Title: From Grissom
By: Chapin CSI
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For Gedda and maybe, For Warrick.
Important note: I started planning this story right after 'For Gedda', with a particular scene in mind, pretty sure that nothing like that would ever happen on CSI. Then I watched the promo for the first episode of the new season, only to find there's a scene in it that looks just like the one in my story! I make it a point not to read spoilers, so I really don't know just how similar the scenes are really going to be, but if you haven't seen that promo (or For Gedda), and don't want to be spoiled, please don't read the story.
Another note: I'd originally wrote that Grissom was playing poker with 'sheriff Xander' 'cause that's what Television without pity called him; after a thoughtful review, however, I did what I should have done from the very beginning: look up the transcripts! It turns out I was grossly wrong (I'm still blushing), and the guy is really the UNDERUNDERSHERIFF, and his name is JEFFREY MCKEEN! Sorry –SORRY- for the mistake.
Warning: I don't speak English and it shows in my stories; luckily, my readers are very forgiving. Thanks!
Summary: Grissom survives his encounter with McKeen and makes a life-changing decision. An apologetic Greg tries to find out more about it. G&G friendship.

***

Three O'clock in the morning in Las Vegas isn't like three O'clock in any other city. There's always some action going on, even in the quietest neighborhood.

This particular house, for instance; a casual observer noticing the lights off would have assumed people inside were peacefully asleep.

But there were no casual observers tonight, and the people inside were very much awake.

They were in the dining room.

The room was elegant and fairly large, although the dimness of the lights made it look smaller. The chandeliers above had been turned off, and a couple of lamps, strategically placed in a corner, had been turned on instead. But the room was big enough to hold a small banquet, and the dinning table could have easily sat twelve people -although tonight it only sat two.

The men were sitting at the far-end of the table; this, combined with the general gloom of the room, helped create the impression that they were in a cramped room in some crummy hotel, not a mansion in an exclusive area of Las Vegas. Atmosphere was important.

They were playing poker.

Sitting on opposite sides, their eyes fixed on their cards, and speaking only sparingly, it would seem like they weren't really aware of each other. But they were; every gesture, every movement, no matter how slight, was dutifully noted.

It was part of the game.

Undersheriff Jeffrey McKeen cleared his throat, a sign that he was about to make a move. It was one of the Undersheriff's 'tells'; one he had yet to get rid of.

He laid his cards on the table and then he raised his gaze.

The man sitting on the opposite side didn't immediately acknowledge him.

Gil Grissom didn't seem in a hurry to reveal his own hand –and that was part of his game; to keep his opponent in the dark, and make him wonder, wonder…

But finally, he too, laid his cards on the table, fanning them for the Undersheriff's benefit.

McKeen glanced at Grissom's cards and then, like a true poker player, he accepted defeat with the barest of gestures: a brief nod. Then he smiled. Maybe he'd just remembered it was only a friendly little game after all, with no real money at stake.

Still smiling, McKeen grabbed the bottle of whisky sitting nearby and filled two glasses.

"Well done, Grissom," he said, and he raised his glass. "Here's to your health."

Gil winced at the not-so-veiled irony behind those words. The Undersheriff must have noticed what everybody else already had: He wasn't feeling well –hadn't, for some time. He'd lost weight, and insomnia had left its mark: When he looked in the mirror, lifeless eyes stared back at him.

Still, a toast was a toast, and so he dutifully raised his own glass.

"And yours," he said. He put the glass down without tasting its contents, while the Undersheriff took a few appreciative sips of whisky before downing the rest in a single gulp. The gesture, which would have looked like plain dissipation in another time and place, seemed appropriate tonight. McKeen was in his own home, after all.

It was his birthday.

Around them, traces of the recent celebration remained. Ecklie had organized it as a sort of guys' night out for guys with a reputation to maintain or, as someone at the party said, 'a guys' night out for prudes,' which meant no girls and only a moderate –if select- amount of booze.

In the end, they'd settled for dinner and poker at the Undersheriff's house, with the lab's senior supervisors in attendance. Gifts had been opened, dinner had been eaten, and poker had been played for hours, till one by one, the men started to leave.

Only Grissom remained.

If Gil's presence at the party had taken everybody by surprise, his staying behind had not. He was an outstanding poker player, the only one whose abilities matched the Undersheriff's own, so it made sense that he'd want to stay. Time flew as he and the Undersheriff played hand after hand, with neither one of them showing any sign of tiredness.

McKeen put his glass down. Without a word, he started picking the cards strewn on the table again, taking it for granted that Grissom would play another hand. The Undersheriff was slightly flushed, but that was about the only sign that he'd been drinking. His hands moved steadily as he started shuffling the cards.

"You know, Grissom," he said after a moment, "I am glad you stayed. There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you, only it never seemed the right time to do it." He glanced at Gil as if to make sure he had his attention, "It's about the rumors I've been hearing about your team."

There was no reply from Gil, and the Undersheriff didn't seem to be expecting one. He merely looked down and continued shuffling the cards.

"Apparently, you've been having disciplinary problems with some of your people, especially with Willows. They can hear her yelling at you and then storming out of your office. And as for Stokes and Sanders, it seems they've been working on their own, without any assistance or guidance from you." He looked up. "If any of this is true, then something has to be done about it, Gil. Ecklie broke the team once; he can do it again."

Gil stared back expressionlessly. The Undersheriff's reports were correct; he was having trouble with his people. And while Catherine was very vocal about her discontent, it was Nick and Greg's silence that had worried him the most. They were disappointed. Sad.

But he wasn't about to admit any of this to the Undersheriff.

"It's nothing I can't handle," he said curtly.

"Oh, I believe you," the Undersheriff said, nodding placidly. "But -" he paused ominously, "I also believe you'd say or do anything in order to shield your people from an official inquiry. That's the reason we're having this conversation, Gil. The point is, this cannot go on. As the boss, it's up to you to keep this from escalating." He paused again. "I need to know that you are taking all necessary measures -"

"I am," Grissom said succinctly.

McKeen nodded, and then, in what felt like a conciliatory gesture, he put the cards down and gestured at Gil to cut. Gil complied.

"Listen," the Undersheriff said, softening his tone. "It's not that I don't understand the reason behind your guys' behavior. Warrick Brown's death must have affected them; it affected us all." He looked at Gil closely, "It's only natural for them to express feelings of revenge -"

"It isn't that," Gil said calmly. "They simply want answers -answers I can't provide."

"About the mole," McKeen said, since Gil hadn't. He sighed. "I suppose the fact that it can be anyone only adds to their frustration. I've heard some of them have grown suspicious of Ecklie -" he glanced at Gil. "What do you think?"

Gil merely stared back.

The silence seemed to pique the Undersheriff, who shook his head in disapproval.

"You know, this is the kind of attitude that pisses people off, Gil. Let's face it; you didn't press for any further investigation on this matter. Frankly, I was a little disappointed, myself. I would have expected you to raise hell after Warrick died, yet you've never-"

"Raising hell would have accomplished little," Gil interrupted. "Except maybe getting more of my people killed." He looked at the Undersheriff in the eye, "I can handle their discontent; I can handle people hanging in my lab with the sole purpose of taking notes for you. But I'm not going to risk my people's lives –not until I have more evidence to back up an investigation."

The Undersheriff considered these words for a moment, then he looked down at the cards again.

"That's very commendable, I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "But I doubt your guys will see it quite like that. To them, that cautiousness is only cowardice."

Suddenly, Gil grimaced. He'd just felt a sharp stab of pain, deep in his gut. It was over almost immediately, thank God, but no matter how brief, it left him shaken. What began as a mild discomfort two months before had escalated into a searing pain that flared up unexpectedly, then receded just as abruptly, leaving him wobbly and weak.

And it was getting worse.

He knew he should go to a doctor; he almost did, back when the pain started -back when he could still indulge in personal matters. He just didn't have the time now.

Besides, he needed the pain. It helped fuel his determination to finish what he'd set out to do.

He took a deep breath and looked at the Undersheriff. Apparently unaware of Gil's turmoil, McKeen was still shuffling the cards and talking, talking, talking; irony coloring his every word.

"–what I mean is," he was saying, "It doesn't seem like you to leave a matter unsolved." He looked up and smiled. "I would have thought you of all people, would want to know who killed Warrick."

Grissom met his gaze.

"Oh, I know who killed Warrick."

***

The Under Sheriff frowned as if doubted he'd heard correctly. The mocking smile remained, but it looked forced now.

"Did you just say…?" and he let the word trail off.

Grissom didn't immediately reply. He was thinking of Brass, and his last-minute advice: 'Don't reveal more than you need to,' he said, 'Your job tonight is to keep McKeen busy. That's all. Just keep it together and you'll be fine.'

Keep it together? Easier said than done. Grissom was just too tired; exhausted, in fact. Keeping the truth to himself had cost him more than he thought. True, he'd shared the information with Brass and a couple of other people but the burden was still his and his alone. Even saying the words out loud tonight didn't help. 'Truth brings closure,' he used to say, and, oh, how wrong he was!

Suddenly, his hands start to shake. He laid them flat on the table and as he did, he stole a glance at his watch. Three-thirty. Three-thirty! So much later than he thought.

'Two hours, tops,' Brass had said. 'It won't take us longer than that. Just remember: The least you say, the better.' The thought almost made Gil smile.

If Brass were there, he'd be giving him hell right now.

But Brass wasn't there. Nor would he, if their botched timetable was any indication.

Grissom met the Sheriff's gaze.

"Yes," he said, answering the sheriff's unfinished question. Then, "There was a witness."

He watched as Mckeen –a poker player to the end- carefully mastered what must have been an urgent need to lean over and grab him by the throat till he spilled everything he knew.

McKeen cautiously shifted in his seat.

"A witness," he said slowly. "And why wasn't I made aware of this, er, fact?"

"Well, it was decided that disclosing the information would probably work against our best interests," Gil said, purposefully mocking the kind of language the Under Sheriff used in his briefings with the police. Then he added, "Surely, you understand why."

"The Mole," Mckeen said mechanically. Gil nodded. "And can you guarantee this witness' protection?"

"Well, nothing's happened so far," Gil said casually.

McKeen leant forward. "And this... witness. Is he credible? After all, Warrick was killed near a bar. I can imagine that area was swarming with low-lifes -"

Gil smiled.

"Well, it isn't a matter of personal credibility," he said matter-of-factly. "Witnesses' testimonies are basically useless, unless we have the evidence to back it up. That's why we decided to wait."

"'We,'" the sheriff repeated. "Who else is involved in this cover-up?"

"Well, there's no 'we', actually," Gil conceded. "It's been me, all along. I decided to wait –at least, till I knew what we were dealing with."

"You mean, the mole."

"I mean the people surrounding the mole," Gil replied. "Accomplices, backers..." he let the word trail off.

"That's a huge amount of work, Gil. And yet, you didn't ask your people for help." McKeen threw him a penetrating look. "I find that hard to believe; I mean why not use the lab's resources, when -"

"As I said before," Gil interrupted, "I didn't want to risk my people's lives."

"Or your own, I suppose," McKeen noted ironically. He leant back in his chair and studied Gil for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. "Of course, you realize that as an officer of the law, you were duty-bound to submit every piece of information that fell into your hands -"

"Yes."

"- and by not doing so, you could face serious charges for obstruction." He kept his gaze on Grissom. "Now, I am willing to cut you some slack, Gil; what you ought to do is bring forward this witness of yours. If he can ID Warrick's killer, then he can very well lead us to the mole -"

"Oh, I already know who the mole is, Sheriff."

Again, the sheriff paused.

"Well, well, Gil. You keep surprising me, tonight. You know who the mole is."

"Yeah," Grissom said matter-of-factly. "It's you."

Mckeen didn't move a muscle.

"That is quite an accusation, Grissom," he said at last. "I am not even going to ask what your evidence is -there is none. I am not the mole."

"You are," Gil said softly. "And you killed Warrick."

The sheriff shook his head very slowly.

"Poor Gil -" he said. "Grief has affected you more than I was led to believe. But then, it's been a tough year for you; first, Sara Sidle left; then Warrick died. No wonder you've been acting erratically. Even Ecklie, who's always had a grudging respect for you, says you're being careless in your every-day duties. And now, you come up with these wild accusations -"

"There was a witness, sheriff," Gil retorted. "Remember? He saw you, that night."

"I was nowhere near that bar, Gil," the sheriff said patiently, as if it pained him to point the fact to Gil. But his eyes were cold and watchful.

Gil's tone mimicked the sheriff's. "He saw you, Sheriff," he said, "He saw you following Warrick."

Gil's gaze was on McKeen, but it wasn't him he was really looking at. In his mind, he was back in the bar, saying goodbye to Warrick and the others. He remembered every word he exchanged with Warrick, and how he almost told the younger man to take it easy but didn't, because the last thing Warrick needed was a speech.

Instead, he'd walked away; smiling, because their laughs were so loud, he could hear them all the way to the door…

Then, the noises in the street engulfed him, and he couldn't hear their voices anymore.

And then, he drove away.

"He saw you, Sheriff," Gil said softly. "He thought, 'There goes Sheriff Mckeen. He's going to have a quiet conversation with Warrick, now. He's probably going to give him a piece of his mind and a warning not to mess up again, but that's ok; Warrick had it coming.' And so, instead of following you two, I -" Gil faltered a little now. "I decided to let you have a moment alone with him."

"You -"

McKeen half-rose from his seat, then checked himself almost immediately. He carefully sat back again, but it didn't matter; he had betrayed himself.

"I went back to the bar that night," Gil said. He didn't explain why. He didn't want the sheriff to know that he didn't think leaving Warrick in a bar was such a good idea, even with Nick there. He drove back, then. He didn't intent to actually go inside the bar and drag Warrick out; he just wanted to hang around, watch out for Warrick in case he drank too much and needed a ride home.

But Warrick didn't intend to get drunk that night.

"Warrick was already walking away when I got there," Gil said, and he almost smiled at the memory. Warrick's healthy attitude had made him so proud…

"I almost called out but didn't," Gil said softly. "I guess I didn't want him to think I didn't trust him enough," he added, almost to himself. "But there was another reason," he added, looking at the sheriff again. "You were there. You came out of the shadows the minute Warrick left the bar. And I was glad," Gil said, in disbelief. He still couldn't believe his instinct for danger had failed him so grossly that night. He truly believed the sheriff wanted to give Warrick some fatherly advice, maybe a strong warning to keep on the straight and narrow. Well, he was wrong, and the magnitude of this mistake would haunt him the rest of his life. "I really thought I was doing you both a favor."

Suddenly, Gil winced. The pain was back, only, instead of ebbing away like it always did, it stayed. It felt as if a living entity were working its way inside, probing him -testing his endurance.

Grissom took a deep breath. 'Keep it together,' he thought, 'Keep it together…' but Brass' mantra didn't help.

Determined not to break down in front of the sheriff, Grissom pushed away from the table and rose from his seat. He somehow managed to reach the sideboard and leant on it for a moment, trying to regain some control.

He looked down. Bottles of whisky and rum and soda crowded the board, along with a dozen half-opened gifts. His own gift was there: a thick book that McKeen had barely looked at because Ecklie insisted he opened the rest of his gifts.

For Gil, the book was evidence of his capacity for duplicity: He'd carefully shopped for the book; he'd smiled along with the others as he added it to the gift pile, and finally, he'd even joined his colleagues in a raucous rendering of 'For he's a jolly good-fellow'… And all along he'd known what the Sheriff had done. And what was about to happen.

If it got to happen. Gil didn't believe it would, anymore.

Behind him, the sheriff spoke at last.

"So, Gil. According to your own statement, you didn't follow Warrick. You didn't see him get shot."

Grissom took a deep breath. The pain was fading, and after a moment he was able to turn and face the sheriff.

"I saw you follow him," he said, "I saw you walk away afterwards -"

"You didn't see much, Gil. And I wasn't there, anyway." McKeen smiled. "There is no way for you to prove otherwise." Careful as he'd been to conceal his emotions, he couldn't help letting his relief show through.

Grissom didn't reply. He merely leant on the sideboard and stared at the Under Sheriff as if he were waiting for something.

His attitude made the sheriff impatient.

"What?" he asked, "Really, Gil, what is all this about? I mean, unless you can manufacture evidence against me -and God knows you'd have the ability- I don't understand what you expect from all this. Is it a confession you want? Or a careless statement that might be used against me -" Suddenly, he looked up sharply. Without another word, he rose from his seat, crossed the room and unceremoniously started patting Gil up and down.

Grissom let him; he even helped by raising his arms.

"I'm not wired, Sheriff," he said patiently.

The Sheriff didn't seem convinced. He glanced around searchingly; when he saw Gil's gift, still in its box, his eyes widened in sudden comprehension.

"The book," he said hoarsely. "The Aeneid," he added. "Of course -The Greek army inside the Trojan Horse -" He looked up, "This is one theatrical touch I didn't expect from you, Gil."

Grissom was frankly surprised at the sheriff's reasoning.

"There's nothing inside the book, sheriff. You know as well as I do that any conversation obtained by illegal means would never get past the DA," he said, enjoying the chance to lecture the sheriff. "Besides, I don't need you to incriminate yourself. I have all the evidence I need. I gathered it on my own," he added. "While you were keeping an eye on my crew. It took me two whole months, but knowing who to look out for made it easier."

It was keeping the investigation a secret from his friends that cost him. Catherine's open disapproval had made his life hell all along, but it was Greg and Nick's silent disappointment that hurt the most. They wanted to find Warrick's killer; they couldn't understand why Grissom would want to wait.

"You're bluffing," McKeen said, "You don't have anything on me. You can't."

"You've been careless lately, sheriff. Some of your decisions point to a gradual loss of control. The way you killed Gedda, for instance. Trying to frame Warrick for it -" he faltered. All his life, he'd somehow made sense out of the most senseless acts committed by man; but the sheriff's actions were still incomprehensible to him. "Why did you do that?" he asked, though he didn't really expect an answer. "You didn't have to kill Warrick. All you had to do was put him under suspension -"

The sheriff scoffed.

"Gil, Gil…" he shook his head, as if Grissom's question disappointed him. "You're so wrong, there. I thought that as a supervisor you would understand." He stared at Grissom for a moment longer, then shrugged, "All right. I did it. I had to kill him -he was asking for it, if you think about it."

Grissom was amazed at the sudden admission. And now that the mask was finally off, the sheriff seemed eager to talk.

"He yelled at me, Grissom. He confronted me right in front of everybody –what did he expect me to do, forgive and forget? Rotten scum from the ghetto, who the hell did he think he was? Being a CSI really got to his head -and I blame you for that, Grissom. You let him get away with plenty, all these years. It gave him ideas. It let him believe he was someone just because he carried a badge.

"He was nothing," he said, and it was staggering, the amount of hate he could pack in that single word. "He thought he'd got out of the gutter but look how easily he fell back in. All I had to do was throw him some tail, and -"

"And what about you," Gil retorted, "You were friends with Gedda -"

"Well, I'm not saying rotten scum doesn't have its uses," the sheriff said with a shrug. "But I'm the first to admit that dealing with the Geddas of the world bring unforeseen problems," he conceded. "People like him tend to forget about boundaries, sometimes; which is why they must be continually replaced," he added philosophically. Then he blinked, as if he'd just remembered who he was talking to.

He looked curiously at Gil, "So, so you've known, all this time. Poor Grissom. That must have been hard for you; I wonder how many hours you've spent plotting revenge against me. But don't tell me you really believed you could get me trapped. I'd be really disappointed if you did."

"I have proof, sheriff."

"You're bluffing, Gil." He leant back in his seat, "If you had any proof, then we wouldn't be having this cozy conversation in my dining room, would we? We'd be in an interrogation room. But let's say it's true; let's say you do have proof. Do you know any DA who's stupid enough to risk his career over this? And even if you do -even if you somehow convinced him to go to judge -" he paused and looked pointedly at Grissom, who nodded slowly.

"Even then, no judge would sign the warrant," Gil said reluctantly. "Most judges in town owe you a favor, after all."

"Well, I wouldn't say that most of them do," McKeen shrugged modestly. "But there's a fair number, yes."

"Yes," Gil nodded again. "Of course, we could luck out and find one who hates your guts," he said casually. "There are some, believe it or not."

McKeen paused as if he were considering Gil's statement, but it was only a theatrical gesture. He shook his head.

"It still wouldn't do, Gil. Even if you could convince a judge, how long do you think I'd be under arrest? I'm the Mayor's right hand; I've saved his ass more times than he'd care to admit. There's no way I'd spend more than a few hours in lock-up, if any."

"You're right," Gil said quietly. "You do have many influential friends in town –both in the gutter and out of it." There was a gleam in his eyes as he added, "On the other hand...Think about it. Once the word gets around that you're under scrutiny, how long is it going to be before one of them starts considering you a liability? At the very least, you'd have to leave town, sheriff."

"With a one-way ticket to Palm Beach," the Under Sheriff said triumphantly. "That doesn't sound too bad. Either way, I win."

Grissom nodded mechanically.

"I see," he said softly.

"Do you really, Grissom?" The sheriff leant forward again. "Do you see just how stupid you've been?" He shook his head in disappointment. "You know, there's something I've learned after years dealing with the best brains in law enforcement: smart people make dumb choices. You see it every time: smart broads pairing off with jerks, smart guys marrying stupid cows... Others fuck up their careers," and he waved at Gil in a silent, 'case in point' gesture. "You should have kept your mouth shut, Grissom."

Grissom nodded again. There was no use arguing; he should have kept his mouth shut. And now, it was too late. God, it was really too late. They'd failed, plain and simple. The DA didn't get the judge to sign a warrant, and Brass failed to appear.

Grissom had never felt so alone.

"So," he said quietly, "What happens now?"

"I think we both know what's going to happen now," the Under Sheriff said quietly.

Ominously.

Grissom smiled ironically.

"A bullet in the head, in a dark alley -"

Mckeen scoffed.

"Nothing as dramatic as that, Grissom. It's obvious to me that you're not fit to do your job anymore; there's really only one option here. You're fired."

Gil winced. He couldn't help it; no one had ever said those words to him before.

"I guess to you, a bullet in the head would me more merciful," the Under Sheriff noted, "You're nothing without this job."

"That's all right," Gil said. "I could never go back to the lab; not now that I know what I know," he added softly, almost to himself. "Everything that I believed in... everything I fought for..." He let the word trail off. He was lost in thought for a moment, and then he looked up. "I can't let you win, sheriff."

Mckeen shook his head in mock disapproval.

"Gil, Gil..." he said, "This is the kind of talk that got Warrick killed, you know. " He stared at Gil for a moment. "You know, I really liked you, Gil. Believe it or not, I really did. You were always a condescending motherfucker and a thorn on my side but for some reason I never held it against you."

Grissom winced; the sheriff was already talking about him in the past tense.

"After all," the sheriff continued, "I knew better, didn't I? I mean, you didn't have a clue all these years. You didn't know I was behind the scenes, letting you solve some crimes while carefully steering you away from others. I've got to admit, there were times when I almost wished I could say something, just to see the shock on your face. But I didn't want to mess up things. Believe me, Gil," he said, patting his pockets, "This isn't how I envisioned things to happen."

Grissom narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I need my phone," the sheriff said, patting his pockets and glancing around too. "I turned it off for the game and now I seem to have misplaced it."

Gil instinctively looked around too, but the minute he took his eyes off McKeen, he knew it was a mistake.

And then he heard it; a short popping sound, much like the sound of the bottle of champagne they'd opened earlier tonight; and then, he felt it: a sudden stab of pain on the back. He knew what it was; he could easily visualize the fiery hot metal tearing into muscle and bone, yet part of him didn't quite believe this was happening to him.

The impact forced him forward; he would have fallen if the sideboard hadn't been there. He frantically grabbed its edge; slowly, he turned.

McKeen was still pointing the gun at him.

"See?" he said, "That's what I meant when I said smart guys do the stupidest things. You can't just turn your back on your enemy, Grissom," he scolded.

Mckeen took a step closer and studied Gil's face for a moment. "You know…" he said slowly. "This is so much better. That night, I never got to see the look on Warrick's face. I didn't think any of it then, but later, it started to bother me; I started to wish I'd waited a little bit between the shots, so I could see the actual process of dying –not to mention the dumb look of surprise on his face. That would have been priceless."

He smiled in satisfaction. "But looking at you will be the next best thing, Grissom."

Grissom looked up in amazement. He'd met evil men before, but they'd always been strangers to him. This time, it was a coworker talking; someone he'd trusted at a time. Gil tried to speak but couldn't; he was breathless. He was in pain.

"I guess I'll regret this in the morning, though," the sheriff said, almost to himself. "A suicide would have been easier to arrange, especially with your recent behavior." He paused for a moment, and then he looked back at Gil. "Does it hurt?" he asked with genuine curiosity, "You're not bleeding too much, are you? These carpets aren't cheap, you know. Ah, shit, I should have thought about that before, but -"

Suddenly, Grissom lunged. It was a desperate move, completely unexpected, and it worked, at least momentarily; he grabbed the gun and managed to point the nuzzle away, but the sheriff reacted just as quickly, and refused to let go of it. They held on to the gun, each trying to overpower the other.

"What the fuck're you doing," the sheriff hissed. "You can't -"

"Shut the fuck up," Grissom gasped, and they crashed over the sideboard, sending bottles and gifts flying.

The fight was even; the sheriff was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but he hadn't practiced in a long time, and he'd relied on guns and other people's muscles for too long. He'd underestimated Grissom, too. That Grissom might go to a gym and be fit was something he'd never imagined.

Still, the sheriff was more annoyed than afraid. He taunted the CSI supervisor even as they fell on the floor.

"I'm gonna enjoy putting a bullet in your brain, Grissom," he gasped, "But first -" And he punched Grissom's damaged shoulder.

Grissom screamed. His shoulder was on fire, and now, the old, familiar pain in his gut returned with a vengeance.

"Ah, shit," he gasped.

And suddenly, he knew. This was the end. There was something inside him that was probably killing him; he'd ignored the signs all along, but now he knew…

He didn't fight the feeling; on the contrary, he embraced it. The certainty that things were coming to an end gave him a degree of peace he hadn't known in a long time. Even the pain didn't matter anymore; it was like a cleansing.

He was getting tired, though; so very tired, he didn't know how long he could keep his hold on the sheriff –

Noticing the hesitation, the sheriff quickly managed to wrestle his hand free. He quickly pointed the gun at Grissom, but Gil reacted quickly; despite the pain, he managed to close his hand over the sheriff's in an iron grip. Only, this time he pointed the nuzzle of the gun in the sheriff's direction till it touched his temple. With his fingers firmly wrapped around the sheriff's, all he had to do was apply a little pressure.

The sheriff's eyes widened.

"Click," Grissom whispered.

McKeen managed a chuckle. He thought Grissom was joking, but when Grissom didn't let go off the gun, he realized things were serious.

"You don't mean it."

"Don't I?" Grissom retorted. He was breathing harshly, now. It seemed his whole body was in pain. But he was still alive, he could still do things. Others weren't that lucky. "Why," he whispered. The sheriff had already explained, but he still couldn't understand why he'd killed Warrick. "He was still breathing when I found him," Gil whispered.

The memory of it hurt more than a bullet ever could.

Despite the multiple wounds, Warrick was still alive when Gil found him. He'd responded weakly to Grissom's slight pressure on his hand. He'd even tried to speak, too, but what little life he had was in his eyes. As blood poured from his mouth in weak spurts, Warrick's eyes had remained on Grissom.

"Why -" Words couldn't express what he was feeling, and out of frustration, he pressed the gun against the sheriff's temple again. But he couldn't make himself take the next step.

"Gil," the sheriff said, "You won't survive for long if you do this. Do yourself a favor and drop the gun now. Maybe we can work out a deal, here."

"No deal, sheriff."

"You'd never shoot a human being."

"You don't know me, sheriff. You don't know what I'm capable of."

"It's not in you, Grissom," the Under Sheriff said calmly. "You've upheld the law your whole life -above everything else. You've fought for it; you've even eschewed relationships for it."

Grissom vaguely noticed that the sheriff was glancing to his left as he spoke. He'd either seen or heard something, but Grissom couldn't hear anything, except the frantic beating of his own heart. He was losing strength; that was for sure. Soon, the sheriff would take the gun from him –

And suddenly, the doors burst open. Someone had entered the room.

"Help!" The sheriff yelled. "He's got a gun!"

Grissom frowned. He could hear it, now; steps, as if from a dozen people rushing into the room. Sudddenly, hands lifted him and carefully laid him on his side. Someone pried his fingers from the sheriff's.

The sheriff sprang on his feet.

"He tried to kill me! I want to press charges -"

"Shut up, sir," someone ordered.

"What?"

"What?" Gil muttered, echoing the sheriff. He tried to look, but someone had turned on all the lights, and he had to close his eyes for a moment.

The person who had removed him from the sheriff now opened his shirt and frantically examined his wound.

"Oh, you son of a bitch, what did you do?"

Grissom recognized Brass' voice. Funny, though; the words didn't seem directed to the sheriff, but to him.

"Where did he shot you?"

"Should-er," Gil whispered.

"Ah, shit." Brass groaned. "Jesus, Gil, why? Why? The damn DA took too long in getting us the subpoena," he said, supplying the answer himself. "I'm so sorry -"

Gil was trying to look behind him.

"Here, let me," Brass said, helping him sit up. "You deserve to see this."

Mckeen was looking incredulously at a sheet of paper that the DA had just handed him.

"What is this," he asked.

"We're putting you under arrest, sir."

"Arrest me? Me? What about Grissom? He threatened me with a gun!"

"You shot him first," Ecklie retorted from the opposite side of the room. He was holding the door open for the EMTs entering the room, and he waved them in Grissom's direction.

Brass stepped back so they could work on Gil.

"You're gonna be ok, buddy."

Grissom shook his head. It didn't matter any more, but Brass kept praising him.

"Thanks for keeping the sheriff away from the phone," he said at one point. "It turned out a clerk from the DA's office made about twelve calls to him tonight. She was trying to warn him about our little plan."

Gil glanced at the sheriff one last time before the EMTs put him in a stretcher.

"He put the gun to my temple!" Mckeen was saying, even as the cop read him his rights. "You'll find his fingertips all over it!"

Grissom smiled as he heard this. Yes, he'd touched the gun as he pointed it on the sheriff, but he'd never actually touched the trigger. The only fingerprints there were the sheriff's.

So, even if all else failed, threatening the life of a respected CSI supervisor seemed like a good reason to put the sheriff in behind bars.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't mind dying, now.

***

Epilogue

Gil Grissom stood in the middle of his office, holding a sturdy cardboard box in his hands. Up until a few minutes before, he'd been actively moving about, taking down posters and diplomas from the walls and putting them in boxes. He'd been so focused on his task –so concerned about putting the correct labels on the boxes- that he hadn't noticed the results of his efforts.

His desk, for instance, looked remarkably small without the piles of reports and unread mail that usually covered it. The walls, devoid of adornment, now revealed the wear and tear of time. There were patches of peeling paint on the corners, and there were cracks on the plaster, too.

It was sad -

Grissom stopped that line of thought. He shouldn't be doing this; he still had some packing to do. The jars on the metal shelves of his office, for instance; there were still a few of them there. He'd been taking them home, one or two at the time, because he didn't want them gone all at once, not while he was still working there. Those jars with their weird specimens inside were part of the atmosphere he'd lent to his office, and he'd needed them till the very end.

And today was the end.

Outside, the lab was eerily quiet. Most of the lab's personnel were upstairs, attending the Mayor's conference, and the few people that had stayed were seemingly talking in hushed tones and walking on tiptoe, as in deference to him. Grissom had lowered the blinds, but they knew he was there, vacating his office after almost nine years as Supervisor.

'Leave of Absence of Indeterminate Duration' was how the form read. Office bureaucracy had determined that he couldn't simply resign. He could go away and teach seminaries all over the country, and he could even hold a different job, but officially, he was still a Supervisor in Las Vegas –and he would be, as long as his active cases remained active. Once those were closed…

Gil took a deep breath. He had made a conscious decision to leave; he knew he couldn't do this job anymore. And yet… he wasn't ready to quit. Oh, no, he was not. He knew tomorrow he'd be sitting at home, eyeing the phone, knowing it would not ring, and yet hoping it would –

Once again, Gil shook himself out of these gloomy thoughts. Determinedly, he reached for the last jar on the top shelf, the one that held a two-headed snake, a gift from the interns of 2004. The memory of that feisty group almost brought a smile to his lips, but he checked himself just in time. Instead, he put this jar and the others in the box, and then he double-checked. He didn't want to leave anything that might freak the hell out of Catherine.

There was a tentative knock on the door, and Gil looked up in time to see Greg cautiously pop his head in.

"Hey, Grissom."

"Hey," Gil said, frowning a little. "Is the Mayor's conference over already?"

"Nah, not yet," Greg said. He hesitated a moment, and then he entered the office and closed the door behind him. "He's still ranting on how his office will not tolerate illegal actions, regardless of the perpetrator, blah, blah, blah." He scoffed, "He's sweating bullets up there, Grissom. He screwed up big time, and he knows it. He's the one who hired McKeen. He supported him for days after the arrest; he gave us a hard time and wouldn't even look at the evidence until his lawyers told him he was backing the wrong party."

Grissom didn't comment. He hadn't been there when all of this happened; he'd been at the hospital. While Ecklie and Brass were scrambling to bring the night shift up to date so they could build the case against McKeen, he'd been under medical care.

In the end, it wasn't McKeen's bullet that almost did him in. It was a ruptured ulcer.

Not a very heroic way to go down.

Grissom looked at Greg; the young man was still venting his frustrations.

"The Mayor praised the lab, by the way," Greg admitted at one point, "But then, it was the least he could do, right? After that 'guilty' verdict, I mean. Guilty," he repeated, only this time he said the word slowly, savoring its meaning.

"Wish you'd been there, Grissom," he continued, "McKeen looked sick. And he's only been a month behind bars -a month without a tan machine giving him a healthy glow," he added maliciously. He paused for a moment, maybe waiting for some comment from Grissom. He got none. "I know twenty years aren't much, considering what he did, Grissom. But it's not like he's gonna feel safe in there, right? I mean, the odds gotta be against him. He's gonna be looking over his shoulder from now on, that's for sure -"

He was obviously trying to imbue some enthusiasm to his words; his heart didn't seem to be in it, however, and this made Gil wonder whether Greg felt like he did about the entire case. The truth was, nothing could ever make up for their loss –not even a guilty verdict. Twenty years in jail meant nothing; McKeen could spend a hundred years in jail, and still it wouldn't make a difference. Not even his death would.

Still, it was better than nothing.

"The Mayor mentioned Warrick, by the way." Greg said gently. "Said nice things about him; even called him a hero. He didn't admit McKeen was the killer, though."

Grissom nodded. The Mayor couldn't say McKeen was Warrick's killer because, just as Grissom himself had predicted, with no evidence to back up his testimony, the DA had refused to press charges. He'd said, 'Any judge would reject your testimony as biased, Grissom. I can't use it. I intend to win this game, and bringing Warrick into the field would only work against me.'

And just like that, Warrick's murder was dropped from the list of charges.

"You need help with this?"

Grissom blinked. Greg was standing right next to him now, tentatively reaching for the box.

"No," Gil said hoarsely. "It's all right. I'm almost finished." But Greg was already taking the box with him. He put it on the floor, next to the others. He paused for a moment, and examined the labels on the boxes.

"Lots of stuff," he said quietly. He straightened up and leant on the nearby desk. "It feels weird," he said after a moment. "I mean, you've always been here, Grissom. I can't believe it's not gonna be like that anymore."

Grissom crossed the room and leant on the desk, too.

"Maybe I've been here too long," he said good-naturedly.

"You don't mean that." Greg frowned, "Do you?"

Gil shrugged slightly.

"I've thought of retirement from time to time. Especially after some of our recent cases," he admitted. "Moving on is more difficult, somehow."

Greg was silent for a moment.

"You know," he said tentatively, "We haven't really talked."

Actually, they'd talked a lot, these past weeks. Even while he was still at the hospital, recuperating, they'd talked. They'd talked about the sheriff's case -they'd discussed it till they were hoarse…

But Grissom knew what Greg meant.

"No," he said. "We have not." He looked down for a moment, trying to come up with the right words. It wasn't easy. "I know I should have explained," he started. "Instead of having you wonder why I wasn't doing anything to solve Warrick's murder."

"Yeah," Greg smiled faintly. "You got that right. At least, I would have known what to tell people. They'd come up to me, asking if you were ever going to do something about it; some were pretty aggressive about it. And I kept telling them you'd do something, but… After a while I started to have my doubts."

"I couldn't get you involved," Gil said. "I was afraid that if I told you or Nick, someone would find out, somehow. I couldn't take the risk."

Greg was nodding.

"I guessed as much." He was silent for a moment, then added, "The worst part was wondering if maybe you didn't trust us. You know, 'cause you thought that one of us might be, you know -"

Gil looked up sharply.

"The mole?" he asked. He shook his head. "I never thought that."

"Really? Never?"

"Never," Gil said firmly, "I knew I could trust you."

Greg smiled, gratified. But there was still something tentative about that smile. Obviously, he still had more to say.

"Listen," he said after a moment. "I'm sorry we gave you such a hard time, me and Nick. We just wanted to help; we didn't understand why you woulddn't say anything –not even to Catherine -"

Grissom smiled faintly.

"Do you think Catherine would have patiently waited while I built a case against the sheriff?"

"No," Greg said, smiling back. "I guess neither one of us could have." He kept his gaze on Grissom. "But you did."

Gil nodded. He'd waited, all right. He, who prided himself on being honest and direct, had artfully played a part for the sheriff. He'd talked to Mckeen on a weekly basis; he'd nodded at his comments, he'd even shaken his hand -

No wonder he got sick. The price for his duplicity was an ulcer that burst, almost causing him his life.

Still, he didn't regret it. It was for Warrick; risking his life was the least he could do.

"You know," Greg said, "That was very cool, what you did. And I don't mean building the case against the sheriff –though that was cool too; I'm talking about what you did that night. I mean, the guy was armed!" he added, his enthusiasm growing, "He shot at you, but you tackled him, gun and all! That was awesome, Grissom. Really, I didn't know you had it in you -"

Grissom nodded evasively.

He didn't know he had it in him, either.

His silence had a sobering effect on Greg. The young man's smile faded. He was silent for a moment, but he kept glancing at Grissom.

"Listen, Grissom. There's something I gotta ask. About this leave of absence -" he hesitated. "Are you leaving because of what we did? I mean, me and Nick -we were real jerks right? We should have trusted you, and we didn't. We let you down big time," he admitted wearily. "And now you're taking this leave, and it's like you can't work with us, anymore. 'Cause you can't trust us."

Gil was shaking his head even before Greg finished.

"That's not the reason, Greg," he said gently. "It's got nothing to do with you. I swear. I'm just tired."

"But it's more than that, right?"

Grissom hesitated. He hadn't discussed this with anybody. He didn't know if he should, except that maybe Greg needed to hear it.

"Something happened that night," he said softly. "Something I still don't know how to deal with."

Greg frowned. "What is it?"

"I saw a side of me I didn't know existed," Gil said simply. "I held a gun to the sheriff's head. It wasn't the first time it ever happened," he admitted, "But there was a difference this time." He took a deep breath. "There was a moment when I -I almost pulled the trigger."

Greg was silent for a moment.

"Grissom," he said at last, "It doesn't matter what you almost did. Bottom line is, you didn't shoot."

"I know," Gil whispered. "But still, I -" he let the word trail off. He didn't know how to explain that didn't matter that he didn't do it; what mattered was that he could have.

"You would have never done that, Grissom," Greg insisted.

Grissom shook his head. He just couldn't be sure. Besides, that wasn't all. That night, just before the sheriff shot him, he'd instinctively known what was about to happen, yet he didn't do anything to stop it. In a split-second decision, he chose death because it would give Brass, (who was outside, waiting for the DA to give him the go-ahead) a legitimate reason to finally arrest the sheriff in case all else failed.

And while Grissom understood that people are sometimes forced to take desperate measures, actively seeking death was beyond his comprehension. It made him question his ability to handle dangerous situations from now on. It made him insecure.

There were other reasons for leaving, too. His faith on the job had been shaken, as was the certainty that what he did had some meaning.

He didn't believe that anymore.

Now he knew what victims' families felt –frustration and despair. He'd been on the other side of the fence, so to speak, and what he'd saw there was something he'd never forget. Since then, a sense of futility underlined his thoughts. He didn't believe that truth brought closure, anymore; he didn't believe that taking a criminal to trial was enough.

And this was definitely the wrong attitude to bring to work.

He was thinking of this, when he realized Greg was still looking at him. Grissom recognized the look on the young man's face. It said Greg wanted to ask him something but didn't quite dare to.

"What?"

"It's about the sheriff," Greg said quietly. He looked at Gil in the eye, "I was wondering if maybe you're sorry that you didn't shoot him."

Grissom winced.

Greg was still looking at him. "I'm just wondering if maybe, deep down, you feel that you owed it to Warrick."

Mechanically, Grissom nodded. He was amazed that someone as young as Greg could seize the situation so perfectly.

Greg nodded. "I'd feel the same, Grissom. But you know what? That's not what Warrick would have wanted."

Grissom looked down.

"I know that," he said. "But -"

"No 'buts', Grissom," Greg said sternly. "I knew Warrick. He would have expected you to get the sheriff by being smarter than him –which is exactly what you did. He would have been proud, by the way," he smiled. There was a far-away look in his eyes as he added, "Pride was very important to Warrick, you know?"

Grissom looked up again. They hadn't talked about Warrick –not really. They'd talked about the case; they'd talked about the evidence; they'd read and discussed Grissom's statements, but they'd never really talked about what it felt to find Warrick chocking in his own blood –and frankly, Grissom was grateful that no one had asked.

But Greg had finally done what the others hadn't dared to do: Talk about Warrick, the friend they'd lost.

"I remember, back when I started going out on the field," Greg said, then, "I was a real slacker –I'd always had it easy in the lab, so I thought things would be just as easy out there. But Warrick caught me; he berated me, to tell you the truth. Told me to take more pride on my job. He said, 'even if no one else takes notice of what you do, you will. So you gotta do it for yourself'.

"And so I asked him if he did it only for himself –'cause I thought, you know, that he did just to impress Catherine," he grinned. "And you know what he said? He said –and I quote, 'Nah, I don't do it just for myself. I do it 'cause I wanna make Mr. Bug-man proud.'"

Gil's eyes filled with tears. He looked down, suddenly overcome with grief –no, not suddenly; the grief had been there all along. He'd simply forced himself to keep it together for so long he hadn't taken a moment to grieve openly. He'd mourned Warrick's death in private, yet even then, he'd told himself to pull himself together.

Beside him, Greg was looking down, too. Maybe he, too, had needed a moment like this to let go of his pain.

Finally, Grissom managed to say something.

"He was like a son to me," he said.

Greg looked up.

"Oh, yeah?" he muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "I thought I was like a son to you."

He said it lightly, and Gil recognized the effort Greg was making in order to lift their spirits. It was what Greg always did.

Gil acknowledged the effort.

"No," he retorted, "You're not like a son. You're more like a little brother. An extremely annoying one."

"Oh, man," Greg protested. But he was smiling. "What about Nick?" he asked. "Oh, and what about Catherine as a nagging aunt?"

Grissom smiled. Yes, Catherine had been like a nagging aunt for months, but these past weeks she'd gone back to being a friend.

"And Doc Robbins would be like a jolly grandfather," Greg added, "And Brass -" he frowned. "I can't picture Brass as anything but what he is: a cranky detective."

They were silent for a moment. Greg looked at the boxes again.

"So," he said, again using a light tone. "What are your plans, now? Are you gonna keep bees in Surrey, like Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Grissom smiled.

"I don't know yet. I do have a standing offer to return to Vermont -"

"Well, you do enjoy the cold," Greg said, with a smile. But this time the mirth seemed forced. Suddenly, he leaped from the desk, "Shit, I'd forgotten." He started patting his pockets, "There's something here -" Finally, he found what he was looking for. An envelope. "Here," he said, handing it to Grissom. "This is from the night shift to you."

"What is it?"

"Just open it."

Grissom opened the envelope and extracted some papers from it; a booklet, a couple of letters. A plane ticket, too. He scanned one of the letters; it said something about Egypt -"

Greg couldn't wait for him to speak.

"It was Catherine's idea," he beamed. "She said you'd always wanted to visit the pyramids, so she thought we should send you there, so you could start your leave of absence in style."

Grissom looked dumbly at the booklet.

"I guess it's our way of saying 'sorry,'" Greg said quietly.

Grissom shook his head.

"You didn't have to -" he gulped. "I didn't -" he couldn't quite say it. In the end, he realized he didn't have to say anything. They'd forgiven him; he'd forgiven them, too. "Thank you," he said quietly.

Greg nodded, pleased. He kept his gaze on Grissom as the older man carefully put the papers back inside the envelope.

"Grissom," he said abruptly. "You're gonna keep in touch, right? I mean, even if you don't come back to the lab, you'll drop by now and then, right? Or give us a call or -" he let the word trail off.

Grissom frowned. He'd just realized he hadn't shared his plans with anyone, and he should have. True, he didn't have many plans, but there was at least one thing he was sure of.

"Greg, I'm not leaving Las Vegas," he said. "I'm gonna teach courses here and there and so I'll probably have to travel, but -I'll always come back. My home's here. And my family," he added pointedly. "And no matter what, I'll always be just a phone call away."

Greg smiled, visibly relieved. It seemed that was all he'd been waiting to hear.

They fell into a silence again. Meanwhile, Grissom glanced around. It was over; he'd finished picking his stuff and he was ready to go.

But he didn't move. Leaving was going to be so difficult -

"So," Greg said, his teasing tone back. "We're your family, huh? What about Hodges," he grimaced. "Would you still include him?"

Grissom grinned.

"Well," he shrugged. "You know what they say. There's one in every family."

And they smiled in complicity.

THE END

I hope tonight's episode, (For Warrick) rocks. Me, I'm not gonna watch it. In fact, I'm not gonna watch this season. There are just too many changes coming up. It's one thing to write a fanfic about those changes; it's quite another to actually see them on TV :(

***