland conversation. Sara, seated on Greg's left, was pleased to feel the communal atmosphere. Perhaps the hormones made her more wistful (heaven knew they made her more of any emotion—disturbing for someone used to keeping emotions in check), but everyone seemed extra friendly and caring. If only she could understand the Norwegian Liz spoke softly to her brother.

"Papa ist besonders wütend, Greg." Dad's furious, Greg.

"Egal. Er ist immer wütend mit mir." What ever. He's always furious with me.

"Er will, daß du nach Hause kommen." He wants you to come home.

"Hier habe ich Verantwortugen." I have responsibilities here.

"Er will, daß du nach Hause kommen. Und bleiben." He wants you to come home. And stay.

"Bleiben? Ich darf nicht sogar gehen! Kannst du nicht intervenieren?" Stay? I can't even go! Can't you intervene?

"Wie oft musst du an der Schwelle des Todes schlagen? Greg, ich übereinstimme mit ihm." How often do you have to go knocking on death's door? Greg, I agree with him.

"Ich habe ein Job und ein Leben hier. Außerdem ich versprechte, daß ich…" He cast a quick glance at Sara. "…meine Schwangere helfen wird. Bitte, Liz, ich bin müde und krank. Später, okay?" I have a job and a life here. Besides, I promised…my preggo I would help. Please, Liz, I'm tired and sick. Later, okay?

To help end a discussion he sensed Greg didn't enjoy, Warrick tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, man, no telling secrets. We came to visit you. Now, are you gonna eat that Jell-O, or is it up for grabs."

"Hey, I wanted the Jell-O," Nick spoke up from between bites of candy.

"Dude, you already ate half a box of Godiva chocolate; you don't need any gelatin."

Putting away the box (and feeling a little guilty), Nick changed the subject. "How'd you get a private room, Greggo? I don't suppose the department pays for anything this nice?"

Greg squirmed, if ever so slightly, and looked around the room. It was lavish, by hospital standards; large, airy, tastefully decorated, nicer furniture and bed with real sheets and a down comforter, a CD player, DVD player, and 25-inch television. To top it off, the nurses seemed especially interested in taking good care of "Mr. Sanders."

"Well, y'know, sometimes you get a nice room. Like getting bumped up to first class."

"Lügner," Gefjon mumbled from her position at the end of the bed, never taking her eyes off her iPod. From her tone and Greg's uneasiness, nobody pushed the subject. Instead, they went back to idle conversation about work and life and pregnancy and boxes of chocolate. Eventually, Catherine stood up to leave.

"If I don't get home, Lindsey'll have a fit."

"And I promised Grissom I'd help on your case."

"Me, too."

Propelling herself up, Sara joined their ranks. "They brought me and I have to go feed your rats, anyway." She squeezed Greg's hand and gave him a smile. "I'll be back later, though. Try to refrain from further injuries."

Suddenly, Gefjon put down her iPod and stood up. "Uncle Greg, can I go stay at your house tonight?"

Sara, Greg, and Elizabeth all exchanged looks. "Honey," her mother began, "I don't think that's very wise. Miss. Sidle is under a lot of stress right now and we have our own place to stay."

"But I never get to go to his house. Außerdem, sie müssen diskutierten ob Onkel Greg nach Hause gehen wird oder nicht."

"Gefjon, the answer is no. Come sit here and talk about it with me."

The CSIs watched emotions pass of Geffy's face as she debated her options: Obey, argue, or storm off. She voted for the latter, pushing through her uncle's colleagues. Lizzy frowned, but didn't get up.

"How old is yours?" Catherine asked.

"Thirteen."

"They're fun, aren't they?"

"Yeah. A riot."

Sara and Liz sat in Le Cirque waiting for their food. Sara felt ridiculous sitting in such a posh restaurant in her maternity clothes, but she had already accepted the dinner invitation before knowing the location. Gefjon remained in the hotel room, not as punishment (no, that was having her iPod taken away for two weeks), but because the meal only served as an excuse to have a conversation.

"I imagine you know that Greg was not put in that room by accident. Our mother called and requested he be transferred to nicer accommodations."

"I assumed it was no coincidence."

Liz sipped her water. "My brother is…special. He seems like an open book, but there's a lot more there than meets the eyes. For example, we come from a privileged background, but he's content to let people think he has only his paycheck to live off of. To be perfectly frank with you, Greg is set to inherit many millions when our parents pass away and already has a substantial stock portfolio and trust fund from our grandparents. None of this interests him.

"To complicate matters, for as close as he and I are, he is equally distant from our father, who hoped his son would one day head the family business. When Greg chose science and Las Vegas over business and Manhattan, it only deepened the already existing rift. Since then, our dad has been trying to relocate my brother back to New York. He sees this as his opportunity; two life-threatening injuries in as many years seems like a good excuse to demand Greg's return. Of course, Greg is adamantly against this, and I have little illusion about him coming home, even though I agree with our father. Nevertheless, pressure is being applied, as you probably gathered from our earlier conversation in Norwegian."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I think you deserve to know. And because I was hoping you might answer some of my questions."

"You want to know about me, about my plans."

"I can't help being a big sister. Please, at least let me know if you have feelings for him."

Sara sighed and sat back in her chair. She was suddenly reminded of the song Do You Love Me, from Fiddler on the Roof. "I don't know. I think I do like Greg, but I am seven months pregnant and he almost died, so I can't be sure if what I'm feeling is real." She paused to consider her words. "When I thought he might die, I thought I'd be losing a very special person in my life. Someone who's kind, compassionate, caring, and endlessly entertaining. But…"

"You're scared."

"How do you know?"

"You forget that I've been in your shoes, as far as the pregnancy's concerned. You don't know what to expect from a child, from the father, or from yourself. I remember the fear of telling Gefjon's biological father of my pregnancy; I was terrified! It took me up to the sixth month to even write a letter."

"And look what happened."

Liz bowed her head, sad on her daughter's behalf. "Yes, he refused to be a part of her life. But, where you're concerned, I can only imagine the stress a second man might create—I'd be doubly confused. Do I like him because of him, or because he's helping me? Might he be a better father than the real one? I don't envy you your predicament."

She nodded. "I've created a big mess for myself, made worse by all the missed opportunities to tell Grissom. Sometimes I don't even know how it happened. This is so unlike me; I've never been afraid to confront a problem or a person."

"Pregnancy is not a problem—it's a drastic, life-altering change. You know by now that you can handle it. But can he?"

Another sighs. "I should have told him in the first place. It's too bad hindsight is twenty-twenty."

"Amen," Liz mumbled as their food arrived.

At the same time that Liz and Sara were enjoying their meal, Greg decided to call his father. He didn't like confrontation, but he liked the thought of moving back to New York even less.

"Mom?" he asked when a female voice answered.

"Gregory, what are you doing calling at this hour? You should be asleep, resting. Don't those doctors have any sense at all?"

"It's three hours earlier here, mom; don't worry, I'll go to sleep soon enough. Is dad available, or still at the office?"

"He's home. Just a second. Axel, Gregory's on the phone," she spoke into the intercom.

A moment later and Axel Sanders picked up. "Has your sister talked to you?"

Greg suddenly wondered if he'd made the right choice in calling. Could he really handle his father only three days after being shot? "Yes, Liz and I talked for a minute. She said you're demanding I come home. That's why I called."

"Excellent. I can have you moved back in here in couple days. Just give that no-good boss of yours your letter of resignation—"

"Dad, for the last time, I am not coming back!" He said it with so much force that it hurt (although, honestly, breathing hurt). "I am not moving back to New York, I am not going to study business, and I am not going to take over for you one day. I am going to stay here and continue working in the crime lab, where I'm happy. Why is it that I almost die and the first thing you think of is how it can get benefit you? Maybe you've tricked Liz into thinking it's for my safety, but you can't fool me," he wanted to yell. Instead, with forced calm, "I don't want to move back to New York."

"So you're just gonna put yourself in danger until we have to bury you? What is so wonderful about microscopes and Nevada? For crying out loud, Gregory, it's Nevada!" Greg could almost see Axel waving around his bifocals for emphasis. The man was definitely not accustomed to being refused. "Does this have anything to do with that girl who's pregnant?"

"No! Yes! I mean, a little. Look, dad, I like what I do for a living; I like science and solving crimes—certainly more than I could ever like business, and yes I know I never gave it a chance. I like that I don't freeze to death in Nevada during the winter. I like my little condo and my little car. And I like helping Sara. I don't even know what's going to happen in the future or if she'll ever consider dating me, but I like having her there when I get home. I…like that girl who's pregnant."

The only immediate response was silence. Greg thought his dad might go ballistic, but while Axel Sanders was definitely trying to manipulate things in his favor, that didn't make him cold or uncaring. "How am I supposed to convince you when you just declared your love for Miss…Saddle?"

"Sidle. And I didn't say I love her."

"Close enough."

"Does this mean you're gonna stop pressuring me?"

His laughter resonated over the telephone lines. Greg simply took that to mean "no."

While Sara and Liz dined and Greg argued, Grissom sat staring at his computer, contemplating a third pot of coffee. Like some sort of demon, the case taunted him, providing few clues and fewer answers. Hopelessness started to set in; not all cases can be solved and, from the looks of things, Greg's shooter would probably go free, despite the efforts of the entire crime lab. Sometimes his job sucked.

Staring off into space, he thought about Sara. Pretty Sara, who had crushed on him for so long and with whom he'd got a lot more involved than he should have. Pretty Sara, who had apparently gone out and got pregnant by Greg only a couple weeks later. That bothered him, both because he felt slighted and because his inner detective sensed incongruity. But why? She wouldn't lie to him about something that huge. On the other hand, one of his personal mottos was, essentially, to trust no one; don't expect anybody to act in a prescribed way. He'd told Sara as much himself.

On the third hand, she and Greg certainly seemed like a couple, even from when she purportedly got pregnant. They hung out, drove to work together, talked, and eventually shared the same home. Apparently he even met her parents—Grissom hadn't even been in her apartment until that fateful day. It appeared entirely on the up-and-up.

So why did doubts plague him? Why did his instincts tell him to dig deeper, question more, while his common sense and decorum instructed otherwise? Deciding to put his priorities straight, Gil resumed his work on the case and pushed any misgivings to the back of his mind where they could fester.

As Liz and Sara ate, Greg debated living situations with his father, and Grissom wracked his brain over the case, Kykelikokos and Phil Hamster started getting a little frisky. Again. In fact, Phil was soon to be a mother. None of the irony would be lost on Sara or Greg.

PLEASE REVIEW