A/N Yeah, I didn't really like how the last chapter went; too confusing, even for me. I just re-read it and I was like, "what?" I'm going to change the scenario in this one so there'll only be one world, with all of them in it, except Eric, but we'll get to him later.
What happened was: Greg and Eric switched places, Greg is now in Eric's world (our world), and Eric is in the TV show, which isn't a TV show anymore because it's real...capiche?
I wanna give a huge thank you to all the people who reviewed and complimented me, it only serves to inflate my author's ego, so thank you thank you thank you. And, as another note, I really don't mind flames: to me, they are more constructive, showing what to improve upon, which is really the important part. So complimenters and flamers alike, unite and review! Oh, and congrads to anon for catching my Michael Critchton reference. It doesn't have too much to do with this fic, but I was short a title, so there we go.
When Catherine, Warrick, Sara, Grissom, Nick and Brass woke up, they found themselves at the least expected and desirable place: with each other. Catherine was draped over Brass's legs, Sara was lying on Grissom's stomach, who had his arm under Warrick's back. Nick was over in a corner, curled up in a ball and snoring uproariously. They all woke up at almost the same instant, save for Nick, immediately recoiling with a chorus of "ew"s and "what the..."s.
"Where are we?" demanded Catherine, glaring at her surroundings like it was their fault. The surroundings in question were a couch, a coffee table with a half-pot full of coffee in it, and a magazine stand. Behind the couch was a large television set, maybe a movie set, full of cameras and lights and sound booms.
Nick woke with a particularly loud snort. "What...hmm?" he asked groggily. "Where am I?"
"Good question, Nicky," said Warrick, gazing at the surrounding set.
Brass unholstered his gun; Nick and Warrick also did the same, respectively.
"Does anyone remember anything?" asked Grissom.
"Greg's look-a-like, Eric," responded Sara, trying to get her thoughts together. "Then, we all went home, and he stayed at my house, and the last thing I remember was falling asleep. Am I dreaming?"
"Maybe," said Brass, still observing the scene. He stood up and began to wander around.
"Same here, only Eric wasn't at my house. All I remember is falling asleep," said Catherine. The rest of the group murmured in agreement.
"So well all fall asleep and wake up in...at...where ever the hell this is?" demanded Catherine.
Again, a murmured agreement.
"Hey, guys," said Brass from somewhere to the right. "Come and look at this."
They all went to see where he was, and were greeted with the sight of seven chairs lined up, each reading a different name. There was a Jorja, a Gary, a George, a Eric, a Will, a Paul, and a Marg chair.
Grissom studied the chairs with his pursed lips. "Aren't those the names of the people that Eric said played us?" he wondered.
Sara's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah, that's right. My actresses name is Jorja."
They were interrupted from further reasoning when they heard two distinctly male voices echoing from somewhere nearby.
"This is the lab set," explained a man in a Texan accent. "This is where Eric spends most of his scenes, with all his amusing anecdotes and comebacks. 'Strip forensics?' A classic. And what possessed you to dance around in a headdress, man?"
Catherine stared at Nick, her eyes wide. That's you, she mouthed.
"What can I say?" said a familiar voice. "I can't help but be charming, witty, and intelligent."
"You brag about yourself way more than on TV."
"Deleted scenes?" wondered Greg, for that's who the voice obviously belonged to.
"That must be the real Greg," whispered Grissom to the group.
"So, what's in this room?" asked Greg.
"That would be the breakroom. That's where we actually relax when we aren't filming. I can't tell you how many times the cast has fallen asleep on this couch--" George paused in midsentence, soaking up the bizarre sight of the six in front of him, all wearing rumpled pajamas.
"What are y'all doing here?" George asked.
"Who are you?" demanded Catherine. "Are you George Eads?"
"Catherine?" said a shocked George in response. "Catherine Willows?"
George's eyes moved to each CSI, finally coming to rest on his look-a-like, Nick Stokes. His eyes at this time matched the expression of an astonished...well, his expression didn't really match anyone's.
"Holy crap," George and Nick said at the same time. Then, again in unison, "Well, you're a handsome one."
Just then, Greg turned the corner, after studying a fake computer and trying to turn it on, before realizing it was a prop. He stared as well, his eyes landing on Sara. "Sara? Catherine?" He eyed Catherine with love, as well as each of the CSI's in turn. "Is it really you guys?"
Sara nodded for them all, speechless, and Greg rushed to hug each and every one of them. "Man," he said enthusiastically. "I missed you guys so much. We're famous! We're all rich and we work in movies and TV and Catherine, you were on a Lifetime movie, it was really good, and--"
"Slow down, Greg," said Grissom. Greg merely gave him another hug. "Do you know what's happening?"
"No clue," said Greg happily.
"Hey," interrupted George. "Where's Eric?"
The room went silent.
"He was at my apartment last time I saw him," answered Sara finally. She shrugged.
George scratched his head in frustration. "We're all here," he said. "So where's Eric? Is he stuck in your...world...dimension...thing?"
Again, collective shrugs.
"I think we all need to talk," said Grissom.
Three hours later, after outlining what had happened to each and every one of them, they came to an agreement: no one knew what the hell was happening. Greg and Eric seemed to have switched after a bump on the head, but the rest of the CSI team had not been recently injured, so there had to be another reason for the sudden appearance.
They were at Eric's house, sitting around at a nice picnic table, sipping lemonades that the housemaid, Rosita, had brought them. She was not very fluent in English, so they didn't have to explain anything to her.
"So...we're famous, eh?" asked Sara, a sly glint in her eye.
"Yeah, very. Fan websites off the wazoo. Fanfiction, fan art, fan clubs, trivia, message boards, chat...everything."
"Eric has a computer, right?"
George grinned. "Why, yes, he does."
"I'm gonna go check some stuff out," said Sara, getting up.
"Wait for me," said George.
"Me too," Warrick said.
"And me," said Nick.
The rest of the team was quick to follow, even Grissom.
George logged on immediately, appreciating DSL, and went to the first fan fiction site he could think of.
"What's fan fiction?" asked Grissom.
"It's...hard to explain. It's basically that you take a show, movie, game, book, whatever, and write an continuation of it, using the characters and maybe adding a few more."
Everyone nodded, not totally sure of the concept, except Sara, who was a secret X-Files fanfic reader.
George opened a random fic, and they read it together, him scrolling down at the appropriate times.
Grissom approached the pool at a run, ripping off his clothes as he ran, before barreling into the pool. "I'll save you Sara!" he cried, naked and swimming towards her.
Sara was passed out, barely alive, and as Grissom swam them back to shore, she began to come to. "Oh, Grissom, Gil Grissom," she gasped. "You saved my life. How can I ever repay you?"
Three hours later
Grissom hungrily ripped off her tight jeans, seeing her cute pink underwear. He was hungry for her, hungrier than he'd ever been, his hunger surpassed his basic thoughts and, kissing her down her belly, he laid her gently on the couch, where he began to--
"Argh, stop!" yelled Sara, her face purple. "Turn it off!"
Grissom was just as embarrassed looking, his face a dark shade of red. He avoided eye contact with Sara.
Warrick, Nick, George, Greg and Brass were all staring openly at Grissom, then back at Sara, then back at Grissom, their mouths hanging open. Catherine snapped Nick's mouth shut, and the rest of the men followed suit.
"Blam," commented Nick quietly, so only Warrick and Greg could hear him.
Greg giggled nervously. "Forget porn," he said. "This is awesome. Freaky, disturbing and creepy, but pretty cool. Had there been other characters...awesome."
"Wanna read another?" offered George.
"No!" shouted Sara and Grissom at the same time. They didn't even glance at each other.
"They aren't all like this," said George. "There are angsty ones, romance, humor, just plain silly, crossovers, friendships... all kinds. Let me show you the opposite end of the spectrum, eh?"
He clicked a link with the title, Better Days.
The sunlight glared though his window, offering him a better look at what he was doing to himself. He sobbed quietly as he cut through the skin with a razor, getting deeper as he gathered courage and purpose. His tears dripped off his nose to blend with his blood, but he didn't mind too much; after all, the pain was about to end. Then he'd be happy, or numb, forever.
"Who's it about?" asked Catherine, confused. "One of us?"
"Probably," responded George. "It'll tell us at the end, they always do. Keep your eyes peeled for hints.
The cellphone rang, a sound that jolted Grissom out of a stupor. He grabbed it and said, "Grissom."
He heard nothing but a quiet crying on the other end. "Gris..." a voice finally said.
"Nicky?"
"Gris...it's Greg...he--he--it was--"
Grissom's stomach was sinking as Nick stuttered over the right words.
"Greg killed himself," said Nick at last. He hung up before Grissom could ask any questions.
The funeral was not a tie-wearing affair--Greg wouldn't have wanted that. They'd buried him in an oak coffin, with Greg's favorite Hawaiian shirt on, his hair spiky even in death. Everyone cried, even the minister seemed teary at the overwhelming emotion displayed by the mourners. The attendance was over 500, Greg's family and so many friends, both current and distant.
Sara was the last to see his body. She walked up, planted a kiss on her finger, transferred it to Greg's cheek, and whispered, "I've always loved you. I should have said yes." Then she, too, was gone, to attempt to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart at the Las Vegas Crime Lab.
Grissom stared as the coffin was lowered into the earth. "You were like the son I've never had," he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I'll miss you, Greg. Why did you do this?" From somewhere a breeze sprung up, stroking his bearded cheek, and he smiled, knowing Greg must be happier now.
Fin
There was a total silence after everyone finished, interrupted with a soft sob from Catherine as she read the last sentence. She wiped at her eyes furiously, searching her pockets for a tissue.
"That was so sad," said Warrick at last. He seemed at a loss for any more words, he just shook his head, staring at the computer screen.
George looked at the whole team, most of whom were teary eyed, with the exception of a few, who cried openly. Sara and Catherine were bawling, Greg was dabbing his eyes with a sleeve, and Nick sniffled loudly.
At once, Sara and Catherine latched on to Greg, who looked suddenly bewildered. "Don't you ever die!" demanded Catherine. "If you die, I'll kill you."
"And I'll kill you after Cath gets done with you," added Sara.
"Ok," agreed Greg tearfully.
"Wanna read another one?" asked George, the only dry-eye in the house.
Sara sniffed. "Ok, but don't make it a sad one... or a smut."
"Ok...lemme see..." George scrolled down to a promising looking preview. He opened the link.
Greg was wandering down the corridor, papers in hand, when suddenly he heard a loud grunt from Grissom's office. This in itself was unusual, but the weirdest thing was that the grunt was feminine.
"It's too big! It's too big! It won't come out!" said a voice that Greg recognized as Catherine.
Catherine gasped. "What a slut!" she exclaimed, then realized she was talking about herself. "Is this another sex story?"
"Nope," answered George. "Read on."
"Pull it out...put something on it...butter or something," said Grissom, also straining.
Greg dropped the folders he'd been carrying. He spotted Nick walking down the hall and motioned him over.
"What?" demanded Nick.
"Shh! Listen!"
"Don't you think it's impolite to--"
"Oh! Oh! It's still in there! Can't you push it down somehow?"
Nick's face turned pale. Greg nodded encouragingly, a disgusted look on his face.
"Should we call Sara in here? She might know how to get it out," recommended Catherine.
"No, she'd be jealous," replied Grissom. "We'll figure this out somehow."
"You should have gotten some practice, at least," snapped Catherine.
"I didn't know we'd be doing this today! I've never done this before..."
Nick and Greg shook their heads in despair. "Oh, Grissom," said Greg sympathetically.
"What about by yourself?" she asked.
"Nope."
"Well, I guess the instructions weren't very clear," commended Catherine. "Oh, it's hot!"
"Yeah, well, it's been in there for a while."
Nick gagged.
"This is so a sex story!" said Sara, interrupting them. They were all at roughly the same place on the page.
"No, it's not," argued George. "I've read this one before."
"Then what is it?" demanded Sara.
"Humor."
"Hey!" said Grissom. "It isn't funny."
Catherine's face was as red as Sara's had been.
Greg and Nick listened to their conversation, which got worse and dirtier, until, "Why don't we have Greg in here? He'll help us out."
Nick's eyes went as big as saucers. Greg shrunk away from the door.
"He isn't exactly experienced in this area," argued Grissom. "I've heard him talk the talk, but I don't think he can walk the walk, if you know what I mean."
"Don't be silly. I'll page him." There were a few beeps, while Greg tried to get some distance from the door so they wouldn't hear his cell going off so near.
He was halfway to the lab when his phone rang, to the tune of MMBop. "Who changed my ringtone?" he demanded to himself, unclipping the belt. "Sex--er, Sanders," he said.
"Greg, could you come in here?" asked Catherine, her voice booking no argument.
"Ok, where are you?" asked Greg weakly.
Nick was still listening as he saw Greg trudge wearily into Grissom's office, a horrified expression on his face. The Texan offered him a sympathetic thumbs-up.
Greg knocked on the door.
"Come in," said Catherine.
Greg was greeted by the feel of a very warm room, a sweaty Catherine and Grissom, who both had their clothes slightly undone. "Yeah?" he asked nervously. They weren't in the position he'd expected, as they were standing near each other.
"We need help, Greg," said Catherine. "I've got a bun in the oven--"
Greg gasped, shoulders sagging in shock.
"No, not a baby, Greg. It's a real bun, in this EZ-Bake oven we plugged in here. Problem is, it got so big, we can't get it out. We were wondering if you had any cooking tips we could use so we wouldn't squish it. It's for Sara's birthday."
The relief Greg felt was so immense that he nearly floated on air. "Yeah, just let it cool a few minutes, it should pop right back out," he said, then walked out.
Nick was laughing quietly, trying desperately not to giggle aloud. As Greg departed, Nick heard Catherine say, "Good thinking, Gil. It's great we knew Sanders was out there and could use this easy of an excuse. An EZ-Bake oven?"
"That was a stroke of genius on your part," agreed Grissom. "I loved the bun in the oven line. Did you see how pale he went?"
"Yeah, wait until he finds out for real."
"Twins," said Grissom dreamily. "In five months, we get a perfect set of twins."
Nick covered his mouth and went in search of Greg.
The entire group was laughing out loud, all finishing the story around the same time.
"So far," said Brass, "Sara and Grissom are doing it, Greg's dead and Sara was in love with him, and Grissom and Catherine are doing it, and have a set of twins on the way." It was a pretty accurate recap.
"These aren't...future happenings, right? Just pure works of fiction?" Grissom asked nervously.
"Yes," confirmed George, with Sara nodding to back him up. "These are purely works of fans' minds, fiction imagined by writers of every kind."
"So are we," muttered Grissom. "Works of fiction, I mean."
"Can we read another one?" asked Nick. "These are really entertaining."
George opened the main menu and read through a few titles. "Let's see...we have Not You, Butterflies, Quantum Foam makes me Roam, and Hi, I'm Greg. Which one?"
"Quantum Foam sounds stupid, Hi, I'm Greg is probably another one about Greg dying, look at the summary: 'In which Greg Sanders dies and everyone is sad.' Let's try Butterflies or Not You," said Warrick.
"Not You's a slash. How about...not," said Sara. She read the summary, "'Nick and Greg are in love, but no one knows...how can they break it to their friends...and each other?' Greg and Nick? Never would have thought."
"Ewwww!" yelled both Greg and Nick at the same time. They stepped as far apart as they could go while staying in the room. Everyone else made disgusted faces and glanced nervously over their shoulders at the two.
"Ok, then it's Butterflies," concluded George, clicking the link.
"Hey," said Brass, furrowing his brow. "Anyone hear that? Footsteps."
"Probably Rosita."
"She's in the other room," said Grissom, listening as well.
They heard a voice call from one of the rooms in the central portion of the house, "Hey, guys? Grissom? Sara? Catherine? Anyone?"
"That sounds just like you," said Catherine, speaking to Greg. "I think it's Eric."