Author's Note: Okay, so this is, as all my pieces are, GS becoming GSR. It is set somewhere around the end of Season Five, and yes I employ some poetic licence with timelines, episodes and forensics. Its fiction, isn't it? After all, all we really want is the GSR, and there's plenty of that.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show, I have nothing so suing me really would be a waste of time that could be better spent writing Sara back in for Season Nine.

Sara walked quickly between the rows of vehicles clutching her kit, intent on the task ahead. She could see the slice of yellow crime tape up ahead and looked for an officer to admit her. She patted her pocket to ensure she had her ID without breaking stride. She felt strong and purposeful today, knowing there was a delicate and intriguing scene awaiting her. No, wait. Knowing that there was a delicate and intriguing scene to be processed with Grissom awaiting her. She smiled ruefully to herself as she turned sideways to slide between two cars parked too close together. So she could still take pleasure in his company. So she still got a thrill from his call, from being the one he requested. There was no harm in that. She had worked long and hard to harness that thrill out of a whole mess of bigger, deeper emotions, and thought she pretty much had it down. She was confident they were on their way back to where they started – an excellent team, only with added comfort and a rare and beautiful history that they did not (any longer) use against one another.

An officer saw her coming, and strode back along the tape to lift it for her, using one arm to cut a path for her through the small group of onlookers that had gathered. He called her ma'am, which she quite enjoyed, and pointed to the off-white forensic tent that had been erected fifty yards further on. She could see why as she walked quickly across the sun-baked parking lot. This scene was wide open. The shopping mall to her left, the highway to her right. Cars parked at random all around, some of which would not be claimed until their scene was cleared.

Sara put her ID away and took out a pair of gloves before peeling back the entrance flap of the tent. The smell and the heat hit her at the same time, and she took a moment to adjust before stepping inside. Pushing her sunglasses up on top of her hair she took in what was in front of her.

"Jesus Christ." It was a massacre. Three bodies, and more blood than Sara had seen in a long while. The floor was awash with congealing pools of unusually large proportions. Grissom's camera flashed a couple more times before he lowered it.

"Hey."

"Hey," Sara replied, carefully placing her kit on a clean patch of tarmac. "What the hell happened here?"

"Three males, all aged thirty to thirty five, all apparently healthy."

"Until they had a run in with a chainsaw?"

"Take a closer look." She did, stepping around two of the bodies until she stood in the centre of the tent. She looked, and looked again, and then stopped.

"These injuries don't seem consistent with the bloodloss."

"It's not their blood."

"But they're all dead."

"You're good," he laughed. She shot him a sly look, and rolled her eyes.

"So three dead bodies, cause unknown, covered in someone else's blood."

She looked at him.

"Don't you have a quote or a witty saying to add right about now?"

"A witty saying proves nothing," he replied, feigning indignation. Sara snapped her gloves on, watching the small smile form on his lips.

"That's a quote too, isn't it?" Grissom's camera flashed.

"Voltaire."