In a city with hundreds or maybe thousands of bars you think it's not easy or maybe even impossible to find a person, you're looking for. Like it would be very unlikely to bump into somebody you know when you try to avoid all the hot spots and decide to go to a small, dark bar, far away from the Strip, far away from Freemont Street and all the other places, tourists and party hungry locals hang put.
So you try really hard to be somewhere nobody you know is around, you try really hard to find a place where you can drown your sorrow in cheap beer and cheap whiskey, that will make your throat burn and your stomach ache with every sip you take. Eventually you found this bar, you sit down, order your first drinks, finish them five times before you allow the glass to stand in front of you and it's not empty. But empty are your eyes, that stare into the rest of the whiskey. And by God, you wish your head would be empty too.
But they are there. They came with you. They followed you. And now they seem to enjoy the evening, seem to enjoy that you suffer. Didn't you make enough turns to leave them behind? Didn't try everything to get away from them? How could it be that after over two hours of driving around Las Vegas, being in the nicest and riches areas and in the dirtiest and most dangerous places, they were still with you? What could you do if not the drive and the five whiskeys make your thoughts disappear?
You finish your whiskey, push the glass an inch or two away to make it obvious you want a new one. Maybe you can order a new life too.
"One more?"
You don't bother to look up anymore. It's the bartender, who knew that you want one more and asks anyway. He can see you look like shit, he can see you're not fine and you need more than five whiskeys and two beer to forget, to free yourself.
"Make it a double." After all it feels like your trouble is double too.
He takes your glass, takes a bottle of an old Irish whiskey from the upper shelf, fills the glass up so that it's more a triple than a double and pushes it back to you.
"This one is on the house."
"Thanks." Still, you don't look up. Your memory is pretty good, you've got a talent to look at things and people only once and you can remember the most important features of them. You remember that the bartender is around seven feet tall, packed with muscles like he's the bouncer too. His hair, dark brown, long, held back together in a pony tail, needs a wash, his face needs a shave. He's about a week over the five o'clock shadow and his nose has been broke at least twice. You could say, he looked a little bit scary, a little bit messy, a little bit dirty and definitely not like a person you want to have some trouble with. The thing that makes you like him are his green eyes. Like a meadow in spring time. And the fact that he doesn't try to force you into small talk or tries to find out what's wrong with you. Instead you get a new whiskey, triple and a better brand. Could you ask for more?
And again, you wonder how it could end up like this? But did it matter anymore? Because it had happened and it was too late now to wonder, what went wrong, what you could have done to change anything. You are right in the bull's eye of trouble. No matter which way you turn, you end up losing something that was important to you. The only you can try to figure out was what is more important to you.
Maybe another whiskey could help you with this question, help you to find an answer. When you put the glass down to push it forward to get a refill, a foreign hand cups your hands. Surprised and a little bit annoyed you look up. You don't need anybody to come after you, you don't need somebody to tell you that he could help you out, that he was the solution to all your problems and if not, he could offer you some mind blowing sex for a couple of minutes.
Prepared to jump right in the face of whoever stopped your hands, you lift your head, open your mouth to tell the one to fuck off when you see who stands next to you. Your mouth's still open, your eyes get bigger in disbelieve and you can't say a single word you were prepare to say.
"I won't stop you from drinking, I won't tell you it doesn't help to order another drink and I won't ask any questions why you're here and what's up that you look like shit and end up here, not the nicest place in town, I'll just sit next to you, have a drink myself and keep you some company if that's alright."
Hadn't you established that you were at a place nobody you know could be too? That you were somewhere in a dark hole, surrounded by people, who probably had nothing else on their mind than to get hammered – in every way. So why was there somebody you knew? And why did this somebody doesn't look like she had to drown a few demons herself? Because anybody else couldn't have a reason to be here.
You don't want to talk, you don't want company. You want to drink. You want to forget. You want to find an answer. And you are pretty sure somewhere on the ground of the whiskey bottle there is an answer. Your answer. If it wasn't the first bottle, maybe it was the second one. Who cared? You have a lot of time and the only thing that can help you are drinks. The more the better.
"What are you doing here?" Maybe you didn't want to talk, but maybe you are desperate and in a bad mood, but you are also curious. And still a little bit mad with yourself that you didn't sense her. So much for your sixth sense, it didn't work today. More, you must have been so absent minded that you didn't realize, the hand that cupped your hands were female and not male. Maybe you need to pay a little bit more attention to your surroundings.
"I have a drink."
A new whiskey, this time a single shot and a cocktail were put in front of you and your new, unwanted company.
"Why here?"
"Because you're not very likely to bump into somebody you know here."
A little quiet laughter comes out of the mouth of your new company. Just like she had read your mind. You don't want to believe her, but there are no reasons why she should lie to you.
"Yeah not very likely." You look at your glass of whiskey, but don't touch it. Somehow it's like you can see your reflection in it and what you see, you don't like. Then again, there hadn't been anything you liked today.
Are you supposed to tell her what's the matter with you? Probably she's been waiting for that. Do you want to talk about it? No. You want to forget it. The problem is, it's stuck in your head. Like you have noticed a few minutes ago, your problems followed you and so far the whiskey didn't make them disappear. It was more like they made themselves comfortably and looked forward to each sip you take.
"Are you really here for the drink?" Suspicious you look at the almost pink colored drink in her glass. What was special about it? Was it something you got only here? And how did she find out about it? When you stood in front of the bar it didn't look like a place you stop by to find out how the drinks are. It looked more like a place, you want to avoid.
"Are you scared I stalk you?" She turns tables.
"Just surprised that I see a familiar face here."
"You can send me away if you want."
Tempting, wasn't it? One word and you are alone with your drink again and don't have to talk anymore. No wait, you aren't alone, your problems are still with you. They don't mind your drinks, like you found out before, they like them, but it felt like they don't like that you have company. Whenever you talk to her, your problems seemed to back off a little bit. So, sending her away wasn't the smartest thing to do.
"No, I don't mind when you stay." Suddenly you find yourself ignoring your whiskey and order a coffee. Extra strong.
"Holy shit, I thought the whiskey tears apart your stomach, the coffee is even worse."
"It's not my business, I'm just curious, how many whiskeys did you have?"
"You mean glasses or shots?"
"What's easier to count?"
"Let's say I had plenty of both. What are you drinking?"
"Cherry and banana juice with ice."
"That's a strange drink for…a place like this."
"I thought strange behavior is what everybody expects me to show." Her smile makes you smile too. You didn't know she could make fun of her own, of her eccentricity. Or was it a character flow? Lack of social skills? Did you have to give it a name? Or could you just accept it as a part of her?
"You're not famous for starting lab gossip or long coffee breaks."
"I don't want to."
"After your marriage, you'll always be Misses Grissom, Sara."
"It's still Sidle."
"Yes, you didn't take his name, but that won't stop people from seeing you as Misses Grissom."
"That's alright." Sara smiled again. "I like being Misses Grissom, Deputy Chief Curtis."
"I…" You want to say you like your rank too, but you can't. It's not true. Not now. Right now you wish you were somebody else. You wish, you were a detective again.
"…I hope you found what you were looking for."
"I did. Did you?"
And there was no need for an explanation. You know she wasn't asking for a Mister Right. Do you want to answer her this question? Were you able to answer it?
"No."
"What are your possibilities?"
"If I tell you, I don't have possibilities anymore. If I tell you, I have only one choice."
"How comes?"
"Because it's what I'm suppose to do."
"And you don't like what you're suppose to do."
"No." You finish your coffee, close your eyes, try to concentrate on how the feeling of disgust leaves together with the ache in your stomach. Gosh, this coffee could kill people.
"Every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude."
"Means?"
You don't want her to ask, you don't want to talk about it. But you can't help, the words come out of your mouth.
"Sara, what Ray did…I can't ignore that."
"What do you mean?"
"Please." You don't want to say these words out loud. If you do, you really have only one possibility left.
"Try it hypothetical, Sofia." She gives you the chance to talk about it without talking about it, without having you fear any consequences.
"Okay…imagine that you get the one, who dares you for years, killed the fiancé of your ex wife, took your ex as a hostage to get you, tortured her to make you suffer, wants you to show that you're the same killer like he is, you have this person in your hands. It will be a fight, you both want to fight, you cuff him, he's helpless, you can call the police and have him arrested. Instead you kill this man because it's the only way for you to end all of this, to finish what you've started years ago.
You are a CSI, you're not supposed to kill anybody, not even a serial killer. But you do it anyway and you get a police captain to cover your back. He makes it possible that you go away with murder, because it's murder and nothing else when you kill somebody, who is cuffed. You're not better than the serial killer."
You bite on your lips. You really said these words out loud. You really told her what was on your mind, what was haunting you.
"You want Ray to take responsibility for what he did." Sara doesn't need to ask what you meant, she knows it. She knows what happened. You just realize it. She might even know more than you do. Was she here for the same reasons you were? Was this the perfect place to forget?
"We're talking hypothetical, Sara." You remember her with a bitter sweet voice. It's the best you can do to stay calm. It's not her fault, you can't jump in her face, you can't yell at her. She tries to help you out, you know that. And you try to make it easy for her to stay out of this.
"Of course we do. So, if Ray did something like this, we both know he has…had…somebody in his life, who did all these things, would you want him to take responsibilities for his actions?"
"Yes. I know you're a team, I know you fight for each other in your team, Sara, it's supposed to be like this and it's a sign of a good and healthy team, but to be absolutely frank to you, I want him to take responsibilities for what he did. I want to him to pay, he did something, you can't get away with as a CSI, as somebody, who works for the law enforcement."
"You're the Deputy Chief, you can make him take responsibilities." Sara's voice showed no offense, it doesn't sound like she would blame Sofia for her wish.
"Believe me, if it was that easy, I would. I don't really know him, but I know what he did and it was wrong. The problem is, if I tell the Sheriff what I know, what has happened, Langston's actions will have consequences on other people too."
You watch her. She thinks about what you've said. She thinks about the case, of what has happened. She knows the details too. She has worked the scene, she might know more than you do. She knows details, you've no idea of. And she considers what to say on your words. You like that, you like that she doesn't just answer what comes up her mind. You like that she thinks before she takes actions. And you like that she tries to make it as easy as possible for you.
"It's not about Ray, it's Jim. You worry about him."
All you do is send her a look that says more than thousand words.
Her hand finds your hand again, you don't shake it away as you usually would do. Instead you allow yourself to savior the touch, allow yourself to admit that it feels good to have her physically with you. And that this makes your demons back off more and more. No matter if you like it or not, you know she helps you.
"I've no idea what went on…"
"Sara, don't. Don't go there. And please, please don't ask. I can't tell you. If I tell you what I know, you'll be in the same situation I'm in. We weren't friends, we weren't close but I think I know you well enough to be sure, you'd struggle too. You go for the evidence, you go for the truth and you say the truth, even if it's not a pleasant truth for everybody. I don't want you in a situation, where you have to consider what's more important to you: your credibility or your friends."
She looks at you. First her eyes tell you, she wants to disagree, tell you, you've no clue about her. Then she changes her mind, you can see it in her eyes. They get sad, they feel with you. She knows what your problem is. And you know, if she had a solution, she would offer it to you. And you see something more. You see, she knows it already. You see it clearly, she knows it, she knows even more than you do and she isn't happy with her knowledge nor the situation she is in. Was forced to be in? You can't imagine her to hold back evidence. You can't see her manipulating the evidence and corrupt a case. That wouldn't be here. She is the kind of person, who takes responsibilities for her actions and expects other people to do the same.
"Okay, we're talking hypothetical, don't we, Sofia?"
"Yes." You wish for something new to drink, you don't want another coffee, you don't want to finish your whiskey, that you still haven't touched. The ice melted and the water and alcohol mixture is warm. You wonder what you can order in this bar, that won't make your stomach hates you even more.
"What's the name of your drink?"
"Why?" She is confused. You changed the topic out of the blue.
"I need something to drink. Something, that's actually drinkable."
That makes her smile again. Within a second she catches the eyes of the bartender, lifts two fingers and less than a minute later there's a new glass in front of her and one in front of you. The first sip tells you, this is drinkable indeed.
"The thing is it's impossible to do what's right – right in the eyes of the law – and to do what's right for me as a person. I screw somebody's career and life, somebody, if I do what I'm supposed to do as a Deputy Chief. It's a catch-22. And I haven't figured out with which situation I can live better. I want to do my job, I want to do what's right and I don't want to make the life of a friend more difficult or even ruin it. Or in the worst case, make the lives of a few people, who are still very important to me, difficult, cause them trouble."
She takes your hand again. A sign of gratitude? A sign of understanding? Support?
"I can't make a decision for you."
"No, you can't." You never expected that.
"I know your job is important for you, it's amazing what you did the last years, from detective to Deputy Chief in four years, not many people can do this. You managed to do this because you're devoted to your job, you live and breathe the police work, it's what you want, what you like, the most important thing in your life. Like my job is for me. When I went away I realized how much I missed being a CSI. That was the reason why I came back. I knew, it made it harder for Grissom and me, we can't see each other so often anymore and I've to put up with a lot of things, that reminds of other things, I want to forget. But the job is a big and important part of my life."
"You love Grissom, nevertheless you choose to be apart from him."
"Yes. But the distance between us doesn't mean the job is more important to me. One word, one suggestion of him and I'll quit my job and be with him. And I know he would do the same if I say a single word to him. The job is important, it's a part of my life, but it's not my life. Your job doesn't hug you when you come home, your job doesn't look after you when you're sad, your job doesn't care how you feel. Family and friends do. That makes them more important than work.
Does this make them more important than the truth? Than the law? I doubt it's possible that all people will agree on the same point, you need to make the decision for yourself. There isn't a right or wrong, there's only what matters most to you and that's the right decision for you."
You are quiet for a few seconds, consider what she said, what she said with words and even more, what she didn't say with words, before you look into her eyes.
"Thanks, Sara." She didn't tell you what to do, she didn't give you an advice, didn't tell you what's right or wrong, she told you what she thought of her life and when you heard what she said for herself, you realized, it was exactly the same with your life.
And with this knowledge, it becomes clear what you have to do, what is the right thing to do, to make the demons disappear. Maybe it is your job to tell the Sheriff what had really happened in the dark, dark house, but your duty as a friend is to be quiet and Jim was more important than the Sheriff. He was there for you when you needed somebody, now it's your time to be there for him.