Author's Note: And here's your ending. If I feel like it, I may include an epilogue, but I haven't decided if it's necessary (it would concern Camellia). So I think this is it. Working on a few projects now, we'll see what comes up next.

Nick and Greg only parted when the former had to go into work, and Greg took that opportunity to go back to his own apartment and straighten things out. He had found someone to sublet very hastily, on account of his quick departure, and he was a little nervous about the state she had left things in when she had vacated a week prior to Greg's return. But unlocking the door, Greg was actually impressed with how organized the place was. He even noticed that his DVDs were suddenly alphabetized, and none of them were missing. He smiled at himself, wondering if his luck was finally turning around.

He went into the kitchen where he found a note from her, in neat handwriting.

I cleaned up a bit, I hope you don't mind. Also, I would have fed the cat you said you had, but he never showed up, so I just left a bowl out on your balcony in case he was interested. As far as I know, he never came to eat it.

Leslie

Greg sighed and suddenly, with a sharp pang, felt the absence of his odd but loveable patchy cat, Liver. He pursed his lips, finally accepting that Liver was gone for good, and he wouldn't come back.

And then, he saw the PS on the letter...

P.S. Forgot to mention, I found some pills spilled out on the table when I got here. I threw the ones on the table out (you don't want dirty pills, they'll just make you sicker!) and put the bottle back in your medicine cabinet.

Greg tensed and held his breath a moment. He spun around and marched straight for his bathroom, where he threw open the mirrored cabinet and saw all of his medications lined up neatly in a row, from Advil to Valium.

Valium...

Greg closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He didn't need the drug anymore, and had sworn to his sponsor that he would never touch it again. More than that, he had promised himself.

Greg clutched the pill bottle in his hand and stared at it for a moment. So much trouble from such a little bottle, he thought to himself.

With a determined frown, he turned on the tap and unscrewed the cap. He held the bottle over the swirling water in the sink, his hand shaking. He was ready to tip it over, to pour those damn pills down the drain, but something was holding him back. He grit his teeth, his throat closing up as he stared at the trembling bottle and then, furious with himself, he threw it at the mirror and the leftover pills scattered across the tile floor.

Greg sat on the edge of the bathtub with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair, taking deep breaths. Going through the withdrawal had been painful, frightening, and long, but he had done it. He had told himself it was because he had more strength inside of him than he'd previously thought, but now all he had to do was tip a bottle of pills out into the sink and for some reason, he couldn't do it. He had kicked withdrawal's ass, and yet he still couldn't get rid of the pills.

And then, suddenly, there was a knock at his door and Greg's head shot up. For a moment, he thought he'd imagined it, but then there was another knock. Greg rose to his feet and walked to his living room, and then the door, opening it without a second thought.

In the frame stood Gil Grissom, with a stern expression in his eyes, but a contradictorily soft smile.

"Hello, Greg," he said quietly.

Greg said nothing as he looked back at his old supervisor. And after a moment, he stepped back and gestured for Grissom to come in, which he did.

"What are you doing here?" Greg said at last as Grissom walked towards his couch.

"You've just been released from rehab," said Grissom. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"You didn't have to do that..." Greg muttered, leaning against his door.

Grissom turned around and looked at him with ice blue eyes. "You don't know what I have to do, Greg," he whispered.

Greg was startled by this answer. "What's that supposed to mean?" It had come out more accusing than Greg had intended, but rather than clarify his meaning, Greg left it up to Grissom's interpretation.

"It means that your... illness... has affected more than just you," Grissom replied evenly.

Greg frowned. "Do you really think I'm that self-centered?" he asked. "I know that!"

"Do you?" Grissom challenged. "What do you think the consequences of your actions are?"

"You've been worried about me, I get that," said Greg. "So has Nick, so has Catherine, and Sara, and Brass... Even Riley came to see me in rehab, OK, I get that I've upset a lot of people with what I did. I know all of that, so don't give me a lecture. I didn't do this specifically to hurt you."

Grissom nodded. "Do you know what it's been like at the lab since you left?" he asked. "Greg... with Sara gone and Warrick..." Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "The point is, this lab has seen enough trauma for a lifetime. It's not just about the people you hurt, it's about the job you left behind. Ronnie Lake, from swing shift, has done a few doubles, and Catherine and Riley have been working overtime since Ecklie keeps stalling on hiring a new CSI—"

"Ecklie hasn't—"

"No, he hasn't," Grissom interrupted sharply. "Not in three months."

Greg was quiet. "Well, that's not my fault, is it?" he asked. "He should have hired someone by now. I'm sorry that you guys have had to cover my absence, but—"

"I don't think you understand," Grissom interjected again. "You think it's just laziness that's kept Ecklie from hiring someone else? Or how busy he's become? Or the lack of qualified applicants? Ecklie may be a lot of things, but careless is not one of them, and there are plenty of eager young CSIs who would be happy to have your job, Greg, and don't you think for a second that you're irreplaceable."

Greg was confused. "If I'm not irreplaceable, then how come you haven't replaced me yet?"

"Because..." Grissom finally faltered. He sighed and almost laughed. He looked up and he was smiling. "Because even though there are dozens of qualified applicants, the only one we want is you."

Greg's face grew a few degrees warmer. "You... you've been waiting for me."

"We have," said Grissom. "As a CSI, Greg, you're not irreplaceable. But as a friend... you are."

"Are you... offering me my job back?" Greg breathed. He frowned. "Is... is Ecklie offering me my job back?"

"After the losses our team has suffered in the past year, I think even Ecklie is averse to making it suffer more," said Grissom. "So... yes. We are offering you your job back."

Greg laughed, suddenly very aware of the distance between them. "I..." He hesitated, feeling the urge to close that distance and hug his supervisor, but reason told him that would be inappropriate. He settled for a grateful nod. "Thank you, Grissom."

"You start tomorrow," Grissom said, heading for the door. "Stay healthy, Greg."

And then, he was gone, and Greg was alone. He looked down the hall towards his bathroom and sprinted to it, where he gathered all the pills off of the floor and dropped them all into the sink, turning on the water and watching them swirl down the drain, grinning all the while.

Greg was standing in the middle of his living room with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched to his sides as he focused on his breathing. He raised his arms up above his head and brought his palms together, before bringing them down in front of his chest. Still putting heavy concentration on his breathing, he bent forward, moving down onto the mat, putting one foot behind him and pausing there.

He heard a distant sound outside of his focus, but tuned it out. Now was the time for concentrating on this basic exercise, and not for anything else. Yoga had been an activity that helped him keep his mind off of the drugs when he'd been at the clinic, and he continued it now because it was a good way to purge his body of stress, and a much healthier habit than the Valium had ever been. He ducked his head and inhaled, placing his other foot down and moving flat on the mat with his elbows bent in the air. He exhaled. He swooped up, arching his back. There was still noise, but he continued to ignore it. He inhaled. He brought one knee beneath him. He exhaled. He brought the other knee.

By now, the noise was beginning to penetrate his calm state of mind and a hint of irritation was creeping up on him, as well as a vague sense of wonder about where this noise was coming from. The neighbors, perhaps, or someone at the...

The door.

Greg opened his eyes and found himself in his original position, with his hands clasped in front of his chest. He tuned his ears and heard frantic banging and screaming coming from his door. In nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, he jogged over and opened it to find a hysterical and pale Nick staring at him and breathing hard.

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" Nick demanded. "I've called, you didn't answer, I knock, you don't answer, I thought—"

"Sun salutes," Greg blurted out. "I was doing sun salutes. I didn't hear you."

"What?" Nick blinked.

A slow grin spread across Greg's features. "Yoga," he explained. "I was... concentrating. Didn't hear you. Actually, I did hear you, but I..."

Nick sighed and raked his hands through his hair. "Jesus Christ, Greg, I was so worried that something had happened to you..."

"Don't you trust me?" Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. He had meant it playfully, but then Nick hesitated and Greg's smile faded. "Well, don't you?"

"I trust you with my life, Greg, but not with your own," Nick confessed diplomatically.

Greg's mouth opened slightly. He had confess, the remark had caused some injury. But before he could respond, his ringing phone interrupted their silent conversation.

Nick looked startled by it, and Greg turned around. The phone was buzzing on his kitchen counter, and vying for his attention. Though he didn't know who was calling, he needed a minute to think. "I have to take this," he lied, and moved to the kitchen counter, answering immediately. Nick walked into his apartment without invitation and the door fell closed.

"Greg Sanders."

"Mr. Sanders," the speaker began, a voice familiar yet plagued with weariness. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Ana Peréz."

"I—"

But she charged on before he could get a word in. "I'm calling to tell you that a woman you used to know, a long time ago, has passed away. But her dying will was that she offered an apology, to the person she called the only friend she ever knew."

"But Cam—"

"Her name was Camellia," the speaker continued, "a name she gave herself because she was unsatisfied with the name she was born with, and the person that grew from the name. But the name brought her trouble. And before she died, she understood that she caused you needless grief and tragedy. And she wanted you to know that you don't deserve it. She wanted you to know that... she was sorry."

There was silence and Greg swallowed to open up his constricting throat. He hung his head, waiting for her to continue, but the line was still, and for a moment he thought she'd hung up. He gripped the edge of the counter and sighed. "Miss... Peréz," he began. There was no response, but he could hear her breathing. "I understand that you have some grief and tragedy of your own."

"This is no concern of yours," the woman replied, "as we are not friends, and have never met before. You should not worry about me."

Greg felt himself smile, even as his eyes stung. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe... I would like to meet you. For coffee. Just to talk."

There was a pause. "I think not," she said quietly.

Greg sighed. "Well... Camellia can rest in peace, then, because whatever grief she may have caused me, my life is no tragedy. I wish there was someway for me to tell her that I'm in a good place, that I'm better, that I'm healthy and I'm happy and... I just wish she could know that. Do you think she knows that, Miss Peréz?"

"I believe in a higher power, Mr. Sanders," she replied. "I believe that she can hear our conversation. But I do not believe that she believes it."

"Well, she should," said Greg. "She should believe it, because it's the truth. And if you'll just let me have a cup of coffee with you, I could—"

"I think that would be a very bad idea," she interrupted. "You see, you've already lost Camellia. I can't in good conscience let you watch as Ana Peréz fades away."

Greg gave a sad laugh. "You sound good," he said. "You sound sober."

"I've never done a single drug in my life. Not even alcohol," she said.

"No," he said. "I mean, you sound serious. You shouldn't be. You should be happy."

There was another long pause. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. "I will... keep that in mind, Mr. Sanders."

"Good bye, Miss Peréz," he said. "It was nice to meet you."

"May we never meet again," she replied. "For your sake. Goodbye, Mr. Sanders." And then, the line went dead.

Greg sighed and placed the phone on the counter. He turned to find Nick staring at him, his expression somber.

"What?" Greg asked, almost defensively.

"That was Camellia, wasn't it?" Nick asked.

"Actually, no," Greg answered, honestly. "Camellia is dead."

Nick's brow furrowed in confusion. "But I thought..."

"Don't think about it too much, Nick," Greg said, stepping forward with a smile and taking both of the Texan's hands in his own. "You don't have to worry about me anymore, OK?"

"But Camellia—"

"Camellia is no threat to me," Greg interrupted. "Nor to you."

A tinge of red crept into Nick's cheeks. "So... what does this mean?"

Greg's smile grew as he released Nick's hands and slid his own around Nick's waist, his hands proceeding to climb up the Texan's back, pulling him closer. Nick looked up, and Greg claimed his lips. When he pulled away, Nick was smiling again. "I'm OK, you're OK," said Greg. "We're OK. For once in a million years, everything is just fine."

"Not everything," said Nick, somberly, and Greg pulled away, looking confused. But then, Nick smirked. "We're in a recession, didn't you hear?"

Greg was so relieved, he barked with laughter. "Recession, sure. Well, Nick, if that's the biggest thing you're worried about, I think that's a good thing."

"Not really," said Nick. "Could turn into a depression. Inflation will skyrocket, people will lose jobs, crime rates will rise, business will—"

Greg hushed Nick by putting a finger to his lips. "Do we really have to talk about this? I mean, isn't there something else we could be doing?"

Nick smiled wickedly beneath Greg's finger and opened his mouth, the finger falling gently inside.

Greg closed his eyes. "God, I love you..." he sighed.

Nick pulled his head back and Greg's eyes opened again to see a surprised expression. He backtracked. "I mean..."

But Nick slowly smiled. "I love you, too," he said. And it was Nick's turn to take Greg by the hands, and lead the younger man into Greg's bedroom where he closed the door behind them.

The two lovers didn't know it, but they were actually being watched. Quite closely, as a matter of fact, by a pair of dual colored eyes. It was true, one of them had lost its sight, but the other was quite sharp, and the owner of these eyes cocked his head to the side, wiggled his nose in distaste, and turned around to the bowl that lived on Greg's balcony with his tail in the air as he ate his free meal.

And when he was done, he hopped onto the railing of the balcony and cast one last look into the apartment of his old owner, and then, he was gone.

THE END