Author's Note: This is my favorite chapter. :) Also, I've finished the story. I'm starting a new one starring Catherine and Sara called "Fine Flowers." It's a ghost story, if your interested.

He dreamed in double vision, and it did not please a part of him. Half of him insisted on the nightmare while the other half wished for a calm and pleasant slumber. It was as though they were trying to decide on which movie to watch before the night's end. It was not the first time he had argued with himself in his sleep, but it had never been so severe.

What are you afraid of, hissed the firebrand.

He would not admit that he feared the firebrand more than any external threat. But he would not have peace. The rebel heard all, whether he admitted it or not.

You're wrong, you know. You're not afraid of me. You're afraid of losing her.

Greg had never been any good at arguing with himself. He had to admit that the rebel was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them.

She treats you like shit. Why do you give a damn if she drops dead? You're not even worth her hate. She is completely indifferent towards you.

It hurt Greg to hear her talked about like that. Stop it.

I don't think I will. I'm only doing what you really want. And I think that's what you're really afraid of.

I never wanted to hurt her.

She left us no choice.

There is no "us." There is only you and me.

What are semantics, in the great scheme of things? She left you and me no choice.

She left you no choice.

OK. Cling to your semantics. It all means the same in the end anyway.

What are you doing here, anyway? You come out of the depths of my skull, unbidden and unwanted, and wreak havoc with my nervous system.

You've buried me one too many times. I came because you needed me to save you.

I was safe when I was without you.

You were dying without me, you ungrateful son of a bitch.

I am rubber, you are glue…

Shut up before I make a condom out of you.

Even my unconscious can do rhyming insults.

I am your better half.

Go away.

No can do, Greggo.

You can't call me that.

Why? I know how giggly you get when Nick says it, you little gay bastard.

If I was gay, that's one thing, but let's be politically correct here. Besides, you're only hurting yourself when you insult me. Didn't you say we're the same?

I thought there was no "we."

I also thought I'd never be arguing with an alternate personality inside my own head, but I was wrong about that too, wasn't I? Are we high or what?

As a kite, my friend.

So we can agree on something.

We agree on more than that. Let's kill the bitch.

Don't call her that. Don't you dare call her that.

Who's gonna know other than you? She is a bitch, though.

Why are you so mean? I'm not mean. I'm not as mean as you.

No. I'm not mean. I'm repressed urges that you aren't allowed to express in a civilized society. I'm inside of everyone. And that's what scares you. You agree with everything I say, with everything I do, on some primordial level, you know that I'm right.

I don't believe you.

You can't lie to me, Greg. I am your darkest secrets.

Why are you out to hurt the ones I love?

We always do. One way or another. Why do you think spouses have affairs? Children rebel? Siblings compete? We pass it off as trivial squabbles, when really it's a pursuit of self-interest. We love people to gain their love in return, and when we have it, it stops being a quest and becomes a convenience. There is no love other than the love of the self, and the search for its validation. Your incessant worship of Sara Sidle is your unconscious desire to have her return your love and make you feel good about yourself. And she doesn't. And she never will. So what point is there in pursuing her?

That's not love.

Maybe not then. But it is what you feel for Sara.

You're wrong.

I'm you're subconscious, Greg. I'm never wrong.

No, you're not my subconscious. You're everything bad in me mushed together in one great big ball of badness. My subconscious is more reasonable than you.

You always were good with words.

Sarcasm's my thing. Stay away from it.

We hurt the ones we love, Greg, for one of two reasons. A) That they refuse to return our love, and therefore must be punished or B) That they do return our love, and therefore their love must be tested, and if it endures, tested incessantly until it finally breaks. And when it finally does break, well then it's exactly like scenario A, isn't it? It is a self-destructive cycle of self-interest. Ironic, isn't it?

And if it doesn't break? What then?

It always breaks, Greg. Such is the nature of love.

You don't know shit about love.

If it continues to endure despite all efforts, then we lose our love for them and end up hurting them by refusing to love them back.

You're a jackass.

But my logic is infallible.

You're logic is just a bunch of pessimistic bullshit.

There is no such thing as true love, or soul mates. There is only the self, and the validation of the self. That is all you can hope to get out of love, Greg. And she milks it from you like you're Daisy Dee, the fattest cow on the dairy farm. She is healthy because her self-love is validated every day by your annoying and unfaltering adoration of her. She is not a Goddess. She's a hell bitch.

And you're a monkey's ass. Get the fuck out of my head.

I think I'd like to stay.

My head. My rules. Go back to my subconscious, subconscious man!

I prefer Super Subconscious Man.

What did I tell you about the sarcasm?

Greg. I just want to point one thing out to you.

What's that?

First, there is no "we." Then, there is a "we." Soon, there will be neither, and you won't have to worry about this love business for a second longer.

You're going to kill me, aren't you?

Kill us, Greg, kill us.

Why?

I don't know. I'm high. It's time to die. Look, I rhymed again.

If I live, will you live too?

I'm afraid so.

What drugs are we on?

Dozens.

Is there any way I can get rid of you?

I am you, Greg. You can only escape me in death.

What will you do, if I survive this?

You won't.

But if I did, would you hurt her?

If I had lips, I would be smiling right now.

You can never be a part of me. Don't you hurt her. Don't you hurt her ever.

That's your weakness, Greg. Your unshakable belief in her.

I would say that was my virtue.

And if I had a mouth, I would be gagging right now.

I die, you die, that's how it works.

Yes.

She would be safe.

Unfortunately.

I would be free.

I don't know what death brings, Greg. But theoretically, you would be.

Then bring on the funeral.

Nick swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched Greg wrestle with his sheets in a feverish delirium. Catherine tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a Styrofoam cup of coffee. As Nick lifted it to his lips and relaxed his jaw, a jolt of pain shot through his skull.

"Ah…" he said, reaching up with his free hand to massage his jaw muscles. He hadn't realized that his teeth had been clenched so hard. He wondered how much of them he'd grounded away in this one night. The hot bitter liquid flooded his mouth and soothed his jaw muscles before slipping down his esophagus and flooding his cold body with warmth.

"How's Sara?" Nick finally asked when his jaw was feeling looser.

"She'll survive," Catherine said. "She's sleeping now, and deeply too, but just because she's exhausted, not because she's comatose or anything like that."

"Thanks," Nick said, "for taking the results in to Grissom and letting me come here."

"The results were inconclusive," Catherine said.

Nick turned to stare at her. "What do you mean inconclusive?"

"Skid marks on the road indicate a swift change in direction," Catherine replied. "Witnesses corroborate. Some say they saw a squabble inside the car, others say they saw the driver just veer off to the right. No one agrees on anything, and the physical evidence doesn't tell us what went on inside the car. We found Sara's prints on the wheel, though. Her left hand on the right side of the wheel. I think she might have pulled it."

"Why?" Nick asked.

"To stop Greg," Catherine said, as if it were obvious. "Why else?"

Nick nodded and stared at Greg in silence. "Catherine?"

"Hm?"

"Would you say we… we kinda take Greg for… granted?"

"I wouldn't say that at all," Catherine replied. "Greg is very much loved and appreciated. His original replacement quit because of him, remember?"

"I know…" said Nick. "But we kinda… I kinda…"

"You don't 'kinda' anything, Nick," Catherine said, turning to look at him. "It's adorable, the way he looks up to you, the way you look after him. If anything, you're the nicest to him out of all of us. So don't sit there and talk about how you take him for granted."

Nick nodded in understanding and shut up again.

After a few moments, it was Catherine who broke the silence again. "I remember, when you were missing, how silent everything seemed all of a sudden. There was no world outside of finding you. In our line of work, you win some, you lose some, but we, none of us, were ready to lose you. And if you were lost, then there was no world. I remember thinking about those infamous 'what ifs,' you know, the ones you're thinking right now, and I remember how utterly terrified I was. What if you died before we could find you? What if we could never found you? What if you would never be the same? What if there was permanent damage? What if you shot yourself and we had to watch?"

Nick didn't know what to say to this. He wished that Catherine hadn't brought it up in the first place. It made him feel more uncomfortable than comforted. So he focused on Greg and said nothing.

"I had an answer for each of them, you know," Catherine said.

Nick had been so distracted by Greg again, he'd forgotten what she'd been speaking about. "For what?"

"Those 'what ifs.' I had an answer for them. Being a reasonable person, I always have a plan for every scenario. I don't know if I should be ashamed to admit that I thought of what I'd do without you. Because it did feel like the world would stop. But the rational part of me knew it wouldn't, and I had to plan ahead, find a way to move on. If you died, or if we never found you, then…" she glanced at Nick, and then looked swiftly away again. "Then… I would forget about you. Not the good things. Not the way you made people feel. Not the things you'd say. I'd forget about that night. I'd forget the fact that you died, and I'd imagine you moved away somewhere, like Dallas. And I would go on. And if you were damaged, physically, mentally, I don't know, then I'd… I'd pretend you weren't. I'd treat you like anyone else. If you were a vegetable, I'd visit you every day and pretend you could hear me. And if you shot yourself, and I had to watch it on that infernal web cam, or worse, in person, when we uncovered you and you didn't see Warrick, then I would imagine that you were someone else completely. A faceless victim to process, the one that got away. Not Nick Stokes. Not our Nicky."

Nick listened to her intently, but still did not know what to say to her. Why was she telling him all this now, when he was worried sick about Greg?

Catherine sighed. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, Nick, in case you didn't notice, all my solutions revolved around denying your tragedy completely, one way or another. I've never been good with loss. Not Eddie's. Not even Sam's, for God's sake. And if I lost you… If we lose Greg… It's all the same, isn't it? You're buried underground all over again." Catherine frowned. "Only… only this time, you're standing right beside me, and it's not you, it's Greg, and all our meticulous skills, all our evidence, nothing we can gather or learn can find him to dig him out again. We just have to trust that he's smart enough, and strong enough, to dig himself out of that grave. To battle his own demons, without our help."

There was a stinging in Nick's eyes but he blinked it away. Not while Catherine was here. Why did she have to tell him all that? Why did he have to remind her so vividly of that night two years ago when he had been so very, very certain that he was going to die?

"Catherine," he said finally, his voice strained. "I know you meant well, in telling me all that. But now is a really, really bad time."

"Oh," Catherine said simply, and she folded her arms and looked down at the floor.

Nick let out a huge sigh and stared at the ceiling, blinking continually until his eyes were dry again. "Dammit, Catherine," he said, exhausted. "Shit happens, but why does it always happen to us?"

Catherine didn't reply. Perhaps she thought it best to say nothing after her embarrassing confession. Nick felt guilty.

"Catherine," he said, closing his eyes. "I appreciate how you opened up to me just now."

She still didn't speak, but Nick didn't know what else to say beyond that. He did really respect her for her candor, and he was touched by some of the things she told him, but in the end all her speech did was remind him of a night he'd tried so hard to forget. And under the circumstances, those were ghosts he didn't want to dig up right now. He shuttered at the bad metaphor and silently promised never to use the word 'dig' in a sentence for the rest of the night.

With nothing left to say to Catherine, Nick approached Greg's hospital bed. He was strung up to machines, and his head wound was bandaged, but his rest was far from peaceful. Greg kept thrashing about, beads of sweat dripping into his hair and down his arms, his skin red from the heat. He was muttering things, words that made no sense to Nick, although he longed to understand them. He pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

"Come on, Greg," Nick said. "You can pull through this. If anyone can, it's you."

Catherine was quickly near him again. She stood behind his chair and squeezed his shoulders. "He's fighting his own demons," she said. "But that doesn't mean we can't stand on the sidelines and cheer him on."

Out of all the words Catherine had said, it was those that finally succeeded in bringing a smile to Nick's lips.

Grissom watched Sara sleep from the doorway, her chest rising and falling beneath the sheets, her dreams peaceful, her rest undisturbed by feverish nightmares. He found it was far easier to observe this friend then the one across the hall. She looked a little worse for wear, roughed up around the edges, but she would come out of this OK, and look back on this whole night as a dream to be forgotten.

Greg, on the other hand, would he even have any recollection of this night whatsoever? Perhaps it was better forgotten. It would be one of those taboo subjects no one ever brought up again. Yes. The night Greg was possessed by Mr. Hyde. How silly would that seem, to any normal scientist? That mankind had actually created a biochemical agent to invade the body and mind and turn it into two battling entities inside one shell. Simple mathematics dictated that one of them had to destroy the other. There was no room for two minds in one body.

Sara turned over in her sleep and her back was facing Grissom. Grissom wished he could crawl into a hospital bed and slip into a deep sleep too. Nick's abduction had affected all of them, and Grissom had silently promised himself never to let anything like that happen to any of them again. And then, once more, a CSI disappears from a crime scene. It's true, he hadn't been prepared for biological warfare, but he couldn't help but feel like he should have gone more to make sure nothing happened to his team.

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind him. Grissom turned around and frowned at what he saw. A soldier, highly ranked by his uniform, stood before him. He looked strong and resolute with his broad shoulders, or maybe Grissom just felt intimidated by the number of badges on his lapel.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, you can," said the soldier. "My name is Col. Henry Carrew, I need to speak with you a moment if I may."

Grissom was suddenly on his guard. He knew this colonel was bad news. "I have time," he lied. He should have been getting back to the lab, but he had been procrastinating at the hospital, wanting to stay near Greg and Sara as long as he could. "What is the matter?"

"The matter is your employee," said Col. Carrew. "And the suspects you have in custody."

"Brandon Carter?"

"And Matthew Samson," Col. Carrew replied.

"Matthew Samson is dead," Grissom told him.

"I am aware of that after talking to Detective Brass and Mr. Ecklie," said Col. Carrew. "Mr. Ecklie told me to inform you that your lab has been ordered to release his body to us, along with Mr. Carter."

"What?" Grissom exclaimed, furious. "With all due respect, sir, we can't do that yet. Brandon Carter broke the law and is the only link we have to his agency, which could help us find a cure for a CSI infected with—"

"A manmade virus," Col. Carrew interrupted. "Mr. Grissom, I don't need to tell you that you cannot argue with me. It has already been done."

"Matthew Samson's corpse could be used to study this illness," Grissom said. "My guy is in there fighting for his life, I'm sorry, but you can not take that from him."

"I understand that you are upset," said Col. Carrew.

"I'm more than upset, Colonel," Grissom said. "I was upset when Sara Sidle was attacked by a man infected with your virus. I was irked when Greg Sanders went missing. I was angry when I discovered the cause to all this was a clandestine research facility and a manmade virus. I crossed furious when one of my guys crashed his car into a tree because of what this virus was doing to him. I was further incensed when I heard he'd gone into feverish convulsions. Right now, I am absolutely enraged, and I cannot be accountable for my words or actions. You lay one finger on Greg Sanders, you take away anything that could help him recover, and I promise you, Colonel, I will not stop until I completely expose and destroy whatever top secret operation you are working on, are we clear?"

The colonel's face was stern and cold. "Mr. Grissom," he said. "You are lucky that I know you to be no actual threat to my operation, or else I might have to arrest you. I know you will be cooperative with our needs."

Grissom was fuming, but he didn't let it show again. "What do you want with them, anyway?"

"Bennett & Locke was under the employ of the US government, Mr. Grissom. Katerina Samson was working for us, and all her research, including her two human test subjects, are now our property."

Grissom bristled visibly. "Greg Sanders is not your property," he said, his voice a low guttural growl. "He is a human being."

"I am only informing you as a courtesy, Mr. Grissom," Col. Carrew replied calmly. "You are quite respected among the department here. I have a court order. Greg Sanders, Brandon Carter, and the late Matthew Samson are to go with me to a base outside of Las Vegas."

"There's no way Greg would survive the journey," Grissom said suddenly. "No doctor could allow it."

"The doctors have already discharged him into our custody," said Col. Carrew.

"You will kill him," Grissom growled.

"That is not our intention, Mr. Grissom," Col. Carrew replied. "We hope to keep him alive as long as possible, possibly cure him. We would be doing him a favor. But if he dies, he will be decorated and buried with honors. He will have died in service to his country."

Grissom grit his teeth. "In service to his country," he said, spitefully. "No. He will be burried here, no military, no honors, because he didn't die for his fucking country, Col. Carrew, he was murdered by it." Grissom's anger dissipated into shock as he realized the words he'd just said. Greg wasn't dead yet. Why were they speaking as if he were?

Col. Carrew was visibly losing his patience. "There is nothing you can do to stop me, Mr. Grissom."

Grissom knew he was fighting a losing battle. But he wouldn't let politics be the death of Greg. "Please," he begged at last, defeated. "Just… give him twenty-four hours. You have Samson, study him all you want. Don't kill my guy."

Col. Carrew opened his mouth to respond then hesitated. He held a hand up to his ear and turned away from Grissom. He walked down the hall a ways as he muttered something to himself. A few moments later he was back and he gave Grissom a hard gaze.

"You're lucky," said Col. Carrew. "Brandon Carter refuses to cooperate unless we leave Greg Sanders alone."

Grissom was startled. "What?"

"Listen, Mr. Grissom, I'm going to level with you here," said Col. Carrew. "Greg isn't as important to us as Carter is. He's the one with access to the virus. I don't know why he's suddenly gone all noble on us, but for some reason he just single-handedly cut you a break. You have twenty-four hours. I'll be back then to claim his body."

Col. Carrew turned around and began to march off down the hall.

"What if he doesn't die?" Grissom called after him.

Col. Carrew shook his head. "Believe me, Mr. Grissom," he said. "They always do."

Grissom's phone began to ring. He looked at the colonel's retreating back with a furrowed brow as he unconsciously answered his phone. "Gil Grissom."

"I think I deserve a thank you."

Grissom pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the number. "Jim, I didn't recognize you. What am I thanking you for?"

"I take it you've spoken with Col. Carrew already?"

"Yes," said Grissom. "Unfortunately."

"And I take it he got a call to leave Greg alone," Brass said.

"What did you do, Jim?" Grissom asked, curiously.

"Carter and I had a little chat before the government came to take him away," Brass said, and Grissom clearly heard the smile in his voice. "Let's just say I have mastered the art of persuasion."

"What did you threaten him with?" Grissom asked.

"It wasn't a threat," Brass said. "I appealed to his better nature."

"Brendan Carter had a better nature?" Grissom said, surprised.

"He had all these theories concerning good an evil," Brass said. "He doesn't want to fall into the evil category, have another death on his hands. Apparently his conscience is intact.

"Thank you, Jim," Grissom said. "You may have saved Greg's life. I'll call you later."

Catherine came out of Greg's room, looking confused. "Grissom!" she said. "Some doctors said they were taking Greg away!"

"That won't happen, Catherine," Grissom assured her.

"What's going on?" Catherine asked.

"I think we found out who one of Bennett & Locke's biggest client is. The military."

"You're joking," Catherine said.

"They wanted to use Greg," Grissom said, his anger rising again. "Study him like an animal. They made the thing that's crawled inside him, using him up. But we're not letting them, Catherine. Not today."

"They'll be back," Catherine pointed out.

"They wouldn't be the government if they didn't come back," Grissom said. He looked past Catherine into Greg's room. "How is he doing?"

Catherine looked over her shoulder. "The same," she replied. "His fever won't come down. I don't think Nick's left his side since I've been here."

"It's hard," Grissom said. "Knowing there's nothing we can do."

"We let the doctors do their job," Catherine said. "And we hope—" She interrupted herself, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "And we believe that Greg is strong enough to fight it off."

"It killed Matthew Samson," Grissom said, quietly.

"Matthew Samson was exposed to it for far longer than Greg was," Catherine replied.

Grissom said nothing.