10) Things That Come In Threes Aren't Always Good

Greg stormed into the locker room, shoving past Nick. The two watched him wrestle with the latch for a minute before slamming his fist against the metal. He grabbed the latch and threw the door open. The door slammed loudly against the metal and he threw his vest and field kit in, grabbed the door and slammed it shut. He turned, glaring at both of them.

"What!?" he demanded in a yell.

"Are you okay?" Nick asked.

"DO I LOOK OKAY!?"

He didn't really want to answer that question, and the answer was no. Greg's right eye was puffy and black and blue. The sleeve of his shirt was torn and stained with his own blood. His right hand was wrapped in gauze.

"Did you pick a fight?" Nick asked.

Greg laughed, walking out. He answered, as he went around the corner, "No. The fight picked me!"

Nick contemplated going after him and making him tell him what happened, but he didn't really feel like dealing with Greg's temper this morning. He wanted to go home and sleep.

Greg walked to the elevator and impatiently jammed the call button several times.

"Greg," he heard Catherine call as the doors opened.

He stepped on and turned.

"Greg!" Catherine called.

He turned, glowering at her as the door closed. Greg tapped the button for the basement.

Catherine stopped outside the elevator, throwing her arms up.

"What was that about?" Nick asked as he walked up. "He was really mad."

Catherine looked at the papers she was carrying. "He's had three trips to the hospital tonight. He started loosing it after he was shot."

"Greg was shot? And you didn't send him home?"

"He wouldn't go!" Catherine walked away.

Nick looked up, seeing the elevator was stopping at the basement. The Wall. A good place for him to let off some anger. Nick tapped the button, and then slid his hands in his coat pockets. His hand wrapped around the note inside – he wondered where the woman was that wrote it. More importantly, he hoped she was okay wherever that was.

#

Greg kicked the file cabinet as he slipped between it and the wall. He tumbled into the room, catching himself on a chair. Greg's fingers curled tightly around the chair and suddenly he threw it against the wall with a roar. That didn't help his anger, it didn't make the pain in his arm or hand go away either. He reached for the chair.

"No," a voice said.

Greg spun around, finding Grissom watching him with a camera in his hand.

"Don't do that again," Grissom told him.

Greg headed for the door.

"Greg, stop."

Greg was compelled to obey. He stood behind the door, hidden from Grissom's view.

"I thought today was your day off," Greg said.

"It is. But it's the first day I haven't been called in for anything, so I decided I'd photograph the wall for posterity."

Greg didn't move. Something was keeping him from leaving. Was it the room or Grissom or both?

"I assume you didn't have a good night. I haven't seen you in this bad of a mood since Sara left."

Greg came back into the room. If Grissom wanted to know, fine, he'd tell him. He wouldn't hold anything back if that's what Grissom wanted.

"I go to the first crime scene, just me and Brass. It's a domestic violence call, one person down. They're still trying to get the husband under control inside, so I start working the perimeter. The husband suddenly comes running out, jumps in his pickup, and almost runs me over trying to escape. I got this," he points at his eye, "And road rash from him. Oh, but the fun didn't stop there. Fuck no! I go to the next scene with Catherine and everything seems okay. Suspects are out in the cars, two witnesses, one DOA. We start working it. Suddenly, one of the witnesses goes off, gets a gun from somewhere in the house, and starts shooting at the suspects. I get shot! In the arm, granted, not vital, but it HURTS LIKE HELL! Oh, but my night isn't over! Not even close to being over. Before the night is over, I have some bratty kid kick me in the balls, and a psycho-victim grabbed a knife and sliced open my hand!" Greg presented the bandaged hand to Grissom. "I've got Catherine trying to convince me to go home, a ton of evidence that I never got to because I kept ending at the hospital, I haven't eaten all night, my head, hand and arm are killing me, and I'm so angry and fed up with this day that I can't even sleep!"

Silence fell between them. Greg looked away from him. He actually felt a little better. The anger wasn't as intense as it had been when he'd stormed into the room.

"I'm sorry you had such an awful night. That would make me upset too."

Greg looked at him. He was holding out a piece of chalk.

"So I think you should catch up on the list and update it with a few of your own. Your list has always helped me when I've been upset about something."

Greg walked forward, taking the chalk. "Really?"

"Yes. Really."

Greg looked at the walls. The rules had become scattered about the room. They seemed almost organic now, having become one with the room. The rules knew they had a clandestine influence, an enchantment; they could draw anyone into them with their silent promise to help them laugh and for a while, however short it was, someone could forget about there being pain and bad shifts and budgets and management that couldn't understand and evidence that led no where. The rules didn't care about any of that, and that was what made them so powerful.

"A lot's been added since I was in here last," Greg said. Already his anger was starting to melt inside him so the words came out easy.

"I saw that too."

Grissom turned back to snapping photographs of the walls, table, and floor. Greg started reading the writings, catching up before he added any of his own:

94. I should not drink three quarts of blue food coloring before a urine test.

He chuckled at his own line. He had been chosen for the monthly random drug test and that ticked him off. He though the tests were a waste of time and taxpayer dollars. So on the way there, he bought five bottles of blue food coloring and drank them before he arrived at the test clinic. The clinic called Grissom in a panic, saying that Greg must be sick with some foreign disease and they were going to call the CDC. Grissom told Greg all this when he called him at home, and then informed him that in two days he had to submit another sample and this time, he was not to drink any food coloring beforehand.

95. Nor should I drink three quarts of red food coloring, and scream during the same. (Nick's handwriting. He'd tried to follow in Greg's footsteps and it ended bad for him. They thought it was blood, Grissom promised to write him up if he did it again.)

96. Lab rats are not allowed to call out "dead man walking!" when a co-worker passes on their way to a review. (Archie's handwriting)

97. I may not imitate masturbation as a tool to demonstrate a flaw in a command decision. (Bobby's handwriting.)

98. I am not authorized to sell mineral rights unless I own the mineral rights. (Nick's handwriting.)

99. Not allowed to attempt to appeal to mankind's basic instincts while posting employment openings on the board, online, or in the newspaper. (Gina's handwriting.)

100. The medical examiner is not authorized to prescribe any medication. (Robbins handwriting. What was that about, Greg wondered?)

101. "It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission," no longer applies to lab tech Hodges. (Catherine's handwriting. There was such a thing as small miracles!)

102. The proper response to any command is not "Why?" (Catherine's handwriting. Killjoy!)

103. I am not allowed to use Bunsen burners and evidence trays to make grilled cheese sandwiches. (Hodges' handwriting. Another small miracle. He liked his grilled cheese almost burnt and it stunk up the lab up the rest of the nigh!.)

104. Do not tease lab rats that have worked six back-to-back shifts. (Hodges' handwriting. Wise word of advice.)

105. Betting pools regarding a crime scene, suspect, or evidence is bad. (Warrick's handwriting.)

106. I should not threaten to hurt children suspects by making them eat Pop Rocks® with Coke®. (Warrick's handwriting. Where was he when Warrick did that?)

107. May not form any gangs despite news reports of there being one. (Gina's handwriting. What?)

108. I am not to refer to tox screens as "human happy meters." (Hodges' handwriting. sigh! Well, there was always Breakfast at Tiffany's. That made Greg giggle.)

109. The proper way to report to a supervisor at a crime scene is, "Where do you need me?" not "You can't prove a thing!" (Grissom's handwriting.)

110. We do not refer to little people as citizens of Oz. (Grissom handwriting again.)

111. I will not create new levels of security clearance. (Grissom's handwriting and what? Was that for himself or someone else?)

112. Coin tosses do not supersede a supervisor's orders or instructions. (Grissom handwriting again.)

113. 'Rock, scissors, paper' will not be used to determine how a victim died. (Grissom handwriting yet again.)

"A little busy with the list today, I see," Greg commented.

"I had to catch up," Grissom answered.

Greg smiled. He walked over to a spot and began writing:

114. I may not sing "99 bottles of beer on the wall\99bottles of beer\swab one down\run it through CODIS\98bottles of beer on the wall…" until verse 89, ever again.

"Who forbade that?" Grissom asked.

"Warrick. He told me if I ever did it again he'd quit that night and leave me alone to process the scene."

Grissom chuckled. Greg added his next one:

115. It is not our job to save pond biologics from evidence because "they may be potentially endangered species."

"You almost had me convinced, you know," Grissom told him.

Greg looked back at him. He was sitting in a chair, watching Greg write his rules.

"I did?"

"Almost. You shouldn't have smiled."

"Note to self. Okay, next one."

116. I am not allowed to come to work with unnatural hair color even if it was done professionally and is 'in season.'

"I never said you couldn't have unnatural hair."

"You said if I did I'd have to wear a hat until it grew out or I dyed it again."

"It was scaring the children."

Greg shot a look over his shoulder. "The children, huh? There weren't any at that crime scene."

"It was scaring me."

Greg smiled, writing his next one:

117. Hair and skin should not be scanned into the computer and then used to make the Quizno™ hamsters.

"What are the Quizno hamsters?"

"A really bad marketing idea. I liked them, but I know a lot of people that thought they looked gross. When I made one with scanned in hair and skin samples, Catherine saw it and told me if I ever tried to recreate another one she'd take a ruler to my knuckles."

"She wouldn't have."

"I didn't want to test that."

Grissom chuckled again. Greg wrote down his next one:

118. Must not use city equipment to bootleg pornography.

"I won't ask."

"Thanks." Greg wrote the next one:

119. My gun is not named "Sheila, Avenger of Silly Putty."

He stepped back, waiting for a comment from Grissom. When Grissom didn't comment, he turned and asked, "No comment?"

"My gun is named Alicia."

Greg laughed. He walked over to a chair and sat down, tapping the chalk on the table.

"Feeling better?" Grissom asked.

Greg shrugged. He actually was feeling a lot better, but his hurting arm wasn't making it easy to let all his anger go.

"Are you done?" Greg pointed at the camera.

"I am." Grissom stood, and began packing his photograph equipment. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Do you still go on the roller coaster?"

"Yes. I was going to go today."

"Well... Have fun."

Greg tapped the chalk on the table again. Grissom finished and laid his hands on his camera bag.

"Greg."

"Hm?"

"Would you like to join me?"

Greg looked up at him, smiling. "I'm still starving."

"You want to eat before you ride it?"

"I always eat before I ride roller coasters."

"I could use some breakfast, too. Come on."

Greg got up, following him out. He paused when he reached back to shut off the light. He'd never verbalize it, but in his mind he thanked the room. True, if Grissom hadn't been there it probably would have taken longer for the anger to fade, but Greg believed the room helped facilitate Grissom's calm and help soothe his anger.