I shifted position for what felt like the thousandth time in an hour. The sheet beneath me, usually comfortingly smooth, felt as though it was irritating my skin. The twisted blankets pressed my body oppressively, and for a moment I imagined that I couldn't breathe, the air knocked out of me as I--dammit. I would *not* have a flashback. I hadn't even been injured, not really. Then again, perhaps a flashback to the explosion would be less unpleasant than the reenactments that had playing through my mind all night. Nick's comment; 'So I hear you think you're indestructible'. The remark itself didn't sting, but the memory of what had prompted it had my cheeks flushed, and I couldn't stop wincing. I *knew* better than to overstep my bounds like that. At the time, it had seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The only thing to do, in fact.

Much like another rash decision I'd made not long afterwards. Oh, yeah, I'd definitely rather think of the explosion. What was being flung to the floor along with Lord knows how much tainted evidence? I had tried to date my boss. I flipped onto my stomach, arms pillowed beneath my head. Stifling a groan, I tried to stop thinking about it. It wasn't that I regretted doing it--even I couldn't convince myself of that. I hadn't even had any expectations. Or so I'd believed. It wasn't as though I'd expected him to spin me around the lab in a waltz, effortlessly avoiding DNA samples and Greg, just because I strode up to the office, my only weapon my heart in my hand. I should have used a shotgun.

Perfect. I wasn't just an insomniac, but an insomniac having murderous fantasies. I'd had murderous thoughts about bosses before, of course, but they had been garden-variety jerks. It was times like these when I wished that I was on dayshift. I doubted I'd be lying awake at night having fantasies, murderous or otherwise, about Ecklie. I mumbled into my elbow, "He's a garden-variety jerk, which would make Grissom...what? A specialized jerk? Perhaps a lawn gnome, to maintain the botanical theme?"

I had just compared Grissom to a lawn gnome. It was time to get out of the house. I slid my legs out from under the covers, my feet against the chilled floor acting as a well-needed shock to my nervous system. Rather than bother finding another clean shirt, I left on the t-shirt I'd worn to bed, only slipping into jeans and shoes before heading out the door. The glare of the sun had my arm up over my face for an instant. My intention had been to go for a run, but I changed my mind on seeing my car sitting in the apartment's parking lot. I didn't know where I was going, though 'not CSI headquarters' seemed a good plan. I'd only gotten off work three hours ago anyway. 'Not Grissom's house' was another excellent choice. Seeing if Catherine around would be plausible, but she was on suspension, and probably wouldn't appreciate it right now. I wanted to talk to someone.

If Grissom were here now, he'd probably point out how few friends I had outside of work. "You need a life, Sara" I muttered mockingly under my breath. "Hello, pot. This is the kettle. You're black!" Hypocrite. It wasn't as though *he* were some social butterfly either, dominatrixes and dwarves aside. I'd sped up without realizing it; the engine revved, almost drowning out the grinding of my teeth. That man had probably caused more damage to my enamel than any number of chocolate bars ever could. I made a mental note to have my dentist send him my bill.

By some miracle, I found a parking spot almost immediately after pulling in. I jumped out my car and made my way inside. The desk clerk looked up at me inquiringly. "I'm here to see Greg Sanders, please."

Fifteen minute later, I poked my head into his room. "I have to say you look better than the last time I saw you." I grinned. Seeing as how the last time I'd seen him, he was being wheeled into an ambulance, this wasn't saying much, but he did look better than I'd expected. He was sitting up, grimacing at something on his tray that I'd hesitate to call food.

"Sara!" He looked genuinely pleased to see me, which was more than I could say for *some* people. "What are you doing here?" He motioned to a chair at the side of the room.

I pulled it towards the bed and sat gingerly. "Oh, I came for the food." I could feel my mood lightening already. "How are they treating you? Met any cute nurses yet?"

"Not as cute as you."

I rolled my eyes. "Right, Greg. So who else from the lab has come to see you? Or am I your only fan?" The mild flirtation was something of a relief. There wasn't any tension between us--I knew that he'd never been seriously interested in me, and he hadn't expected anything either. I was not going to compare our rapport with that which I had with another co-worker, where every interaction was rife with hidden meanings and subtext. It would be even worse now. If I said 'Good morning, Grissom', he'd probably read that as 'Good morning, Grissom--I'd like to jump you in the breakroom.' Stopping that train of thought right there.

"Nick, of course." He hesitated. "And Catherine."

I searched his face for some sign of what he was feeling towards the woman who had inadvertantly put him in the hospital. Finding nothing obvious, I ventured, "She told you--" He nodded, and I shifted in my chair. Awkward now, I twisted my hands together in my lap. He didn't seem to bear any ill-will towards Catherine, but the topic couldn't be a comfortable one.

He sensed my discomfort--not that it took much intuition on his part. "You were hurt too--you're back on the job, I take it?"

"Uh, yeah. It wasn't really anything--just a cut."

"Sara--Nick told me about what you did at the crime scene." He spoke hurriedly, then flinched, as though expecting that I'd snap at him.

I blinked, then muttered, "Yeah--not my smartest move."

He seemed encouraged by my wry smile. "That doesn't sound like something you'd do, Sara."

What was he getting at? "We all do things we never thought we would sometimes, Greg." I could hear myself starting to sound like a world-weary, condescending advisor, and tried to soften it. "I'm all right. Trust me. It was a lapse--too much adrenaline." My shoe scraped slowly across the floor.

He didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Because--people are worried about you."

I was hit then with an irrational wave of certainty. "Who?" My voice flattened, lips tightening.

"Nick--I told you, he was the one who--who did you think was asking about you?"

My bubble burst, and I shook my head, "Nobody. It doesn't matter." It didn't surprise me, now that I thought about it, that Nick would be concerned about me--or that he'd mention it to Greg. It galled, though, that people were talking about me--saying 'poor Sara' and acting as though I was the only one who'd ever acted irrationally on a case. The only one who never did that was everyone's favourite entomologist. He'd only get too involved if it were a murdered centipede, I thought mutinously--and rather unfairly, I admitted to myself.

"Nick thinks that you're still upset because of Hank." Greg's words cut through my self-pitying reverie, and my head snapped up as though on a marionette string.

"Nick is an idiot."

He didn't seem fazed by my harsh tone and words. "I know. I mean--not that he's an idiot, because he's not. But I know that he's wrong about this."

"Oh, yeah?"

He didn't smirk at me, which won him points if nothing else did. "Yeah." Why was he telling me this? I had no desire to discuss my love life, or lack thereof, with anyone, let alone him. Still he pressed--"You were mad, when you found out what was going on. But you weren't depressed, not really. You were upset because you'd been betrayed, not because you'd lost him."

I sighed. "You sound like you're interviewing a subject, Greg. Is there a point to this?" He looked pleased for no reason that I could fathom.

"Hear me out. You can hit me as soon as I've been discharged, but--." He sighed. "I know what's going on. I can see it when you look at--" I fixed him with my best frigid glare. "I won't say his name."

I stared at him, deliberately blank.

"Something happened with you and him, didn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not seeing anyone." Well, that part at least was true.

He had to keep pressing. "I'm not talking about someone you're dating; you know what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't."

"Well--if you ever want to talk to someone about him," he fumbled, beginning to lose his confidence. I couldn't take it anymore.

"There's no 'he'," I gritted. "And if there were, it wouldn't matter what I--" Christ. Where had that come from? I just couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut anymore. I was used to holding everything back, only breaking down when it wasn't me. When it wasn't anyone I knew. With them, with the victims, I could lose control. I didn't want to lose control like this.

"I know," he said again. "It's all right."

"Thank you, Greg." I could barely get the words out above a whisper; I was so scared that once I started to talk, I'd never stop. But we sat there in companionable silence for awhile longer, and he didn't press for any more details. I didn't know if that made it better or worse