A/N: God, people, I am sooooooo sorry about being a lazy bum. But my Christmas haul was disgustingly huge this year, and I've been playing with all my cool stuff (Including a CSI game! Woohoo!) And then I've got to do a six page thesis introduction on a science experiment I'm doing. My science teacher is like, a Nazi reincarnate. I'm a freshman in highschool for chrissake! I don't understand this thesis mumbo-jumbo! Actually...I'm just too lazy.... ::grins:: But ANYWAY, again, I am REALLY sorry about the delay, and I hope this chapter is decent. Damn, Grissom is a hard dude to write! So yeah, enough mindless babbling, Read On.

Grissom remembered warm summer nights in Boston, and wine in yellow plastic cups. He remembered throwing dummies off buildings, and duct tape in cars. He remembered ice rinks, and beauty, and plants, and dinner offers. He remembered her smile.

As far as he could tell, he had somewhere around 30 blowflies on the second body, 4 times as many maggots, and about 90 pine bark beetles. The freshest DB was still warm, and had already been IDed. The first two victims would take hours, maybe days to properly catalogue the insect count. As far as Grissom could tell, he had the time.

"You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be to late."

He jabbed a straight pin sharply in the direction on the fly's thorax, missing by a mile and driving the sharp metal deep into his thumb. Watching numbly as blood began to seep around the silver, wondering. Did Sara bleed before she died? Was she killed immediately in the explosion, or did she wait, endlessly, trapped as her own life faded away from her...

The nausea he had managed to master a mere hour ago surged through him again, and he dropped the sample and the bloody pin to the table, clutching at the edges as he took a deep breath through his nose.

Catherine had tried to make him leave. And he had to admit, collapsing into a shaking, unresponsive heap was definitely a sign that not all was well. Well no shit, he thought, bitterly, as the world began to steady itself again. Nothing was well, or right.

He could still see Catherine's face, pale as chalk dust, and hear Nick's pained cry as an ill-looking Warrick relayed Brass's broken words from Grissom's dropped cell phone. They were all still working too, since they couldn't exactly have time off to grieve for members of a different shift. Like Ecklie would have condoned that.

He threw away the mangled pin and got out a fresh one, successfully sticking it through the dead insect this time, pinning it up on the cork board where the first time-line was almost finished. It looked like the second body had only been there a few months, decomposition having begun, but most of the flesh was still in tact. That, coupled with the amount of insects found, led him to predict the victim had been there approximately four and a half months. She'd been in Vegas a little over four and a half years...

Glaring at the unsuspecting maggot that squirmed in his hand, Grissom huffed a sigh. He felt empty. He calm, too, but it wasn't the peaceful kind of calm. No, it was the, 'about to have a psychotic break' kind of calm. He gritted his teeth. Gil Grissom did not have psychotic breaks.

He pinned that final maggot to the cork board as well, neatly printing down it's species type and maturity.

As his gaze wandered to the employees of the LVPD Crime Lab, striding busily through the halls, he felt that familiar, helpless rage boil up within him, screaming to get out. Biting the tip of his tongue, he forced it back. How dare they continue on, like nothing was the matter. Like nothing had happened, like his life wasn't over–

The snort of laughter that escaped his mouth actually startled him. But it was funny, in a sick little way that made him want to cry instead of laugh. After all, they hadn't really spoken in months, not since that near DUI. Flirtations had faded into strict professionalism, and they were just getting a hold on their friendship again. But Jesus God, that didn't mean he didn't still love her.

Grissom blinked, a little taken aback by that mental statement. But it was true. She had finally stopped her open advances, and he had been left to his cold shell. But his feelings had never changed...

"Hello, Gil." Conrad Ecklie somehow managed to sneer even with a look of somber sympathy on his face.

Grissom felt his whole body cringe with surprise, but he was to weary to jump. "What can I do for you Conrad?"

Weasel-man blinked once, cocked his balding head a little, and opened his mouth. "I heard about your two CSI's. Rough break, Gil." The image of Greg's grin flashed through his brain, fading to ashes and blowing away with some imaginary breeze.

Grissom thought he detected a little jeering undertone in that statement, but found that it didn't really matter. Nothing Conrad could do would really matter. "Yes, it is."

Condolences apparently passed, Ecklie straightened. "Of course, you know, Day shift will be taking over this case. Sheriff Atwater knew there would be some protest about this from both you and Miss Willows, but it's only according to procedure, as I'm sure you know, Gil..." he continued to give off hot air, but Grissom stopped listening.

'According to procedure.' He'd lived his life by that phrase. According to procedure when his father left, he was the man of the house then. According to procedure, he'd gotten an undergrad, a masters, and a doctorate. According to procedure, he became Night Shift Supervisor. The procedure of life said he was fifteen years her senior. The procedure of work said he was her boss. According to procedure, he had turned down and pushed out the only woman he'd ever loved, and now, according to procedure, she was Vegas Crime Lab's newest crime scene.

"...just so we're on the same page, of course, Gil." Grissom nodded, unsure and uncaring what he was agreeing to. Christ he needed a distraction! If Greg were here, he'd be blasting that loud, tasteless music, and Grissom could go down and give him a piece of his mind...

The lab remained quiet.

Ecklie licked his lips, no doubt ready to speak again, when Catherine suddenly appeared beside him without the merest glance, looking pale still, but determined. "Gil, I don't think you'll be needing to finish those time lines. It seems Bryner has had a change of heart. He's called a lawyer, but as soon as he get here, Mr. Bryner wants to hand us his confession." The normal satisfied smirk was noticeably absent.

Grissom swallowed. "Alright, Catherine. Come get me before you start." He wondered how his voice was so calm. She nodded, and left, although, according to procedure, she no longer had to follow his orders.

Ecklie cleared his throat, and Grissom turned, slightly surprised to find him still standing there. "Conrad?"

"Well, Gil, as long as I know we're on the same page, there's nothing else I need. The Sheriff will probably be speaking to you shortly." Grissom stared for a moment at the man who could fire him if he didn't follow through this according to procedure. And Grissom found he didn't care.

"Thank you, Conrad." With a final nod, Ecklie left.

Staring at the blank space left by his new boss, Grissom was left with one glaring conclusion. Procedures really didn't amount to shit in the end.

Turning back to the table, he began the now useless second time line; just another thing in which he was too late.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Now, in all technicality, Brass had no business helping the search squad. But the look he shot the captain of the team told them all loud and clear that his assistance was not questionable in this case. He was helping them search for Greg and Sara, even if he knew all they would find would be their bodies.

And when one of the seasoned men picked up a faint sound, and the saws were stopped long enough hear a loud cough from somewhere down below, Jim Brass was definitely going to be the one that pulled sawed-away debris off of the hole, damaged wrist or not.

Sara's eyes were clouded, and her face was pale, and she smiled. Brass felt himself grinning back, his fears pushed away for a blissful second. "Sara! Sara, listen kiddo, we're gonna get you outta there, OK? Just hang tight." It was more than a small miracle she was still breathing.

Sara shot him a look, though it was shaky. "I think you already said that once, Brass."

Yeah, he had. "Captain Brass, we need to get down there and get some medics in there to assess her injuries. And we've still got to look for--" The Head Rescuer's words were cut off by a wrenching liquid spasm of coughs from down below.

"Sara? Sara, are you alright?" Her lips weren't the one's emitting the sounds, and she was no longer looking at him, her wide eyes fixed on a point not visible to him.

"Shit! Brass, get help down here, quick! Shit! Greg's been coughing blood, and he just– he's losing a lot now! Get someone down here, damnit!"

As fear slammed through him again, the next few minutes were lost on Brass. The next thing he was really aware of was Greg's prone body being lifted up through the hole on a stretcher, his lips and front coated in blood, and his dark eyes dull and unseeing, the medics following right after.

Brass was a seasoned cop. He'd done this job for a few decades, and he'd seen his fair share of gore and blood. But seeing Sanders lying there, watching him die, he felt as nauseous as some damn rookie. He bit his lips and breathed hard through his nose, his good hand clutching at the air.

His eyes followed them over to the ambulance a few yards away, and his ears took in the sudden yell from the blonde one as he was maneuvered into the back, a cry of, "We're losing him!" And he could here the mechanical rev of the paddles being charged, and that brilliant sizzleBANG sound of an electrical shot shooting through human flesh.

"Brass? Brass! Wh-what's going on? Damnit Brass, is Greg OK?" He pulled his eyes away from the ambulance, turning back to Sara.

"Just hang tight, Sara. We'll get you out in a minute..."

"Brass! Tell me if–"

"Are you hurt, Sara? Do we need to get medics down there, or just the rescue crew?" His voice was shaking slightly and he pushed on past her questions of Greg.

SizzleBANG. A shudder ran through him as it sounded again. The back of the ambulance slammed shut, and the engine started before it disappeared down the street, taking Greg with it.

"I...I'm losing a lot of blood." His attention raced back to Sara's trembling voice so fast he was sure he gave himself mental whiplash.

"What?" He peered through the hole, unable to see any distinct injuries from wid torso to the top of her head.

"I...I think...m-my leg's broken and, and...." He watched her shiver violently, her eyes dulled.

"She's going into shock!" The captain of Rescue shouted to a point behind Brass. Turning, he saw that another ambulance had arrived, and two men were racing towards them, stretcher and kit in tow.

Brass never did figure out why his memory blanked at both of their rescues, but again, the next thing he could remember was Sara being lifted out of the hole as well, ashen by this point, but definitely in better condition than Greg. Until of course, he saw the protrusion from her thigh.

"Jesus."

"It's not so bad, Brass, really." She winced as she was jostled a bit. "Unless I move."

As the paramedics crawled back to the surface, Brass finally regained control of his tongue. "I'm riding in back with her."

They looked from Sara to him, and then to each other. "You related to her?" One of them asked, even as they began to move her towards the ambulance.

"I'm her uncle." Even in shock, Sara somehow managed to pull off her, What drugs are you on? Face. But when the medics turned to look at her, she only gave the tiniest of nods, her eyes sincere and her face innocent.

"Alright." They didn't believe him, but it didn't matter.

He clambered into the back of the ambulance after them, watching as she was wrapped in a thermal blanket and hooked up to an IV. As the doors slammed shut, and the vehicle began to move, her eyes met his, and he reached out to squeeze her hand tightly.

Nothing more could be done or said until they got to the hospital.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Grissom wasn't surprised when the first stab of pain flashed behind his right eye. A migraine was the only thing missing from this hellish scenario.

He squinted around his office, looking for his pill bottle as he shoved around piles of papers. He'd moved into this secluded room a while ago, unable to concentrate anymore on the pointless insects. Bugs were only bugs, after all.

A soft groan left his lips as he finally found the pill bottle. Hindsight was a bitch.

Dropping a tablet on his tongue, he swallowed it dry, relishing in the pain the rough texture caused as it slid down. He'd been pretending to do paperwork, but really, he was just sitting in the dim light and thinking. Regretting.

"Gil?" He winced as the open door spilled in a wide beam of florescent light. Catherine shut it behind her quickly. "Migraine?"

"Yeah."

The blonde eyed him worriedly. They had all lost two dear friends today, but Grissom had definitely lost something more. "The lawyer is here, and Bryner's ready to spill. You still want to come?"

Grissom started to nod, changed his mind as a jumble of nausea rushed through him, and let out a low breath between clenched teeth. "Yeah"

They didn't speak as they walked to the interrogation room, Catherine knowing there was nothing she could say, and Grissom waiting for his damned medicine to kick in. From the looks he was getting, he guessed that he not only looked like hell, but word was spreading through the lab about the explosion. The gossip mills were running full force, no doubt.

Michael Bryner sat conversing quietly with his lawyer, a tall, reedy, older gentleman. As the door shut behind them, the lawyer stood up, straightening his suit jacket. "We've already cleared a deal with the DA. My client is going to give you a written statement, in exchange for minimum sentencing on one count of first degree murder."

Catherine's mouth dropped open. "Excuse me? One count of first degree murder?"

The lawyer shrugged, a hint of a smoky smile playing on his lips. "They felt there would not be enough evidence to get a strong case built for all the bodies."

Grissom sighed. The evidence would have said everything needed. It was always the people who made the mistakes. His stomach clenched in a wave of grief. "Right, well, let's just get this done, then." Catherine clenched her jaw as he spoke, but both knew it was futile to argue.

After all parties were seated, Grissom became acutely aware that Bryner was staring at him. "Don't I interest you anymore, Dr. Grissom?" His voice was no longer nervous or innocent, it was cool and collect.

No, Grissom really didn't give a damn. "OK, Mr. Bryner, tell us what happened."

But Bryner ignored Catherine, smiling unpleasantly at Grissom. "I take it that phone call didn't give you any good news?"

Jesus. Grissom gripped his legs tightly, and did not speak. "Mr. Bryner, you've got a deal because you agreed to cooperate. I suggest you start doing so." Catherine's voice held no room for argument.

Numbly, Grissom listened as Bryner spoke, taking in the tale with disinterest. He'd killed 4 small-time jackpot winners from the Sunset Casino over the past year and a half. They were all tourists, so no one had even known of their absence for months. It was simply a string of opportunistic murders. And the truth was, if Bryner hadn't fucked up so royally, stumbling into the open crime scene, they might never have caught him.

It was a short process of formalities, over within fifteen minutes. But as they rose to leave, Bryner's gaze fell to Grissom again. "You know, Dr. Grissom, I may have lost your interest, but you've managed to capture mine."

Grissom's nerves had had enough, and as the hair on his arms rose up, he felt his tenuous grip on patience snap. "As much as I'm sure you'd like that to interest me, Bryner, I really couldn't care less."

Bryner arched a brow. "Before you were watching me like I was some new bacteria found under a microscope. I find this bipolar behavior really quite fascinating."

Grissom felt a surge of rage pound through him that he hadn't felt in several years. "Well, now you're going to have a damn long time to think it over, won't you. We're done here." He left the room in record time, striding past Nick and Warrick, who had just left the observation room.

"Grissom! Gil!" He ignored Catherine's calls until he was safely back in the confines of his office, slumping down into the seat and clenching his shaking hands.

"There was no reason he should have gotten under my skin, I know! I just, I..." He trailed off pulling his glasses away from his face to rub tiredly at his eyes.

"It's been...it's been one hell of a long day, Gil. The boys and I were thinking...we're probably going to go somewhere and get trashed. You want to join us?"

God, he wanted nothing more than to get too wasted to remember his own damn name. So wasted he couldn't remember what Greg looked like, or Sara, or... "No, Catherine. I think I'll pass. I..."

It was his office phone that rang this time, and he stared at it for a blank moment before wiping his sweaty palm against his Khakis and lifting the receiver from its cradle "Grissom."

"Dr. Grissom? This is Andrea Wilkes, I'm a nurse at the Las Vegas County Hospital."

"Uh, h-hello. Yes, this is Gil Grissom." Goody, another thing that confused the hell out of him.

"I'm calling to inform you that Greg Sanders in currently in surgery, Dr. Grissom, and since you are the first name on his list of contacts, you need to come in and fill out some information for us."

Grissom suddenly felt dizzy, and his lungs begged for more oxygen. "Wh-what?" His eyes fell on Catherine, who was watching him closely, her eyebrows drawn together. "D-did you say Greg Sanders?" Catherine let out a gasp, and stepped closer.

"Yes, Dr. Grissom. And while he is in critical condition, his chances of survival are looking very good. Unfortunately, I can't give you any more information at this time. So if you would please come down and–"

"I-I'll be there within the hour." He dropped the phone back down carelessly, blinking.

"Gil? Wh-what about Greg?"

Jesus H. Christ hopped up on a holy handrail! "He's alive, Cat."

"What?" A sort of hysteric laugh erupted from Catherine. "This isn't funny, Gil, so if you're–" She was cut of at his look.

"Go get Nicky and Warrick, Cat. I'm right behind you. He's at County."

Catherine let out a gasp of "Shit!" and disappeared down the hall, calling for the boys and ignoring the strange looks.

For himself, when he felt fairly sure he was not in imminent danger of passing out, he rose shakily to his feet, looking around his office bewilderedly. Greg was alive! But not, not... He shut his eyes, trying to force that deepest agony away with the fact that Greg was still kicking. HE couldn't let his wishful thinking get in the way of the good that was really happening. But God, how he wished that call had been to tell him...

He grabbed his keys off the shelf next to Miss. Piggy, and began a determined jog through the halls, his stomach coiled too tight for him to walk. If Catherine had been getting strange looks, then it was nothing compared to what the 'Enigmatic Doctor Grissom' was now the subject of.

He rounded the corner, his mind a jumble of thoughts, and managed to nearly collide with the sheriff. "Gil! Gil, I was just coming to see you." Atwater gave him a concerned look, no doubt thinking Grissom was close to a breakdown.

"Sheriff, I really can't do this right now-"

Obviously the Sheriff completely misunderstood. "I know this must be difficult for you, Gil. Sidle was one of our best, and Sanders certainly showed a lot of promise. But we've really got to discuss replacements as soon as possible, because–"

"No! Sheriff, look, I've got to–"

Atwater held up a hand. "Gil, really, I do understand how hard this must be for you, but–"

"Listen, Rory, Greg Sanders is still alive, and I have to get to the hospital now. I frankly don't care what you've got to say, it can be said later. Goodbye Rory!"

Now, almost twenty minutes behind Catherine, who also drove at a completely insane speed, Grissom breezed past the open-mouthed sheriff and headed determinedly for his Tahoe.

Uh, yeah, that last part was a little weird, but I figured Grissom would probably throw his calm exterior to the wind if this happened... ::frowns:: alright, honestly, I'm a little nervous about losing your all's interest. (Ignore THAT southern inflection, please!) All those kick-ass reviews are a little intimidating, NOT that I want you to stop sending them. My ego is purring like a happy kitten at the moment! But, if I go seriously wrong someplace, PLEASE tell me, and I'll try and pull it together!

Next Chapter, things really get good! I have one or two chapters left, I think, but up next, Grissom sees Sara, and the Geeks have a little panic induced conversation. ::grins:: Thanks fo Reading!

PS: Oh, hey, I felt so bad, I'm putting forth a poem I wrote in English for you guys to poke fun at! Yay! It was completely CSI inspired, as is pretty obvious.

Soft Surprise
'Gentle, Gentle' low he whispers
'Tread soft through these unfriendly skies'
He's been accused, but he's entitled
until the flame fades low and dies

As she lies open, weak and bleeding,
and he himself begins to fall,
One voice rings through,
(mechanical; steel and true.)
A final mocking call.

It reads on endless monotone...
You. Have. Been.
BUTTERFLIED.