I'm bored, and Season 7 is still many moons away, so I present: the sequel to Nobody Knows - as this is the only idea I have knocking about in my head at the moment.

Sad but true.

You like, please leave a review. You don't like - well, leave one anyway. I'll be eternally grateful, even if you tell me you hated it!

Getting tired of having to say this before every story, but - surprise, surprise, I don't own them. Just the CSI Dvd's and a disturbingly well worn copy of To Live And Die In LA.

Enough said.

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Everybody Knows…

Greg took his sweet time walking the short distance from his car to the lab. For once in his life, he was absolutely dreading having to walk through those doors and facing the people inside. Absentmindedly rubbing his hand over his already messed up hair, he wondered if he could get away with just calling in sick today. Or better yet – he could just hand in his resignation, jump back in his car and drive into the hills.

For the first time in his life, he understood why some people lived all alone in little dilapidated cabins in the woods, with only their shotguns for company. The idea of never having to see another living person in his life was enticing. And the idea of not having to lay eyes on two very particular human beings ever again, was proving almost irresistible at the moment.

Sighing heavily, Greg paused at the door of the lab and tried to screw up his courage. He was going to need all of it, if he was going to get through this shift. He was about to try and keep the biggest secret of his life, and he was going to have to keep it from a bunch of people who were like hawks when it came to spotting stuff.

Yep – this was going to be one tough night.

If he could just get through the first bit, he reckoned he would be OK. Since it was Grissom's night off (Greg gave an involuntary shudder), Catherine would be handing out assignments, and if he could just keep his cool for that, he should be fine. He would go into the break room, grab a cup of coffee, pretend to read the paper and keep his mouth shut. Then he would go and finish analysing the fingerprints he lifted at the robbery last night.

With a little luck, everyone else would have their own cases to worry about, and they would leave him the hell alone.

Taking a deep breath, Greg straightened his clothes and headed through the door. But he was nearly knocked off his feet by Hodges, who steamed up from behind and barged through the door with only a contemptuous, "Out of my way, "funtain" boy!" tossed in Greg's direction, before making a bee-line straight for Ecklie's office.

Greg watched his retreating back with an irritated grimace. Stupid Hodges. But at least he was the one person in the lab that Greg could trust not to figure anything out.

Taking a wide berth past Bobby and Archie in the foyer and trying to look really busy as he breezed past the DNA lab, he finally got to the break room without having to speak to anybody. Quietly humming the Mission Impossible theme tune in his head, he was almost starting to enjoy himself. For once, he was way ahead of the game – the Keeper of Knowledge, the Grand Sage, the Yoda of the lab.

Yeah – keeping this thing a secret could be fun.

Mustering up a big (if slightly strained) grin, Greg opened the door. Nick and Warrick were watching something on the TV in the corner, and Brass was sitting on the couch, a mug in his hand. The older man had only been back at work for a month, and since he was still riding a desk, he had taken to occasionally popping over to the lab for a coffee when things were slow. Greg's smile widened when he noticed that Brass was wearing a dark blue sweater, instead of the usual jacket and tie. It looked strange - but in a good way, Greg decided.

He was still contemplating how much his world had changed over the last hour, when Catherine wafted through the door, assignment slips in hand.

"Evening boys! Looking good Jim – been on a shopping spree?"

"What – this old thing?" Brass grinned. "You like?"

"Well, let's just say it's a lot more flattering than those butt ugly hospital gowns were."

"Maybe, but at least the gown had the added advantage of being open at the back, thus showing off my nice ass…"

Catherine smirked and Nick and Warrick laughed as they sat down at the desk. Greg simply watched the little exchange in fascinated horror. Was it everybody's sole purpose today to gross him out? Brass's butt. Yet another image that would take months, if not years, to purge from his poor, freaked out brain. Shakily, he picked a spot at the table as far away from the homicide detective as he could get.

"Right – on the menu tonight – Warrick, you and I get the dead body downtown, Greg you finish up your robbery from yesterday, and Nick - you and Sara take the--" Catherine looked up from the paper in her hand. "Um…we seem to be missing a certain workaholic brunette from our ranks. Anyone got any idea what's holding her up?"

Greg hadn't meant to say it. He really, really hadn't. But the words were out of his mouth before his brain and his better judgement could catch up.

"No – but I bet I know who's holding her up…"

The silence that greeted his statement was so complete that Greg could hear his heart slamming against his chest as he fought the wave of nausea that was threatening to overcome him.

He was a dead man.

"Greeeeeeg…?" Nick was the first one to recover his poise and he fixed Greg with a sly smile. "Is there something you need to tell us?"

"Yeah Sanders – you seen anything lately that might be of interest to the rest of us?" Brass was smiling too, and Greg was surprised to see that even Warrick had a huge grin on his face.

"Spill it Quincy – what do you know?" As Catherine fixed him with that look in her eye, Greg was reminded of the death glare he'd gotten from Grissom in the parking lot and he mentally steeled himself. He was going to have to weather this storm come what may, because he was too young and pretty to die. And if he spilled the beans now, he was absolutely positive that his boss would make good on his earlier threat. Putting on his best poker face, Greg tried to look nonchalant as he took a trembling sip of his coffee.

"No…nothing. I just…uh…swung by...Sara's earlier…talking to someone…that's all…"

He was making it worse. Of that much he was certain, and he silently cursed himself for his inability to keep the slight note of hysteria out of his voice. Right now he was equally liable to start giggling like a fool, or burst into tears. With every eye in the room trained on him, he was gaining a much clearer understanding of what the suspects went through every time one of the CSI's interrogated them.

He'd never realised before what a scary bunch of people they could be.

Brass gave a derisive snort, and Nick shot Warrick a meaningful glance. Catherine simply kept looking at him, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Leaning closer to him, she tried again. "Greg, Greg, Greg. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, but either way, we're getting the information we want. And let me warn you, the hard way entails decomposing bodies and stomach contents. Because for tonight, at least, you're ass is mine…"

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Greg could feel his throat closing up. He'd known this was going to happen. He always got screwed when it came to stuff like this. As Nick dragged his chair closer, Brass got off the couch, and stationed himself on the corner of the table closest to Greg. Warrick simply leaned over and stared at him intently. This was a classic intimidation technique and Greg was starting to see why it was so effective.

"Uh…look guys…you don't understand…I'm sworn to secrecy…not that it's anything secret…but…I can't…"

Their only response was to shift even closer to him. As the little circle of bodies around him tightened, he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and his breath coming in shallow little gasps. Panicking properly now, he flicked his eyes pitifully from one face to another, searching desperately for a little sympathy from someone. Finding none, he squeakily tried again.

"Guys…please..."

"Two words Greggo – stomach and contents…"

"Cath…guys…don't make me do this…please…I promised…plus, it was nothing…really…I just went to her house…to pick up a book…how was I supposed to know that Griss—"

Damn. Not again.

The howls of laughter and backslapping that greeted his little slip came as a complete surprise to Greg and he dazedly wondered if the stress of the last hour had finally fried his brain completely. Grissom was going to have him in a casket before the day was out, and his esteemed colleagues and supposed friends (and he was using that term very loosely at the moment), were all having a party.

Maybe they were all high. It was the only logical explanation he could come up with. Better yet – maybe he was high and everything that had happened since he got out of bed had just been a horrifying, terrible dream.

How he wished that could be true.

"Man, you owe me a fifty!" Warrick grinned, as he slapped Nick on the back. The Texan was smiling from ear to ear as he fished a few notes out of his wallet and handed them over, shaking his head slightly. "Damn! Who would've thought Greggo would be the one to get the proof?"

Greg looked at the scene before him in confusion, before the truth slowly started to dawn on him.

"Wait a minute…you guys knew? You all knew and you didn't tell me! When…how--"

Grinning, and patting Greg on the shoulder sympathetically, Catherine looked around at the others before speaking.

"Well – we didn't know, per se – that is, we didn't have any proof before now, but we've been keeping our eye on them for the last few months, so we had our suspicions…"

"Come on Greggo – the way Sara's been all happy and smiley the last few months..."

"Yeah man. You have to be blind not to see the way the two of them eye each other whenever they think no one is looking…"

"And I could have sworn I saw Grissom grab hold of her hand at the hospital, but at the time I chalked it up to the copious amounts of morphine in my system…"

With a relieved sigh, Greg sat back in his chair. They knew anyway. They'd all suspected for months. They'd all figured it out, before he'd even had the faintest clue.

Fixing the smiling faces around him with the most indignant stare he could muster, Greg only had one thing left to say.

"Bastards. Do any of you know what I have been subjected to in the last hour? The sights I've seen? The emotional scars I will carry with me till the day I die?

Why, why, why didn't any of you take pity on poor little Greg – and warn me!"

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