HEROES

Part three

It all started when I imagined Greg asking, 'who loved Sherlock?'

This story's told from Gil's POV

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Darkness… Utter contentment… Silence…

And then -

"So. Who loved Sherlock?"

The words reached me as if from far away.

I frowned. A ludicrous question like this could only be posed in dreams, and that meant I was asleep. Good. If I was asleep, then I wouldn't have to answer.

I sighed contentedly.

"Grissom?"

Another word, and this time I recognized the voice. It was somehow muffled, but it was definitely Greg's.

I wanted to respond, but I couldn't. My body felt heavy, utterly relaxed. I couldn't imagine mustering enough energy to talk or even open my eyes.

I was slowly letting sleep claim me back, when there was that voice again -

"Well? Who loved Sherlock?"

And that idiotic question too.

With some difficulty, I turned my head and opened one eye, only to find something blocking my view -an arm. Whether it was his or mine, I wasn't quite sure. For all I knew, it could have been a leg; when Greg gets creative, we end up falling asleep in unexpected places and positions. That's fine by me; he's the one doing all the acrobatics, after all.

I sighed as I reviewed the numerous positions we'd tried out. No wonder I felt exhausted. And Greg couldn't be doing any better. There was no way that he'd be awake and talking, unless he'd started talking in his sleep.

Whatever it was, I'd find out later… Much later.

"Grissom?"

Oh, no. He was awake.

"Did you ever picture Holmes and Watson together?"

The words were slightly slurred -from alcohol or sleep, I didn't know.

"Grissom?"

"Mmmmh?" This was all I could muster.

"Are you awake?"

"Mmmmh."

"Come on," he said. He laid his hand on my arm (yep, it was my arm) and moved it out of the way. I opened both eyes this time.

Greg was laying on his stomach, his face half buried in a pillow. In the semi-darkness, I got a glimpse of a half-opened eye and the corner of a smile.

"I can't believe you're awake," I said. He'd polished off almost half a bottle of champagne (by his own admission). But as he had pointed out earlier, good champagne didn't have the same effect that beer or hard alcohol would have.

And yet, he had drunk a lot, and he'd done all those acrobatics. He should have been flat out unconscious: Instead, he was wide awake.

Apparently, champagne energized him.

It certainly made him horny, which was one of the reasons why I could barely move.

All I wanted was to sleep for ten hours.

"So, did you?"

I frowned.

"Did I, what?"

"Did you ever picture Holmes and Watson together?"

It finally dawned on me that in Greg's mind, Holmes was gay.

I pretended to actually mull over his question, only to reply with a short 'no.'

"No?"

"No." I repeated, closing my eyes again.

"Well, then who loved Sherlock?"

"No one," I replied impatiently, "No one did."

"Whoa. That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Greg, I just want to sleep -"

"Aw," He said, "You're tired?"

"Mmmh."

He slid a little bit closer and reached for my shoulder.

"Here, let me help you turn 'round," he said solicitously, "I'll give you a back rub -"

"No."

He withdrew his hand.

"No? What do you mean no?"

I opened one eye, "No, thanks?"

"You don't want a back rub? After that stunt you played, your back must be killing you."

"A back rub would be nice." I admitted, "It's what might come after that makes me hesitate."

"You think I'm gonna take advantage of you?" he asked indignantly, "Well, thanks for the confidence. Next time you want me to give you a massage, I'm just gonna-"

"I'm tired, Greg." I groaned, "My arms hurt, my legs hurt –even my lips hurt -"

"Ah, stop complaining -"

"I'm not complaining –I'm bragging," I retorted, "But I'm really tired; just let me sleep, please -"

That last part sounded close to a whine, but it failed to impress him. He simply took a moment to make himself more comfortable under the sheets. He shifted around until he found a position he liked and then, using his folded arm as a pillow, he turned his full attention back on me again.

"So, you never wonder about Holmes?" he asked, "I mean, someone must have loved this guy –even if Conan Doyle didn't think so. Didn't you ever fantasize about it? I mean, you read all the stories, you ought to know: if it wasn't Watson, then who? Lestrade?"

I shook my head. Holmes in a relationship? And with another man, to boot? It was too ridiculous to consider. He was right in one aspect, though; I'd read all the novels, so I was the expert here.

"Not Lestrade." I said.

"Too ugly?"

"Intellectually, he wasn't Holmes' match. Actually, nobody was."

"So, intellectually, who was his match?"

"Moriarty." I said. "But he was his enemy, so... There was no love lost there."

"Well... I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I mean, ambiguity between love and hate seems to be an intrinsic element in the relationships between famous heroes and their nemesis -"

I looked incredulously at him, but he didn't notice my reaction; he had found something to talk about and so he went on and on.

And on.

"... and then, there's Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, of course." he said at the end of a long speech. "It's also the reason why the bad guys never stayed around to watch Bond die a slow death."

I frowned again.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"I think that deep down, the bad guys wanted Bond to escape, and that's why they always left before their gadgets finished him off."

"So, you saw gay relationships in all the Bond films. That's quite an imagination you have."

"Hey, my imagination helped me survive, back when I was a kid." He said, "You know how it is, growing up with absolutely no one to look up to. I mean, yeah, I had my parents and my grandparents, but they weren't gay. I had to create my own heroes."

"Gay heroes."

"Yeah. It was the only way I could get through books like Jane Eyre, for instance."

"Jane Eyre?" I asked, actually perking up, "So, what did you do, fantasize that Rochester fell in love with…?"

Greg smiled.

"… James Eyre." He said.

"But James Eyre couldn't be there to take care of a little girl -"

Greg laughed softly.

"Nah." He said, "In my book, James was there to train Rochester's prized horse."

"James Eyre was a cowboy?"

He nodded but before he could talk, a huge yawn interrupted him.

"It was a great fantasy," he mumbled, "I really liked the idea of two cowboys getting together."

"Two cowboys, Greg?" I asked, thinking of Brokeback Mountain, the movie we'd recently seen.

"What can I say?" he shrugged smugly, "I was ahead of the times." There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he added, "You've got cowboy's legs. Maybe that's what got me attracted to you."

He didn't say more, and after a moment I closed my eyes again.

Maybe now I'd be able to get some sleep.

Unfortunately, talking of cowboys had got me thinking.

"You know..." I muttered, "You look a little like that guy Gyllenhaal."

"Me?"

"Uh, huh. You two have the same build… The bushy eyebrows..."

"Bushy eyebrows?" He repeated.

"Bushy eyebrows," I nodded placidly. I sighed. I was feeling nicely relaxed again, but for some reason I couldn't stop talking, "Dreamy eyes, too." I said.

"Gyllenhaal has dreamy eyes?" he interrupted.

"Then there's the moles…" I whispered. "The white skin… the wide mouth…"

"You seem to have noticed a lot of things about this guy." he muttered morosely.

I knew that tone. He was pissed off.

I glanced at him; he was touching his eyebrows.

"What are you doing?"

"You said I have bushy eyebrows -"

"Well, hum, yes -"

But when he started measuring his mouth using his thumb and his index finger, I knew it was time to intervene.

"Forget it." I said, catching his hand. "Why are we talking about this, anyway?"

"Because someone started rhapsodizing about this guy Gyllenhaal," he said, glaring at me, "It's like you have a crush on him, or something."

Yeah, right.

"I don't have a crush." I said, "Not on him, at least." I added, giving him a pointed look.

"Oh," he said. He rubbed my hand with his thumb. "Does that mean I can give you that back rub now?" he asked, using that husky tone again.

I studiously looked away.

"We were talking about heroes." I muttered evasively.

"Gay heroes." he amended. The subject drew his attention again, "What about you? Did you ever fantasize about any of your heroes being gay? Holmes, for instance?"

I smiled to myself. I never thought of Holmes in those terms. If he was a sort of hero to me, it was precisely because he didn't seem to need anybody, and he never let his emotions interfere in his quest for the truth. It was an admirable trait that I tried to imitate.

I'd modeled myself after Holmes; I had my whole life figured out, and it certainly didn't include romance… And yet, here I was, sharing my life with a man -a younger man who looked just like a movie star.

"What's with the look?" Greg asked.

"What look?"

"The look on your face, right now," he said, "Sort of smug -"

Smug? Perhaps. But then, who could blame me?

"So, Grissom." Greg said after a moment, "Did you ever fantasize about being just like Holmes?"

I looked sharply at him. He was smiling mischievously.

"Well?" he insisted.

"Nah," I lied, "I didn't."

"I don't believe that."

"Well, I was physically wrong for the part," I lamented, "I've always looked more like Watson."

"Aw," he said, patting my belly in commiseration. Then he wrapped his arm around me. "What about now?" he muttered, snuggling against me, "Do you have any heroes? Is there a Scientist or a philosophers or an Entomologist out there -"

I did have one hero. A guy who'd withstood the pressure of working for demanding CSI's and refused to be bullied by any of them. He handled the pressure -and us- with quiet determination… and a quick joke.

A young man whose actions were sometimes maddeningly juvenile or infinitely wise.

I admired Greg for all this.

Not that I'd ever tell him. I rarely let him know what he meant to me. Not in words, anyway.

"I don't have heroes, anymore." I said.

"Not scientists or musicians -" he lifted his head to look at me, "Not even Dr. G?" he teased, "I know you like her a lot."

I smiled.

"What about you?" I asked, "Who's your hero? Some rock star… some MTV deejay? A Calvin Klein model?"

He smiled, and then he laid his head on my shoulder.

"Nah. Not anymore." he said. "There's somebody else now. Well, actually, he's been my hero for quite some time now." He paused, "Remember the first time I went out on the field? A bus crashed -"

"Ah, yes." I said, "You didn't wear gloves, you were freezing in your light windbreaker -"

"Yeah. You know, it was the first time I'd seen you out there. It was then that I realized what you went through every time you left the lab -" he lifted his head again. "I think I fell for you right then and there."

Oh. I didn't know what to say.

"I know it sounds mushy," he said sheepishly.

"Greg… I just do what every supervisor does."

"Not true." He countered, "I mean, sure, every supervisor deals with crimes and a heavy workload, but I don't know of anyone else who's put his reputation on the line for his colleagues. I mean, truthfully, would any of us still be at the lab if we had been working with Ecklie? I don't think so."

He sighed and got more comfortable in my arms. "You do all that, and yet you're a kinda quiet guy. Unassuming. Just like a superhero when he's not wearing tights and a cape."

"I'd look ridiculous in tights." I mumbled uncomfortably.

This talk of heroes was starting to bother me. I didn't want him to think so highly of me. Some day I might not live up to his expectations and then, what?

Greg looked away then. He probably felt as uncomfortable as me, although for a different reason: He had opened up about his feelings for me -more than he ever had before- and my response had been less than enthusiastic.

In the end, he changed the subject himself.

"Do I really have a wide mouth?"

"You're still thinking of that?"

He looked up.

"I'm still not sure if it was a compliment or a criticism." he muttered.

"How can you not know?"

He touched my bottom lip.

"Maybe your mouth is just too small," he sneered.

"Oh, really," I said. Using my own husky tone, I added, "You know it's big enough to hold some, hum, things of yours."

He shuddered.

"Oh, God," he groaned, pressing his face against my shoulder, "Don't talk like that unless you're ready to play, ok?"

"Maybe I'm ready to play." I replied, slowly moving under the covers until I found his erection. It throbbed against my palm, and I was amazed –yet again- by the fact that I had this effect on him. I wrapped an arm around him and rolled us over until I had him laying under me.

"Oh, yeah." I whispered, enjoying the feel of his body under mine, "Now we're definitely ready to play."

He looked up.

"So?" he urged.

"Shhhh, I'm thinking -" I replied, taking my time to decide what to do. There were a lot of things we could do, but there was something he liked more than anything in the world. I looked into his eyes, then. "You know what?" I said, "I think I'm ready for that back rub."

"You are?" he smiled.

"Yes."

"Mmmmh," He sighed contentedly. "All right, then -" He whispered, "Turn over -"

I obeyed.

"It'll be good, baby," he whispered.

I was tired and sore, and I knew that tomorrow I'd be paying for this…

But hey, sometimes a hero's gotta do what he's gotta do.

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THE END.