Title: I Feel That I'm Falling
By: Tabby X
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG=13
A/N: I'm trying to relieve writer's block here. This is going to be just a little... thing... a little... unimaginative... thing. Yeah. Whoo. What was in that Jell-o?
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I just like to borrow 'em and play with 'em for a while.
Summary: A horrible incident as seen from several points of view. (Takes place after "Inside The Box", so Grissom's still absent. Sorry if that confused anyone!)

***

A hot pain tears through me. It starts where my neck meets my right shoulder and rips outward.

The pain vanishes for one long, long moment. Everything freezes for just a second - Sara's shocked expression, Nick clutching his bleeding arm.

His blood is on the knife.

The one buried in my flesh.

Then everything slams back into reality. The blade is wrenched from me and I stumble back against the wall.

It feels like someone has poured Niagra Falls down my side. I don't want to, but I look.

My right arm is red.

With blood.

No.

NO!

I start to shake. I'm bleeding.

I'm going to die, in the middle of a triple homicide crime scene.

I would laugh if it was funny.

My brain is going fuzzy. The pain has dulled- thank God for those natural Ibuprofen chemicals.

I realize I have slumped to the floor. I know there is blood on the wall, and pooling around me.

It's strange. Even though I'm not a CSI, I've done blood analysis. I find my subconscious is figuring how the splashes are landing on the cement of the warehouse.

I feel another wave of wet come from the slash in my skin. And another. Every time my heart beats, more blood is forced out of my body.

I'm going to bleed to death.

I'm going to die.

"Greg? Greg?"

What?

"Greg, please, please, say something, anything. The officers got the guy. He's shot, he's dead, Greg. Hang on."

That voice is familiar.

From somewhere, an image comes to me. A pretty woman, with dark hair, giving me a teasing look.

Another thought. She was there when the lab exploded. When I turned away just in time.

This time I didn't turn.

I open my eyes as best I could. There she is, now with an expression of pure horror.

"Sara?" I choke.

Is that my voice? Even to my ears, it sounds awful.

Nick appears, kneeling on the other side of me.

"Don't worry, Greg," he says, obviously not taking his own advice. "The others are coming. They're putting in a call to 911 right now. You'll be okay, hang in there."

The pain rips through me again. The biological pain killers are wearing off so soon - or it's getting worse. I grit my teeth and clamp my eyes shut.

"Nick?! Sara?!" someone yells. I hear running footsteps.

It all sounds rather far away. I force myself to look.

Even though my eyes don't focus properly, I can see Catherine and Warrick running to us. His mouth drops open and one of her hands flies to her face.

I clench my teeth against more pain. It's so strange - one second it doesn't hurt. The next, it hurts so bad that I can't breathe.

Breathing. Now there's something that's getting harder to do. I can hear my own ragged gasps and the terrified air gulping of my friends.

"Greg?" someone says. I feel a warm touch on my face.

A moment later, Sara pulls me into her arms. I know I'm bleeding all over her, but she apparently doesn't care at the moment. I can sense Nick on my other side and Catherine stroking my hair. Warrick is nearby, standing helplessly.

How do I know this? My eyes are closed.

I am dying, aren't I?

"Why didn't the EMTs come this time?"

"Shut up, Nick. That's not helping."

The pain is gone again. It has been fading for a while.

"Greg? Greg, can you still hear me?"

I want to answer.

I can't.

Why did I even come? I'm a lab tech! The bus case should have taught me a lesson! I shouldn't even be in the field!

"Greg? Please, hold on."

I'll hold on, I want to say. I promise, guys! I'll hold on!

I feel that I'm falling.

No! No, Greg, don't let go! Hold on! Hold on for them, Greg, my mind yells at me.

But I'm still falling, and everything is getting dimmer.

For a while I'm not there. I'm not really anywhere.

Wherever it is, it's dark. And I'm alone.

Time doesn't pass - or it just doesn't matter.

My life doesn't flash before my eyes. There is no tunnel with a light at the end. Just a black void.

I don't know if it's death, unconsciousness, heaven, hell, purgatory, whatever.

I do know is that it is cold. Not cold in a literal sense. Cold in that way you feel emotions. The sort of cold you feel in your chest, in that spot occupied by pain, fear, guilt, love.

Friendship.

-*-*-*-*-*-

I hate hospitals. Always have.

I know I should call Grissom eventually. Tell him what's happened. Or at least leave a message for him to get once he's recovered.

Somehow, I can't right now. The lingering death smell on the walls blots everything out of my mind except Greg and what happened and how I wasn't there.

"Cath?"

I look up, into Warrick's starling green eyes. The movement makes me realize that I'm crying.

I'm crying.

I never cry.

I don't say anything. Just turn back away, hiding my eyes.

An arm slips around my shoulders and the tears start coming harder.

"Cath, c'mon, look at me."

I pause, then do as he says. It strikes me that he is crying, too.

"I'm sorry," I say, more to Greg than to the person I'm looking at.

"Me too."

And for a while we just stand there together in the middle of the ICU waiting room.

-*-*-*-*-*-

I'm ignoring Cath and Warrick's little escapade, even though they're only a couple feet away.

All I can do is stare at the bandaged cut in my arm.

The perp had been hiding the whole time. It was like what happened to Catherine.

The guy had a knife. He'd slashed at me and cut my arm, and I'd jumped back. Greg had gotten in his way as he made for the exit.

All I can think about is what would have happened if I hadn't jumped back. If I could have stopped him, somehow.

Would I have been the one bleeding on the cement?

I rest my forehead on my hands. The chair I'm sitting on is hard, molded plastic. I barely notice the discomfort.

If I'd done something.

Something.

Maybe I'd have gotten the knife away. Maybe no one would have had to...

I sigh. Glance up across the room at Sara.

She is sitting with her eyes closed. He hands are together, supporting her head. Her eyes and checks are red.

I look back at Warrick and Catherine, who are still sobbing quietly on each other's shoulders.

And wish Grissom were here.

As odd as that sounds.

He would know what to do. Or maybe I'm just grasping at straws.

I close my eyes. Maybe I'll fall asleep.

I doubt it.

-*-*-*-*-*-

The truth is, none of us know Greg very well.

I ran my hand through Catherine's hair. I'm not a crying sort of person, but I do have feelings.

And one of them was guilt.

Guilt over not knowing. Not knowing Greg.

None of us did.

We had never stopped to talk much. I hadn't exactly been open and friendly.

It wasn't that I didn't like him. No, on the contrary, I thought he was a decent sort of person.

Of course, that was just what I had seen while pestering him for the results for a test.

I hate this.

I hate guilt. I hate knowing that I may have missed out on something.

I may have known Greg for three years. But I never knew him

I never even bothered to see him.

If... if... well, you know, if that happens, then I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

If I live to be a hundred, I'll still be thinking what if.

What if there was a whole person I had missed?

I hate that thought.

"Hey, Warrick?" Catherine asks.

"Yeah?"

"I know what you're thinking. And you can't think like that. If I can't, you can't."

I look at her.

"He'll be okay," she says unconvincingly. But at least she tries.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

-*-*-*-*-*-

Hey, God?

It's me, Sara.

Yeah, I know we haven't talked a whole lot lately. I'm sorry about that, really.

I guess right now I should be asking you to let Greg live and I'll be good for the rest of my life, but that doesn't seem right. So I don't think I'll say that.

Instead, I think I'll beg and grovel. Although that doesn't sound too great, either.

Okay, here goes. I don't know Greg too well. But I think I do know him well enough to tell you that he's got a lot of potential. He could be a great CSI. He could put those... those... well, you know what I want to say. But he could put murders away where they couldn't hurt anyone else. Ever.

He's methodical, and logical, more or less. He's got the strong spirit and the sense of humor you need to do this job. I remember one time when we needed a hair sample off an exotic dancer's hat. After he collected what we needed, he put it on. It was hilarious, I remember. It's something I'd like to remember.

That's the Greg I want to remember. Not the one who was bleeding all over me.

Here I stop and look down. Even though I've cleaned myself up a little, it still looks horrible.

Not to be pessimistic or anything. Just please, please... I just want him to be around to wear our evidence again.

I feel my shoulders shake slightly from a combination of painful, silent sobs and laughter.

Wearing our evidence. He once put on a contact lens we had sent to him. It was after he had processed it, of course. That's how he is. That's his unique sort of combination of get-it-done and have-some-fun.

And he has to stay with us.

Please.

Just then, a doctor, in his clean white lab coat, contrasting sharply with our mussed up and dirty clothes, enters the room.

He has news.

-*-*-*-*-*-

~ fine ~

-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: Yeah, I can hear you all saying "WHAT THE-?!" Yes, that is it. That's the end. Fine (which means "the end," by the way, and is pronounced FEEN-ay). That's it. Think what you want, interpret it as you please.

Like it? Hate it? Probably that second one. Ha. I am so evil.

*sigh* My interpretation is that Greg lives. Why? Because I say so, that's why.

***