Author's Note: Sorry if this chapter drags on. The next one is the last. And then it's finally over. R&R my lovelies.

He dreamed in black and white. Notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata drifted in his ears. He stood on a black and white checkerboard of a floor with no walls or ceiling, just blackness stretching off into the horizon as far as the eye could see. He turned around and saw the back of a lean woman who sat at a grand piano, her back stiff but her body swaying ever so slightly with the music. Her long blonde hair reached the hemline of her jeans and was neatly brushed. He listened to her for a moment, letting the quiet sounds of the piano wash over him and clear his mind.

He approached the woman, hoping to compliment her on her playing but when he got near enough to see her face, he stopped dead.

Vera Volkova played the piano so smoothly and effortlessly, she sounded like she had been playing since the womb. Her eyes were closed as she played and read no sheet music. Greg was speechless as she continued with the piece, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

And then, she changed, her hair growing shorter, her back less rigid as she shrank before Greg's eyes into someone completely new, someone Greg didn't altogether recognize. Her cropped blonde hair reached just up to her chin and curled under. She wore a black head band and played remarkably well for a tiny thing with skinny fingers. Her little feet couldn't even reach the pedals. The music slowed and came to a stop and she smiled up at Greg with a gap-toothed grin.

"Did I do good, Daddy?" she asked, her blue eyes sparkling. They were the only color in the whole room, those dancing blue eyes.

Greg smiled fondly at her and kneeled down as she hopped off the bench. He scooped her up as she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and giggled as he swept her off her feet into the air and spun around.

"Angel," he said, "you were magnificent."

She pecked him on the cheek as he adjusted his grip on her and laughed. The sound of it was more beautiful than the music from the piano. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

"I love you, Daddy," she said. "Do you love me too?"

Greg opened his mouth to respond enthusiastically when the words hitched in the back of his throat, like a hiccup. Startled, he pulled away just enough to see her smiling chubby face as she looked at him curiously. He tried to say it again, but the same thing happened and he didn't understand it.

The smile on her little face faded, and she blinked at him with those big blue eyes. She wore an expression that was much too old for her face, her eyes carrying wisdom beyond her five years. "I would have been good, you know, Daddy," she said, her voice, too, sounding similarly older than she looked. She struggled in his grasp and he let her down. She looked up at him with bright eyes before continuing.

"I sing pretty too, you know," she said. "Or, maybe not pretty yet. I sing loudly, though. But you always grit your teeth and pretend it sounds pretty." She grew before his eyes, and was now eight or nine. "Eventually, you decide to pay for singing lessons. I take them eagerly. And when I get tired of them, you don't let me quit. You make me continue with my piano too."

She grew older still, now twelve or thirteen. She carried a soccer ball under her arm and wore a green and black soccer uniform. She began dribbling the ball and bouncing it in the air and off her knees. "Soon enough, I'm on the soccer team. When I'm twelve, I bust my knee. Grandma flips, and I start crying, but you tell me that I'm tougher than I look. You say that no one, not even a soccer ball, can ever keep me down for longer than I allow them to. You make a joke about how you'll personally go and deflate the soccer ball to teach it a lesson and I laugh. My knee heals, but I remember what you said for the rest of my life."

She grew again, this time looking fifteen or sixteen, her uniform replaced by a spaghetti strap top and a jean miniskirt with knee-high boots. She was holding a compact mirror out as she applied lipstick. She smacked her lips together and smiled at Greg. "I start dating at fourteen and you freak out. At fifteen, I come downstairs dressed like this and try to go to school. Even though I'm already late you make me go upstairs and won't let me leave until I put on a t-shirt and jeans. I end up missing first period completely because I argued with you for longer than it took me to change."

She closed the compact and tucked it away in her purse, pulling out a black sweater jacket, which she pulled tightly around her shoulders. She buried her hands in the pockets. "When I'm sixteen, I come home from a date in tears because some jerk wouldn't take no for an answer. I sprayed him with mace, which you insisted I carry ever since I started dating. You make me tea, and Sara puts on the First Wives' Club and the three of us watch it together, throwing popcorn at the screen and insulting men. You're the butt of most of our jokes, and you're glad to play the part because it makes me and Sara laugh. The next day at school, not only is the jerk's face magenta because of the mace, but someone keyed his car and spray painted 'Rick Cross Has A Tiny Penis' across his windshield. When I come home, I find spray cans in the trash."

She continued to grow older, eighteen or nineteen as she wore a trendy blazer and jeans. "I get into Princeton on a music scholarship and double major in music and chemistry. My chem. professor jokes and says I really have a talent for blowing things up. My music professor encourages me to audition for the opera house. I get in as the youngest soprano in New Jersey history and sing Carmina Burana with professionals. You blow off an important conference that Grissom insisted you attend just to see me sing."

She grew even older, now in her mid-twenties, her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back in a tight pony tail as she wore a lab coat. "When I'm twenty-six, the conductor at the concert hall I'm working at in Boston dies. It's passed off as a suicide, an overdose of anti-depressants, until I point out to the CSIs investigating that the reaction happened way too fast and there had to be a catalyst. They run some tests and find out there was. A neurotoxin which interfered with his prescribed medications. The jealous cellist slipped it to him. This earns me a job offer over at the Boston Crime Lab. They need a ballistics tech, and like my old professor said, I have a penchant for watching things explode. I take it."

She continued to grow, now in her mid thirties and a wedding dress. "On my wedding day, you tell me that my fiance doesn't deserve a woman as beautiful and brilliant as me. At first, I think you're being overprotective, but then my husband cheats on me five years later. I feel embarrassed and depressed, until I remember what you told me when I was twelve and I miss you because you're so far away in Vegas. But I don't have time to go back and see you. My new job in Boston is too demanding."

The white gown turned black and the girl grew even older. A tear strolled down her cheek. "By the time I finally make it back to Nevada, it's for your funeral. And I go to your open casket and tell you, 'I was a good daughter, wasn't I Dad? I made you proud. Didn't I?'"

She stopped talking and Greg stared at her dumbstruck. "I'm so sorry…"

But she was shaking her head, her blue eyes wide and her lips straight. "I could have been yours, Daddy. I could have been your baby girl. Your little angel. Your little Lydia."

She was suddenly a five-year-old girl again, but the expression on her face remained unchanged. "But you didn't want me. You didn't want this."

She turned around and walked away. Greg reached out after her, tried to call her name, but no sound came out. She just kept walking, her little footsteps echoing off the nonexistent walls until she faded away.

Moonlight Sonata filled the room again, and Greg turned to the only piece of furniture in the room: the grand piano.

She was there again, drumming out Beethoven's notes as though she had written them herself. Slowly he approached her and rested a tentative hand on her shoulder. She stopped playing and looked up at him. She had a black eye. For some reason, this frightened Greg and he stepped backwards. A smile crept across her features. He turned away from her and started walking off into the darkness.

There was an odd, dissonant cord that rang out through the empty space and made Greg stop. He turned ever so slightly to see Vera Volkova sitting backwards on the bench, her elbows leaning on the keys of the piano which had caused the unharmonious sound. One foot was drawn up on the bench near her while the other was stretched out lazily like a cat's.

"It's not your fault," she told him.

Greg walked over to her, absolutely calm. "I don't care."

"You're lying," Vera cooed. "Believe me, I know a liar when I see one. I was married to one for ten years. You wanted that. You wanted her. I am truly sorry."

"You're lying, too," Greg replied. "You have never been sorry for anything in your life."

"There was nothing left for me in this world other than that child," Vera replied simply. "I wanted her too, Greg. I really did."

Greg shook his head. "Things are better this way. For everyone."

"Not for me," Vera said. "I am to be executed in August."

"That was going to happen anyway," Greg pointed out.

"But now I die without a legacy," Vera whispered. "She was all I had left, Greg."

Greg turned his back on the vile woman, his eyes welling with tears. "Then you shouldn't have killed her."

Greg's eyes snapped open and he gasped for air as though he had just broken the surface of a body of water he had previously been drowning in. His vision was blurry at first, but as it cleared he could make out a white ceiling above his head. He wasn't too sure where he was. When he tried to move his arms, they were stiff and sore, and he found they were hooked up to machines. He looked down at them curiously. His head throbbed mercilessly and he felt painfully dehydrated. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and hope when he woke up the pain would be gone

Something move and Greg looked up with doe eyes to see Nick who was leaning on the wall opposite of his bed and watching him intently.

"How long was I out?" Greg croaked.

"Not including the two days you spent writhing with fever, you've been sleeping peacefully for eighteen hours," Nick said. "That was some nap you took, Greggo."

Greg heaved a huge sigh. "Yeah, well I haven't been sleeping well lately."

Nick pulled out a small orange bottle as he walked quietly over to the bed. "Gee, these wouldn't have anything to do with that, would they?"

Greg closed his eyes and leaned his head back like a teenage boy whose stash of weed had just been discovered by his parents. "Grissom's gonna kill me."

"Oh I wouldn't be worrying about Grissom right now," Nick said sternly. "You've been down for almost three days now until they could fully detox you're system. I mean, what the hell were you thinking, Greg?"

Greg turned his head away in shame. "I'm sorry I let you down, Nick."

Nick exhaled a long sigh and let go of his anger. "How long has this been going on?"

"About a month," Greg replied. Nick looked surprised. "I know, I only intended on using them for a week or so…"

"No," Nick interrupted him, sounding exhausted as he sank into a chair by the bed. "I… I just thought it would have been much longer than that. You know, after the Volkovs or something." Greg cast his gaze downwards, not knowing what to say. Nick continued. "Um… Listen. Only the doctors and I know about the pills so… So if it's only been a month, then I'm thinking that things won't be so… so bad. I know a place. A clinic. I think it would help you."

Greg bit his lip and nodded. "How come… How come only you know? What about Grissom? Or Sara?"

But Nick was shaking his head. "I road with you in the ambulance. I wanted to make sure you were OK. They were working when the doctors told me what happened to you. If you just go to the clinic and chill out a little, I think we can keep things on the down low. I'll tell Grissom that confidentiality is—"

"Grissom?" Greg interrupted fearfully, looking up. "But you said… Does he have to know?"

Nick held his breath a second. "Yeah, Greg. I mean… he's your supervisor, of course he has to know."

Greg looked away again in defeat. "Right. And I should come clean to Sara too. The last two people I wanted to know. Bye bye confidentiality."

Nick sighed. "Well I can't help you with that. But you've survived two psychopaths, I think you can fight a little addiction."

Greg pulled his knees up under the covers and hugged them to his chest. It had been a while since he'd taken a position like this, but he understood why Sara drew so much comfort from it. He felt safe in his own embrace, like no one outside could hurt him. "I know I disappointed you."

"I think that's impossible, Greg," Nick said. "You've been through a shit load. You tried to deal. You couldn't. It doesn't make you weak, it makes you human."

Greg smiled at him. "Thanks," he said. "For not judging."

Nick looked down at his knees, then up at Greg again. "I'd be a hypocrite if I did. When I was in college I did a few things I'm not proud of. I know the kick speed gives you. I get how that can be addictive."

Greg wrinkled his brow in bafflement. "You? Drugs? OK, that totally doesn't connect in my head at all."

"That's because you're brain was on drugs," Nick replied. "Come on, I bet you were a different person when you were younger."

"Nope," Greg chirped. "I've always been the same old me." He grinned proudly and inspired a laugh from Nick.

"How are you feeling?" Nick asked.

"I have the headache from hell, but I'm suppressing it," Greg replied honestly, the space between his temples throbbing. "It'll bite me in the ass eventually, but for now… Argh, and my muscles feel like I ran ten miles without stretching. I'm sore and tired and everything seems so… sharp."

"That's the withdrawal," Nick explained. "You might break into some cold sweats, go through a few more fevers, but… It'll be gone in a few days."

Greg banged his head against the wall. "A few days of hell to get clean. I guess I can do that." Something suddenly occurred to him. "Who was that guy? The one who I, uh…"

"Attacked?" Nick supplied with a weak smile. "Yeah, I was wondering the same thing, so I asked him. At first, I thought maybe he had provoked you, but he said you flipped out on him for no reason. He said his name was Leon Kuzmin. Claims to be Vera Volkova's brother."

Greg's mouth formed a small 'o.' "Wow. Did he say what he wanted to tell me?"

"I think he's afraid of you now," Nick replied. "I told him that it was nothing personal, you'd just been through a lot. He said he'd drop by later. That reminds me, Grissom and Warrick said they'll be by tomorrow to check on you. And Sara is—"

"Right here."

The two men's eyes flew to the door to see the slender brunette standing in the doorway watching them and holding two cups of coffee. She approached Greg's bed and handed a cup to Nick before shaking her head at Greg with the hint of a smile. "Oh Greg, why is it every few months you always seem to land yourself in the hospital?"

"It's because I'm dying…" Greg moaned, his headache getting the better of him. He truly felt like he was with every muscle in his body shaking and his brain jumping up and down in his skull, even if he'd meant it as a joke.

"That's not funny," Sara said flatly.

Through the pain, Greg tried to smile at her apologetically. "How are you doing, angel?"

Nick rose to his feet and held his breath as he clapped his hands together. "You know what?" he said, looking at his watch. "Shift starts in an hour, I really should get going. See you later, Sara. Greg." And with that, he headed out.

Sara took his vacated chair and took Greg's hand in hers. "What's wrong with you? Nick said you were sick, but that you're better now. He wouldn't tell me what. You don't have Cancer or AIDS or something do you?"

Greg laughed. "No, angel, nothing like that," Greg said. "But… I've been stupid lately. Really stupid. And I'm scared that… you won't like me, after you find out how weak I've been."

Sara smiled at him reassuringly as she leaned over and pushed the hair back from his sweaty face before kissing him tenderly. When she broke away again, she ran her hands through his stiff hair and looked at him with soft brown eyes. "Greg," she whispered. "What did I tell you four months ago about give and take?"

Greg felt encouraged as he squeezed her hand. "I love you so much. I just want you to know that."

She kissed his forehead. "I do," she said. "And I love you too."

Greg swallowed hard, his conscience hammering on his skull. He had this absurd notion that if he just told her, it would all stop. All the physical pain that was ripping him to shreds, all the guilt weighing heavily on his mind, all of it would just go away and everything would be OK in the end. "About a month ago, I started taking amphetamines to take the edge off and stay sharp."

She pulled her hand out of his grip and her smile faded. Greg had been afraid of that.

He tried to continue, but found it was impossible to look her in the eye. "I know. You have every right to be upset with me, but I just want to say that it can be really hard just going through life every day, putting on the smiles for everyone else, when all I can think about is you, when you're the only thing keeping me alive really. I mean, there are worse things I could have done. Really worse. If I wasn't such a coward I may even have done them, but I am a coward, and moreover I love you way too much to do anything worse. Because it would have hurt you more than it would have helped me, even if…" He looked down. "It was just kind of the easiest solution at the time. But I'll get better. I promise you, I'll get better. Nick, he knows a clinic, he said that I could go there, straighten myself out, get my act together. I'm not as strong as you think I am, and I'm sorry for that."

Sara swallowed and nodded. Greg looked up at her with a desperate gaze, hoping she would say something, anything, to alleviate the pressure that was ready to explode his skull. He felt for sure that her next words would break his heart.

He was surprised when he found that they did. But not for the reasons he had been anticipating.

"Sometimes when I have nightmares and I wake up and you're not there, I feel so alone that I find myself right back in that concrete basement again, scared out of my wits, naked and bleeding. And the thought of having to wake up every night without you there scares the fuck out of me. I don't want to go back there. It's bad enough the bastard's eyes still burn a hole through my chest when I dream, but it would be so much worse if you weren't there to make it all go away when I woke up again.

"Since I first read the scars on my leg, I've made it a habit to read them every night when I wake up to go to work. Desensitize myself to the horror of it all, you know? And you would be out somewhere. If you slept over, you'd be making dinner for me in the kitchen. If you didn't, well then you were just gone. But I would always do it without you, because in a way I was trying to desensitize myself to that fear too. I needed to learn to do things without you. I needed to stop being afraid to face the world… without you. And I always cried. Because the words always conjured up everything I never wanted to feel again. And because I thought that I would never be able to do things on my own. Except two days ago. Two days ago, I woke up and I didn't cry. Two days ago was when I told myself that I was stronger than any dead man and better than any rapist. And two days ago was when I get a call from Grissom saying you're in the hospital. Ironic, isn't it?"

He reached out to rub the back of her neck but she backed away from the bed, her gaze on something he would never see as she slowly shook her head.

"And then you tell me that it's drugs. That it's things that you've been putting in your body that are fucking you over and— I can't… can't deal with that, Greg."

"I understand, angel…" Greg muttered shamefully.

"No, you don't," Sara said abruptly and Greg frowned at her. "I mean, you think you do, but you don't. It's not that I'm mad at you for taking drugs. You think I wouldn't like to have an escape like that? I've been drinking like a fish ever since the Volkovs. I know, it's bad, huh. How fast can you say 'relapse?'" She chuckled, but there was no joy in it. "I just can't deal with the thought of losing you, Greg. Not now, not yet."

"There's something else," Greg said, looking out the window. If there was ever a time to come clean, now was it. "When Vera Volkova took me, and drugged me, and I was kinda really out of it. So I found out last month that cutting me and stripping me isn't all she did. She, uh…" Greg gulped. "Well, she decided that, uh… she really, really wanted a baby, and Sasha wasn't giving it to her so she… She decided to get it from me."

His girlfriend provided no response and after a whole minute, Greg was forced to turn and look at her to make sure that she was still there. She was looking at him in complete impassivity, save the single tear that rolled down her cheek. Suddenly, her arms were around his neck and he tried not to wince at the way she squeezed him because he didn't want her to let him go. He returned it, his own tears stinging his eyes as he stroked her hair.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered. "I'll kill her. I'll kill her so bad…"

Greg had to smile at her bad grammar. "She's on death row, angel. She'll die soon enough."

"Greg, tomorrow isn't soon enough," Sara muttered. Suddenly she pulled away from him with a gasp. "Oh God, that… the baby in her stomach, it's…"

"Mine," Greg finished her sentence. "I know. I… I didn't know what to do, so I— I kind of waved over my rights as father to Vera's brother. Catherine says he's a good guy, that he'll take care of the kid, raise her right, you know?"

"Her?" Sara breathed. "It's a—it's a her?"

Greg closed his eyes and gave her a small smile. "Actually, I don't know," he said. "But that's the first time I haven't thought of the baby as an it. Better 'her' than 'it,' right?"

Sara smiled. "I'm so proud of you," she said.

Greg was flabbergasted. "Proud? I land my ass in the hospital because drugs fucked with my system, I abandon my own child, and you say you're proud of me?"

"I don't see it like that," Sara said. "I see it like… You landed your ass in the hospital because you were trying too hard to look happy for everyone else. You did what's best for your child because you knew that you could never give her the love she deserves. And I am proud of you, for both of those things, because it only underlines what I knew about you all along, and that's that you're brave, and you're smart."

Greg's headache was threatening to toss him into unconsciousness and throw away the key. "You still think I'm brave?" he asked, his voice sounding like a child's.

"I never doubted it," she said. "We're dealing. With a lot. And today was the first time I woke up and looked at my leg and I didn't cry. Last night, I slept soundly. I had a good day today. And when you get out of here, and you get clean, you'll do OK. As much as I hate shrinks, Amy isn't half bad, and I think she's helped us both a lot. We're survivors, Greg, you and me both, and we've proved it time and time again. It's time to stop just surviving and start living again."

He gave her a small smile, exhaustion overwhelming him. "Aw, you really are an angel, angel…" he muttered, before his eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

The last thing he heard was Sara's whispered command. "Sleep."

And sleep he did, however restlessly. But this time, it was dreamless.