A/N: Well, I certainly didn't expect such an outcry when I wrote the last chapter...and I expect there'll be an even bigger one after this one...In any case, usual disclaimer...Read away!

Chapter 22- Down With the Sickness

"I can see inside you, the sickness is rising
Don't try to deny what you feel
(Will you give in to me?)
It seems that all that was good has died
And is decaying in me
(Will you give in to me?)

It seems you're having some trouble
In dealing with these changes
Living with these changes
Oh no, the world is a scary place
Now that you've woken up the demon ... in me

Get up, come on get down with the sickness
Get up, come on get down with the sickness
Get up, come on get down with the sickness
Open up your hate, and let it flow into me
Get up, come on get down with the sickness"

Down with the Sickness by Disturbed

Greg groaned as he sat up and glanced at the clock. The red lights blurred so that he could hardly read the time. He squinted, and it became slightly less fuzzy, so that it was at least legible. 4:29. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Shit!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering the doctor's appointment he had at five. He shot out of bed and into the shower, got dressed, drank a quick cup of coffee, and was on the road by 4:37. He screeched into the parking lot of the hospital and made it into Doctor Johnson's waiting room with literally only seconds to spare. Rushing to the front desk, he wheezed, "Greg…Sanders…I'm…here…for…my…appointment."

The receptionist hid a smile and pointed to a chair. "She'll be with you shortly."

Greg sank into the chair in relief. He stood up a few minutes later when the nurse called his name, and he followed her to an exam room. He waited patiently as they went through the usual questions, took his temperature, his blood pressure, his weight, and all the other bustling doctor things they do to make you feel better. Now he had to wait for the doctor to get in. And he waited…and waited…and waited. He was just about to give up and go home when Dr. Johnson opened the door and came in.

"Greg!" she said with a smile, extending her hand. "I didn't expect to see you in here so soon. What's wrong?"

That was why Greg liked Dr. Johnson. She never beat around the bush; she went straight to the point and asked him what was wrong.

He sat up a little straighter and explained what had happened, and how Grissom had wanted to get it checked out.

"Well," said Dr. Johnson, examining what the nurse had written. "You were right to come in. You're running a fever, so we'll give you something for that." She fell silent as she consulted previous records. Suddenly, she looked up and asked, concernedly, 'Greg, have you been eating lately?"

Greg nodded, looking confused. "Yeah, I eat all the time. Sara—she's my fiancée—she always hates how I can eat so much and not gain any weight."

"Actually, Greg, instead of simply not gaining weight, you're losing weight. You've lost over ten percent of your body weight since your admittance to Union County Hospital in Illinois."

Greg eyes widened. "I knew I lost weight, but I didn't think it was that much! Is this bad?" he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was.

She shook her head and pursed her lips. "I don't know," she admitted. "It could be due to a number of things, but, due to your history, I'm going to run a few tests."

She drew some blood and left, calling over her shoulder, "I'm going to have the lab put a rush on this. It should be done within an hour."

Greg wanted to comment that if he had been running the sample, he'd have it done in under thirty minutes, but decided now would not be a good time to press his luck. Instead, he sat back. He hated waiting, but there was nothing else to do. He tried flipping through a few of the awful magazines that hospitals felt the urgent need to keep in all their offices, but that quickly bored him. He instead took to counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. He was up to 5,437 when the door opened and Dr. Johnson came back in. He could tell right away by the expression on her face that she didn't bring good news. "What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up straight.

She sat down and sighed. "Greg, one of the hardest things a doctor has to do is tell a patient that they have a terminal illness."

Greg blanched. "Wha…what do I have?" he whispered.

She looked him in the eye. "You have HIV that has already progressed into AIDS." She would have kept going, but Greg had collapsed into a faint.

When Greg woke up, he didn't know where he was. It was a stark, white room that smelt faintly of chemicals and disease. Suddenly, he remembered. "Oh, shit…" he muttered.

All of a sudden, he heard Grissom speaking to him. "Greg, are you alright?"

Greg looked up and shook his head, feeling tears well in his eyes. Grissom was instantly at his side. "Greg, what's wrong?"

Greg didn't answer. Instead, he whispered, "I have to quit my job."

"What? No, why?"

Greg just looked at him, hopelessness echoing in his eyes. "Griss…I have AIDS," he whispered, ducking his head in shame. When Grissom didn't say anything, Greg looked up sharply. "You knew?" he asked, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

Grissom nodded, slowly and sadly. "When I took your blood to be tested for drugs, I also had it tested for abnormalities. It came back HIV positive."

Greg smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. It was a bitter smile that chilled Grissom's blood to look at. "Guess I should've known you'd do that." He sat up then, leaning against the headboard and crossing his arms in an unconscious gesture of self-preservation. "So what're you doing here, anyway?"

Grissom shrugged. "The hospital called me. Apparently, I'm listed as your emergency contact, so when you fainted, they wanted to let someone know."

Greg nodded, barely, just enough to show he had heard and understood. Then, he said quietly, "I guess I'll come in tomorrow and pack up my stuff."

Grissom shook his head angrily. "Greg, you're not going to quit just because of this!" he protested. "You've been HIV positive for years, and it hasn't stopped your work before!"

Greg slowly turned to face him, deadly calm. "What did you say?"

"You…it…Greg, it wasn't Bruno who gave you the AIDS," said Grissom gently. "We tested his body when we brought it in. It was clean."

Greg felt bile rising in the back of his throat. "So…my father…goddamnit," he snarled, turning and ramming his fist into the wall. Instantly, red-hot pain enveloped his arm, and he cried out.

A nurse ran in. "Mr. Grissom, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she commanded as she gave Greg a shot.

"What did you give him?" demanded Grissom.

"A sedative. He needs to rest; he just found out possibly the worst news of his life, and he is recovering from a traumatic event."

Dr. Johnson stepped into the room. "Thanks, Beatrice, I'll take it from here." The nurse nodded and left. Dr. Johnson stepped over next to Greg's bed and watched him for a second. "It sucks, doesn't it?" she asked, the calm in her voice barely masking the bitterness.

Grissom nodded and watched Greg with her. "Do you know what happened?" he asked quietly.

Dr. Johnson shrugged. "I know bits and pieces, from what his records and x-rays can tell. Twelve trips to the emergency room in just under two months isn't normal for any child; it's a sign of abuse. And Greg's sudden suicide attempt when he turned twelve…well, something had to prompt it, and though I hate to even think about it, it's the only thing that makes any sense."

Grissom didn't say anything, choosing instead to tuck the sheets more securely around Greg's sleeping body. "It shouldn't be him," he said sadly. "He doesn't deserve it."

"Nobody does," said Dr. Johnson.

"He thinks he has to quit work." When Dr. Johnson didn't respond, Grissom asked tentatively, "Surely you don't think he should?"

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Honestly, I can't answer that. While I think it's important for Greg to be around his friends and family, and I believe the crime lab qualifies as both for him, I also know that potentially, Greg could contaminate evidence with one paper cut. I also think it may be easier for him to quit now instead of later…when he's too far-gone. He may not want everyone to see him like that."

"Doctor, I want you to be honest with me. How long does he have?"

"I don't know." Grissom gave her a look. "I honestly have no idea. Every patient is different. At the rate, however, that his HIV has progressed, I'd say he has a year. At most. Of course, it may be shorter or longer than that."

"But…isn't there anything…medicine or…"

"There are treatments, yes. But with Greg's condition being what it is…well, there's no guarantee they'd help at all. Chances are they'd hurt more than anything,"

"But he has to try, right?"

"It's up to him. The treatments I'm talking about aren't necessarily as simple as taking AZT. I'm talking about blood transfusions and lots of hospital time. All in all, it will be very expensive, and probably not worth it in the end."

Grissom just sighed. "I wish to God that this weren't happening. Jesus, he's supposed to be getting married…Oh, God, I gotta call Sara. She…she has to…" He couldn't continue because he had started crying.

Dr. Johnson left Grissom alone then. He needed time, and time alone, to deal with this. They all needed time to deal with this.

A/N: 10 percent body weight loss and fever are both consistent with the progression of Human Immunodeficiency Virus into Aquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.