A/N: Well, not much to say. There'll be a longer explanation at the end of all the medical terms and such. Usual disclaimer applies.

Chapter One

"We gotta hold on to what we got"

"Good morning Las Vegas. This is Clarence Jones reporting live for CBS 2 News from City Hall where Senator Patrick O'Neil was found dead this morning, Tuesday the 9th…"

Nick Stokes yawned as he climbed from his truck and ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. "Griss, this had better be good," he said as he yawned again. "You woke me up from what promised to be a nice, long sleep."

"Well, it depends on your definition of good," replied Grissom, snapping a picture of something. "It certainly wasn't a good morning for this Californian Senator."

Instantly, Nick perked up. "Senator O'Neil's the DB?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Grissom.

"Yep," said Grissom, snapping another picture of the body. "He was found at six this morning by his partner over there." He pointed at a distraught-looking man talking to Brass. "Brass is getting his statement now."

"We got a COD?" asked Nick as he knelt next to the body, visually examining it for anything out of the ordinary.

"No apparent one," supplied David from his position at the vic's head. "Liver temp's normal, lividity isn't fixed and rigor hasn't set in, so he hasn't been dead very long."

"Fits his boyfriend's statement," said Brass as he joined them "According to…" He consulted his notes. "Marty Resner, he left the room for five minutes to go get our vic a glass of water, and when he came back, the vic was on the floor, dead. He called 9-1-1 after checking for a pulse and finding none. He tried CPR, but it obviously didn't work. EMTs pronounced DOA."

"What was the senator doing here at six in the morning?" asked Greg as he and Sara walked up.

"Decided to join us, huh?" asked Brass, raising an eyebrow at the young CSI. "And he was practicing for a speech he was supposed to give later today."

"Well, he won't be giving any more speeches," said Grissom, standing. He gave Greg a strange look. "And why are you two so late? We're only about ten minutes away from the lab."

Greg grinned. "Funny story, actually…" he started, but Grissom shook his head and cut him off.

"Story time can wait, Greg. This scene's fresh, and we need to process it right away. I'll stay here and wait for Cath and Warrick. Nick, take Sara and Greg and go process the vic's hotel. He was staying at the Tangiers."

"Wait, we're all working on this case?" asked Greg, raising an eyebrow.

Grissom nodded emphatically. "Yes. This case is top priority. If Doc Robbins rules it as murder, it'll go down as an assassination, and I want us to get as far as we can before the Feds decide to take over."

Nick nodded in affirmation and then turned to Greg and Sara. "Well, shall we?" he asked.

All three left, leaving Grissom alone with David. Grissom squinted at the body. "Are there any obvious contusions or signs of struggle?"

David shrugged and shook his head. "No. No signs of any external injury of any kind. If I didn't know better, I'd say he just dropped dead."

"Healthy, mid-thirties men don't just drop dead, David," chided Grissom absently as he looked at the body. With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and said, "Go ahead and take him, David. I'll send Warrick over to collect trace later." Grissom looked back down at the body and wondered out loud, "What happened to you, Mr. Senator?"

Nick, Greg and Sara walked away from the crime scene toward their cars. Greg was about to go with Sara, but Nick stopped him. "Why don't you ride with me, Greg?" he suggested. "I want to talk to you about that case out in Henderson the other day."

Greg shrugged and looked over at Sara. "See you there," he told her, heading over to Nick's truck and climbing.

Nick took his time putting his kit in the back of his truck as he waited for Sara to leave. Once she was gone, he clambered into the driver's seat and turned to Greg, leaning over and kissing him gently on the lips. "Good morning," he whispered, smiling at him.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," said Greg, but he was smiling. He kissed Nick back, harder and deeper that Nick had kissed him.

Nick pulled away when he heard a car. Straightening, he started the truck and drove out the parking lot. Greg sighed and leaned back in his seat. "You know," he said conversationally, staring at the ceiling, "they're going to find out sooner or later."

Nick grunted noncommittally. This was not an unusual conversation with them; one version or another played out at least once daily. Nick sighed as Greg turned the radio on. Since the two had started dating a few months ago, after the whole coffin incident (Nick had to suppress a shudder), Greg had wanted nothing more than to tell everyone. And Nick? Well, Nick just wasn't ready yet. He sighed again and turned to look at the younger man jamming to Black Flag. The CSIs were bound to notice how Nick grinned like an idiot whenever Greg was near or how Greg lit up like a Christmas tree whenever Nick entered a room. They were bound to notice that all but one of Nick's pre-set radio stations in his car were now set to rock stations. Sooner or later, they'd figure out why seemingly strange comments about grocery shopping or needing a new couch were everyday things with them. One day, they'd realize that Nick hadn't had a girlfriend since the whole coffin thing, but spent the night at Greg's at least once a week, and the rest of time Greg slept over at his place. One day. Sooner or later. Nick just hoped it was later.

He sighed once more and Greg asked concernedly, "Hey, is everything alright?"

"Yeah," said Nick, half-smiling at Greg. "Yeah." He looked Greg in the eyes. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, I know," said Greg, a small grin lighting up his face. He turned serious. "We don't have to tell them yet if you don't want to. I don't care."

"Thanks," said Nick gently. "Besides, I want to see who'll figure it out first. My money's on Catherine. She's got a woman's intuition about this sort of thing."

"What, not Warrick?" asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. "You don't think your best friend will be able to guess it?"

"Are you joking?" laughed Nick as they pulled into the parking lot at the Tangiers. "The day Warrick Brown figures out on his own that I'm gay is the day Catherine and Sara come out and say they've been having some lesbian lovin' on Grissom's desk while he watches."

"Ah, my retinas!" exclaimed Greg, screwing up his eyes. "Why would you put that image into my mind? Why?"

"Sorry," said Nick, hiding a grin as he parked and they got out. "Just wanted to make you realize that it's almost impossible for Warrick to figure out that I'm gay."

"Yeah, but Cath and Sara lesbian action? Gross," said Greg with a shudder. He paused contemplatively. "There again, lesbian action in general never really appealed to me."

Nick blinked at Greg. "Greg, you like men."

Greg shrugged. "Meh, c'est la vie."

Shaking his head and grinning, Nick followed Greg into the Tangiers. They were met by an officer who escorted them to the late Senator's suite. Sara was already busy photographing the living room. "'Bout time you guys got here," she mentioned calmly. "What held you up?"

"Car crash," said Greg, just as calmly. "Twenty casualties at least. Five dead already."

"Twenty?" asked Sara, raising her eyebrows. "What did you do, hit a bus?"

"No, clown car," said Greg, dead serious. He pulled out a pair of gloves and put them on. "As it turns out, they were a bunch of illegal immigrants posing as clowns. We had to wait for Border Patrol to arrive."

Sara stifled a laugh and shared a look with Nick, who just shrugged helplessly. "I'll take the bathroom," he said, glancing at Greg. "Why don't you take the bedroom?"

"Sure thing," said Greg cheerfully, firing off a salute in Nick's direction before heading into the bedroom. "What're we looking for, exactly?" he asked as he scanned the room.

"You know," called Nick from the bathroom. "Any evidence that suggests the Senator was murdered."

"Right," said Greg as he set to work on the bedroom.

Grissom opened the door to the morgue, pulling on his gloves as he went. "What've we got, Doc?" he asked. "Murder or something else?"

"Well, Gil, I don't know what to tell you," said Doc Robbins from over at the body.

"What do you mean?" asked Grissom, confused. "Either it's murder or natural causes."

"Come see for yourself," said Doc Robbins calmly. He pulled away the flap of skin on the Senator's chest. "Notice anything?"

Grissom peered into the Senator's chest. "Nothing seems remarkable," he said. "What was COD?"

"Heart failure," said Doc Robbins with a shrug. "His heart stopped. There's evidence of stress on the heart, suggesting a heart attack, but no evidence as to the cause." Grissom looked up, surprised, but Doc Robbins held up a hand to stop him from speaking. "Wait, there's more. As lividity became fixed, I noticed something strange. Take a look at his legs. The pattern of lividity is unusual and unique to massive muscle death caused by multiple infarctions."

"Post-mortem?" asked Grissom, brow beginning to wrinkle in confusion.

Doc Robbins shook his head. "As far as I can tell, he suffered the muscle death in his legs at the same time as the infarction in his heart."

"So massive vascular infarctions took place in his legs and his heart at the same time? What could possibly do that to a fairly healthy man?"

"It gets better still," said Doc Robbins grimly, crossing over to a stainless steel bowl. "Take a look and tell me what you see."

Grissom peered into the bowl, adjusting his glasses to see it better. It was the Senator's brain. "Hm…" said Grissom aloud. "Seems unremarkable."

"On the outside, yes. Now look at this." The doctor flipped the brain over so Grissom could see in it. "Severe destruction of the substantia nigra. I'd say that's what caused the infarctions, although I can't tell you what caused the depletion. Over 80 percent of the substantia nigra has been destroyed." He paused and stared at the brain before shaking his head slowly. "I sent a blood sample to tox. They'll be able to tell you more."

"Thanks, Doc," said Grissom slowly, still puzzling over the body. He left the morgue even more confused than he had been when he had gone in. What had happened to the Senator?

Greg looked over the crumpled bed sheets flung haphazardly over the bed. He quickly pulled put his UV-light before hitting the lights and crossing back to the bed. He looked over the sheets and groaned aloud. "Hey Nick," he called, wrinkling his nose at the large stains that showed up under the light. "Did I ever tell you how I never want to stay in a hotel again?"

"I'll take it you found semen stains on the sheets?" asked Nick, poking his head out of the bathroom.

"Yeah…massive semen stains. I mean, Jesus…I don't think I've ever seen this much…except, well, you know…" He grinned wickedly at Nick, who blushed deeply.

Nick cleared his throat loudly and said in a strange-sounding voice, "Well, I found some used condoms in here, so we can compare the semen."

"Wait, you found condoms?" asked Greg, confused. "That doesn't make any sense. Who has unprotected sex and then decides to use a condom?"

"Someone sleeping with more than one person?" suggested Nick with raised eyebrows. "Could give us motive…"

"Yeah, I'll take the sheets to DNA and see how many contributors we've got," said Greg, nodding. He turned the light back on and pulled out his flashlight to look over the dresser. He saw an envelope with a letter hanging out. Brow furrowing, he pulled the letter out, sneezing slightly as he inhaled a little bit of the dust on it. Coughing slightly as the dust burned his throat, he opened the letter and read it to himself.

"Dear Mr. O'Neil,

You are a disgrace to the state and to the United States Senate. Your very existence mars the reputation that this state has. Not only should you, fag, and your cock-sucking boyfriend be shot, but you will also rot in Hell for eternity. In lieu of hunting you down and killing yourself, I've sent you this. Give Satan my regards, fag.

Sincerely Yours,
A God-Loving Citizen"

"Hey, I've got a threatening note," called Greg to Nick. "Jesus, this is pretty hostile." He looked closer at it. "Some kind of white powder on it. Can't tell what it is, though."

"Well, collect a sample and send it to trace," responded Nick from the bathroom.

Greg nodded, then realized Nick couldn't see him. "Ok, thanks," he called back. Pulling out a small manila envelope, he brushed some of the powder into it before closing it and putting it in his vest. He then carefully sealed the letter and its envelope in an evidence bag before moving on to the rest of the room.

Less than an hour later, Sara, Greg and Nick were back at the lab. Nick and Sara went to go process some evidence they had collected while Greg finished his report to Grissom. "I found a hate letter with white powder on it," he said, yawning widely. "Sent a sample of the powder to trace first thing when we got back."

Doc Robbins came up behind Greg. "You found white powder?" he asked, sounding worried. "Did you inhale any of it?"

"Um…" said Greg, looking slightly embarrassed. "Well, see, the letter was, like, coated in the stuff, and—"

"Yes or no, Greg, did you inhale it?" asked the coroner, sounding angrier than he ever had.

"Al, what's going on?" asked Grissom concernedly.

Doc Robbins sighed. "After examining the Senator's nasal passages and upper airways more closely, I found traces of a white powder. I initially thought drugs of some kind, but then Greg said he found some powder on a hate letter to the Senator, so…"

"So you're thinking poison," finished Grissom as what the coroner had been trying to say sank in. He turned to Greg. "Did you, Greg? Even on accident? Did you inhale some?"

Greg nodded mutely, beginning to look afraid. Grissom muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear word under his breath and turned back to Doc Robbins. "Al, keep Greg quarantined until we know more about this powder, alright? And Greg…I hope to God it's not poison."

Greg nodded once more, looking incredibly pale, then turned and followed Doc Robbins back to the morgue.

Grissom shook his head, trying to force the feeling of panic to subside. Another of his CSI's lives at stake…Turning on his heel, he walked quickly to the Trace lab. "Tell me you've got something, Hodges," he said as he entered the lab.

Hodges looked up from his computer, face serious. "I do, but you're not going to like it."

Grissom swallowed. "What is it?"

"Well, I can't tell you exactly, but it's very similar to highly concentrated Meperidine Hydrochloride, also known as MPTP. Found in cheap cuts of heroin and other recreational drugs. That's the good news—it's not technically poison."

"What's the bad news?" asked Grissom quietly, dreading the answer.

"MPTP causes severe destruction of the substantia nigra, the portion of the brain that produces dopamine, serotonin and other chemicals. Without dopamine, the body is unable to transfer vital messages, causing the afflicted person to basically develop Parkinson's."

"Well, that's ok," said Grissom, almost smiling in relief. "Parkinson's isn't fatal."

"Not normal Parkinson's, no," said Hodges grimly, "but this type is. The high concentration of the substance will cause almost instant destruction to the substantia nigra, which will lead quickly to muscle death and eventually heart failure."

"Shit," whispered Grissom, almost frozen in horror.

Suddenly, Hodges' computer gave off a series of high-pitched beeps. He turned back to it, clicking on something, then said excitedly, "I've got something that may help your investigation. The chemical is produced only by a biological warfare defense company, called BioTech, on the outskirts of Clark County. They'll be able to tell you more."

"Thanks," said Grissom quietly, turning to leave.

"You're welcome," said Hodges, but he looked at Grissom concernedly. "Hey, is everything alright? I mean, Sanders didn't breathe this stuff in, did he?"

Grissom turned back around and just looked at Hodges, who sat down slowly in his chair, stunned. "Oh, God…" he whispered, staring after Grissom as he left.

Grissom strode down the hall. Things were not looking good for Greggo.

A/N (pt. 2): While I wish fervently that my imagination was good enough to make up all the medical stuff, it's not. I did my research instead. MPTP is real, and while it does cause destruction of the substantia nigra, there's no proof that a highly concentrated dose would be fatal, hence why I made up a new drug that would be. Muscle death and/or heart failure is possible, though rare, in severe and advanced cases of Parkinson's.