A/N: Well, it's been a while! I've been sitting on several half-started stories for months, so I figured it was high time to go ahead and publish one. I feel like there are so many things that can be done with where Sara and Grissom's relationship is at now, so I suppose this is my take!
Please leave a review and tell me what you think!
Sara Sidle was hoping for a quiet Tuesday night. She'd pulled a double, and her body was literally screaming for sleep by the time she walked through the front door to her townhouse. Hank was let out in the backyard instead of being walked, and breakfast, laundry and dishes were ignored so she could flop, face down, onto her mattress.
But the moment her head hit the pillow, sleep refused to come. She continued to lie there for the next five hours, the glowing digital numbers on the nightstand clock rolling by, hyper-sensitive to every noise swirling around outside. Dogs barked, horns honked, trains passed and by the time she heard the squeak of school bus wheels at the corner and the subsequent clamber of kids with backpacks running home for snack and homework and playtime, she huffed and pulled herself back out of bed, a total of about ten minutes of sleep clocked in. In two hours, walking back through the doors of the lab, her feet would be aching and her eyes twitching with tiredness, but that had become the new normal. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten a good night's sleep.
She put on an enormous pot of coffee, dragged herself into and out of the shower and checked her phone and e-mail, knowing it was fruitless. She realized she'd left Hank in the yard the entire time she'd been praying for sleep, and when she opened the door to let him back inside, he trotted right past her, clearly annoyed. He settled himself into the crate in the laundry room he never used instead of curling up on the couch and refused to come out, even after the clatter of dinner into his bowl Sara knew he heard. Add him to the list of living beings who refused to acknowledge her.
She dressed, didn't touch her curling hair or bother to put on any make-up. She downed two mugs of black coffee before pouring the rest into a travel mug and drove, in auto-pilot mode, back to the lab.
Nick and Greg were just turning out of the locker room as she headed in. They waved as she passed, their smiles not quite reaching her eyes. She saw Nick lean over to whisper something to Greg the second she was out of earshot. She sighed again. Even her two best friends were frustrated with her. Hell, she was frustrated with herself.
The coffee was still steaming, but she forced herself to drink it, the scalding liquid on her tongue strangely satisfying. She shrugged off her jacket and dropped her bag to the bottom of the locker. She was about to slam the door when she heard the chirp of her phone from her jacket pocket. She dug it out and found a message waiting for her. The call must have gone straight to voicemail, the horrible service she got in the lab.
"Hi. It's me," came her husband's voice. "Look, uh, I know it's been… it's been a rough couple of weeks. And I'm sorry we couldn't talk on our actual anniversary. But… I think we should talk. Give me a call when… whenever you want. I'm, uh, seven hours ahead of Vegas time. Okay, well, I'll speak with you soon. Bye, Sara."
Sara ended the call, feeling the stinging burn of tears as she squeezed her eyes shut. She felt sharp pains in her chest, like an invisible pair of hands was wrapped around her heart and squeezing at will.
It was so… formal. There wasn't a warm word or a term of endearment in sight. The thirty-second voicemail was the first time Sara had heard her husband's voice in a month. And that, more than anything, drained every last bit of effort she had left.
"Sara!"
Sara stiffened, fleetingly glad the tears hadn't made their way down her cheeks yet, and turned to see DB's lean frame outlined in the doorway.
"Ready for shift?" he asked, forcing his tone to be cheery. "I'm just about to hand out assignments."
"Yeah," she responded. "I'll be right there."
DB knocked his knuckles on the doorframe and winked at her before disappearing down the hall. Sara tucked her gun into her holster and clipped her badge to the pocket on her jeans.
Her hopes of having a quiet shift were shattered the moment she walked into the break room. It was loud and busy, a stack of papers a foot thick next to DB's cup of coffee and detectives jetting into and out of the room, relaying messages to Brass, who was engaged in conversation with Nick and Finn.
"Sara!"
Morgan called her name in a loud, laughing tone, Greg's smiling face visible over her shoulder. The both of them were fighting a giggle fit, and the hands gave Sara's heart a particularly painful squeeze. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she and Greg laughed like that.
"Settle a bet," Morgan said. "Would you date a guy whose drink of choice was a martini?"
Sara stared at the both of them.
"You're serious?"
"Dead," Morgan smiled. "C'mon. Tell the truth."
"I don't even like martinis," she said tonelessly. "I wouldn't date a guy with tastes more feminine than mine."
"Ha," Morgan emphasized, looking smug. "Ten bucks, Sanders, cough it up."
"Thanks a lot, Sara," Greg groaned, before turning back to Morgan. "I'm just saying, the strawberry ones are particularly tasty…"
Sara sighed and took the lone empty chair beside Nick.
"You look like you're having a terrible day."
"I couldn't sleep," she replied.
Nick raised an eyebrow and took a long, slow sip of coffee.
"You okay?" he asked.
She knew he tried to put some concern into the question, but he was getting tired of asking it. She didn't blame him for sounding uninterested.
"Fine."
"O-kay," Nick sighed.
He turned back to Brass, and Sara felt the third painful squeeze throb through her chest. She pushed back from the table and walked straight up to DB.
"Give me something to work on," she said dully. "Preferably out in the field… and alone."
DB's reaction looked concerned, but not surprised.
"Okay," he said lightly before rifling through his case files. He selected one and held it out for her, but as she reached out to take it from him, he moved it from her reach. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked.
"No."
"Okay," he shrugged, handing her the slip. "Just don't let it interfere with your work."
Sara packed her kit, grabbed her keys and headed out the door before she could run into anyone else who would remind her how different of a person she'd been acting lately. But she didn't need Nick's frustrated sigh or Greg's awkward small talk to remind her of this… funk… that she was in. Even the city seemed to be fighting against her, the bright lights and excited crowds and countless signs advertising an unforgettable night stark contrasts to her desire to crawl under blankets and never emerge.
Her scene was outside the Imperial Palace and Mitch was waiting for her when she pulled up. He tipped his hat at her as she slammed her door shut and greeted her with a quick smile and his usual briefing of the scene.
"She was found an hour ago by the maid coming on duty," he began, pointing Sara down an alley between the Imperial and the Flamingo.
The bright lights and babble of passing tourists faded into the distance as they walked further and further away from the strip, into the shadowy slums of the city. How appropriate.
Their vic was clothed in a simple dress, her dark hair obscuring her face, with no purse or other personal items in sight. Her body was half under the dumpster, like someone had tried shoving her under but ran out of time. Or was caught.
Sara crouched close to the sidewalk, looking for any blood, footprints or any evidence that would need to be taken care of before getting to the body.
"No underwear," Sara observed, shining her flashlight around the area. "Could be sexual assault gone wrong."
"Very wrong," Mitch added.
Sara clicked her flashlight off and rested her arm on her knee.
"This is a pretty heavily trafficked area," Sara said to him, gesturing behind them. "Parking lot for staff, the dumpster for trash runs. A lot of people come in and out those doors at any given time."
Mitch nodded.
"David will be able to tell for sure, but from the looks of it, she's been dead at least a few hours," Sara concluded.
"So how come nobody saw her until an hour ago?" Mitch asked.
"Exactly."
"I'm going to go ask some questions," Mitch said. "Manager's supposed to be down here any minute."
"I'll be here," Sara called, already turning back towards the body.
She pushed herself off the concrete, reaching over to her kit for a pair of gloves and a bindle.
"Now that's the best view I've seen all night," a voice said from behind her.
She straightened immediately, her free hand already fingering her gun as she turned.
"And I spend most of my time in the VIP room overlooking the strip," the man finished, grinning a wide smile of pearly-white, toothpaste-commercial-perfect teeth.
"Sara," Mitch said, reappearing behind the guy. "This is Dexter Carter, head of management at Imperial."
Dexter Carter, dressed to the nines in a suit and expensive-looking tie, wrinkled his nose like a child.
"Please call me Dex," he corrected. "Dexter is my great-grandfather's name."
"Right," Mitch said, catching Sara's eye. "Well, Dex, CSI Sidle will have a few questions for you. I'll be waiting at guest services when you're done."
Dex sighed, shaking his head dramatically and running a tanned hand through his hair.
"This is so tragic," he said, his eyes on the pair of legs sticking out from behind the dumpster.
"Yeah," Sara replied flatly, swapping the bindle for a DNA swab. "Very unfortunate."
She knew how this worked. Casino owners and hotel managers would be as cooperative and accommodating as can be, as long as the yellow tape comes down and things are back in business as soon as possible. They all have one thing and one thing only on their minds – money. And Sara wasn't in the mood for the bullshit tonight.
But when Dex looked at her, Sara was surprised to see he actually looked upset. He dropped his gaze.
"I apologize for my comment," he said softly. "My name wasn't the only thing I inherited from my great-grandfather. We both have a penchant for bluntness. And an appreciation for beauty."
Sara raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not trying to be suave," Dex said. "I mean that honestly. And I'm here to help. Whatever you need."
"Right now, I need to tell me what happened," Sara said. "What did you see?"
"I didn't see anything," Dex said softly. "My father owns this hotel. I'm in charge of management, which isn't as glamorous as it sounds. I liken it to being in air traffic control, I'm responsible for this entire hotel running smoothly. I was inside all night, taking care of one problem after another."
"Where were you – specifically – around six p.m. tonight?"
"In the kitchen, overseeing dinner preparation for a VIP," he replied. "Specifically – rack of lamb, tossed vegetables and twice-baked potatoes."
Sara gave a small smile.
"Afterwards, we had a staff briefing in conference room two, and then I was checking in with security until about eight o'clock," Dex finished.
Sara nodded.
"Okay," she said, inclined to believe him. "I'll still need a DNA sample from you. To eliminate you as a suspect."
"Of course."
Sara took her sample, sealed and labeled the envelope and turned back to face him.
"Look, Miss… Sidle," he began. "You can collect whatever you need. Stay as long as necessary. But if you're looking for someone who knows what goes on back here… you'll need someone else. I'm sorry."
"Do you have security cameras?"
"Inside," Dex answered regretfully. "Not out."
"Thank you, Mr. Carter—"
"Dex," he cut in.
"Dex," she corrected. "Mitch will be in touch if we need anything else from you."
She crouched down by the body, snapping on gloves and ready to get to work.
"D'you… do you have a first name, CSI Sidle?"
Sara paused, feeling his gaze sweep over her.
"Sara."
"Sara," he repeated, her name a smile on her lips. "I'll see you, Sara."