DISCLAIMER: I do not own, produce, or have any incorporation with CSI. I just like doing fan fiction. I'm not, however, terribly interested in the Sara and Grissom Love Tango, but I'm only doing this story for a friend. Enjoy!

Sara and Grissom: After the Blast

Chapter 1

"Sara, are you sure you're okay?" Nick asked, "I mean, I can drive you home, it's no problem."

Sara sighed, "Nick, that's really sweet, but I'm okay, honestly! See!" She twirled her bruised and bandaged body around to prove that all was well. She winced as a sharp needle of pain shot up her arm. She smiled at Nick. Nick smiled back at her in total disbelief, but Sara held her ground—she didn't want anyone's help.

"Alright then, take care of yourself," Nick said as he unlocked his SUV, "but you'll call me in case you do need help?"

"Yes."

Nick could hear the ring of falsity in her voice, but decided not to press her. Women could be stubborn creatures when they set their mind to it, and he wasn't one to press them. As Nick reversed out of the parking lot, Nick looked back at Sara and waved. Sara returned his salutations with her good arm.

After Nick had left, Sara looked around the parking lot making sure to scope anyone she knew, she didn't want any help. Thankfully, the parking lot was littered with anonymous faces and emergency personnel, so she began the painstaking sojourn to her car. Though she hadn't experienced the worst of the blast, her whole body felt like it had walked through an earthquake. Every sinewy muscle and bone felt raw and the radial pain in her arm was as persistent as a Bayou mosquito. All she wanted to do was go home, take some painkillers, probably have a malt whiskey, and lay her aching body to rest.

Finally she reached her car. She unlocked it and put the keys into the ignition. For a moment, she was actually afraid of switching it on, what if that blast wasn't just a coincidence? What if someone had set off that blast to target an individual and not just the whole C.S.I. lab? Her breathing came ragged and her heart beat raced. Putting bad guys away was all in the job of a C.S.I., but that didn't mean there weren't repercussions. The criminal always had revengeful loved ones or posse members who were just aching to do one for Pedro or Charlie or Johnnie or whoever the hell they were seeking redress for. It was never easy being an officer of the law.

"Cut it out, Sidle," she told herself, "nothing will happen. Stop it."

With the most deliberate care she could muster with shaky hands and an injured arm, Sara turned the key into the ignition. The car spurted to life. No boom, no pop, no backfiring. Letting a huge breath of relief, Sara wiped her dewy forehead and drove home.

She had to sit through an hour of traffic, not unfamiliar to Las Vegas, before getting to her apartment. She parked her car in her designated parking spot and walked through the double glass doors of her apartment complex. She didn't live in the swankiest building in the city. It was Las Vegas for crying out loud, every apartment complex whether big or small, bad neighborhood or good neighborhood had the same basic glitzy tawdry look to it: lots of mirrors, water-rich or water-deprived palm trees, fountains, marble (real or fake depending on how much your rent was), doorman or lack thereof, and either the most high-class elevator known to architecture, or the complete opposite. Sara knew she wasn't "rolling in the dough" per se, but she had enough of an income to afford a nice place.

"Hello, Ms. Sidle," chirped Noel the doorman as she stopped at his desk to retrieve her mail, "may I say you look like hell?" Noel was gay and proud of it, thus he made no qualms regarding his mannerism. Blunt, nosy, and openly vying for any good-looking man's attention, he was pretty much annoying.

"Yeah, so I've been told. Any mail for me?"

Noel rummaged through the slot shelf that stood behind him. He pulled out three envelopes from Sara's mail slot and handed them over to her. Two of the envelopes were work-related and the last one was a plain white envelope. It had a clean, crisp look one usually didn't associate with delivered mail, and it looked like someone had personally brought it.

The envelope was small, not the type used for tri-folded 8" by 11" letters, and it had no indentations anywhere on its smooth blanched surface. It smelled vaguely of a man's cologne, but then it had been a long time since she had smelled a man, so it could have been any kind of parfum. There was no return address and it had Sara Sidle simply penned on the front.

Sara looked up expectantly at Noel, but he look quizzically back at her. "I'm as stumped as you, honey, personally," he began as he filed away at his manicured nails, "from what I've read, envelopes like this one usually indicate a secret love tryst." He smiled knowingly at Sara.

"Noel, can you be anymore fantastical?" Sara let out exasperatedly. "Love tryst? Have you seen me come in with any man for the past few months?"

Noel ran his hands through his sun-bleached hair, "Honey, you ooze sexually frustration like gay man in denial. If you want my honest-to-God opinion, you should be havin' a secret love tryst."

"Right, okay, bye, Noel." Sara gathered up her mail and walked away as Noel gave his toodles. She got into the elevator and pushed the button for the 5th floor. The ascent felt like an eternity.

Sara kicked off her shoes and threw her bag along with the mail onto the kitchenette's countertop. Pulling out a glass from the cabinet and swallowing down two Ibuprofens with water, Sara felt like she had a headache coming on. She reached for a beer from the fridge; she wasn't a real drinker, but she felt like she deserved to immerse her pains in an alcoholic haze. Nursing her beer, she sat down on the couch.

So many emotions swirled in her head, so many emotions that it seemed like a Technicolor Rainbow Convention was being held in her cerebrum. Downing the beer in one great chug reminiscent of her college days, Sara put down the empty bottle onto the coffee tablet and lay back on the couch. The old couch's springs groaned under the weight and her body equally groaned in retaliation. She closed her eyes and tried to dream.

But she could not—her mind, heart and soul would not let her. She was not unused to this emotional predicament. She was, admittedly, lonely like any other professional single woman, but the loneliness was eating at her heart. She imagined the loneliness being a worm and her heart being an apple, and just like in the funnies section, the troublesome kid always gave the teacher the apple with the worm inside. To her, that cartoon had a profound message: loneliness came with uncontrollable actions. She could not control her professional life, she had to earn a living, but it was her living that was inhibiting her from finding someone. Why was finding love so hard? Her mind instinctively thought of her parents. Though the memories were not good, as far as she could remember, whenever her dad had his sober moments, he and her mother looked so much in love with each other. Oh love, what she would give to at least savor it for a minute if not for an hour.

The letter. The letter than smelled like cologne. She immediately opened her eyes, and got up so quickly that all the nerves in her arm pinched and clamped down like a lobster. But she ignored the pain as she treaded to the kitchenette and picked up the pristine white envelope from the counter top. She sat back down and held the envelope with both hands.

She felt like she was sitting on pins and needles; anxiety was eating up at her. Who could have possibly sent her this envelope that was unmistakably of masculine origin? Hank? She laughed at that idea. Two-timing handsome Hank. Right. When hell freezes over and monogamy is beaten into all men. Old college boyfriends? The ones who cheated on her? Again the same dictum applied. What was the point in theorizing who had sent it if she did not open it. Gingerly grabbing a letter opener from a basket on the coffee table, Sara poised the knife.

The phone rang right as she was about to make the fatal cut. Putting down both knife and envelope, Sara reached for the cordless.

"Sara Sidle."

"Sara, are you well?"

Sara let out a small inaudible gasp. "Grissom?"

"I'm sorry for not checking back on you," apologized the articulate, intelligent male voice, "but I had to check on everyone and make sure the lab tech who got injured in the blast made it to the hospital."

Sara sighed inwardly. Grissom was the night-shift supervisor at the L.V.P.D. crime lab, and being that, it was his duty to take a status quo of all his subordinates. Even if he wasn't supervisor, he would have done it anyways.

"No, no," she finally said, "I'm fine, my hand hurts a little, but I took some painkillers. I should be fine by tomorrow. I'll be in. No sick day for me."

There was a pause on Grissom's side. "Actually Sara that's the reason why I'm calling you." Sara immediately felt disheartened.

"You want me to take leave," she said quietly.

"Just until you've completely healed both physically and mentally."

"Mentally? Grissom, what is that suppose to mean? I wasn't in the thick of the blast and I sure as hell wasn't scarred! I mean for God's sake, I've seen worst cases on the job that would mentally 'scar' me!"

Grissom's tone took a serious edge, "Sara, you know what I mean. For the past few days you've been looking out-of-sorts. You need a break."

"Are you trying to say that I'm mentally incompetent?" She was getting real angry now.

"Sara," Grissom continued in a voice that brooked no argument, "this job gets to even the best of us. All I am suggesting is a few days from work. Take this as an opportunity."

"Opportunity?" she repeated skeptically.

"An opportunity to do want your heart desires," he said cryptically before saying good-bye and hanging up.

Sara held the cordless tightly in her hands. "To do what my heart desires," she wondered aloud. Was fate finally shining down on her? Her gaze fell upon the small envelope. May be it was, she thought, as she started to open the envelope. May be it was.