A/N: I had posted this last year, but due to chapter 4 it was pulled from the website. I posted the story in it's entirety on freedom of speech fanfiction, but would like to archive it here for simplicity. The middle has been revised to ensure it's fanfiction appropriate; however the story line is the same for those of you who read the fic over there.

While watching Bloodlines, I thought it strange that Sara did not want to interview the rape victim, and then Grissom came up and asked her how many vacation days she had left, and then, obviously, the drinking and driving thing…got me thinking… Now I know this is not what TPTB had in mind…I know she was struggling with her past at this point and was dealing with Grissom's rejection, but why did she spiral downward so quickly? Here's what I think could happened between No More Bets and Bloodlines that finally pushed her over the edge.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, I merely hi-jacked CSI for a short period of time.

A Turning Point

Sara yawned as she walked into trace, coffee in hand. "Are the results back yet?" Getting down to business, she had little patience for Hodges even when she was well rested.

"The substance you found on the victim's face was chalk," he seemed to sense her impatience, giving her the information without his usual flare.

"Chalk, like school teacher's chalk?" She hadn't expected that answer when she collected the white powdery substance.

The man in front of her shook his head, and handed her the results, "No, like rock climbing or gymnast chalk."

Sara grabbed the print out and walked out without a backward glance.

"Thank so much for your hard work Hodges. Oh no, it was my pleasure, anything I can do to help you Sara…" he continued to talk to himself as he set out on his next task.

--/--

Catching up with Greg in the hallway, Sara handed off the results, "Gymnast chalk," she announced. He was still not officially in the field until he found a suitable replacement for the lab, but their case needed all hands on deck, and it was refreshing to Sara to work with the young lab rat.

He studied the paper, "Was she a gymnast?"

"No, but it could be any type of sports chalk," she explained while they sat down in the lay out room. The evidence was in white boxes stacked in the back of the room.

Greg nodded, "What other sports use chalk? Rock climbing, billiards—"

Sara cut him off, "Billiards is not a sport. Greg we've been over this, chess is not a sport, tic tac toe is not a sport—"

He smacked her lightly on the arm, "Shh, I know this, but a lot hardcore pool players use chalk on the planted hand to allow the cue to slid easier." He explained acting out the motion.

"Oh Greg, I don't even want to know what you are talking about," Nick spoke having heard the last portion of his statement, and seeing what he interpreted as an obscene gesture. "And in front of a lady too."

Sara laughed despite her fatigue, but quickly followed up with another yawn.

"When's the last time you slept Sara?" Nick asked seeing the circles under her eyes; she looked exhausted even for her.

"Don't know, maybe three days," she replied in resignation.

Nick nodded and looked at the stack of evidence, realizing what case they were working on, and knowing why Sara hadn't slept, "The serial rapist?"

Greg nodded as Sara fell silent, "Seven victims in fourteen nights. All of them died of suffocation, but not before they were brutally raped."

She listened to the simplified version of events, and pictured the actual crime in her head. Shivering slightly, she stood, and walked over to the boxes. The answer had to be in the evidence. They had a DNA sample, but nothing to compare it to, and no leads.

'No, no please don't. Get off me!' The victim's screams haunted her. She felt she was no closer to solving the case, and then her mind flashed back to Suzanna Kirkwood. Guilt welled up inside her. Even when she caught the person, she was helpless to save the victims.

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Sara?" Greg stepped back, his face full of concern.

Flashing an apologetic smile his way, she grabbed a box, "Let's go over the evidence and notes again, we're missing something."

The younger CSI put a hand on the box, stopping her in her tracks, "Sara, go lay down in the break room. I'll come wake you up if I find anything."

She shook her head, opening her mouth to protest, but could not stifle a yawn that took over.

"Please Sara, you'll be more observant after a few hours." He pleaded taking the box away from her and leading her to the break room.

She didn't have the strength to protest, and sat heavily on the black sofa. Her eyes were almost closed before she had even lain down. Greg backed out of the room, turning off the light, and closing the door. He settled down at a desk that was in eye shot so he could stop anyone from entering.

--/--

'4. Just write it down.' Sara thought to herself while she stood by Suzanna. Her reaction was ID enough for her.

Suddenly, Kelly James burst through the observation glass, and tackled Sara. They were in an alley way, and he was groping her, his hand covering her mouth and nose. She couldn't breath.

The weight shifted and she took a breath of much needed air. The smell of iron was a tangible being that she swore she could touch. Getting up, she looked around for her attacker, but saw her mother standing in the kitchen. Her face was bruised, and she was shaking. Sara tried to find the source of her fear; never seeing the hand coming at her until she was flat on her back again. Her jaw felt broken, and her dad was towering over her. He knelt down. "No!" She could shout but she couldn't move. The alcohol on his breath wafted over her. His scowl turned to one of pure shock, and he dropped to the ground next to her revealing her mother standing over her with a bloody knife. Sara stood to run; she could hear her father crying in pain while her mom stabbed him over and over again.

She sprinted through the halls of her house, and they morphed into the halls of the lab. She was being chased, by her attacker again. 'Grissom,' she thought frantically, and ran to his office door. Turning the handle, it was locked. She moved to the glass to get his attention. He was sitting next to Debbie Marlin, comforting her, helping her.

Before she could shout at him, to curse at him for being there for an image of her, but never her, she was tackled to the ground again. Sara screamed as she fought for her life.

She opened her eyes and saw Greg, shaking her, trying to wake her from her nightmare. Sara tried to back away from him, still not able to tell the difference between reality and the dream. Tears had fallen down her face, but she was either not aware, or didn't care.

Greg had no idea what to do. He wanted to help her, but the raw terror he saw in her eyes scared him to the core. "Sara, should I get Grissom?"

Finally hearing his words, she shook her head, "Please no. It was just a dream. I just need a minute, ok?"

He nodded, as much as he wanted to comfort her, he wanted even more to never see that look in her eyes again. Leaving the room, he closed the door part way, and guarded it with his body, daring anyone to enter.

Sara rubbed her eyes, trying to push the images from her head. She could still feel her attacker's hand covering her mouth. A sudden realization hit her, and she stood, quickly making her way to the door. She needed to find Greg.

His worried face met hers.

"His hand." She stated and started walking briskly to the layout room, leaving a confused Greg in her wake.

"What?" He asked and followed her.

She was already flipping through photos, "His hand, he uses his hand to cover their nose and mouth, and suffocates them."

Taking a stack of crime scene photos of the victims, he helped her look for any evidence that supported her hypothesis.

She threw her photos on the table in frustration. Had they had that piece of information when they found and processed the bodies they would have had the right picture. The angles were all wrong to determine if the bruising around the mouth was consistent with a hand, and all of the victims had been released to their grieving families.

Greg set his down in resignation as well. "Nothing. Do you think the chalk was on his hand and transferred to her face?"

"Not likely, evidence suggests he wears gloves," she explained sitting down as if the life was suddenly sucked out of her.

"But we only found the chalk on the last victim, maybe he didn't have time for gloves with her?" Greg wondered out loud.

A spark of hope flickered in the brunette's eyes, "We haven't processed her personal items yet. Maybe we'll find a print."

They each took an evidence box and got to work with a renewed energy.

--/--

Forty-five minutes later, Sara lifted the tape off a button from the victim's shirt in triumph. She studied the tape, with a satisfied smile, "Gotch' ya." She whispered.

"A print?" Greg asked putting down his magnified glass.

"It's a partial, but it may be enough," she answered. They both walked quickly to the computer, and scanned the print. "This may take a while. Want to go make some coffee?"

They both stood, but the computer beeped loudly. Surprised, they sat back down. "It can't be." She uttered aloud in disbelief.

"It would explain why it found a match so quickly," Greg conceded.

TBC…