Well… here we are again, who'da thunk?

So, as glaciers race past my window, I thought I should possibly post another instalment. You know, it's irritating, I keep trying to finish or maybe that should be 'kill' this story and my muse harpy? won't let me. Sometimes I wish I could write more than one story and a ficlet at the same time but as I'm the sort of person who gets confused walking and breathing at the same time it's probably not a good idea to completely overload my alleged brain.

I would also like to blame the lead-lighting course I've started in the last fortnight for delaying this update – I may be able to string a word or two together, but alas, cut a straight line in glass I cannot.

As usual, thanks to 'tasha, my beta, who will no doubt be howling at some of the underdone grammar and syntax and a special thanks to Dermestidae Masculatus who said a lot of very nice things to me I would also strongly recommend her work: 'A Marriage of Convenience,' the first Sara/ Greg fic that didn't leave me swearing violently at the aether.

Finally, as always, thanks to those of you who continue to read and support this fic, through your reviews and emails you have not only kept me on track vaguely but probably spared some small measure of my sanity.

Had this been an actual emergency, we would have fled in terror,
and you would not have been informed.

In the beginning was the word.
But by the time the second word was added to it,
there was trouble.
For with it came syntax ...
-- John Simon

"I have often been called a Nazi, and, although it is unfair, I don't let
it bother me. I don't let it bother me for one simple reason. No one has
ever had a fantasy about being tied to a bed and sexually ravished by
someone dressed as a liberal."
---P.J. O'Rourke

There is a lot more to a toy bear than fur and Dacron filler; bears are repositories of memories and secrets. In our darkest times, when we hide from the world, when we are hurt or frightened we bare our souls to the thing that is closest to us, that is always supportive, that is always our friend. Greg held the small bear in his hands – his latex- covered, evidence-protecting hands – but hands nonetheless and remembered. His bear had been small too, with a torn ear and a vaguely puzzled expression as if it was constantly working to understand its human. Sometimes, Greg had felt that Morris, his bear, was his only friend, at the very least his only source of comfort from the predatory nuns that prowled the corridors of his school. But this bear, the bear of an ostensible killer told a different story, held different secrets and had absorbed another's tears.

Greg laid the bear gently on the worktable and dragged one of the many magnifying devices that littered the lab towards him and began a slow, careful inspection of the toy. It was no great surprise to find the bear covered in fibres; after all, it had fur and between that, and the wonders of static electricity, Greg would have been surprised if the bear hadn't; what was important was to determine which fibres were actually of evidential value. Slowly he prised cotton, wool and something, which may or may not have been sisal, from the pile; well, he thought, if I don't find any DNA evidence I can probably knit myself a nice sweater or make a quilt for Benzene.

Finally, after a further fifteen minutes concerted searching, Greg was able to tease what appeared to be a human hair out of the matted fur. Sighing with no little relief and a degree of – albeit professionally repressed – excitement he began the process that would result in the extraction of trace DNA from the hair. However, before chopping up the sample and going all scientific on it, he paused to thank the little bear for his patience before carefully placing him to one side so he could watch as Greg worked.

When Tom Petty sang about the waiting being the hardest part, he wasn't kidding. Greg paced his lab with a nervous energy usually seen only at those times when he'd run out of coffee; even the bear was starting to look as if he was about to get motion sickness simply from watching the young man.

So Greg sat…and bounced in his chair…before getting up and pacing the room even more frenetically…before bouncing on his chair some more. Maybe the bear's former owner had worked with someone like Greg previously, because the bear was about ready to kill the lab tech by the time the buzzer indicated the sample was ready. Then Greg was off, like an Olympic sprinter chased by the drug testing agencies he hurtled down the corridor intent on finding Grissom. Seconds later he was back, and with what could possibly have amounted to a victory lap he grasped the report out of the DNA analyser and sped out the door.

So much promise, the little bear thought sadly, but so little thought; he settled in to wait for the strange human's return.

It was only ten minutes later that Greg reappeared, his face flushed and excited. He picked up the toy and spun in a circle, "We got a match little man; we got a match!"

The bear didn't respond, nor did he appear particularly excited and it was this lack on enthusiasm that slowly returned Greg to earth.

"I understand little guy that you don't want to lose your friend." He paused in sad reminiscence, "Losing people is always hard," his voice quieted, "but sometimes we have no choice, sometimes we have to move on, and sometimes we just have to be grateful for what we have."

Greg smiled at the toy, "Thank you for reminding me of what I have. I'm going to call Rilie? My girlfriend" he clarified, as he was pretty sure that the bear and Rilie had yet to be introduced.

Picking up the phone he dialled Rilie's number from memory and only had to wait a few moments before a groggy voice answered?"

"Wha…..?"

"Rilie?"

"No, it's fucking Santa Claus, what do you want?"

"It's Greg…"

"Oh…Sanders," her voice brightened somewhat, "What time is it?"

Greg looked at his watch "It's just after nine."

"In th'… morning?"

"No, evening. Where are you?"

"At home, on the couch, what's up?"

"Just thought I'd call."

"You're not getting sentimental on me are you, Sanders? What next, bouquets and poetry?"

Greg grinned in spite of himself; Rilie was waking up. "Don't mock Andrews, or I'll inform your godmother that you've been making fun of the institution of romance."

"Somehow I can't see her worrying Greg, she doesn't get a lot of lost romantics visiting her." Rilie thought about that for a second, "Actually, by strict definition, it probably would be a lost romantic, a very lost romantic."

"Maybe she does, who are we to define precisely what constitutes romance?"

"Have you been inhaling fumes from the gas chromatograph again, Sanders?"

"Why?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.

"Because you're starting to sound like a love struck adolescent."

"…And what if I am?"

"Well… you… err… umm…bastard…"

Greg smirked to himself, "That was impressive."

"Shut up, I haven't had any coffee."

"As excuses go that's pretty pathetic."

"Well it's the best I can do at the moment so you'll just have to live with it, if you want better excuses you can come round here and I'll beat them into you."

"You been taking lessons from Heather again?"

"Something like that; but you don't seem to be complaining about it."

"Probably 'cos you'd just hit me harder."

"But only with your best interests at heart, Greg."

While he couldn't see her, he was fairly sure Rilie was grinning, "Yeah sure, that's what you said last time when you left me tied to the bed as you drank coffee in front of me." Deciding that this conversation was getting nowhere, well nowhere constructive – depending, of course, on how one defined constructive – Greg decided to return the conversation to something vaguely resembling the original topic. "So, why did you fall asleep on the couch?"

"I wasn't asleep!" she proclaimed indignantly, "I was merely simulating an alternative state of consciousness."

"Oh course you were, and while in this alternative state did you get that cute little frown you get when you're sleeping?"

"How would I know?"

Greg shrugged, before reminding himself that he'd have to verbalise "There is that I guess; anyway, I did call for a reason."

"That'd be a first."

"As I was saying…I did call for a reason. I'm finishing up in a few hours, do you want me to come around?"

"Sure" and there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in Rilie's voice, "Have you eaten?"

"No, I haven't, you offering?"

"Sure, I can whip something up, and you can have me…sorry, strawberries, for dessert."

"Can I have both?"

"Only if you clear your plate, Greg, for as the song goes: 'If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"

"Err yes, Okay, Rilie, please back away slowly from the incense burner."

"Sanders, you're a lunatic, I'll see you later."

Greg was left holding the phone from which could be clearly heard the sound of a disconnected line, shrugging, he replaced the phone on its cradle and turned to look at the bear, which appeared to be regarding him with a degree of curiosity.

"Just you be glad you don't have to put up with an insane girlfriend."

The bear looked dubious, but said nothing and Greg went about his business.

"This is dreadful Corbin, absolutely appalling, how something so terrible possibly happen?"

"I agree, Waldorf, the department is quite distressed, morale in incredibly low amongst the ranks."

The mayor regarded his chief of police with a degree of puzzlement before recognition dawned, "Oh yes, your officer; dreadful business, simply dreadful."

"That was what you were referring to wasn't it, Waldorf?"

"What? …Oh...err…yes…I mean…no, I was referring to the impending visit of my mother-in-law; but your officer's death is very bad news, dreadful business, simply dreadful."

"Did I mention that he was related by marriage to the Governor."

"A tragic loss of such a fine young man, I'll contact the Governor immediately to pass on my condolences."

"Brown-noser."

"Yes, completely, what's your point?"

"None, I just wanted it noted."

"Well now you've completed your mission was there anything else you wanted?" The mayor sounded tired, more to the point he sounded tired and looked worse; worse even than an impending visit from a maniacal mother-in-law generally generated.

Despite his frustration with the mayor's terminally obtuse perspective with regards to his ordering of priorities Calliope was concerned for, above and beyond the fact that the idiot was his mayor, Waldorf Astoria was also his friend.

"What's really going on, Waldorf; oblivious you might be, callous you're not, what's really got you so distracted that you're this complete a mess; it sure as hell isn't your mother-in-law, I've met your mother-in-law and she's as near a candidate for sainthood as any other person I've met; I'm not even sure she's the same species as your wife."

Astoria smiled wryly "That's what she says too, blames it on some bad shellfish during the pregnancy."

"I bet your wife just loves hearing that."

"You think my mother-in-law is stupid enough to say anything like that around that psychopath?"

"I'm sure she doesn't think of her daughter like that, Waldorf."

"Ha!" barked the mayor, "Don't forget you've met my wife too."

"Well yes," Calliope conceded, "There is that, Anyway, Waldorf, what's up, really?"

With an obviously heavy heart, the mayor sat in one of the heavy leather armchairs that dotted his office; he took time to pour himself a generous portion of single malt and, after offering the same courtesy to his guest, stared pensively into the middle distance. "It was bad enough when he was killing single citizens, then he graduated to families, and now the police; and there's nothing we can do." His gaze shifted to his glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it could provide him with answers; wryly he smiled, although a truthful individual would have called it a grimace full of self-loathing. Turning his face to Calliope, he raised his glass in a mocking salute,

"In vino veritas, they say; but I can find no truth here."

"That's because it's scotch Waldorf." Gently, he took the glass from his friend's hand, "we will catch him, you know, it's only a matter of time; although, if you could free up the budget so we could buy a couple more pedal cars it would be a fine thing."

The mayor's answering smile was wan, but it was enough to let Corbin know that he had, at least, punctured the air of melancholy that surrounded the mayor.

"It can only get better Waldorf, things can only get better."

Calliope had no idea how wrong he would prove to be.

He ran.

He ran because he was instructed to run.

…And yet, there was dissent. Not from him, for, in his capacity as vessel he was essentially nothing; but for those that fought for control there was a susurating chorus of rancour as each put their case for ultimate suzerainty. Finally, a degree of consensus was reached, the type of consensus where every party has a gun and far too much ammunition, but a consensus nonetheless. That there would inevitably be bloodshed was a given for in the blood was purification and thence definition. The more blood spilt the harder the fires that drove them raged until phoenix-like they would rise again to begin the cycle anew.

If Bates had retained awareness he would never have submitted.

Finally, he stopped running. Vacant with disorientation and lost in the madding crowd of his thoughts he didn't question, didn't react as his hand closed on the door that was the entrance to Saint Tarantula's Orphanage.

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes

By Agatha Babylon

When we ask who watches the watchman it is generally assumed that one is referring to an integrity process, that we assume those who hold some measure of power must, in some way, be held accountable by either a higher authority or some sort of moral code.

I'm pretty sure that quis custodiet ipsos custodes was not referring to a child-minding service…

…Yet it would appear that a child minding service is necessary, as our resident lone psycho has declared open season on our police force.

I must acknowledge, in the interests of journalistic integrity, that in the past I may have been a bit hard on our staunch defenders of public safety, indeed, I may have gone so far as to infer that they are incompetent, under-trained, a waste of tax payer's money and in general about as much use as, if you'll excuse the term, 'tits on a bull'.

That being said, never in my wildest loathings would I support their ritual slaughter, ritual banishment perhaps, but never ritual slaughter.

….

"What do you think so far, Grissom?"

"Don't you think you're being a little harsh?"

Babylon looked at him strangely.

"Okay," Grissom conceded with a sardonic grin, "this is remarkably restrained by your standards, are you sure you want to take such a conciliatory line?"

"Now now, no need to be sarcastic."

"I should leave it to you, perhaps?"

"Something like that."

"Whatever happened to you appreciation of honest criticism and feedback?"

"I took it out back and shot it."

"That sounds relatively ominous."

"Don't flatter yourself, Grissom, I'm saving my bullets for the mayor."

"Are you saying I'm not worth a bullet?"

"Not just yet, I have other plans for you," she riposted, casting a mock-lascivious smile in his direction.

Grissom, his eyebrow raised in horror, or something vaguely related to it, gestured towards the article displayed on screen in front on him, "Do you want me to continue?"

"Read on McDuff."

……

…of course, if we banish our police force then who do we turn to? The mayor?

Frankly, I wouldn't let Waldorf Astoria guard himself in solitary confinement let alone anyone else. Now, to be fair, Astoria has, for the first time in recorded history, actually made the city turn a profit and hasn't deposited it in an offshore account, but while financial acumen and integrity is well and good – and probably heretical - in a public figure, concepts of forward planning and working for the public good should also be worthy of some small measure of consideration.

Personally, I would consider keeping the members of the public alive a public good, but, being but a lowly reporter, who am I to determine what's truly in the public interest.

…

"Isn't that slightly disingenuous?"

"Who? Moi?" replied Babylon fluttering her eyelashes.

"Do you really think Astoria doesn't care that people are dying?"

"Of course he cares, he's incompetent not callous. However, Grissom," and her face turned serious, "the fact of the matter is that the police department is hideously under funded and that is due, in large part, to Astoria's financial policies, which, while making sound financial sense fail to take into account the human cost; but then, what else could you expect from a former accountant? Tell me, Grissom, did you ever stop to wonder just why it was that your CSI unit was so hideously under funded?"

"I just assumed it was another one of Ecklie's evil schemes."

"Ecklie?"

Grissom shook his head, "Never mind, just someone I misjudged."

"You? Misjudge someone?"

"Shut up, Agatha."

…And seeing no other viable course of action, she did, albeit in lieu of conversation she leant across the desk and kissed Grissom with all the passion intrinsic to her nature.

Not that Grissom objected. He wasn't really taken by surprise; but that, of course, is not how the game is played.

"What was that for?"

"You told me to shut up?"

"And that's your idea of shutting up?"

"I didn't hear you objecting."

"It's quite difficult to object when one's oesophagus is partially blocked by an intruding entity."

"So I'm an entity now?"

Grissom looked the petite woman up and down with a carefully scrutinising gaze "I'm not entirely certain that it would be in my best interests to respond at this time"

"Is that a tactical retreat, Grissom?"

"Possibly," he said, hedging his bets.

"Well, if it is," she replied, "you can tactically retreat in that direction," she indicated a door behind him.

"What's in there?"

"A large bed."

"Madame, are you attempting to seduce me?"

"I certainly hope so. Now move."

Grissom, not being completely clueless, obeyed, although he paused at the door and gestured towards the computer, "What about your article?"

"It can wait."

The door to the bedroom closed with a finality that spelt either doom or something very similar.

As one door closed, another door opened in a different part of town.

"You took your time."

"Nice to see you too, Rilie."

"Grissom keep you late?"

"No, he left early, but I stayed on so I could catch up with some of the other cases that I've let fall behind schedule due to the priority placed on this Shakespeare Killer thing."

"You're making progress then?"

"I guess you could say that."

Rilie looked surprised "How d'you mean? You know the name of the guy in whose apartment the policeman was murdered."

"It's not illegal to live in an apartment where a crime was committed, Rilie; if that were the case then we'd have to arrest a statistically significant proportion of the city. I imagine, however, that the police would like to contact the owner of the apartment and discuss with him certain activities that have occurred in his residence of late."

"Are you feeling alright, Sanders, you sound like you've eaten a lawyer."

Greg grinned, "Let's just say that, of late, I've learnt to become a little more circumspect."

"In other words, you don't want Mueller attacking you in the corridors any more?"

"No, it's not that," he smiled to show that he was aware that Rilie was, in her own way, being funny, "it's more a case of since Grissom started taking me seriously I've started taking myself, well more my duties I guess, more seriously, and as such that involves not leaping to conclusions or making unfounded assumptions."

"…And speaking in sentences that require your average member of the public to use a road map and a machete to navigate through." Rilie regarded the young man, her young man, thoughtfully, "is this really what you want Greg?…"

"…What? To be taken seriously? You know that was one of the reasons why I left the lab in the first place…"

"…No…" she interrupted, "I mean, this new, seriousness, this new professional ability, or maybe that should be inability, to call a spade anything other than a sharp-edged, manual turf removal system."

Greg looked thoughtful, he knew that the crux of Rilie's question wasn't so much about his need to be valued by others as it was about whether this new approach made him feel good about himself; certainly he could understand how one could use the veneer of professionalism to raise one's self esteem, but in this case he was fairly sure that this wasn't the case, he was becoming more professional simply because the situation called for it.

"It's always a possibility," he replied, acknowledging the point, "but not this time, I guess it's just a natural evolution, the music's going well, work's going well, my personal life is going well and most surprisingly of all, even my cat is talking to me."

That last comment alone proved that Greg was still Greg; despair momentarily warred with delight in Rilie's mind as she knew that it was inevitable that she'd have to launch a charm offensive against that damn cat, either that or a rocket propelled-grenade.

"So what's happening in the land of Sanders?"

"Well…pompous, professional circumspection aside, not much. Lab's busy, most of the resources at present are being thrown at Las Vegas' favourite psycho, the big problem of course is that we have several threads of important circumstantial evidence that we haven't been able to tie up."

"How do you mean?"

Greg thought for a second, "Okay, you remember how I said before that just because the guy lives in an apartment where a murder occurred doesn't necessitate that he is the murderer?" Rilie nodded, "now extend that idea further to included several DNA samples from different crime scenes that all match, including the site of the last murder. Now, logically, you'd assume that that would prove that the person living in the apartment committed the crimes; unfortunately, it doesn't, all it indicates is that a specific person was at all of those crime scenes, it doesn't tell us for how long, or when. What we need is for the owner of the apartment to come forward so that we can DNA test them to either exclude or associate them with the previously collected and matched samples, if the freshly taken DNA from the subject matches only at that point can we start building a case against them."

"Isn't that unnecessarily complicated?"

Greg shrugged, "This is the law not a stupid crime drama on the television. Admittedly, we are possibly being excessively anal in this instance but the last thing anyone wants is for this guy, whomever they might be, to walk away on a technicality."

"Okay, that's enough boring job stuff, what else's new?"

"New? Rilie, I saw you two days ago, not even the lead journalist for the National Enquirer could make something up in that time."

"That's alright Greg, I'm just making polite conversation before I drag you into the bedroom…"

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"You had other plans?"

"A hearty game of scrabble perhaps? Then we could read the Bible or maybe the tax code."

"I'll give you biblical, smartass…" Slowly, almost teasingly, Rilie began to undo the buttons on her top.

"Alright…alright; we won't read the bible." The seeming panic in Greg's voice was belied by the twinkle in his eye.

Of course Rilie really had no intention of ripping her clothes off then and there although the scenario did contain a myriad of mouth-watering possibilities; however, while jumping the young man with the all the enthusiasm of a psychopath in a slaughterhouse wasn't, in this situation, entirely appropriate. Part of Rilie's restraint was centred in the knowledge that Greg hadn't come to see her solely for the release the sexual act brought; although judging from past performances both participants had been awarded high marks for technical ability and artistic merit by the judges. Greg came to see Rilie because he genuinely enjoyed her company if for no other reason that for the quality of the insults he would receive.

Also, and hidden deep in the bottom-of-a-coalmine-in-a-blackout part of her mind, Rilie was quietly beginning to accept that this relationship – although she was loath to use such an amorphous concept - was assuming a status of more that a semi-casual fling and as such she didn't want to screw it up. The reality of course was that she couldn't screw it up if she tried as Greg was so far gone, but having limited experience with intense feelings like these she was somewhat scared.

Solution: changing the subject.

"Sanders? Can I ask why you have a plastic wrapped bear sticking out of your jacket pocket?"

Greg tried unsuccessfully to hide the blush that marched across his features with the speed and determination of a German Panzer division.

"It's evidence from a case."

"Isn't a somewhat non-regulation to bring evidence home for the evening?"

"Ummm…maybe."

"…And if it was discovered that you had brought this evidence home would you get into trouble?"

"…yes…" Greg was sounding more and more miserable by the moment.

"So why did you do it?"

"Because I di'n' wa' I' t' ge' lo''ly…" his voice trailed of making the already mumbled sentence even less decipherable.

Rilie rolled her eyes at her boyfriend, "Would you like to try that again?"

Sighing in resignation, Greg prepared himself for the mockery that he knew would inevitably follow, "Okay, I didn't want him to get lonely…alright? The poor little guy had been ripped out of his home and poked and prodded and I guess I didn't feel comfortable just leaving him shut up in a cold evidence locker overnight."

"Okay."

"O…kay? Just Okay? You're not going to tease me?"

"Why would I? What you said makes perfect sense. Now, let's go to bed."

"Sure, but do you mind if I leave the little guy out here? I don't think the bedroom would be an appropriate place for him to be."

"Prude."

"Probably."

"Fine. He can sit sleep on the couch." She paused, "Greg, you're not going to leave him in that plastic bag are you?"

"Good point." And with infinite care he took the plastic wrapped bear from his pocket and, removing him from its artificial environment he lay it down gently upon an aggressively patterned cushion. "Good night little guy, sleep well."

As Greg wandered towards the bedroom, Rilie turned to the bear, "Sleep well little one, we'll see you in the morning."

As the door to the bedroom closed the room was plunged into darkness except for the flickering of the firelight on the face of the little bear who no longer looked so alone.