Title: Say a Prayer for Seven Bullets

Author: Spike Speigel

E-mail: PG-13

Classification: Grissom/Sara

Disclaimer: As usual, these characters don't belong to me. Just taking them for a joyride. Also, don't blame me for the absurdity of this story. Blame Garth Ennis for putting this idea into my craw. It's all his fault. Really.

Spoilers: Nothing substantial.

Summary: Grissom and Sara get embroiled in a case that seems to defy logic.

Status: Finished

My heart's racing in my chest, pounding to the point that my mind's starting to conjure images of that alien bursting out of that guy's chest in that one movie one moment, the next it has a top hat and it's singing "Hello my baby, hello my darling!" It's at this point I realize I'm mixing up movies again. Times like this, I wonder if I have ADD. Unfortunately, I don't get a chance to ponder the question when a bullet whizzes past my head, my mind snapping out of it's segue.

The world comes back into focus, my breath ragged and my legs burning. I can feel the revolver in my hand, and it crosses my mind. Did I identify myself as a police officer before I started running after this guy? Another gunshot and I flinch, my legs almost tangling underneath me but I'm somehow able to stay on my feet. Definitely ADD. There's no doubt about it.

My arm flies from my side as my brain finally decides to do something useful, ordering my trigger finger to squeeze. Once, twice, three times. The perp's still running. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn even if I tried. My forearm's killing me from the kickback of the double action Smith & Wesson Model 64. They say it's just like the Model 10, its complement. Whoever they are apparently lied. My Model 10 never made me wince like I'd just been kicked in the gut by an annoyed donkey.

I open fire once more, the perp turning the corner, most likely ready to take a shot at me as soon as I follow. Probably blow my damn head off. However, above the sound of my haggard breathing, I hear profanity in a foreign tongue. Sounds like Spanish, but I'm not sure. It's all I can do to keep my lungs full and my legs pumping. So much so that I don't realize I've run well past the corner without even checking to see if it's safe to. Because if I did, I would have seen that it was a dead end, the assailant having nowhere to go. I could have waited him out until he ran out of ammo. I could have waited for him to come back around the corner and have the upper hand position wise. But, like I said before, I apparently have ADD.

Instead, I fly around the corner, wheezing worse than my car on a cold morning. I come face to face with him, fear and hatred in his eyes as he holds the gun up to me. My instincts take over, my arm raising the revolver. I don't hesitate as I pull the trigger. The hammer comes down on the chamber with a resounding click. Empty. Of course it's empty. Why wouldn't it be? The fear leaves the man's eyes, now replaced with confidence and arrogance as he pulls the trigger.

Guess I should introduce myself at this point seeing as how I'm about to get my brains blown out the back of my head. My name is Joe Tool. I'm the unluckiest cop in the world.

"Sara, could you come over here for a second?"

I'm looking at the CSIs over Captain Brass' shoulder, the older man calling the pretty one over. If I were anyone else, I'd be given a pat on the back for a job well done and making my way back to the precinct. But, that's for a normal person. For Joe Tool…

"Detective? Am I boring you? I asked you a question."

I smile apologetically at the captain, my eyes moving away from the pretty brunette. Note to self: make appointment with doctor to look into possible ADD. "I'm sorry, Captain. What was the question?"

Brass lets out a frustrated sigh, his brow furrowed as he flips his notepad to the relevant page. "You and Detective Flass saw two suspects crawling out of the window of the house, Flass identified himself as a cop, and in so doing, the two suspects proceeded to run in opposite directions. At this point, Flass followed suspect A while you pursued suspect B into this alleyway. Correct?"

I nod. "Yeah. Sounds about right."

"C'mon, Brass. Can we move this along?"

The guy behind me talking near the point of insolence is my partner, David Flass. Hell of a partner. He's supercop in these parts. Any cop worth his badge knows Flass. Even though Flass became a cop after Dirty Harry hit the theatres, people still think that Clint stole the idea from Flass. Tell the truth, if Flass wasn't my partner, I'd probably be dead right about now.

"You got somewhere you need to be, Flass? Because I've got a questionable shooting here."

Flass flicks the toothpick from between his teeth, the splinter landing next to Brass' foot. "Hey, man. My shooting was clean. Is it my fault that Tool…"

Thankfully, Brass interrupts him. Make no mistake, Flass is a good partner. But he sure knows how to lay the insults on thick when he needs to. Which is pretty much every day, now that I think about it. "Yeah, yeah. Witnesses corroborate your story. But, we do have the issue of your partner."

I frown, realizing that I need to pee. Badly. "I'm sorry, Captain. But I told you what happened."

I can see Brass rolling his eyes as he turns his attention back to me. David's working on a fresh toothpick, letting out a disgusted grunt as he looks away from me. I don't pay it much mind. I'm used to it by now. "So, you pursued the suspect into this alleyway where he proceeded to fire upon you. Fearing for your life, you returned fire, ultimately putting the suspect down. Is that correct?"

"That's correct, Captain."

Brass turns around upon hearing the footsteps of the two CSIs walking up to him. I'm staring at the brunette again, checking her left hand. No ring. So far so good. What's not so good is the fact that she catches me staring. Thinking fast, I shoot her a grin, realizing that I'm probably grinning too much at this point and quickly lose it. Then, the strangest thing happens. She actually smiles back at me. Well, whaddya know. Might just end up being a good day after all.

"Gil, what you got?"

The bearded CSI speaks, his eyes locked on me as he speaks. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. Maybe he's looking at me the same way I'm looking at his coworker. Makes sense he'd think I'm gay. After all, I am Joe Tool.

"Sara and I have accounted for all the shots fired here…"

I sigh, relieved that I'm gonna get a clean shoot. "Great. So, we can get going then?"

The man grins at me, his eyebrow raised. "Not exactly. Like I was saying, we've accounted for all the shots. That is, all but one. And given the fact that our John Doe was carrying a 9 millimeter, the mystery bullet is yours, Detective Tool." I furrow my brow, not entirely sure what the CSI is getting at. "Detective, can you answer a question for me?"

"I'll try."

"Your gun's standard issue, correct?" I nod. "Six shots." I nod once more. "So, can you explain to me the fact that you felled your suspect with a seventh bullet?"

"Wh…what?"

The CSI looks absolutely ecstatic while his partner just smirks at him. Brass turns back to me, a perplexed look on his face. Flass, on the other hand, manages to maintain the status quo of our relationship.

"Tool, you motherbeeper! How the beep do you get seven motherbeeping shots from a beeping six-shooter?"

Just for the record, I added those beeps. Don't believe in profanity. Personally, it's just rude, if you ask me.

"You didn't reload?"

"No, I didn't have time to reload. If I did, it'd be me lying in that alley instead of…"

The older CSI, Grissom, finishes my sentence. "CODIS lists him as Jorge Lopez."

I'm in an interrogation room, Brass sitting across from me, Grissom leaning against the wall behind Brass. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. And I still have to pee. "I'm telling you for the hundredth time, I don't know where that seventh shot came from."

Brass leans in, his palms flat on the marble tabletop, his voice somber. "Well, we'd ask your pal Jorge, but that seventh bullet kinda put him out of commission. And, seeing as how you were the only other person in that alley, you have to know where it came from. After all, this isn't Dallas and you're not Oswald. Because if you were, then maybe I'd buy this magic bullet. But since you're not…"

I groan, my face falling into the palms of my hands. I don't realize I still have my glasses on until I hear a faint crack. I pull my hands away, taking my glasses off to inspect them. The hinge on the right's cracked, hanging on for dear life. I sigh as I put the glasses back on, hoping that they'll remain there even though I'm certain they won't.

"I don't know what to tell you, Captain. Maybe the CSIs messed up. But I did not fire seven shots in that alley. That is the honest to God's truth."

Grissom smiles that smug smile I've started to dread, as though he thinks he's figured me out just by looking at me. Too smart for his own good, if you ask me. "If there's a mistake, Detective, we didn't make it. My CSIs do not make mistakes." Smart and arrogant. No way he's got a woman waiting for him at home. She'd have slit her wrists after a week, if that.

I turn to Brass, my voice almost pleading. "Captain, I didn't do anything wrong. Why am I being treated like I did?"

Brass shakes his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright. I'm gonna step out and get something to drink. Maybe you'll get your story straight by the time I get back." He jerks his head toward the door, Grissom getting the hint. When both men leave the room, I groan once more as my head falls onto the table. It's then I hear another sharp crack, followed by the sound of metal hitting the ground. I've forgotten my glasses once more. And I still need to pee.

I don't know how long I've been in this room left to my devices, my forehead still resting on the cold marble. Even when I hear the door open, I don't make a move for fear that my glasses will fall off my face, what with only one handle left on the frames. It isn't until I hear the voice that belongs to the person that just entered the room that I react.

"Thought you might be thirsty." My head shoots up from the table, my glasses almost falling off my face in the process. I smile pleasantly upon seeing Sara (I think that's what Grissom called her). She places a cup of water on the table as she pulls the chair out from under it, sitting across from me. "Does that hurt?"

"Does what…?" Sara points to my forehead, my fingers gently touching the area pointed out. I can feel the disfigurement, most likely a result of pressing my forehead against the table for so long. Probably looks like a bullseye, directing more bad luck my way no doubt. "Oh, no. Not really." Sara nods, a small smile on her face. I grab the plastic cup from the table, doing my best not to drink the whole thing in one gulp. I can feel my throat expand as the cool liquid hits the back of it. I cough at the sensation, smiling at Sara as I put the cup back down. "So, any word on when I can get out of here?"

She shakes her head slowly, an apologetic smile now gracing her lips. And very full ones at that. Don't stare. Don't stare. Don't stare. Don't… "Sorry."

I wave my hand, a meek smile on my face. "It's okay. My fault I'm here." She looks at me with a puzzled look. Obviously she doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Do you believe in luck?"

"No, not really. I'd like to think we make our own luck."

"Well, if that's the case, the only luck I make is the bad kind."

"Now, you can't really believe that. Can you?"

I nod my head slowly, partly to reinforce the statement, partly to prevent my glasses from falling off my face. "I'm the cop that when raiding a supposed gentleman's club, I slipped in something I'd rather not recount, firing a shot into a lady employee's derriere. I'm the cop that can't drive anymore because I left the keys in the car and had it stolen while me and my partner went to get lunch. I'm the cop that helped an old lady pack up her car with the boxes she was moving, only to find out later she was one of the larger distributors of marijuana on the west coast. And, I'm the cop that somehow fired seven bullets out of my Smith & Wesson Model 64, even though I don't remember doing so. So yeah, I believe in bad luck. I mean, can you blame me?"

I know what comes next. She's going to erupt in laughter, unable to stop for at least a good four minutes, maybe five. She might even tear up, if I'm reading her right. Most women do when they find out about me. But, she does the strangest thing. First time I've ever had this happen to me.

She takes my hand in hers and says, "I'm sorry."

Needless to say, my heart's racing once more, but in a good way. "Um, thanks." She chuckles softly, squeezing my hand before letting it go. I find I miss it the moment she pulls it away. She stands from the chair, looking at me kindly.

"Well, I should get back. Brass and Grissom will be back any moment."

One final smile and she turns toward the door. I don't know why I do what I do next. Maybe it's the fact that I like her. Maybe it's the fact that she's the first woman to not laugh at me once I tell them about my bad luck. Maybe it's a combination of the two. Whatever it is, I realize I can't just have her walk out of this room. "Hey, Sara?" She turns back to me, her head tilted slightly at an angle. "Would you like to go out for a drink sometime? I mean, if I'm not in prison, that is."

She smiles somewhat awkwardly, readying her words. She doesn't have to bother. I know that look anywhere. "I'm sorry. You seem like a nice guy and all, but I'm not really looking for a relationship right now."

"Who said anything about a relationship? I'm just asking if you want to have a drink with me. That's all. Or, is my bad luck playing a role in your decision?"

My reward for that question is a smirk as she contemplates it. After a moment, she speaks, her voice cheerful. "Okay. Drinks it is." We share a smile as I start to think that my luck's starting to change. That's when we hear the knock against the glass. We both turn toward the door to see Grissom standing at the door, a less than pleasant look on his face. "Sorry, I gotta…"

I nod, the smile still on my face. "I understand. I'll call you later if I get out of here."

She smiles before leaving the room. "Okay."

Luckily, the wall housing the door is made entirely of glass, so I can see Sara and Grissom as they walk a bit before stopping in the middle of the hallway. I tilt my head toward the table while my eyes dart to the right, locked on the two CSIs. I've probably gotten her in trouble if I've read Grissom accurately.

And, sure enough, what starts as a polite conversation begins to escalate into something more. I perk up my ears, straining to hear the conversation. I'm able to pick up bits and pieces as their voices increase in volume.

"What are you…with him?"

"…just brought him…of water."

"Seems like you two…rather friendly…there." I can hear his tone changing, becoming more judgmental maybe?

"It's nothing. I was just…" Seems like I'm not the only one picking up on Grissom's change in mood, Sara attempting to defuse the situation. Wonder if he heard our conversation? Is it possible that those two are…? I shake my head, chuckling softly. There's no way those two could be a couple. She's way too normal for that egomaniac.

"…didn't' look like 'nothing'…where I'm standing."

Sara seems perturbed by Grissom's response, her tone defensive. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know. What am I doing?" He matches her, their voices increasing in intensity. If I didn't know better, I'd guess they're at the cusp of an argument. A lover's quarrel, I think jokingly.

"Look, nothing happened, okay?" Sara's hands are now waving about frantically as she's trying to explain herself. Then, they just stop, Sara's mood changing. "Why am I even explaining myself to you anyway? It's not like you care." They can't be together. No way.

"Well, I'm sorry, Sara. But I didn't get my decoder ring in the mail to decipher all these mixed messages you keep throwing in my direction."

"Mixed messages?" If this isn't an argument, then I just haven't been doing it right all these years. Their voices have reached the point that they're beginning to draw a crowd.

"You tell me you came to Vegas because of me, but then you're either flirting with Greg or..or making a date with a detective that's sitting in the interrogation room." One guess as to whom that crack was directed to.

"You think I'm sending mixed messages? What about you and your 'since I met you' or your 'I don't know what to do about this' or your 'I'm not worried, I'm concerned'!" Definitely an argument. "If anything, you're the one sending mixed messages."

"I'm…I'm sending mixed messages? Well, what am I supposed to do when you're flirting with me one moment and then flirting with Greg the next?" I'm starting to wonder if anyone in the hallway's going to break this up, but they just stand and watch. Some even have smiles on their faces. The redhead's is practically a grin at this point. "What makes me different than Greg, or Hank, or even Detective Tool?" Well, glad to know that we were flirting. For a second there, I thought she just brought me a glass of water.

"You don't know the difference?"

"No, I really don't. Like I said, missed out on the decoder ring."

Sara's face is slight shade of vermilion at this point, frustration and anger evident in her tone. "You wanna know the difference? Do you really want to know?"

"Please. For future reference. What makes your flirtations directed toward me different than those directed toward Detective Tool?"

"Because I'm in love with you, you ass!" Sara's hands immediately rush to her mouth, covering it as though she's just said something she wasn't supposed to. She's turned a few shades redder, but I'm not exactly sure why. Grissom's voice is civil once more, making it difficult to hear him.

"What…you say?"

Sara looks at Grissom, remaining silent as her hands fall away from her mouth. After a moment of silence that's mingled with the collective murmurings of the on-lookers, she speaks. "I said…love you." Her tone becomes more confident as she repeats herself. "I'm in love with you."

I already know what's coming. I can see it in their faces. My head falls back onto the cold marble table with a resounding thud, followed by clapping interspersed with whistling and cheering. No doubt, they're locked in a kiss that'd put Rhett and Scarlett to shame.

Hello. My name is Joe Tool. I'm still the unluckiest cop in the world.

With no logical explanation for the seventh bullet, I'm eventually released from interrogation and given a clean shoot. Grissom chalks it up to happenstance, but I doubt he's thinking clearly right about now. After all, he just robbed me of a date with Sara. No matter. I'm in the clear. That's something, at least.

And now, here I am. Back to where this all started. Well, not exactly. I'm in front of the building that's next to the alleyway, pressing the buzzer for apartment 1C. For a moment, I'm worried that there won't be an answer, but my worries are for naught when the gated door swings open. "Detective."

I nod at the man as he steps aside, welcoming me into the building. I close the metal door behind me before walking down the hallway to the man's apartment. "So, you okay Captain?"

The man chuckles softly as we walk into his apartment. "I told you son. Call me Mike. Haven't been called Captain in over ten years."

"Sorry, sir. Force of habit." He directs me to sit down which I do without hesitation. He's about to pour me a drink from the tumbler, but I politely decline. If I do accept his brandy, I probably won't stop until I'm good and drunk. Which I plan on doing once I get back to my place, mind you. "So, I take it the cops bought your story?"

Captain Michael Talbot, retired, nods his head, taking a gulp of brandy from his glass before sitting down. "Yep. Once they saw I was a cop, they had no problem believing me."

"Well, that's good to hear, sir." Talbot shoots me a look and I grin. "Mike."

"That's better." The room's quiet for a moment before Talbot decides to speak once more. "So, everything's okay with you? You get a clean shoot?"

I nod my head. "Eventually. They still can't account for the seventh bullet. But, since there's nothing indicating foul play, I got a walk."

Talbot smiles slightly before it disappears, a frown now on his face. He reaches to the side of his armchair, pulling out a mahogany box from underneath. He places it on the coffee table that sits between us, pushing it toward me. "I want you to have this."

I shake my head, waving my hand. "I couldn't…"

"No, Joe. I want you to have this. If it wasn't for you, I'd be lying in a pool of my own blood right about now." I'm not sure how to respond to that, instead remaining silent. Talbot looks me over, a slight nod, before opening the box, revealing the S&W Model 64 within. "I don't need it anymore. I still can't believe what I was about to do before you came barreling past my window."

And, what exactly was Captain Talbot about to do, you might be asking yourself? Funny story, that. Turns out that upon hearing the shootout through his window, Talbot was distracted to the point that the gun that was pointed at his temple shifted just enough to avoid his head, the bullet instead flying through the open window, ricocheting off the dumpster in the alleyway, before hitting Jorge Lopez dead in his chest. All while I looked on, dumbstruck.

See, told you it was a funny story. Not in a ha-ha sense, but funny nonetheless. Turns out Captain Talbot was ready to depart this miserable world when I came barging in, unintentionally preventing a suicide in the process. Like I said, funny story.

However, since Talbot didn't want to answer questions about why he discharged a weapon in the confines of his apartment, I covered for him, hoping that the seventh bullet wouldn't be discovered. But, of course, it did. Because, let's be serious, I'm Joe Tool. But, it all turned out okay in the end. Even though I didn't get the girl, everything worked out for the better.

I reach over to the box, closing the lid. "I can't take this, Mike. I wouldn't feel right. After all, what's a cop without his service weapon?"

Talbot grins slightly, knocking back another gulp of brandy. "Got a point." He takes the box from the coffee table, placing it back underneath the armchair, before returning his attention to me. "Still, I never got the chance to thank you."

"It's okay. I know how it goes." I reach into my coat pocket, pulling out my card and hand it to him. "If you ever need to talk, about anything, just give me a call. Okay?"

"Okay."

I rise from the couch, smoothing out my coat. "Well, I'm gonna take off. It's been a long day."

Talbot nods, the card still between his thumb and forefinger. "Detective."

With that, I'm out the door, making my way back to the car. I'm starting to go back through the events of today when I realize that I might not be that unlucky. After all, if I were, Talbot's bullet would have hit me instead of Jorge. Worse still, it would have hit its intended target, and Captain Talbot might not be alive right now.

Maybe not that unlucky.

Then again, I did lose a date with Sara to that smug CSI. I don't realize I'm speaking until I hear the word hit the air. "Motherfucker."

Well, whaddya know? That actually felt good. Still, I guess it's all for the best that things didn't happen between me and Sara. Doubt she would have stuck around long once she found out I only have one testicle.

My name is Joe Tool. I'm the unluckiest cop in the world. But now, I'm also going to be known as the cop that needed a seventh bullet and actually got it. Not that many people can say that. No sir, not that many indeed.

Fin