A/N - If anyone's still interested in Politics, it's not dead yet! The final chapters should be posted by the end of the month.

Ghosts

The bedroom was cold when Grissom woke up, cold enough that he could see his breath in the red light of the alarm clock. He frowned as he read the glowing numbers, noting that the alarm should be sounding yet all was quiet. Too quiet, in fact. The heater should have turned itself on once the temperature had dropped so low.

Still huddled under his blankets, Grissom reached out to the lamp on his nightstand and turned the switch but nothing happened. Frowning again, he turned the switch a few more times but still the light didn't turn on. With a muttered 'damn' he started to rise but froze when he heard a noise. "Hello?" He called out carefully, his head cocked as he listened for any further sounds. He heard it again, a sort of whisper coming from the corner by his closet. "Who's there?" The voices, so soft he wasn't even sure they were voices, continued on.

Growing irritated Gil reached into the drawer of the nightstand for the flashlight he kept there, keeping his motions quiet as he continued to listen, still unable to make out any words. Once the light was in hand he pulled it out carefully, keeping his motions slow and silent until it was free of the drawer and aimed at the corner. With a press of a button the light came on and the voices stopped. Frustrated with himself for jumping at noises Grissom set the light on the table and prepared to get out of bed when the bulb started dimming. Within a few seconds the room was dark again and the sounds returned.

"That's it," Grissom muttered. He pushed back the covers, shivering at the sudden draft on his exposed arms and legs, turned so he was sitting with his feet on the floor, walked to the light switch by his door and flicked it up, expecting to see an empty bedroom with an open window, but nothing happened. He looked back at the clock, making sure the numbers were still on. If the power had gone out the battery wouldn't have wasted power by illuminating the time and the overhead light had two bulbs that had never died at the same time. The odds that three bulbs had burnt out on the same night were slim but was it impossible? He mused over the odds and turned to leave the bedroom when the strange sounds grew louder.

"Hey!" He yelled out loud enough so that he could be heard by someone outside. "Who's there?" He followed the wall to the window, grabbing his robe on the way and belting it tightly against the cold. His bedroom window faced the back into the small yard. There was a chance the noise he heard came from his neighbor's, which he thought unlikely since she was usually at work at that time. The point became moot as soon as he reached the window and found it closed and locked behind the blackout curtain. As he let the curtain fall he realized the sounds hadn't grown any louder even though he thought he'd walked towards them and they now sounded like they were behind them.

"What the hell is going on?" He asked the empty room. The sounds grew louder, sounding even more like incoherent whispers, before quieting down to a soft murmur. Grissom frowned and stalked to the door. He was done chasing strange sounds and burnt out light bulbs. It was time to get ready for work.

He went to the kitchen to start the coffee maker and fix breakfast. He flipped the light switch but the light stayed off. He stared at the fixture for only a moment before entering. Enough light filtered through the windows that he could see well enough to toast a bagel or English muffin anyway. He opened the fridge to get the butter, pausing a moment when the fridge light didn't turn on. He shook off the shock when the motor hummed into life to make up for the cold he was letting out and grabbed the butter and closed the door.

His mind ran through various explanations while he cut a bagel in half and set it in the toaster. Had there been an electrical storm? Maybe an electromagnetic pulse had disturbed the bulb filaments? He knew he was reaching but clearly something had happened. There were lights on outside but if it had occurred during the day they could have been repaired while he slept. He shivered, realizing that it was just as cold in the kitchen as his bedroom had been, and pushed himself away from the counter to check the thermostat when small bolts of blue lightening flew from the toaster.

"What the-" His cry was cut off when the toaster started jerking away from the wall, held back only by the short cord plugged into the outlet. He found a pair of plastic tongs in the utensil drawer and stretched his right arm out carefully, keeping the elbow bent so that it stayed away from the shocks and angled the tongs downward towards the plug. His precautions weren't enough, he still got too close and two of the bolts hit his arm, which he pulled back and cradled against his body. Within seconds the toaster was still again. His left arm shot out and pulled the plug out from the wall and he stepped away just in case. Again he heard the strange whispers.

"What the hell is going on here?" He spoke quietly while his focused gaze covered every square inch of the small kitchen. Aside from the smoke still rising from the burnt bagel, nothing was out of place. He wandered into the living room, unsurprised when the light didn't turn on, fixing the image of what he'd seen that afternoon in his mind and comparing it to what he now saw. It wasn't hard to see some of the differences. As he approached the display cases mounted in the wall he saw that all of the butterflies in one case had been turned upside down on their pins. In another case, the butterflies had been turned backwards. He picked up the first case and turned it around but the paper backing was still intact, as was the backing on the second case. He crept further along the dimly lit wall to look at the next display but froze when it slipped off its hook just as he was reaching for it. By some miracle the glass didn't break when it landed, it simply stood as if placed there. Grissom took a moment to catch his breath and moved on.

Throughout the room he found several little changes, but the greatest shock was the gun lying on his coffee table. He was never careless with his weapon, always kept it in its holster and locked in a drawer while he was home. For it to be out here in the open, the holster not in sight meant that it had been moved while he slept. He studied its position carefully, noting that the barrel had been pointing towards a brick wall, before picking it up. The grip felt warm despite the chill of the house, and a quick check confirmed that there was a bullet already chambered. It occurred to him that he should be wearing gloves so that he wouldn't obliterate any prints but for the moment he couldn't bring himself to care. A closer inspection of the weapon confirmed that it was in fact his when he recognized a scratch on the grip. Then he looked down at the tabletop and saw the swirls etched into the wood. Acting on a hunch he placed the gun over them and rotated the weapon around. The grooves lined up with the tip of the barrel and end of the grip, as if someone had been pressing hard while turning it.

Shaken, Grissom picked up the gun and took it with him as he inspected every room in his townhouse, opened every closet door, checked every window to make sure it was still locked. He found no working lights, not even the flashlight he kept in the study, matches fizzled out before they'd even caught fire and no possible exit for any intruder. The windows locked from the inside, the front door was dead bolted, and the sliding glass door still had its bar down. It was all leading him to one very uncomfortable conclusion, an idea he was reluctant to consider but he was unable to come up with any other explanation, reasonable or not.

Grissom had always prided himself on his scientific reputation, which was based on the fact that he considered all evidence objectively without letting his personal views and opinions get in the way. It was the reason he had such a high solve rate and a very low appeal rate, it was the reason the sheriff hadn't fired him despite all of his political blunders, and that dedication to the truth was the reason he worked so hard at his job, often foregoing a life outside of the lab. And as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said in The Sign of Four, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." So far he hadn't completely ruled out an intruder or even a practical joke, but that didn't explain how the voices followed him everywhere without getting closer or farther away, or how his house had gotten so cold with its weak air conditioner, and as a practical joke it really didn't strike him as the kind of thing anyone at the lab would pull and no intruder would go through so much effort to do so little.

He decided to take a shower and go into the lab. If there was a ghost haunting his house there was nothing he could do about it. As he pulled out some clothes from his dressers he realized it was October 31, the day when legend said the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was the weakest. If that was true, and he was being plagued by a ghost, then all should be well when he returned from work the next day. He kept this thought in mind even as he carried the gun to the shower in case there was a human element involved.

In the bathroom he flipped the light switch out of habit and left it on. He left his clean clothes on the toilet seat and the gun on the cabinet by the shower where it would be in reach but safe from the water. While the water warmed up he shed his robe, boxers and T-shirt then stepped into the hot stream gratefully, lingering a moment to let the heat soak into his chilled bones. Once he was warm enough he lathered up his hair with shampoo, grateful for his habitual order that let him find everything in the completely dark bathroom. As he rinsed out the suds the water's temperature suddenly turned hot, as if the cold water had been turned off, then returned to normal before he was halfway out of the stream. The voices that had followed him all night grew louder and he shut the water off, hoping to hear them more clearly, but while they stayed at the higher volume they were no more understandable than before. Wary, he turned the water back on, staying at the edge of the stream as he soaped up his body and rinsed off, ready to jump back at any moment. He had only a few moments before the temperature began to fluctuate again, going up and down from scalding to freezing.

All around him, the voices grew louder, no longer whispering but speaking, almost yelling, and he decided to forego the rest of his usual morning routine and simply dress and leave as soon as possible. He shut the water off and the light came on, blinding him until his eyes adjusted. When he was able to see again his mirror looked like someone had wiped away some of the steam that had built up with their hand. As he watched, the steam accumulated again and writing began to appear as if someone dragged their finger through. Almost as fast as the writing appeared, and smear as large as a hand wiped it out. "My name is," he started to read, frozen in place in the tub, "Gil Grissom. I reside at- No, this can't be right."

The letters continued to appear then disappear until it wrote out the entire suicide script of Paul Millander. The voices around him were yelling, screaming, the volume almost unbearable. He glanced down and saw the gun rotating in place, forming the same grooves that had appeared on the coffee table, twisting back and forth as if two people were fighting over it. He looked up in time to see the next message on the mirror, "Happy birthday, Mr. Grissom," just before it was wiped away.

Grissom stepped out of the tub to get his clothes but before he could step into his pants he tripped and fell back in. The gun's barrel started to turn his way again and he reached out to stop it but found the metal too hot to touch. He ducked down low, keeping himself below the counter's level, and kept his gaze alternating between the fogged mirror and the spot his gun was at while he reached out and pulled his pants on awkwardly. He tried to climb out over the edge of the tub, still staying low, but felt two strong hands push him back in. His head rose up as he flew backwards and the gun fired, lodging a bullet into the tile and showering the side of his face with porcelain chips. "What do you want, Paul?" He yelled out, slipping down again.

'I want justice' was written on the mirror.

"For your father? The men were already tried and acquitted," he shouted at the mirror. "Even if the men are still alive they can't be charged again under double jeopardy. You were a judge, you know that!"

'I need peace.'

"You killed three men, your own mother and then yourself!" He yelled back, wondering abstractly if it mattered whether or not he could be heard over the cacophony. "You gave up your chance for peace in this world, you're going to have to find it in the next, whatever that may be."

The noise lessened slightly and Grissom held his breath as he waited for the next message in the mirror. 'I thought I was done,' the ghost finally wrote.

"You're going to have to come to terms with what you've done and move on," Grissom shouted. "Otherwise you'll keep killing, and killing, and wondering why you haven't found your peace. Do you really think shooting me is going to help? Do you really think you're helping your father's memory by recreating his death over and over again?"

Again he had to wait. 'Just you.'

Gasping for breath and still watching the gun, Grissom tried taking a different track. "All your life you've been compensating for a moment of perceived weakness. You started by becoming a man and starting a new life with a new name. You became a judge, one of the most powerful people in our society, but it still wasn't enough so you took the next step and claimed the power of life over death. You played a game with law enforcement, taunting us, challenging us to understand your message and the significance of the deaths you created. But you still felt weak, didn't you? You still felt helpless over watching your father's murder so in one final display of power, you killed your mother and yourself. Now you're dead but you still haven't found peace, you still have to deal with the same issues you had in life."

Only when he finished his speech did Grissom realize the voices had quieted to whispers again. He prayed silently that his gamble had worked, that Paul Millander's ghost truly was willing to listen and consider his words.

'Now what?'

"I don't know, but I can't believe that we're meant to wander the earth as spirits forever."

'It would be a lot more crowded,' Paul wrote after a moment and Grissom could almost see the corner of his lips quirking upward.

"Your life was much more chaotic and complicated than most so it makes sense that you might need some extra time before moving on to whatever comes next."

'I don't want to go to hell.'

"I can't tell you what the universe has in store for you, whether it's eternal punishment or simply a chance to try again, and I doubt you'll find out until it's time to face it."

'I'm not ready.'

"You don't have to be, not now." Slowly, he raised himself up and picked up the gun, removing the clip and clearing the barrel as soon as it was in his hands. "But continuing the violence isn't going to help any."

There was a heavy pause. 'I'm scared.'

"I can't tell you what happens next, but if you need someone to talk to I'm here."

The fog on the mirror started to dissipate and Grissom heard someone walking through his living room. His grip on the unloaded gun tightened until he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Gil!" Brass called out. "You here?"

"Just a minute, Jim," he yelled in reply and pulled on the polo shirt. "What's up?" He asked as he walked out where the detective was waiting.

"We've been calling and paging you but you haven't answered. Is everything okay?"

"Actually, I've been having some electrical problems today. My phone was on the charger; it must have blown during a power surge. What did you need?"

"State Trooper called in a body off if I-15, says it's crawling with bugs."

"You go ahead, I'll be right behind you."

Brass left and Grissom went back to his bedroom to find socks and shoes, unsurprised that the light was working. When he looked in the mirror to run a comb through his hair the fog returned with one final message written in the condensation.

'Thank you.'

End