Author's Note: I've been traveling lately, so I've been downloading stories to my iPod and forgetting to review them when I get an internet connection again. Which is very bad of me. Particularly stories of some loyal reviewers (I'll apologize more when I actually review your stories). But for those of you who review my story, and even those of you who don't, you're posetively swell. I will return the favor eventually. Also, I didn't update yesterday because I'm still fiddling with the end and don't want to make you wait too long for it when I get to it. Hm. It WILL end, though. I can't stand unfinished stories, which is why I tend to wait until I know I'm going to finish before I start posting. And I promised myself I'd finish this, so it will be done. But to be honest, Collateral Damage has really been a lot more fun for me lately. Just playing with all the possibilities... I'm excited about it. But I haven't forgotten about this one, so don't you worry. :o)

Greg looked at his watch impatiently. Grissom had told him that he was free to go at three o'clock. Grissom had never given him a specific hour. Their shifts were loosely defined, depending more on the cases they were working on than the time itself. That's what frustrated Greg. Sofia and him had closed the Hawaiian Shirt John Doe case hours ago. They even identified him as one Adrian Stark. They had notified his family, put the perp behind bars, and sent the evidence to the LVPD where they would use it to build their case.

So it annoyed him that, when he had informed Grissom as a courtesy that he was about to punch out, Grissom had given him pointless paperwork to finish and told him to leave at three.

It was quarter 'til and the second hand couldn't move any slower unless it was going backwards.

Greg groaned as he sunk into the chair in the break room, trying to avoid Grissom and more paperwork for the next fifteen minutes.

As if God hadn't already punished him enough for some unknown bad karma, Grissom entered the break room and opened the fridge.

"Greg," he said. "I've been looking for you."

Greg let out a low and tired moan. "Aw, Grissom, please I have fifteen minutes left until you said I could leave."

"I know," said Grissom, closing the fridge and opening a soda. "I just wanted to ask why you cancelled your party."

Greg sighed. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Grissom's pager went and he looked down. He grinned at some unknown inside joke. "You don't have to," he said. "You're off."

Greg sat up. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Grissom. "Everything's all done here. Just came in here to tell you."

"Thank God!" Greg said, jumping to his feet. "I gotta tell you, Grissom, there's nothing I'm looking forward to more than going home and crashing."

A smile tugged at Grissom's lips. "Yeah," he said. "Me too. Hey, I'll walk you out, you've been a really good sport."

"Damn straight I have," Greg muttered under his breath, but Grissom still caught it and smiled. They left the break room and headed down the hall.

"No," he said. "You're right, I've been really hard on you today."

"Yeah," said Greg, as if just catching on to something. "What's with that? Did I do something to piss you off?"

"Nah," Grissom said. "I just… never really liked you Greg."

Greg looked up at him skeptically. "You never liked me."

"Not a bit," Grissom said, eyes straight ahead as they approached the exit.

"Not even a little bit," Greg said flatly.

"Why do you think I pick on you so much?"

"You're evil. Do you know that?"

Grissom laughed. "I take pride in it, actually."

"You like me," Greg said with a knowing grin. "Because I'm just awesome, and you know it."

Grissom glanced at him and favored him with a half smile, but didn't agree or disagree.

As they stepped outside, Greg headed to his car and stopped dead in his tracks. "Aw, man!" he exclaimed. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked.

Greg gestured hysterically at his car. "Someone stole my frickin' wheel! The hubcaps, the tire, aw— aw, dammit! This has got to be the worst day ever."

Grissom sighed and shook his head. "It's a shame, Greg."

"Who steals a wheel?" Greg asked. All of a sudden, he seemed to decide something and he deliberately walked back toward the doors of the crime lab.

"Where are you going?" Grissom asked.

"To get my kit," Greg replied. "This parking lot has just become a crime scene."

"You're joking," Grissom said.

"Hell no I'm not," Greg said. "This is the last straw. No crook is gonna steal my wheel. Not today."

Grissom caught Greg by the arm, his eyes staring up at the sky. "Greg, stop. Let me drive you home. We can pick up a new wheel on the way. Hubcaps, tire, and everything. OK?"

Greg sighed. "Fine," he said. He followed Grissom to his car and kicked Grissom's tire.

"Hey," Grissom snapped. "Just because someone stole your wheel doesn't mean you have to take it out on mine."

"Sorry," Greg muttered insincerely as he climbed into the passenger's eat.

Grissom shook his head as he climbed into the driver's seat and they headed off.

Warrick hit the horn as he came to yet another stop light. It felt as though the world was against him. It didn't take him nearly this long to get to Catherine's before. He was worried about her. She sounded very strange on the phone, and he didn't want to leave her alone for much longer.

The light turned green and he hit the gas, accelerating down the street, hoping to hit the freeway soon so he wouldn't have to worry about these lights anymore. He could already see the next one coming up. It was turning yellow.

"No way!" Warrick muttered, trying to accelerate further. The light was just turning red when he passed through it. And then the sirens began.

This was the last thing Warrick needed. But he didn't want to be part of a high speed chase either, so he slowly pulled over to the side of the street. He banged his head on the wheel and left it there as the officer came up to his window and knocked on it. He rolled it down and looked up at him with tired eyes.

"Hey, officer," he said. "Listen, I know I ran a red light, but—"

"Do you know how fast you were driving, sir?" the officer interrupted.

Warrick blinked, then glanced at the speedometer, then back at the officer. "Um… I don't know, maybe sixty?"

The officer scoffed. "Even if that were true," he said. "The limit on this road is fifty-five."

"Like going five miles over—"

"You were going fifteen miles over," the officer corrected. "And you're right, you did run that light."

"Look," said Warrick, reaching for his badge. "I'm a CSI, I gotta check on a crime scene."

The officer was already writing the ticket. "Dead bodies are gonna stay dead, sir, there's no need to risk an accident."

"I'm sorry," said Warrick. "Just… give me the ticket, and I'll go."

The officer seemed surprised at his passivity. "Sir, are you hiding any illegal substances in your car?"

"What?" Warrick exclaimed. "No! Look, breathalyze me, do whatever, OK, man, but I'm not hiding anything."

The cop's eyes narrowed. "Would you please step out of the car, sir?"

"I beg your pardon?" Warrick laughed, hoping he'd misheard.

"Step out of the car, please," the officer said, more sternly.

Warrick obeyed with a roll of his eyes. He couldn't believe it. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. Well. At least he'd told Nick that he was going to be late.

Grissom pulled up outside of Sara's apartment and Greg tensed and bristled like a threatened cat.

"Why are we here?" he asked Grissom coolly.

Grissom was casual as he shrugged. "I just needed to drop a few things off that Sara needs," he replied simply. He got out of the car and looked at Greg through the open window. "You can stay here if you like."

Greg seemed to consider it for a moment, then decided as his face set in a resolute expression. "No. No, I want to come with you and talk to Sara, see if she's done being a bitch about everything."

Grissom was already taking a brown bag out of the trunk. "OK," he said, completely unaltered.

Greg hopped out of the passenger side door and leaned against it, waiting for Grissom to be done. His supervisor walked over to him with the brown bag in his arms. "What, Grissom, do you do her grocery shopping?"

"Birthday present," Grissom replied, and Greg's heart sank at the reminder. Are you even allowed to be angry with someone on their birthday, Greg wondered. Yes, he resolved. Sara had been unfair to him, so he had decided to be unfair to her. Although he wondered how stout his determination would stand against those soft brown eyes.

Sara Sidle always had a way of looking at him that made everything negative dissolve away and drip into a stray bucket that would be dumped over his head again after she left. Greg knew that if he found himself lost for words in her presence, they would pounce on him like a tiger after she slammed the door in his face. Frustrated with this knowledge and determined to break the annoying habit, Greg followed Grissom to the door of the apartment complex.

"Who is it?" came the scratchy voice over the intercom. She sounded as though she had just woken up.

"Grissom."

"Oh? What brings you here?"

"I come bearing gifts," Grissom replied. "Happy birthday."

"Ugh. Fine." Sara sounded as though she wasn't in the mood for gifts, but she buzzed them in nonetheless. That really irritated Greg. Here Grissom was, being all nice and bringing her a gift for her birthday and she was being ungrateful. So typical. He was glad she didn't know he was coming up. He had the advantage of a surprise attack. He would ambush her at the door, and the first thing he would address was her ingratitude at the things others did for her. Grissom's present. Greg's party.

He ground his teeth to keep from telepathically destroying the elevator with his mind.

Greg briefly wondered if that was actually possible.

The elevator pinged and opened on Sara's floor and Greg marched out first, full of self-righteousness. Because he was right. And he wasn't going to stop being angry until Sara admitted she was wrong.

Even if he had overreacted a little.

But that was beside the point.

Greg wondered about telepathy again.

The door opened a crack, the chain still in place, and Greg wondered why the precaution if she knew it was Grissom. He credited to further inconsiderateness.

"Grissom," she said, then her eyes widened. "Greg!"

"Yeah," Greg said, hitting the door with his hand to try to break the chain. No dice. Maybe if he used telepathy… "And this is kind of rude, chaining your door when your supervisor wants to give you a present."

Anger flared in Sara's eyes. "Well this isn't the safest building, Greg, and besides, I'm not dressed."

It was then that Greg noticed that what he could see of Sara's shoulder was bare. "Oh, and so when Grissom buzzes your intercom, you don't think to throw some clothes on?" He looked at Grissom. "Or is there something else going on here that I don't know about?"

Sara ignored Greg and addressed Grissom with a smile. "You brought me something?" She said the next words loudly and obnoxiously as she glared at Greg. "You're so sweet."

"Hey!" Greg said, pushing Grissom out of the way. "I was sweet too!"

"You were about to have sex with Catherine in the locker room!"

"I planned a surprise birthday party," Greg snapped. "What nice thing have you done lately?"

Again, Sara addressed Grissom with a warm smile. "Here, let me take that off your hands and you can come inside for a drink or something."

"Oh, and I suppose that invitation doesn't extend to me—"

"Greg!" Grissom interrupted finally. "Sara's a good hostess. She wouldn't leave a guest out in the hall."

"No matter how obnoxious he was being," Sara said casually.

Greg ground his teeth as she closed the door and took off the chain lock. This was it. This was where he could pounce on her with all the words he always wanted to say when he was angry with her but could never find when he finally faced her. If he launched into the tirade right away, she wouldn't have time to melt his heart. He coiled his verbal muscles, ready to strike.

The door opened swiftly and Greg was ready, his mouth poised in his first verbal assault but he stopped dead in his tracks when there was the sound of screaming and noise and… tropical music?

Sara stood in the doorway beaming at him, her shoulders not entirely naked by wearing a white bikini top and a plastic flower lei. Greg's mouth broke its battle position as his jaw dropped.

"Surprise," Sara said, with a smug I-told-you-so smile that drove Greg crazy.

Greg searched for words but could only make unintelligible sounds. Grissom moved into the room first and he turned on him. "You knew about this?"

Grissom shrugged. "Of course, Greg," he said. He pulled out a bottle of rum from the paper bag and handed it to Sara. "For the birthday girl," he said.

"You're a life saver," Sara grinned.

"Not too much, though," Grissom warned.

"Cross my heart," Sara promised. Grissom moved past her and joined the party.

Greg was still baffled, looking between Sara and Grissom, when he noticed the banner.

I'm Sorry, Greg

"Aw-aw- AW! That is not fair."

"What's not fair?" Sara asked.

"You!" Greg exclaimed. "You-you just can't do this. I'm mad at you, and this is making me… not mad at you."

"Good," said Sara. "That was its intention."

Greg folded his arms. "OK," he said. "Then say it."

"Say what?" Sara asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Say you're sorry," he replied.

Sara gestured at the banner. "Because the giant piece of paper doesn't say it loud enough."

"No, it doesn't," Greg said. "That banner could be from anyone, about anything. I need to hear it from you."

"You know," Sara said, "you owe me an apology too."

"I don't see how that is," Greg said, blankly.

"Calling me rude and inconsiderate—I planned this whole thing in a matter of hours. Had to get the guest list from Nick, who only knew of half the people you invited, tell everyone that your party wasn't cancelled, just moved to my place, buy the food, set up the island theme, hell, Greg, I'm wearing a bikini for you! The least you could do is appreciate it."

Greg couldn't help but grin. She was doing that thing again, where she made all his anger disappear. He laughed and closed his eyes as he shook his head. "You're right," he said. "I haven't been the nicest person today either. I'm sorry."

Sara returned the smile. "I'm sorry, too," she said. "I overreacted."

"We both did," Greg acknowledged. "Can you tell me why?"

"Why what?" Sara asked.

"Why we overreacted," Greg replied. "I mean, it doesn't really make much sense, does it?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Sure it does," she said. "I get kind of… crazy sometimes."

"Crazy about me?" Greg's eyebrows raised hopefully and Sara laughed as she hit him on the arm.

"In your dreams, kiddo," she said.

"Nah," said Greg, shaking his head. "In my dreams, we'd be making out by now."

Sara's smile turned slightly bashful, and Greg noticed. She moved to leave. "I have to go—"

Greg caught her arm. "No, wait," he said. "Look at me." Reluctantly, she complied, her deep brown eyes mirroring his own, however hesitantly. A slow grin spread across his face. "This isn't my dream," he whispered. "It's yours."

"Greg…"

"That's why you flipped out," Greg said, finally understanding. "That's why you got mad."

"Greg…"

"Is that why we've been fighting?" he asked rhetorically. "Because you won't admit it?"

"Greg!" She was more forceful now as she tore her arm away from him, looking annoyed. But Greg wasn't going to let her pull away this time. He slowly looked down at her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers, then looked up at her again. She was staring at their joined hands with complete impassivity. Slowly, she looked up to meet his gaze.

With his other hand on her shoulder, he gently pulled her close to him and their lips embraced for the first time outside of either of their dreams.

After a moment, there was clapping and cheering and Sara broke away from the kiss as she began to laugh in embarrassment. Greg leaned his forehead against hers and grinned.

"Well it's about damn time!" Nick exclaimed, patting Greg on the back.

Greg laughed and nodded as he and Sara broke apart, but their hands remained together. He looked around the room as everyone went back to enjoying themselves now that the Sara and Greg show was over. "Hey," he said. "Where's Warrick and Catherine?"

Nick frowned and looked at his watch. "Well, he said he'd be late…"

"Warrick went to pick Catherine up," Sara explained. A cold shiver went up and down her spine. Something felt wrong. "I… don't know when they'll…" All of a sudden, she turned around and grabbed a jacket.

"Sara!" Greg said. "Where are you going?"

Sara looked at him before walking out the door. "To find my sister," she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and left.

Greg turned to Nick. "I thought she didn't have any—"

"She doesn't," Nick interrupted, staring at the door.

Catherine held the kitchen knife in her hand and ran her finger over the blade as she stood by the window, waiting patiently. She looked like the perfect mother. She wore an apron over her t-shirt and jeans. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was superb. She was the world's best soccer mom. Not that Lindsey played soccer. Or that her child ever would.

Her child… Catherine's thoughts came to her as though she was recalling two separate lives. Something was wrong here. Something was cold.

She pushed a stray hair back behind her ear. Everything had to be perfect for her little angel. She pressed her finger so hard against the blade that it punctured her skin and blood from her fingertip dripped down the sliver of silver and then onto the hardwood floor. The dripping sounded like raindrops and it soothed Catherine.

She wished it was raining. It would be easier to lose her in the mud that way. Not like the last time, in the dry soil. She just kept coming up again with every new rain which would wash away the top soil. Eventually she had learned, and she dug deep into the mud and planted flowers above it, a field of clover.

She always liked clover. It quite reminded her of home.

But Catherine didn't recall very many clovers in Montana, nor did she really consider it her home, not anymore.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her as a surge of regret washed over her and she began to cry for no real reason that she could determine. Everyone hated her. Everyone had called her a whore. She couldn't let them know, least of all her sister, how deeply right they were. She would never forgive herself. She would never live it down. And what would he say? Oh God… he couldn't know. He would never know. Oh what kind of mess had she gotten herself into?

These thoughts were not her own, but they effected Catherine as though they were. These memories to her, of clovers and a sister and a lover, all of them felt so real to Catherine that it was hard to differentiate them from her own.

She watched as the school bus pulled up outside of the house and her baby girl jumped off of it, her back pack slung over one shoulder as she made her way to the door.

With a heavy heart, Catherine dried her eyes and hid the knife behind her back as she went to answer the door.