So Close To Home

Summary: An ambush in the desert leaves Greg humiliated and isolated from his friends, even though they were less than half a mile away. Mature themes, please be advised.

Random Author's Note: I hate Heineken. But for some reason, it struck me as the drink for Greg.

Real Author's Note: After much deliberation I finally decided to start posting this. I'm a little ways ahead, but I am not writing as frequently or as fast as I used to. Still, I'll try and keep with my every-other-day rule. If I can't forgive me. But you know that by posting this now it's my personal vow to complete the story, so you will know how it ends.

Dedication: I would like to dedicate this story to kegel and fvhardy. Kegel for tolerating it when I post excerpts, and fvhardy for the inspiration.

Sara closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay as she bagged another torn piece of black cloth that had once been Greg's shirt. The stars blinked down at her in the clear night sky as she processed the scene where hours ago, Nick had discovered their pale, staggering friend. Brass stood silent vigil over the scene, his hand resting unconsciously on the butt of his gun as he held up his flashlight to help illuminate the scene. She crawled on her hands and knees, making sure she got every scrap of blood-stained fabric, and every piece of evidence. Her eyes strained in the dim light provided by the two flashlights, but she didn't care. She would search every grain of sand until she went blind.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital with the others?" Brass asked as he watched her diligently work but she simply shook her head.

"I need to be here," she replied, her eyes still scanning the dry earth. "I need to work the case. If I'm there, then I worry about him. I need to find out why he's in this state. I need to know what happened here."

Brass said no more and let her continue with her work. She looked at Greg's flashlight, which was still on as it lay forgotten in the dust. She photographed it before picking it up and turning it off. His kit had fallen a few feet away and looked relatively undisturbed. She found the knife that had been used to slit his throat. It was covered in dry blood. She wondered if all of it was Greg's.

And then she walked a little further and found his gun, the barrel of it bleeding crimson onto the dust. She frowned and crouched down near it, photographing it and then picking it up with two delicate fingers by the handle. "That's strange…" she whispered before bagging that as well. She recalled the gash in his throat, but his head had appeared otherwise unscathed. Nonetheless, the gun had definitely been a weapon of some kind, perhaps a club to bludgeon him in the ribs or stomach, she wasn't sure. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of the wound in his throat.

She surveyed the scene once, twice, and three times over, but she had collected any and all signs of the 'scuffle,' as Greg had called it. She sighed, wishing there was something more, wishing the answer had been written in the sand so she could read it and be satisfied. "Nothing left but dust and darkness…"

The house, which the For Sale sign described as "An oasis in the Nevada Desert," was dilapidated and creepy. It was a worn and rickety old thing, which looked as though it could crumble any minute. Its charm, if it had ever had any, had faded with the years as it endured the elements. It reminded Greg of a haunted house in old ghost stories, with sheets over the furniture and unoiled door hinges. And the fact that a crime scene was located at the foot of the stairs in the foyer didn't really help its image. He wondered how much its property value would suffer. The house was already in the middle of nowhere, he was surprised it had any property value to begin with.

He quickly volunteered to take the perimeter, not at all inclined to enter into that accident-waiting-to-happen. Catherine and Sara each gave him an understanding nod as they entered the house with their kits. Greg glanced around at the crime scene tape, estimating how wide the radius was. He saw Brass speaking with Grissom over by a few squad cars and Nick and Warrick dusting an open window at the front of the house for prints, smiling and laughing at some anecdote Nick was telling. Nick noticed Greg watching them and waved with a huge grin. Greg returned it with equal enthusiasm.

It wasn't a particularly good day, but it wasn't a bad day either. It was just a day, like any other, in which Greg would process the scene and do his job and then go home at the end of it, kick back and watch a little cable porn with nothing but a Heineken to keep him company. Or, at least, that was how Greg had planned the day to end.

He headed over towards the border of the perimeter and looked for disturbances in the sand or any debris the suspects may have left behind. The victim had been raped and decapitated, with no sign of the head, which had led the LVPD to postulate that the perp had stolen it as a trophy. So Greg looked for blood drops, too, anything that might come from carrying a decapitated head.

He found exactly what he was looking for when he saw a trail of dark drops in the soil. His flashlight followed it to the edge of the crime scene tape, where the trail went far beyond and into the night. He hesitated a moment and looked back over his shoulder. The perimeter had been secure, but he would be walking out into the darkness without a map. Still, it was just desert, and with nothing out there lurking but lizards and coyotes. So he shrugged, figuring it was best to just follow the evidence and ducked under the crime scene tape and kept going. He focused his flashlight and all his attention on the blood trail until the blood drops stopped and turned into tire tracks. Greg snapped a few photographs before switching gears and followed the tracks which seemed to turn left and head for the road.

He stopped walking and turned, looking back at the house which, though he could still see clearly enough, looked to be a little under half a mile away. The lights flashing around it made it a beacon in the dark, the blue and red sirens reminding Greg of those lights which helped to land airplanes. The bright white floodlights were focused on the house, and he could still make out the shapes, though not the faces, of Nick and Warrick by the windowsill. For a moment, he thought of heading back. He was straying a little too far from the perimeter, and they would wonder where he'd gone, and he would probably get a lecture from Grissom. Still, the wind was beginning to whip up something fierce, corrupting the tire tracks. He needed to document them as quickly as possible, even if they just led back to the road. No piece of evidence was insignificant. Grissom had taught him that.

He smiled, his decision made, and was about to return to following the tire tracks when someone grabbed him from behind and pressed on his trachea, making his eyes shoot open as he gagged. He struggled, his hands flying to his waist for his gun, but he was pushed forward. His attacker grabbed at his vest and tore it from Greg's shoulders before pushing him again and he fell onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. A hard combat boot came down on the small of his back forcing him to the ground completely. He let out a cry that was quickly stifled by dirt as his face was shoved into the ground. Someone was holding his hands above his head as they took his gun from his holster. Greg tried not to breathe in the dirt as he searched for air, turning his face to the side. The shoe to his back had knocked the wind out of him and made his head spin. He searched for his voice.

Whoever was on top of him had a knife because he felt the cold metal against the skin on his back as he cut open Greg's shirt and tore it off of him. Greg took in quaking breaths as he struggled madly to get his hands free, but this person was steadfast and strong. Too strong. He heard his shirt rip, and then the guy was tying his hands together above his head. He took the rest of the cloth and tied it around Greg's mouth, who was screaming now, though his voice was muffled by the dirt and cloth. His legs began to kick madly. He refused to let this happen to him again. Not since his attack in that alleyway had he felt so helpless, and so scared.

He saw that his flashlight had rolled a few feet away from him and lay useless, its beam illuminating a patch of dirt in the darkness and it occurred to Greg that while he could see the house as clear as day, for lack of light they could not see him half as clearly, if at all. His flashlight probably seemed like the flicker a star or a firefly to them from half a mile away. Still, his voice might reach them, could reach them, provided it was quiet enough over there, provided he was loud enough…

And then his attacker did something that made Greg's stomach lurch in revulsion and fear and suddenly he hoped that his friends would never find him, that he would die there and fade away into the obscurity of unwritten history, his body decomposing right there in the desert where he lay, and no one, least of all his colleagues, his friends, would come to investigate his death.

His attacker cut through his belt with the knife before getting rid of it and pulling Greg's pants down to his ankles, and his boxers down with them. Greg shuddered, closing his eyes tight as he grit his teeth, his whole body tensing as he hoped and prayed that the man's intentions were to steal his clothes and leave him alone. The desert was cold in the night air and the restless wind slithered across his back and arms, bringing chills and disturbed dust particles with it as it danced across his goosebump-laden skin. The only part of him that was remotely warm was being straddled by a man who seemed to be fully clothed himself. Nonetheless, his worst fears were realized as something cold and rigid ripped into him, sending spasms of pain out up his spine and he began to scream as loud as he could into the rag, more out of the pain than fear.

Let him kill me and be done with it, Greg's panicked brain begged. Let them never know, let them never find me.

He had never been one for tears, being a strong believer of the philosophy that laughter was the best medicine, but in the few instances when he felt like absolute shit, he found that he could be infected by incapacitating sobs. His breaths shook as the tears trickled down his cheeks, which he angrily tried to fight out of principal. He wasn't this weak. His stomach continued to churn as he felt the blood trickle down his thighs. The vomit rose in his throat but he forced it down. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. He had imagined that being a CSI would leave him open to death threats, maybe severe beatings, and times when he'd have to make choices he didn't want to make, but he never thought that he would fall victim to…

He couldn't even think of the word. He wouldn't admit it, he wouldn't acknowledge it, he refused to believe that anyone could hold that much power over him. He considered himself strong, a fighter. He had fought so much already, survived so much. And yet, he never thought it was possible to be able to experience this much pain, or this specific kind of pain. It was too nauseating, agonizing, and humiliating, and it would only be worse if his friends ever knew.

He choked back a cry of anguish as the guy gave one last thrust, reaching as deep as he could before slowly pulling out and Greg nearly laughed in relief. There was a clatter and Greg saw that a gun was thrown away near him. The barrel of it was covered in blood. He closed his eyes and quietly sobbed as the pain encompassed his body, wishing that his attacker would just go away, but knowing intrinsically that he wouldn't. But at least it would be over soon. He just hoped his friends didn't find him like this…

His attacker grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up. Greg closed his eyes tight, knowing exactly what was coming as the knife sliced into his neck. His attacker needed a trophy.

And then, to Greg's utter shock and apparently his attacker's as well, something loud broke the silence of the desert and he felt something moving in his pants by his ankles. The attacker let Greg's face fall to the ground and got off of him. Greg heard a door slam and an engine start and then he smelled the stench of exhaust and his attacker was gone.

He didn't move for a long time. His phone was still ringing. But he couldn't move. He just lied there like a useless log, his mind a foggy swamp of tainted thoughts. He tried to breathe and found the task difficult. His lungs would expand, and yet little air seemed to enter. He felt as if there was a hole in his neck, stealing his oxygen. And he was in so much pain… He couldn't feel his legs. He didn't want to feel his legs. He didn't want to feel anything. The rawness of the vile attack crept up his spine. It hurt so much. Too much to move.

Eventually, his phone stopped ringing, and he was glad for it. He was aware of the flashlights in the distance but none of them had fallen on him yet. It's probably what had chased his attacker away more than the ringing phone. He should move. Cut himself loose, pull up his pants at least. Try and make himself look decent. Presentable. Try and make it seem as though nothing had happened, that everything was fine. He would need to walk. But he couldn't show any sign of pain when he did so, though he knew it would be more painful on his feet than it was on his stomach. He couldn't cry. He'd done that already, that was over with. It was time for damage control. To deal with the situation and figure out how he was going to explain this to his friends.

And yet, he didn't move. He didn't think. He didn't cry, either, though. He just lied there in a daze for what seemed like centuries as he waited for the sun to rise and chase away this nightmare.

And then, his phone began to ring again.

His head was spinning and so was his stomach. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't breathe right, and he had no idea what his voice sounded like, and it hurt too much to move even the smallest muscle in his upper body, but he had to answer that phone. Bringing his arms down, he awkwardly and agonizingly brought his feet up and reached into his pocket for his phone. He let out gasping cries as his torso bent and his face scrunched in pain, but he grit his teeth and tried not to make to much noise as the pain radiated throughout his body, his muscles crying out in protest. The flashlights were slowly getting closer and he was beginning to hear his name being called by indecipherable voices. People were coming. Turning onto his side so as not to aggravate his injuries by sitting or lying on his back, he pulled the gag around his mouth down around his neck with his wrists. He then fumbled with the phone momentarily and had no time to look at the caller ID as his bound hands clumsily hit the talk button and held it to his ear. He fought to control his breathless voice.

"Sanders." It sounded strained and shaky, so he coughed and found that for some reason it hurt his throat. He resolved never to cough again.

"Hey Greg, where'd you go?" came Nick's Texan accent. "Saw you over by the perimeter and then you pulled a Houdini on us. We were worried."

Greg swallowed, feeling his throat constricting as he choked back another sob, which only brought with it more pain. "Don't be," he said, his voice shaking. "I'm, uh… I'm fine."

Nick's concern was evident. "You don't sound fine. What happened?"

Greg saw the knife lying a few feet away. He felt dizzy, like he would pass out any minute. "Can I call you back in a minute, Nick?"

"Where are you, Greg?" Nick asked, sounding stern. "I thought I heard your phone ringing when I called you a minute ago. You can't be far."

"I'm about half a mile away, OK, I'll find you," Greg replied.

"Don't bother," Nick said. "I think I see you… are you lying down?"

Greg panicked and hung up the phone. He grabbed the knife and managed to cut the binds around his wrists before immediately pulling his pants and boxers up again, unable to suppress a cry of pain at the hurried unbending of his torso. The fact that he was without a shirt would need some explanation, but he found his vest and put it on shakily. Lastly, he untied the cloth that was tied around his neck now and tore it off. Looking at it, he saw there was blood on it. This confused him until he registered a dull ache in his neck. He hadn't realized it because his ass was hurting so much. He closed his eyes in shame and picked up the flashlight near him. His stomach was tying itself in knots and his brain was pounding on his skull.

"Greg? What the hell?"

He was startled by the call but through blurry eyes, he saw Nick jogging over towards him with a flashlight that was shining in his eyes. Greg held up his hands to shadow his eyes from the blinding light.

"Hello to you too," Greg panted, his head beginning to do back flips.

Nick began to laugh lightly as he held out a hand to Greg, who took it and Nick hoisted him up. The movement caused Greg great pain but he tried not to show it. "What happened to you?" Nick asked, his laughter quickly fading. "Where's your shirt? What happened to your neck?!"

Greg raked his hands through his hair and looked off in the direction that the van had driven. He was suddenly exceptionally faint now that he was standing and found it was difficult to stand still. His knees quaked with pain and threatened to buckle under his weight. He grabbed onto Nick's shoulder who grabbed onto his shoulder in turn. "Uh… yeah, I got in a little… scuffle with a suspect. No big deal, but…" He held up the tatters of his shirt. "He totally ruined my shirt."

"Looks like he ruined more than that…" Nick muttered, his flashlight directed at Greg's neck. "That looks bad, man, you should go to the hospital."

Greg shook his head, but as he did it made him feel even dizzier. "Nah, I'm fine," he said, trying to pass it off as a small cut, which it probably was despite the fact that Nick's face was growing blurrier by the minute.

"Greg!" Nick said, his voice echoing in Greg's head, and for some reason he was holding both of Greg's shoulders now, and very tightly. "You're swaying. You're bleeding like crazy. You're talking funny. You're not OK."

Greg didn't like Nick's hands tightly gripping his shoulders and he pulled out of his grip, uncomfortably. "Don't touch me…" He tried to speak, but his throat was constricting. He tasted liquid metallic in the back of his mouth and began to splutter. He suddenly had the notion that he was at the bottom of the ocean, drowning. He couldn't breathe, and Nick's face was far from him now. He wavered and the sky began to spin as he heard echoes in his head, felt the blood staining his pants and he fell forward into Nick before falling unconscious.