A/N: Hi everyone! I promised that this would be up sometime in January, and according to my calendar, I have one day left. Unfortunately, I don't have time to publish this tomorrow, so it's happening now. w00t. Anyway, a couple of notes before beginning...

1. This is once again a songfic in the fact that there are a few lines of a song at the beginning of each chapter. The song this time around is "Closer to Our Graves" by Lucky Boys Confusion.

2. This is SLASH! If you don't like it, don't read it!

3. Once again, the only 'ship in this fic is Greg/Ryan. This fic, however, will prominently feature Grissom and Horatio, with a little of the other characters, too.

4. Rated for language, sexual content (probably nothing smutty, sorry), angst and just because. Once again, if you feel the rating should change, let me know. Also un-beta'd, so all mistakes are wonderfully mine.

5. Please read and review! Reviews make me happy! I always ask for no flames, but hey, if you want to waste your valuable time criticizing someone, please feel free.

6. This fic, being a WIP, will hopefully have a chapter a month...we'll see. I feel slightly less motivated with this one, but I will do my best to get each chapter up in a timely fashion.

7. CSI: and CSI: Miami belong to Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. I own neither the characters nor the places nor yet the song. Only the plot. And the OCs. I can't think of any specific spoilers, but if any come up, I'll post them in the A/N before the chapter.

8. In this chapter (at least), since it takes place in two separate locations, a break in time that takes place in the same place is denoted by either "CSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATION" or "CSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MAIMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMI". A break between locations is simply a line.

9. Songs used in this chapter are as follows: "Words I couldn't Say" by Rascal Flatts, "What Went Wrong" by Blink 182, "Have You Ever" by S Club, and "What Hurts the Most" by Rascal Flatts.

And now, on with the show!

Closer to Our Graves

Chapter One

"The world is blocked out in the bedroom
The radio won't let (him) down
Every note is a reminder
Another failure is born"

He was drunk. And not the light, playful, floating drunk that always seemed to put him in a good mood. No, he was the harsh, reality-facing drunk, the kind that burned in his veins and dulled his senses to the point of seemingly no return.

He was irritable, too, peeved and irate with the world and himself as he stumbled towards the empty shithole he called his home. Deep in the back corner of his mind, the corner not controlled by the alcohol, he figured he should probably get some furniture. But the booze and the hurt quickly took over, squashing any realism that lingered.

He had reveled in being drunk, earlier that evening. Reveled in it enough to score some phone numbers from some hot chicks (and some hot guys, as well). But as the night wore on and he kept drinking, the easy-going good mood had dissipated with his sanity.

Now he staggered back to his apartment, muttering to himself and shouting at anyone who happened to get in his way. Finally making it to his apartment, he slammed the door behind him, relishing the delightful sound it made.

He continued into the bedroom, suddenly overcome by weariness, the kind that made him feel like he was drowning and couldn't come up for air.

He slumped onto the bed, not even bothering to take his shoes off. He lay back against the mattress, reasoning that he would at least sleep a bit before he got re-plastered in the morning. He closed his eyes and was gone.

Greg Sanders had passed out.

CSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATIONCSI:CRIMESCENEINVESTIGATION

Grissom was not pleased. It was supposed to be Greg's first day back at work, and the young CSI had yet to show up. Grissom had had to send Sara on to the crime scene while he waited for the wayward man, who for some reason refused to answer his phone.

His patience was wearing thin. Frustrated, he stormed down the hall to reception. "Judy," he asked, trying to curb his temper, "has Greg called at all?"

Judy looked up, eyes wide. "No, Mr. Grissom. At least, he hasn't called here at all, but that's not unusual. He'd normally call you or Ms. Willows."

Nodding his thanks, Grissom turned toward the door, his face resembling a storm cloud. If Greg wouldn't come to work, work would come to him, and drag him to the crime scene.

It only took about fifteen minutes for Grissom to drive to Greg's house, but his temper was not alleviated by the short drive. He took the stairs two at a time up to Greg's apartment, finally banging on the door. "Greg!"

After a long moment, the door opened, and Greg stood swaying in the doorway, wearing only his boxers and a vacant, glazed grin. "Grishom," he slurred, squinting at him. "What's up?"

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Grissom asked quietly, "Are you drunk, Greg?"

Greg giggled in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. "Now, Grishom, what would give you that idea?"

"Maybe the stench of alcohol on you and the fact that you're acting like a drunkard?" supplied Grissom, stepping around Greg and into his apartment. "So let me ask you again, and don't lie to me. Have you been drinking?"

Greg's mood shifted rapidly, and Grissom realized he had seriously underestimated and miscalculated how drunk Greg was. "So what if I am?" snarled Greg, his dark eyes flashing in fury. "It's on my own fucking time, so it's none of your goddamn business."

"Except that it's not on your time," snapped Grissom, getting angry himself. "You're supposed to be working, so you're on my time now." He paused to survey Greg's apartment. "Jesus, Greg, what have you been doing?"

Greg's apartment looked as if he'd thrown five raging parties in a row. Empty liquor bottles and beer cans littered the floor. An almost-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey stood on the counter. Grissom lifted it up and turned to Greg, swishing the amber liquid around. "Did you drink all of this today?"

Greg's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Maybe I did. What's it to you?"

Grissom just shook his head and turned back to the rest of the apartment. A song was playing on the stereo, a warbling country song that sounded more like something Nick would listen to than what Greg would.

"What do I now that you're gone
No second chance
No back-up plan
And no one else to blame
All I can hear in the silence that remains
Are the words I couldn't say"

Shaking his head again, Grissom went over to the stereo. "What, no Manson?" he asked casually, fiddling with the radio dial.

Greg just shrugged moodily. "I wasn't in the mood for Manson," he said, slumping on the couch.

Grissom turned to find another radio station, finally getting one that actually came through. Just as he turned away, he realized the song he turned it to wasn't much better.

"I'm sick of always hearing
All the sad songs
On the radio
All day it is there to remind
An over-sensitive guy
That he's lost and alone

I can't forgive
Can't forget
Can't give in
What went wrong
Cuz you said this was right
You fucked up my life"

Greg looked over at Grissom, his eyes narrowing. "Uh, give me a second," said Grissom, switching the station again.

"Sometimes it's wrong to walk away
Though you think it's over
Knowing there's so much more to say
Suddenly the moment's gone
And all your dreams are upside down
And you just want to change
The way the world goes round
Tell me

Have you ever loved and lost somebody
Wish there was a chance to say I'm sorry
Can't you see
That's the way I fell
About you and me
Baby
Have you ever felt that your heart was breaking
Looking down the road you should be taking
I should know
Cuz I loved and lost
The day I let you go"

Greg's eyes were wet, and he stared at the radio, silently mouthing, "Ryan."

Grissom winced. Even if he was emotionally retarded, as someone had once called him, he fully realized that these words had to hit close to home for Greg. Greg hadn't said much when he came back from Miami, simply saying that things hadn't worked between him and Ryan.

Now Greg was staring at the radio as if transfixed, a single tear tracing its path down his cheek.

"Can't help but think that this is wrong
We should be together
Back in your arms where I belong
Even though the moment's gone
I'm still holding on somehow
Wishing I could change
The way the world goes round"

And Greg was gone, tears flooding down his face as he rocked back and forth, body wracked with sobs. Grissom froze, looking at the younger man, panic flaring in his eyes, torn between staying to comfort Greg or running away.

He took the middle road. Taking Greg's arm, he pulled him up. "Ok, Greg, we're going to get you dressed, and I'm going to take you to the lab, where you can talk to Catherine, ok?"

Greg just hiccupped before throwing his arms around Grissom and burying his head in Grissom's shoulder and crying. Grissom stiffened and patted Greg gently on the shoulder. "Greg, I'd really like to help you, but I doubt I'm the best man for the job…especially since you're half-naked and crying."

Sniffling loudly, Greg straightened. "Ok, I feel better," he said, blinking blearily at Grissom. Then his eyes closed and he fell over, passed out from the alcohol.

Ryan blinked wearily at the crime scene. A body dump in a garbage dump. "How creative," he muttered aloud wryly, setting down his case. He squatted down next to the body. "No defensive wounds," he remarked, surveying the young girl's arms.

"She probably never knew what hit her," said Alexx. "COD was broken neck, and these bruises on her neck indicate that the killer came up behind her and snapped her neck. Baby girl died instantly."

Nodding distractedly, Ryan brushed a strand of dark blonde hair off the girl's forehead. He stared down at her. "She looks…" he started, breaking off. "She looks like Greg."

Alexx glanced up at him, something akin to pity flickering in her eyes, quickly replaced by cold hardness. "That's nice," she said icily, standing up and brushing off her pants.

Looking up at her, Ryan asked softly, "Are you still angry with me over what happened with Greg?"

"How could I not be?" snapped Alexx. "Intentional or not, you drove baby boy out of your life for good, and I don't blame him. After the way you treated him, I'd walk too."

Ryan was at a loss for words. He blinked at her once before turning back to survey the body, her vicious words still ringing in his ears. "After the way you treated him, I'd walk too." He felt sick, as if he'd just been punched in the stomach, hard.

Calleigh walked up behind him, and he stiffened. She had once been able to cheer him up, a bright ray of sunshine in his life, and probably one of his best friends in Miami, but since this whole thing with Greg, she'd turned cool and distant. "Hey Alexx," she said brightly, ignoring Ryan completely. "What have we got?"

Rolling his eyes, Ryan cleared his throat loudly. "Hi Calleigh," he said, trying to catch her eye. "We've got a female DB, 18 years old. Driver's license says that her name is Emily Greene."

Her gaze turning icy as she looked from Alexx to him, Calliegh said coldly, "Thank you, Ryan. Have you collected any evidence yet?"

There was something in the way she said that, so aloof and condescending, that it made Ryan's ears burn with a mixture of anger and shame, "Not yet," he said through gritted teeth.

Calleigh's gaze never flickered, even as a small smile curved her lips in wicked triumph. "Well, you might want to start doing that," she said, arching an eyebrow at him.

Ryan just rolled his eyes again and pilled on a pair of gloves. He skulked away to about ten feet from the body, muttering sullenly to himself, "'You might want to start doing that.' Yeah, well, shove it…"

He trailed off, instead shooting a murderous look at her back. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted. Last night had been yet another sleepless night, punctuated by a lot of tears on his part and sad songs on the radio. All the radio seemed to do was play said songs now.

One song in particular had stuck with him, haunting him all through the day.

"What hurts the most
Was being so close
And having so much to say
And watching you walk away
And never knowing
What could've been
And not seeing that loving you
Is what I was trying to do"

Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stop himself from crying. This had to stop. He missed Greg, he needed Greg, he loved Greg. And there was absolutely nothing in the world that he could do about it. Ryan Wolfe had always had a plan. He had never once just woken up in the morning, not knowing where the day would wake him. At least, not until he met Greg. But even when he was caught up in Greg's whims, Greg Sanders had been his compass. Because it hadn't matter where the day would take Ryan, provided he had Greg with him.

And now Greg was gone. He had taken a plane out of Miami International and out of Ryan's life, for good. And Ryan had no plan, had no idea where he was going in his life. And it was a terrible feeling, this loss and despair.

Opening his eyes again, he focused on the task at hand. Standing, he kicked at a stray piece of trash and sighed. "Ryan," called Calleigh in a sing-song voice. "I've got a sample for you to take back to the lab."

Ryan snapped. "I'm not your lap dog or your gopher, Calleigh," he snarled, whirling to face her. "I know you're pissed at me, but you can take your own goddamn sample back to the lab."

Calleigh's eyes lit with fury. "You aren't my gopher, Ryan, you're right," she snapped, voice colder than he had ever heard it. "But I am still the senior officer on this case, and you'll take this sample back to the lab as asked."

"Fine," shot Ryan back at her, snatching the bag from her hand. "I'll do as you command, Calleigh." He looked at her. "Just know that I miss Greg as much as you do, probably more, and I would give everything I possess to have him back here."

He turned and strode back to his car, blood humming in his ears. Pausing for a second, he turned and asked in a falsely polite voice, "Anything else I can do for you, my lady?"

Nodding once, curtly, Calleigh gestured to the evidence bags next to her. "These are samples from the body. Some biological. Would you please take them to Valera for me."

He nodded as well and gathered them up, taking them with him to his car. He started the engine and pulled away from the scene. He had a long day ahead of him.

CSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MAIMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMICSI:MIAMI

Ryan rested his head on arms for just a moment as he tried to block out the sound of mass-spec behind him. He heard clicking heels on the tile and knew that it was Calleigh, coming to check up on his. Groaning softly, he raised his head and blinked at her. "Yeah, Calleigh, what is it?"

She looked furious. Slamming a folder down on the table, she asked, "Do you know what you did?"

"No, Calleigh, what did I do?" he asked wearily.

She opened the folder and showed him the piece of paper inside. "Does this look familiar to you at all? Obviously not, since you didn't fill it out!" She looked at him, shaking her head. "Ryan, you broke the chain of custody! You didn't document any of the things I gave you at the scene! Now, if we even ever get a witness with the evidence we have left, we have nothing to tie him to the scene of the crime!"

"What?" said Ryan, pulling the file folder over to him and staring at it, wide-eyed. "Calleigh, I swear, I just forgot. I thought—"

She just shook her head, angry tears glinting in her eyes. "No, Ryan, you didn't think. All of our evidence is inadmissible. Thanks to you, a murderer will never see time." She swallowed hard and added hollowly, "Oh, and I forgot to mention, IAB wants to suspend me."

Ryan's brow furrowed. "Suspend you? Why? I'm the one who screwed up!"

"But I'm your senior officer, and I'm the one in charge of the case."

Ryan shook his head firmly. "No, that's not fair. Calleigh…" He paused. "Look, I know I can't make this right, but I'm going to go see H. The least they can do is suspend me instead of you."

He practically flew from the lab, on the lookout for Horatio. When he finally spotted him, he stopped in front of him. "Horatio, you can't suspend Calleigh," he said, breathing heavily. "Look, suspend me, do whatever. I screwed up, big time, and I'm the one who should take the fall."

"Yes, Mr. Wolfe, you did screw up," said Horatio, looking seriously at him. "And this is not the first time."

"H—" started Ryan, but Horatio cut him off.

"Mr. Wolfe, I think it would be a good idea if you headed home and laid low for awhile."

Ryan frowned and cocked his head quizzically. "But IAB—"

"I will take care of IAB." Horatio pulled his sunglasses out and put them on. "Oh, and Mr. Wolfe? Don't screw up like this again."

Grissom sat in his office, the delicate strains of Bach floating through the air behind him. He closed his eyes and leaned back. No new cases tonight, thank God. Nick and Sara were on a B+E in Henderson, and Warrick and Catherine were working on a cold case. And Greg…well, Greg wasn't working on anything at the moment, because he had once again neglected to show up for work.

Sighing, Grissom leaned forward, resting his head on his hands thoughtfully. After their little confrontation at Greg's apartment, Greg had been to work everyday on time. But he had been…subdued. Out of it. In fact, others had remarked on Greg's quietness. Just the other day, Ecklie had asked if Greg was alright. Grissom wished he knew the answer to that.

A knock sounded on Grissom's door, and he looked up, half-hoping to see Greg standing there, wearing that silly smirk of his. Instead, it was Judy, the receptionist, looking nervous. "Um, Mr. Grissom, can I have a word?"

"Sure, Judy, go ahead," said Grissom, massaging his temples. "What's going on?"

Judy stepped into the office and looked around as if she was afraid someone was listening. "It's Greg, sir. He…he came into work late, but I'm sure you knew that."

Grissom folded his hands on his desk and nodded. "Yes, I did know that, but this isn't what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?"

"No," said Judy, shaking her head slowly. "It's just…I was passing the locker room when I saw him take some pills. I know the company policy on drug use as well as the next person, so I was just letting you, as his supervisor, know."

Closing his eyes briefly, Grissom forced a smile onto his face. "Thank you, Judy, I will certainly look into this."

She nodded and left. Grissom groaned aloud. Another strike against the ex-lab tech. This was the last thing Greg needed…the last thing Grissom needed, too. Sighing, Grissom stood and strode out of his office, ready to confront the wayward CSI. He found him in DNA, working diligently on some samples. Grissom leaned against the door, watching him. "Greg," he said calmly.

Greg looked up. "Oh, hey, Griss. Wendy asked if I could help with this backlog, and since there aren't any new cases, I figured…"

"That's fine, Greg," said Grissom, kneading his forehead in consternation. He looked up, blue eyes studying the younger man. "Look, there is no easy way to do this, so I'll cut to the chase. Judy saw you take some pills. Are you on drugs, Greg?"

Grissom expected Greg to get defensive, to explode. What he didn't expect was the calm submission that Greg showed, the emotionless explanation he offered. "Vicodin. For my back. It's hurting again." Turning back to the samples, he added, "And it's procured legally with a prescription. And I informed Ecklie about it."

"I thought you were supposed to inform your supervisor," interjected Grissom.

Greg avoided looking at him as he filled a pipet. "Yeah, well, I kinda wanted to avoid this conversation, so I figured I'd go above your head." He set his things down and turned back to Grissom. "Was there anything else you wanted?"

Grissom frowned deeply. "No, Greg, but I don't believe we're quite done with this conversation. Your back doesn't hurt, and you and I both know that. You haven't complained about back pains for over three years now." Pausing, he added softly, "Greg, no amount of Vicodin will heal a broken heart."

Closing his eyes, Greg, nodded slowly. "I know that. Believe me, Grissom, I know that. But it makes it go away for awhile. And that's all I need. That's what lets me do my job."

"Greg, I can give you some time off if—"

Greg shook his head quickly. "That's not what I meant." He swallowed, hard. "I would just rather feel nothing than this hollow pain inside, you know?"

Grissom reached out, slowly, and touched his shoulder. "Greg, this has to stop. Drinking, drugs…Greg, you're a mess."

"Hell, Grissom, you think I don't know that?" snapped Greg, shrugging Grissom's hand off him. "But it's better than the alternative, which is crying my eyes out every night."

Frowning even deeper, Grissom set his jaw resolutely. "Regardless, Greg, as your supervisor, I am putting you on leave until further notice, for mandatory detox. And I will be taking time off as well, to make sure you stay off."

Greg's eyes burned with fury. "Fine, Grissom. You do that. See if I care. But we're not staying in this fucking town. We're not, or I won't be able to stand it."

"Fine," agreed Grissom. "We'll go to neutral territory. We'll go to Chicago."

Greg's eyes filled with tears, briefly, then hardened. "Fine, whatever."

It was that apathy that killed Grissom to hear. Greg used to have so much passion, not just for work, but for life. Now he was…diminished, almost. "Very well. Oh, and Greg? I'll take those pills now."

Greg's hand flew to his pocket, and his face took on a desperate look. "Grissom—"

"No, Greg. No buts about this. Give me the pills." Greg pulled them out and handed them over reluctantly. "There. Was that so bad?" asked Grissom lightly. "You can finish out tonight, but then you're off, understood?"

"Yes, sir," muttered Greg softly, turning back to the table, eyes downcast.

Grissom nodded once, and headed out the door. Greg might not have known it, but the first step to healing had been taken. And Grissom had a pretty good idea what the second one was going to be…

Horatio closed the file folder on his desk and looked at his watch. It was late. He was about to leave when his cellphone went off. He picked it up after the second ring. ""Caine."

"Horatio," said Grissom's voice, sounding strained and tired. "How're things with you at your end?"

"Not well, Mr. Grissom, not well," answered Horatio, rubbing his temples. "We all miss Greg here."

Grissom laughed dryly. "If it's any consolation, he misses you as well." He paused and sighed deeply. "He's a mess, Horatio. Binge drinking, popping pain pills…I'm really worried. And I don't know how to help him."

"I see," said Horatio, frowning. "Mr. Grissom, I assume you know what happened?"

"The gist of it," said Grissom. "Ryan broke his heart, so he moved back here to be a CSI again. Only he hasn't been a good CSI lately."

"No, neither had Mr. Wolfe," said Horatio thoughtfully. "He misses Greg. We all do. In fact, I just got clearance from the department to hire Mr. Sanders as a CSI level 2."

"Level 2?" said Grissom, surprised. "But he hasn't even made CSI 2 here, yet. That's quite a promotion."

"Yes, well, Mr. Sanders is quite a CSI," said Horatio, smiling. "I vouched for him for the department."

"And I'd vouch for him, too," affirmed Grissom. "Greg's amazing at DNA—I've never met anyone better—but his heart's in the field." He sighed again. "Ok, so he obviously loves Ryan and vice versa, so why doesn't he just apologize and get back together with him?"

"Mr. Grissom," said Horatio chidingly. "You know Greg as well as I do, and what is he?"

"Stubborn," answered Grissom with a sigh.

"Exactly. It took intervention last time to get him down here, Mr. Grissom, and it will take our intervention again."

Grissom paused, then said, "I have a plan. I told Greg I was going to take him to Chicago for some mandatory detox. Can you bring Ryan there, too? We could arrange to 'accidentally' bump into each other."

"In Chicago, where they first fell in love," said Horatio, smiling. "You know something, Mr. Grissom? It just might work."

"It has to, Horatio," said Grissom sadly. "It has to or we may lose Greg forever."