Hello Reader! I know my postings have gone dormant for a while but I'm back (or hope to be back – well, as long as the creative juices keep flowing and time is on my side). You are about to read a one-shot fic that's been on my mind for several months but just never took the time to write it down until now. The story is set somewhere around early season 9, which means Warrick died, pre-Langston, pre-Riley, Sara's gone, but Grissom's still there. Ok, so here goes…

Title: Save Me

Greg had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. When he awoke, he recognized the same dark and damp dungeon around him. There was no window to tell the time of day. He was completely cut off from the rest of the world. Only the acrid smell of oxidized pipes and dirt filled the cell. He heard nothing – no traffic noises or planes passing overhead, no train whistles, no foghorns, nothing that would give him a clue on his location. The only thing he heard was the echo of water dripping from a leaky pipe followed by the occasional sound of rats moving inside the walls.

Brutally tortured by his captives, Greg lay sprawled in the rear of the cell with his back propped up against the wall. Pain sparked from all the limbs in his mangled body. His face hurt from being slugged many times. The soreness in his mostly likely broken ribs was nothing compared to the fiery pain escalating from a bullet that lodged itself in his clavicle. Greg didn't remember being shot. The events of the last twenty four hours were hazy and jumbled.

He was walking to his car and the next thing he knew, somebody grabbed him from behind and covered his nose and mouth with a cloth. There was a struggle but breathing in the chloroform soon relaxed his body and he went numb. When he woke, he heard a hum of incoherent conversation. It was definitely male voices – at least three of them. The place around them was dark and the only thing Greg remembered seeing was what appeared to be the tall cylinder of a silo, the type farms used to keep fodder. They left him on the ground with coarse rope tied securely around his wrists. The chloroform soon started to wear off and left a pounding headache in Greg's skull.

Adrenaline and panic pumped in his veins. He tried to remember everything that Grissom taught him on survival – remain calm, use your senses, pay attention to your surroundings – basically, don't freak out. But that was close to impossible, especially when he was the victim. The only thing he noticed was the crumbly texture of the dirt beneath him. It was unpaved and therefore he realized his location may not be in an industrialized area.

The things that happened next were the hardest to connect. Greg recalled being dragged to a chair, and then repeatedly beaten – at times with bare hands, and other times with some sort of whip. The more Greg pressed for answers, the more lashes he received. When he finally passed out, they left him alone but only to return each time he woke.

Amidst all the beatings, he heard one of the men say, "For what he let happened to Munroe, he shall know what it feels like. Vengeance is ours." And another man laughed heinously and replied, "Gil Grissom will get a kick outta this - watching one of his own die a long and suffering death. Hey Travis, you gettin' this all on tape?"

Things got foggy after that. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake. Greg has seen all sorts of nasty gunshot wounds on victims and dead bodies, but he couldn't possibly know what it actually felt like to be on the receiving end of a bullet. He didn't remember seeing a gun or even hearing the sharp explosion of a gun being fired. There was no proof if indeed he had been shot at all. In the darkness, he couldn't see the blood or smell the GSR. Somehow, judging from the pain and immobility of his arm, he knew he'd been shot.

Through the slits of his swollen eyes, he saw the outline of the big iron door that stood in the way of his freedom. He noticed one of the ropes have loosened around his left wrist and he was able to slide out of it. The skin was rubbed raw from the tightness of the rope, making every movement as painful as the next. His knuckles and forearms were cut and bruised – defensive wounds. The rest of the blood-stained hemp rope hung firmly around his right wrist.

The only form of light came from under that iron door. It was a faint glow of yellow. He waited and waited for movement or voices that would indicate his captors were present. Greg dared not make a sound for fear of them coming back and torturing him again. He must've sat there in the darkness for a good half hour, listening. When he was convinced the captors have left for the time being, Greg let out a whimper.

His heart was hammering so wildly that he thought it might explode in his chest. He tried so hard to calm his nerves and stay focused. His life might depend on it. But the more he thought about it, the stronger panic became. Greg made a few attempts to take deep breaths, but it only irritated his lungs further. The broken ribs were certainly not helping. He coughed painfully.

When the fit subsided, he managed to look around. The room appeared to be in some sort of underground cellar. The walls were made of stone, which meant sound-proof. Even if he screamed on the top of his lungs, no one would hear him. The odds were against him. Several old pipes ran across the ceiling. Mold formed on areas of the walls where water stained.

There was an odd coldness in the air that made the hair on the back of Greg's arms stand. He was only wearing an old long sleeved T-shirt with a pair of blue jeans but the cold cut through the fibers like a knife. It was so cold that he could see his breath when he exhaled. He figured the only place where temperatures could drop this low was probably in the desert at night. Greg shivered uncontrollably.

He wished with all his might that Grissom or Nick or Brass or anybody would kick down that door at any second and rescue him. He waited and waited. Hearing the stillness of the room and its proximity, it was highly unlikely. No one was coming. No one even knew he was missing. He was going to die. Fearing for the worst, he allowed the tears to stream down his face.

Suddenly, something caught his eye. There, a few feet away from him, was something silver partially obscured by dirt and debris. It didn't look like it belonged in the dungeon at all. Greg just had to find out what it was. Perhaps all hope was not lost.

Greg gathered up all the strength he had and pulled himself across the room. Every bit of movement caused tremendous pain but he was determined. His tattered shirt provided no protection from the elements. He made it halfway when he felt he could not go on any further. The spasms of pain racked his body and his left arm was going numb from the gunshot wound. Greg was not able to reach the object on the first try, no matter how far he extended his good arm. After several attempts, his fingers finally took hold of it. He drew it nearer to see what he'd found.

It was an old pen knife caked with soil. As luck would have it, Greg found a weapon in the most improbable of all places! This was good news. Greg dusted off the pen knife and wiped the dirt off on his jeans. He inspected it carefully. The short handle was made of plastic and appeared cracked and chipped. Because of the oldness of the blade, it showed signs of erosion and rust. Nonetheless, the point was still intact and the possibility to do harm was still feasible.

Greg moved towards the wall and propped himself against it in a sitting position. The pressure on the welts in his back hurt like hell but it was the only way he could have any leverage when his captors came in to retrieve him. He figured if he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting.

He wrapped his swollen fingers tightly around the handle of the pen knife, like as if his life depended on it. He thought it was funny finding comfort in an old pen knife. But right then, that old pen knife was his only friend in that dark place. He waited and waited, anticipating the moment the men would return. Whether it was due to the extent of his injuries or from total exhaustion, Greg's consciousness started to slip. He wanted to sleep. And soon, he had no choice but to give into the darkness.

Somewhere in the darkness, he saw a swirl of silvery mist. In the mist, he saw the backyard of his parent's house in San Diego. The grass was plush and velvety. Birds were chirping. Sunlight was practically bouncing off the huge patio umbrella that shielded a matching set of patio furniture. He saw his mom in a peach-colored sundress pouring lemonade into a glass. The tall drink was for his father, who was seated in one of the chairs reading a newspaper. His mom and dad looked different. They looked young. He then heard a dog yapping in the distance. The barking grew louder and louder until the source of the noise came into view. A black-haired Labrador raced to the patio and begged to be scratched. It was Sparky. But it couldn't be Sparky, because Sparky died when Greg was twelve. This was very troubling.

Then the scene changed. The faces of his colleagues appeared. They were each telling him things that didn't make sense. Right in the middle of it all was Grissom. He stared at him and said something that sounded like "…gotta roll with it." Grissom then said "Hang in there, Greg." Greg tried to focus on those words. He really wanted to believe Grissom and survive. But the images blended into a wad of colors before dissolving into blackness.

An Unknown Number of Hours Later:

A scratching noise brought Greg back into the painful world of the conscious. At first he dismissed the noise to be the rats in the walls, but the sound continued in a steady scuffles. In the dark cell, he could see the light beneath the door flicker, which meant someone, was there. They had come back.

Adrenaline rushed through his body and he held the knife that much tighter, ready to defend himself. Suddenly, the door opened and a multitude of voices filled the air. Greg squinted at the beams of light and tried to make sense of the figures pouring in but to no avail. In addition to the darkness, his swollen eyes made it hard to see.

Hurried footsteps approached and came to a halt. He felt a presence crouch beside him. His breathing became labored and difficult. The beams of bright light hurt his eyes. Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. His reflexes sprung into action. They were not going to hurt him anymore.

"Noooo…" Greg screamed and swung the knife at the figure beside him.

"Ow! Aw geez, Greg!" Nick recoiled and touched the bloody cut on his cheek. "Greg, it's me. It's Nick. Snap out of it." He tried to explain.

Greg thought he heard a familiar voice. But it couldn't be. He must be dreaming. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He had to move fast. It was kill or be killed. He went in for a second stab, aiming to kill or at least, to maim. Luckily, Nick blocked the jab and in turn got a hold of Greg's wrist in an attempt to disarm him. Greg cried out in pain as he still hung onto the knife.

"Let go of the knife, Greg." Nick implored. "It's alright. You're safe. We found you. Everything's gonna be ok."

"Nick?" Greg sobbed, unable to believe that he was being saved. His grip on the knife loosened. Beams of light were coming from all around and blinded him. They were, no doubt, flashlights. Activity was going on around him. He heard faraway voices and footsteps. The movements sounded like a police raid.

"They were trying to escape out the back but we got 'em. We have medics on the way." Brass said breathlessly as he caught up with Nick. "Is the kid alright?"

"Don't know yet." Nick answered.

"It's really you. Nick?" Greg's soft voice in the darkness sounded small and lost.

"Yea, buddy. You got yourself into a bit of a situation, huh? Well, don't worry 'cause we got it all under control." Nick replied in a gentle tone.

In Greg's joy, he reached out his good arm towards the voice. It was slow and rather mechanical. His right arm remained immobile. He pulled Nick into a semi-embrace. In his pain and anguish, all mixed with a sense of relief and gratitude, Greg burst into tears. The sobs were uncontrollable.

Nick understood. It brought him back to the time he was buried alive. He remembered the horror of not being found, the panic, the torture, the hopelessness, wanting the suffering to end, and above all, when the lid of the makeshift coffin was pried open. The first person he saw was Grissom. Nick could never forget the sense of happiness and relief knowing that he'd been rescued. He remembered hanging onto Grissom and refusing to let go, for fear of losing that connection to reality. The belief that grown men don't cry or don't hug each other just got thrown out the window. Something like that goes beyond any humility, pride or embarrassment. Nothing could describe being absolutely desperate. So, of all people, Nick knew what Greg was going through especially since he'd been there.

"You're ok." Nick laughed nervously while accepting the embrace, though he was afraid of squeezing Greg too tight since he had yet to inspect the extent of the injuries. "No one's gonna hurt ya. Damn Greg, you're shaking like a leaf."

"Hey fellas, give us some more light over here, will ya?" He called to someone behind them. And almost immediately, light began to flood the room as two lamps were brought in.

"Let me take a look at you." Nick coaxed. Greg refused to let go. "It's alright. I ain't leavin' you. I'll be right here. Just wanna check you over."

Greg reluctantly obeyed. He nearly slipped through Nick's arm, not able to hold himself up. Nick caught Greg by the back of the shoulders. As soon as the lamps lit up the room, Nick saw Greg's injuries for the first time.

"Dear Lord! What did they do to you Greg?" Nick gasped in horror. A big salty lump got caught in his throat.

Nick was looking down at a deeply battered face, which appeared as though it went through a meat grinder. Both of Greg's eyes were bruised and nearly swollen shut. He had assorted cuts and abrasions all over his face. Blood clotted around a split lower lip. There was blood upon his hair, which came from some head trauma. Bruises and discoloration made by wire circled around Greg's neck in deep creases. Nick noticed bloody welts through ripped fabric in Greg's shirt, which extended from the arms to the upper torso. That was just the beginning. Nick did not see the welts on Greg's back or discover the broken ribs yet. Something else caught Nick's attention. It was a messy blood stain on Greg's chest. Burnt flesh surrounded a nasty entry wound. Some blood had clotted but new blood seeped out of the hole continuously. He'd seen it so many times before.

"That's a gunshot wound. Jim, we need that medic here NOW. Greg's been shot." Nick confirmed with a tense voice. He gently lowered Greg to the ground. He proceeded to apply first aid the best he could while Brass radioed for the medic.

Greg's lips trembled as he stared at Nick's angular, crew-cut, clean-shaven face highlighted by a short gash on his cheek from the pen knife. "I-I'm sorry. I d-didn't know it wah-w…" Greg stammered.

"This lil' scratch? Don't worry about it. I'll live." Nick offered with an uneasy grin, trying to be calm. He continued to apply pressure to the wound on Greg's chest.

Greg started to slip out of consciousness from the blood loss. It was a battle to stay awake. He was exhausted and wanted to sleep. Now that he was in good hands, he figured a nap wouldn't hurt. He couldn't have known that he was actually going into shock.

"No Greg, stay awake." Nick demanded. "Don't go to sleep. Keep talking."

Greg shuddered.

"Here," Nick said as he quickly took off his jacket and spread it across Greg's torso. "That should help."

Greg coughed and cringed in pain. He swallowed. Nick was pressing down too hard on the wound and it hurt.

"Sorry, I know it hurts but I gotta stop the bleeding." Nick said, as if reading Greg's mind.

"The medics are coming. ETA – one minute." Brass said to Nick. He gave orders to his unit, then knelt down to where Greg was and said, "You're gonna be fine, you hear me? You just hang on. We'll get you outta here real soon." He turned to Nick with a rather pessimistic look on his face and told him he would go meet the medics.

"Nick?" Greg droned. His voice was very weak.

"Yea?"

"Where's Grissom?"

"Griss was interrogating a suspect when we got a lead on your whereabouts. He's on his way over here." Nick answered. "It's a long story. I'll tell it to you when you're feeling better, maybe over a good steak and a few cold beers. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"They – they recorded the – when they – they…" Greg sobbed. He couldn't even say it.

"It's ok. We know. We recovered everything." Nick bit his lip. He hadn't seen the playback of the beatings yet and he didn't want to. Judging by the way Greg looked like now, he knew what was on that DVD. It was going to make him angry – so angry that he would want to put a fist through someone's head. "I'm sorry, Greg. I'm sorry that this happened to you."

"They s-said they were gonna kill me." Greg slurred. "I thought you – you weren't coming."

"No one is going to kill you." Nick said. "Honestly Greg, did you really think we weren't going to find you?"

"Grissom, is he – he…."

"He ain't mad at you, if that's what you're thinkin'." Nick interjected. "Why would you think that?"

Greg didn't want feel like getting into it. Right then, he just wanted to sleep.

"Stay with me, buddy. Come on." Nick gave Greg a nudge.

"Tired. So tired." Greg insisted.

"I know. But you gotta stay awake." Nick pressed.

Greg mumbled something incoherently and let out a soft moan, which sounded like a troubled sigh. It wasn't long before the paramedics stormed into the room with a stretcher and life-saving equipment. Brass and Grissom appeared shortly behind.

Greg could barely keep his eyes open. He felt several sets of hands touching him and the awkward sensation of needle pricks, bandage tape, oxygen tubes, neck brace, and prodding followed. He then felt hands and arms pulling him onto a stretcher. The voices around him were jumbled and overlapped each other.

There was only one voice that made sense above all the sounds and it said, "Greg, don't give up. Fight it. The team still needs you."

"Griss-som?" Greg murmured.

"I'm here." Grissom said as he walked along side of the stretcher.

"I won't let you down." Greg whispered in a hoarse voice.

"I know you won't." Grissom said.

Greg felt the stretcher move and people yelling instructions. Brass was probably clearing the pathway out. Grissom and Nick were probably jogging along side the stretcher as the paramedics wheeled him out to the ambulance. The paramedics must've given him a good dose of morphine, because the pain had dissolved tremendously. Greg never realized just how soft and comfortable a stretcher could be. Fatigue and exhaustion had a way with such persuasions.

"…won't let you down." Greg moaned before passing out.

A Week Later:

"I'm sorry about the…" Greg said making a gesture at his own cheek. He was careful not to accidentally pull off the IV tube inserted into the crook of his arm.

"You nearly gave me a new haircut." Nick joked. The cut from the pen knife was healing nicely, but a red scar was still visible. "It's nothing. Besides, makes me look kinda tough now."

"Speaking of looks, I must look like a horror." Greg managed to say. His jaw felt tight, which made talking a challenge.

Nick stared at Greg's bruised face and neck. It was brutal but at least the wounds were dressed and stitched. "Don't worry, you'll be back to your old pretty-boy self in no time."

Greg was on his way to recovery and the whole team was glad about that. There were moments when things did not look promising, but Greg pulled through.

"Thanks for saving my life." Greg said after a pause.

"Don't mention it. I'm just glad you're ok." Nick said.

"What about those men who took me? Wah-what happened to them?" Greg said trying to cover the fright in his voice. He might be on the road to physical recovery, but getting over something like being kidnapped and beaten to a pulp wasn't going to happen overnight. Nick detected the fear right away but he somehow owed Greg the truth.

"They confessed to everything. There's just too much evidence against them." Nick began. He thought of the video recording and the anguish boiled in his blood. He watched it once and that was all he could do. It was ten times worse than being buried alive. "They're going down. Gonna be locked up for a long time. We're going to make sure of that."

"Why did they want to kill me?" Greg swallowed with difficulty.

"The target was Grissom. You just got in the crossfire. They were the Hyatt brothers – Joe and Travis Hyatt along with an accomplice, Frankie Banes. You might remember 'em from a case we did a few years ago. Double homicide at the Golden Gulch. The third brother Munroe Hyatt was the witness who took us on a wild goose chase. Turned out, he was the murderer." Nick began.

"I remember. There was a shoot out with the police. Munroe was killed by Grissom." Greg added.

"Grissom felt terrible about killing him. Munroe had many chances to surrender, but he chose not to." Nick said. "So, his brothers and Banes had this thing against Grissom. They calculated this whole thing. They figured the best way to hurt Grissom was not to have him killed, but for him to watch one of us get killed. After what happened with Warrick, they've been keeping tabs on Grissom."

Greg remained silent.

"And so, you were the sacrificial lamb. You were at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any of us that they kidnapped." Nick said lightly.

"Unlucky me." Greg groaned.

"Those men won't hurt you anymore. I'll make sure of that. I think a conspiracy to do harm, kidnapping, and an attempted murder of a CSI along with multiple other charges, should wind those fellas up pretty good. Grissom and Brass are working on a maximum sentence. You don't know how creative Brass could be when he's slapping charges on scumbags." Nick said with a laugh.

Greg smiled for the first time, in a long time. It was true. Brass was a good cop and can cause one heck of a stir when enough fire was lit under him. Greg has seen Brass in action. The man could really slap all sorts of charges on convicts. Obstruction of justice was his favorite one. It followed a slew of others. Brass had a photographic memory and he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Steaks 'n beer." Greg wheezed. "You promised." He grinned weakly.

"Of course. As soon as you get outta this place." Nick chuckled. "Appetite's comin' back to you, huh? Good sign."

Nick spent the rest of that afternoon by Greg's side. It was his day off, but he didn't care. The mental wounds are the hardest to heal and Greg was going to need a friend. Nick knew because he's been through it. He wasn't going to let Greg slip into the darkness. Greg was saved and saved he shall be.

End

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Please write a review if you get a chance.