Summary: What would have happened if Greg hadn't been quite so lucky when stumbling into the crime scene in "Viva Las Vegas"?

Author's Note: This was a quick story I hammered out while avoiding studying for finals. I'll be posting the rest in the next few days. It's rather gratuitous, but...I'm ok with that :-) All reviews are appreciated, if you feel so inclined.

Dedicated to the only person I know who would write me my very own whumping fic.

"Go around the back, Bobby," Brass ordered the second officer on the scene, stepping across the doorway with his gun held straight forward.

The officer nodded, heading around the side of the house. Brass continued into the foyer of the home. Grissom followed closely behind, his gun, which he didn't often carry, drawn at his side. Both noticed the silence within the house, the only sounds the echoing of their own feet on the wooden floor. The house was clean and ordered, to the point where even the floorboards looked recently polished.

"You got this address off a pill bottle?" the detective asked Grissom.

"Herpes," the entomologist announced matter-of-factly, distracted by the scene they had just entered. He wasn't as used to these situations as Brass was, considering the CSIs more often than not waited until a scene was clear to enter.


"There was a prescription for valacyclovin," Grissom explained, "I cross-referenced the
pharmacy logo."

The near-silence fell again, and Grissom began to doubt they would find the owner at home. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see a large mirror on the wall. He followed his own movements in it for a moment, as he continued to follow the carefully-moving detective further into the house.

As he turned towards Brass again, both men were startled by a clattering sound from the door frame. Brass turned, flipping his gun up towards the ceiling, but Grissom reacted purely on instinct. Barely thinking, he heard the shot before he saw the cause of the noise. The last thought he had before recognizing the figure slumping against the doorframe blood was that it had been quite awhile since he'd been to a crime scene with his gun at the ready. A chill came over him when he realized who his bullet had hit.

As his kit hit the smooth floor, Greg began to slide down towards the doorframe, his eyes locked on Grissom in shock. Grissom stared back with a similar disbelief, frozen in his spot as blood began to blossom on Greg's white shirt. The younger man's knees buckled and he hit the floor, landing awkwardly on his back. He tried to take a breath, and coughed.

"God, Sanders", Brass gasped, holstering his gun and brushing past Grissom towards the injured criminalist-in-training.

Grissom continued to stand rooted to the ground where he stood, unable to believe what had just transpired.

Greg stared dazedly up at Brass, who was now kneeling to press a hand against the wound on Greg's chest and staring back down worriedly. The detective pulled out his walkie with his free hand, murmuring to Greg to lay still.

"This is Detective Brass requesting immediate emergency assistance to 311 Sephill Road, officer down," he shouted harshly into the walkie, repeating his call as he watched the blood pool beneath his hand begin to soak more of Greg's shirt.


Both Grissom and Brass looked up to see the Bobby, the officer who had gone around the back of the house, standing above the three men. Clearly, he'd come around the front after hearing the gunshot.

Unlike Grissom however, Bobby's shock only lasted a moment. The well-trained officer quickly stripped off his jacket, and handed it to Brass.

Brass took his hand off the injury for a moment to replace it with the officer's jacket. The detective pressed harder on the jacket, hoping to still the wound flow, causing Greg's eyes to widen and he whimpered in pain.

Brass' call had finally broken Grissom from his shock, and he rushed forward to kneel by the young criminalist's head.

The first thing that he thought was that Greg had never looked younger. The former lab tech noticed his boss kneeling beside him, and his glassy eyes lazily floated over to meet the concerned blue eyes staring back down at him.

"Sor-sorry..." Greg choked, "late…."

He seemed to want to say more, but his words were cut off by a fit of choking, and Grissom felt something hard form in the pit of his stomach as blood flecked the young criminalist's lips.

"Don't worry about it, Greg," Grissom tried to soothe, but the words were awkward and clumsy. The entomologist had never been much for emotional situations, and the fear he felt for his young trainee had begun to overwhelm him.

And the reason for his injury…Grissom's eyes left Greg's for a moment as guilt washed over him.

He was pulled back to his CSI as he felt fingers clumsily brush his jacket. He looked back down at his charge to see Greg looking back at him fearfully, and put a hand to the younger man's forehead as it began to bead with sweat.

"Cold…" he wheezed around the blood in his mouth, and both older men noticed Greg beginning to shiver.

"I know…I know." Grissom brushed his hand through Greg's usually-wild hair without even thinking. It was a rather uncharacteristic move for Grissom, but he'd always had paternal feelings toward Greg, and those feelings had intensified when he'd agreed to let the labrat try working in the field. The childless man couldn't help but feel like one of his own was lying there, bleeding on the shiny wooden floor.

"Where the hell are those paramedics!" Brass hissed, continuing to hold the jacket over the wound, "It looks like it got him in the lung." Greg's dulling eyes moved to Brass, and began to slip shut.

"Come on kiddo, stay with us," Brass said loudly. The young criminalist opened his eyes a bit at that, but began to slide again.

Grissom knew how dangerous Greg's wound was. He tried not to think about whose gun the bullet had come from, and focused on the slipping man below him.

"Greg?" Grissom lightly slapped his face, "Come on Greg, you've gotta stay awake." Greg moaned, but managed to obey his supervisor.

"Hurts…" Greg forced out, between gasps for air. He arched his back slightly, and Brass and Grissom could see that his breaths were coming shallower by the second.

At that moment, the sound of sirens met their ears.