Title: Beautiful Oblivion
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Greg Sanders
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Rating: PG-13
5_prompts, Written in the Stars challenge
Prompt: K6, You need your friends and they need you
Author's Note: Spoilers for the S7 CSI: Vegas episode "Fannysmackin'."
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Greg Sanders, unfortunately, just borrowing him for a while. Please do not sue.

***

Greg turned his head to the side, trying to look out of the window in his hospital room. He could still barely see -- his eyes were both swollen, but at least they weren't shut all the way any more. There were fuzzy images floating in his vision; he wasn't blinded.

That had been what he was most afraid of when he had been taken to the hospital. He'd asked the doctors repeatedly if his vision was going to be impaired -- but they couldn't seem to understand just how important it was that the answer was negative.

If he didn't have his eyesight functioning as it should, then he wouldn't be able to do his job. Not only as as CSI, but in the lab as well -- and he could end up losing both jobs. He might not be able to continue doing what he loved most -- and he couldn't deal with that.

He hadn't mentioned that fear to Sara when she'd been there at the crime scene with him; he hadn't wanted to sound like a whining baby. He was lucky to be alive, and he knew it; if backup hadn't arrived when it had, he might very well have been beaten to death.

It felt as though he had been, he thought, trying to hold back a groan as he shifted from his back onto his side. It didn't really matter how he was lying down; everything hurt, no matter how he shifted his body around in the bed. He was bruised all over.

But he was alive, and that was the important thing, as his friends kept reminding him. There had been a steady stream of people in and out of his hospital room for the last two days; he was already feeling a little better because of their good wishes and support.

He needed his friends more than ever now. If Sara hadn't been at the crime scene, holding his hand and being a friend, he would have been in much worse shape than he was now. Her presence had helped him keep a cool head, and tell her what to collect from the crime scene.

Of course, she would already know what to get, he told himself with a wry smile. That smile cost him a grimace of pain; his face was so bruised and battered that moving in any way hurt. He couldn't even eat solid food, and wouldn't be able to for at least a week, he'd been told.

Who else had been to the crime scene? Everybody, by this point, Greg told himself, closing his eyes and sighing softly. He hated to think about it; he could remember how it had looked from his vantage point on the ground, before his eyes had swollen shut.

He could remember every second of that night. Every kick, every punch. He could remember that guy turning him over, looking down at him as though he was trash -- and then spitting on him. It was all etched into his mind's eye with crystal clarity.

That was something he didn't want to remember, but he couldn't get it out of his head. He couldn't keep the memories of being kicked and punched out of his mind; it was as though his body could still feel each blow, as though he was still in the moment.

If he closed his eyes, he was transported back to the scene: He was lying on the ground, trying to get away from his assailants, feeling every kick to his ribs and back, every punch that took his breath away, every strained gasp of air that he took into his tortured lungs ....

Greg pulled himself out of that memory with difficulty; he didn't want to think about it, but the memories of that night kept crowding into his head. He couldn't simply push them away and get rid of them, no matter how much he wanted to do so.

All he'd wanted to do that night was to sink into a beautiful oblivion that had beckoned to him, whispering that it was where he belonged, that midnight blackness that he could fall into and stop the pain, stop what was happening. It would have been so easy, so comforting.

But his friends wouldn't have let him do that. And he wouldn't let himself do it, either. He had a healthy instinct for self-preservation; he wouldn't surrender himself to that oblivion. The people he worked with, his friends who meant the most to him, needed him around.

They had been there before to hold out a helping hand when he'd needed it, and this time had been no different. They had rallied around him when he had needed them most; they had been there for him, doing their best to find out who led that gang.

They might not have found the bastard yet, but Greg had no doubt that they would. He couldn't be part of that case; after all, he was here in the hospital, barely able to move. And even if he hadn't been, he was too close to it. He was now one of the victims.

He hated to think of himself in that light, but it was true. He'd been the victim of a violent crime, rather than being one of the people who investigated that crime and tried to find out who had committed it. And he didn't particularly like being on this side of the fence.

At least his friends had done what he'd told Sara, and processed his body while the nurses at the hospital had been bandaging him up and tending to his wounds. They had gotten the evidence from under his nails, and from where that guy had spit on him.

He could do nothing more at this point but lie here and wait for his bruised and battered body to heal. If it wasn't for his friends coming over every morning after their shift, he wouldn't know what was happening with the case, but they were going out of their way to keep him informed.

There wasn't much so far, but it had only been two days. They'd run the DNA under his nails and found out who he'd scratched, but they hadn't managed to find the guy yet; he was in the wind, which meant that he was more than likely the leader of that deadly gang of morons.

His friends would find the bastards who had done this to him. They would all end up behind bars, where they belonged. Greg had faith in the ability of the people he worked with to find his assailants; they were good at what they did, and they would get the job done.

Besides, he was one of their own. They would do anything they had to do, push their barriers to the limits and beyond, to catch the people who had hurt him. They had banded together around him, and he knew that they would do whatever they had to do to make things right.

There would be no sinking into a beautiful oblivion for him, though. He had already been informed by a tight-lipped Ecklie that he had killed a man, and that the department was being sued because of it. He had no defense against that; he would be facing a strained future.

He had no way of knowing what would happen, but there was another ordeal facing him once he got out of the hospital. He was already dealing with it, at least partially, while he was here; the worry only served to add to his aches and pains.

But his friends wouldn't let him be screwed around, Greg told himself, closing his eyes and trying to let the worry go. They would rally around him again, and protect him from whatever threat he might be facing. He had never needed them as much as he did now.

***