I've never posted to this site before, though I have done two earlier CSI stories that were posted elsewhere. As a professional writer, I generally only write what I'm getting paid for, but this was a nice diversion last weekend when I got sick of the book I'm ghosting for a client. This isn't a long story; I finished the writing in about two hours. But I'll dole it out in pieces, which seems to be SOP here.

I neither own nor have any rights to CSI or its characters. But occasionally they come live in my head, and I'm thinking of charging rent.

The story should be rated M.

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TRAGEDY SQUARED

Chapter 1

Grissom heard her sharp gasp and then nothing. For perhaps 45 seconds, Sara was silent on the other end of the connection, and Grissom knew she was trying to process the horrific news that Warrick had been injured fatally at the hand of an unknown gunman. He didn't interrupt her. He had been trying to process the news for more than an hour himself, and he wasn't having any luck, either. Warrick dead. For no reason anyone could discern at the moment. Maybe for no fucking reason at all except he happened to be in the very wrong place at the very wrong time. At least that's what Greg kept saying, over and over, as if trying to convince himself.

Grissom didn't believe it for a second. There was a mole in the department, and it wasn't the cop who helped frame Warrick for Gedda's murder. It went much deeper than one patrolman. Much higher.

"What happened?" Sara's question came through the phone almost inaudibly. Her voice cracked. Grissom heard it and winced. He told her the story.

"The team was with him when he died?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "All but one, and she didn't know."

If Sara heard and understood Grissom's words, she let them slide. "When's the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"I want to come back for it."

"I thought you might. When you book your flight, let me know. I'll pick you up at the airport."

Silence again. Grissom felt a tightness in his chest. He knew Sara was making decisions, and if she had to think about them, it wasn't a good sign.

"No," she said, finally. "I'll catch a hotel shuttle."

The ache in Grissom's chest deepened, but he wasn't going to pressure her. Still, he wanted her to know she was welcome.

"Honey, you don't have to stay in a hotel," he said. "I understand if you don't want to sleep in a bed with me. You don't have to. I'll take the couch."

"No. Thank you, anyway," she said.

"Will you call me when you get here?" he said.

He waited for an answer for half a minute before he realized the line had gone dead.

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Sara finally called early the next afternoon after Grissom had spent the better part of five hours pacing his house, wondering where she was and why she was so reluctant to be near him. Even if she wasn't ready to come back for good, this was a chance for them to talk, for him to measure where she was in her recovery and what she wanted to make of their future – assuming they even had a future. More and more he was coming to question whether she wanted that any more, whether she wanted him any more. And his fears were tearing him apart.

As they talked, Grissom thought Sara sounded incredibly sad, but he could dismiss that since they were all sad. The viewing at the funeral home was from 4 to 6 that afternoon, and Warrick's funeral was at 10 a.m. the next day. Sadness was assaulting the entire team.

"Where are you?" Grissom asked.

"I'm staying at The Tropicale," Sara said. "Catherine got the room for me. Sam Braun had an interest in the hotel, and she got it comped for me. Nick's going to pick me up and take me to the funeral home later."

He bit his lip and frowned a little. She was letting everyone take care of her but him. Even Catherine, who was so ravaged by her own grief that she was having trouble taking care of herself.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" he asked.

"Brass says we're all going out together," she said. "A wake, I guess."

Grissom remembered then that Brass had set it up. A private room at the Bellagio. Brass had style.

"We have to talk, Sara," Grissom said.

"Not until after the funeral," she said.

He broached the subject carefully. "How long can you stay in town?"

"I'm going back day after tomorrow. I have an early-morning flight."

That meant her only free time would be the afternoon and evening after the funeral. That alarmed him.

"But you will make time for us to sit down together?" he said.

"Yes," she said. "I will."

Grissom began feeling sick to his stomach. There were so many reasons why.