A/N: Like a true addict, I'm displaying withdrawal symptoms already and becoming grumpy at home, so here I am again. It's only a short one, set between the end of season 6 and the start of season 7. I know you were kind of expecting a sequel to Mens Rea, but my muse isn't cooperating on that front. This is what came to me instead and demanded I post. It's very hazy in my head still, so comments and ideas are as usual greatly appreciated.

I hope you'll enjoy.

Lyrics are from Guns N' Roses' Sweet child o' Mine.


Burning Bright.


Brass's brow was pinched, his heart racing, as he screeched to a halt a hundred yards or so from the burning three-storey apartment building. Thick grey smoke billowed up to the hazy sky, blocking the sun, turning daytime into night. Fire engines, ambulances, police cruisers all with their lights flashing were parked haphazardly, blocking the road, blocking his view. A large crowd of onlookers had already gathered, watching the fire and fire rescue's fraught attempt at controlling it in rapt silence and morbid fascination.

Brass got out of his car, pushed through the crowd and then stood still and stunned for a second outside the cordoned off area as he too surveyed the scene before him. Uniformed personnel rushed about, carrying equipment, calling to each other, shouting out instructions, commands, and yet despite the chaos, noise briefly seemed to recede into the background as he stared powerless. The deep sense of foreboding that had gripped him ever since he'd heard about the fire showed no sign of abating. Running a hand over his face, he briefly closed his eyes.

"Please, God," he bid silently, "let her be safe."

He had been in the dispatch room when the call had come in, his ears pricking up immediately at the seriousness of the call. "Did you say '1727 Santa Paula Drive'?" he asked, suddenly afraid, as he moved closer to the dispatcher in question.

The dispatcher glanced at him over her shoulder while her fingers continued dancing over her keyboard, logging the rest of the call. "That's right, Sir," she replied quietly. "402, threatening to spread to nearby properties. Officers are evacuating the area. Fire crews and EMTs already at the scene."

A look at his watch told Brass Sara should be home at this time of the afternoon, catching up on sleep before shift. "Any casualties?" he asked brusquely, and without missing a beat the dispatcher relayed the question to the officer at the end of the line.

"They don't know, Sir."

Brass let out a long breath, then nodded his head and pulled his cell out of his pocket. Hurriedly he scrolled down his contact list to Sara and running over to the PD car lot called her. He'd known before the call even went to voice mail that she wouldn't pick up.

As badge in hand he jogged through the roadblock closer to the building, he scanned the faces of the people who'd escaped the fire for that of Sara, but to no avail. Some were being tended to by paramedics and made to hold oxygen masks to their faces while others just looked on, faces blackened with soot, dazed and confused, shocked and subdued by what was happening. The heat was suddenly intense, the flames clearly visible now, coming out of the front windows and licking their way up to the roof. He looked for her car in the lot, but again his view was obstructed and he didn't see it.

"Who's in charge?" he shouted up to a fire fighter manning one of the pumps, once again flashing his badge.

"Captain De Souza over there," the man shouted back, indicating a man in a red helmet up ahead.

Brass quickly caught up to him, the heat and noise from the fire, the engines and the water gushing all adding to his stress. At this rate, there would be nothing left of the building. Just pray that she got out in time or wasn't home when the fire broke out.

"Captain?" Brass called breathlessly, and the man turned toward him, "Captain Brass, LVPD."

"You know something I don't?"

"Sorry?"

"Homicide," the fire captain said, nodding at Brass's badge.

"Oh. No. I―One of my CSIs, Sara Sidle, she lives on the second floor, round the back. She's not out here."

"And you're sure she was home?"

Brass shrugged. "She's not answering her phone."

The captain gave a sharp nod, blew out a breath. "My guys are inside, searching. If she's in there, they'll find her."


Quietly whistling to the songs playing on the portable radio, Grissom once again loaded the roller with white paint, climbed the two steps up the ladder and brought the roller to the ceiling, applying the paint in a criss-cross fashion as advised. His shoulder was beginning to ache, but he was almost done. He wasn't a fan of decorating, but the bathroom in his mother's condo had suffered some water damage and since Betty had only just moved to Vegas from the East Coast and didn't know any reliable, deaf-friendly decorators he'd offered his services.

"She's got a smile that it seems to me, Reminds me of childhood memories, Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky…"

A smile formed on his face, his whistling turning to humming as the song made him think of Sara. They'd been seeing each other for just under a year now, their anniversary in a few weeks' time and try as he might he couldn't think what to get her. Flowers and chocolates seemed too cliché somehow, and not enough. Lingerie was too obvious. A book maybe, he wondered before dismissing the idea as too impersonal. Besides, he'd already given her a book as present a lifetime ago. No, he wanted something unique and original, something that would show his appreciation and devotion, his commitment to her and to a future together.

That morning they'd met at the park after shift, taken Hank on a long walk and then shared a leisurely breakfast at her place. His place, her place, it didn't matter as such, but he'd had the previous night off when she hadn't, and so she'd headed off to bed when he'd finally left at midday, Hank in tow, to go to his mother's. She'd stood at the door in her robe, still damp from her shower, a vision to behold and he'd had a hard time tearing himself away.

The smile grew on his face as it suddenly came to him, the perfect present, a gift from him, a token of his love he knew she would wear proudly. Jewellery was a girl's best friend, right? Or was that diamond? He was loading the roller with paint again when Betty stepped over the threshold, moving into his eye line. Following forlornly behind Hank gave a series of little whines while totally oblivious to the dog's needs for a tinkle Betty admired his handiwork.

"Do you want another coffee?" she signed when pausing he looked up at her. "Tea? Something to eat?"

Grissom smiled, shook his head and put the roller down. "I need to go into work early," he replied with his hands, "and I want to finish this first."

Betty smiled and nodded her head while openly staring at him. "You look good, Gil," she finally signed, her smile somewhat fading, "Happy."

His expression softening with affection, Grissom straightened up from crouching. Briefly he contemplated telling his mother about Sara, that she was the reason behind his happier, more carefree state of mind these days, but opted not to. It was stupid really, this need to compartmentalise, but if Betty knew she'd want to meet Sara. And she'd have questions, questions that would put pressure on the relationship, pressure where it wasn't needed. He was happy with the way things were, and knew Sara was too.

"I am," he signed back, his smile wide and dancing as he made the sign for happy.

Betty's smile widened once more, and she nodded her head before looking up again and giving the ceiling another appraising look. "You've done a good job," she signed before lifting a flat hand to her chin and lowering it, thanks Grissom accepted with a smile and a sharp nod of the head.

Hank sat on his hind legs and barked, and Grissom lowered his gaze to him and shook his head. "All right," he told him in a chuckle, and then addressing his mother, "Could you take him round the block for me while I finish? He needs to pee. His lead is in the backpack in the kitchen."

Registering a look of surprise Betty turned to Hank and patted her hand to his side apologetically. Grissom told him to go for walkies, and the dog grudgingly followed Betty to the kitchen. The Doors' Light My Fire started on the radio and once again picking up his roller he returned to his painting. Half an hour later he was just about finishing when he heard the front door open and shut, heralding their return. He popped his head round the bathroom door and came face to face with his mother. She was holding his flashing cell phone in her hand.

Thinking it Sara, he pulled his paint-covered latex gloves off and took the phone from her. Jim Brass was flashing on the display, as well as four missed calls. With a sigh, he connected the call.

"Gil!" shouted Brass, sounding relieved, before Grissom had even time to identify himself.

Frowning, Grissom moved the phone away from his ear and reached over to turn the radio off. The line was bad, the noise in the background deafening. Grissom could hear men shouting, engines whirring, sirens screaming. Brass was clearly at a scene. "Jim? I can hardly hear you."

There was a pause, and the background noises receded, muffled now.

"Catherine's on call, Jim, not me," Grissom tried again.

"She's on her way," Brass said, his tone glum and anxious, and then with an edge of despair that sent shivers down Grissom's spine, "I've been trying to call you."

"I'm sorry. I'm at my mother's."

"There's been a fire, Gil. 1727 Santa Paula Drive. It's under control now, but the front side of the building's gone up in smoke."

His heart skipped a beat. He glanced up at his mother watching him with concern and turned away. "But that's Sara's place."

"I know."

Panic began to set in as Brass's words sank in. "Where is she? Is she with you now? Can I speak with her?" Why hadn't she called him?

"I'm sorry, Gil. They had to go get her out. She―"

Betty put her hand on his shoulder, and he turned, briefly meeting her concerned gaze before looking away to hide his distress. "Is she okay?" he asked into the phone, his voice breaking.

"I don't know. She was unconscious but breathing when they got her out. She'd made it out of the apartment and as far as the stairs. But the smoke, well, it must have got to her. They're taking her to Desert Palm now."

"Are you with her?" His words were mere, breathless whispers.

"I'm following in my car. They wouldn't let me ride with her, but they're treating her."

"I'm on my way," he said, and disconnected the call.

Betty touched him on the arm again, startling him. "Gil? What's wrong?"

"It's Sara," he replied, still stunned by the events, "She's at the hospital. I got to go."

"Sara?" Betty signed carefully. "From work?"

Grissom swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded his head. Hurriedly he began putting the lid back on the paint pot and gathering brushes and rags. Betty stopped him and told him to go, not to worry, that she'd tidy all that. He gave her another fraught nod, and staring at him closely she lifted her hand to his face and gave him a small, pained smile. He didn't need to tell her how much Sara meant to him, that she was more than just a work colleague, she'd read it in the sudden deep ache and anguish in his eyes.

"There was a fire," he signed, tears welling.

Betty gave a nod. "Go," she signed, mirroring his distress, "Go be with her."

He was about to go when he had a moment's hesitation and his gaze lowered to Hank hovering anxiously nearby.

"I'll look after Hank for you," Betty signed, reading his mind.

"I don't know how long I'm going to be. No, it's all right. I'll take him to the sitter on the way." He moved over to the sink and pulled the dust sheet off to wash his hands and face.

"That'll take time," Betty replied with her hands. "He's fine here, with me. I promise not to forget his walk. Just go."

Her attempt at levity failed. He turned off the water, then took in and released a deep breath. Hastily he dried himself and changed his paint-splattered T-shirt for a clean one, but kept his old jeans and sneakers on. At the front door, Grissom bent down to Hank who had been following his every move with intent and ruffled the top of his head affectionately.

"You're staying here," he told the dog warmly, and then when Hank's doleful eyes got too much, "Sara's okay. She's okay. She's going to be fine."