What You Wish For, a csi fanfic

Author Notes: 9/20/12. This was my first baby fanfic, soooo many years ago, back when my relationship with grammar and punctuation were very precarious. This story was in desperate need for a second - or maybe third or fourth - look-see to make some changes. This was, overall, short enough to condense into one "chapter" and left as a whole. There are parts of this story that, now, make me laugh at how bad they are and parts that make me remember what I loved - and can still love - about writing.

This story is a casefic on the surface, with little bits and pieces of character insight strewn along the way.

What You Wish For

2 AM is one hour of the daily twenty-four that many people reserve for sleep. There are, of course, those who choose this time to engage in seedy late-night activities, or those just out having an innocent good time. Not to mention insomniacs, spending those wee hours sucking down Red Bull and reorganizing their sock drawers. Whatever the case may be, 2 AM is usually all-about-me-time.

Not for them. For the graveyard shift of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, 2 AM was prime crime time. It wasn't about them; it was about that moment when the good time went just a little too far. When someone gets a little too drunk, a little too angry, a little too persistent…and something goes wrong. When a frat party goes from good, clean fun to a 419 call…that's when you know something went wrong.

Catherine Willows looked down at the body and sighed with disgust. "God, there's no way she's any older than eighteen."

The beam of her flashlight combined the flashing red and blue domes of the patrol cars parked at the curb laid the scene out perfectly. The girl was sprawled on her back in the bushes outside of the local chapter of a fraternity at Western Las Vegas University. Her carefully straightened blonde hair was stained with blood from a deep laceration to her forehead, her porcelain skin marred by several large bruises.

David Phillips knelt by the body. "Doubt you'll find any I.D. on her," the assistant coroner said, brushing the hair off of the girl's face.

"Not in that dress." Catherine sighed again. The girl's dress was midnight blue, and very tight. She crouched next to David.

He glanced sideways at her. "First guess? Head trauma." He squinted up at the façade of the Victorian-style brick building.

Catherine followed his gaze and focused her flashlight beam on the balcony three stories up. The French doors stood open, tacky gauzy curtains billowing lightly in the breeze.

Captain Jim Brass walked up to them from where he'd been speaking with a couple of quickly sobering party-goers huddled in a frightened group at the curb. "What do you think? Pushed?"

"Maybe," Catherine said. "Maybe she just got too tipsy and fell."

'I'll get a tox screen going when I get the body to the morgue. We'll have a better idea of what happened then." David motioned for another coroner to bring over the gurney and body bag.

"I don't need a tox screen to know that she had too much to drink," Brass said. He pointed to the group of college kids he had been talking to. "Everyone I talked to said the same thing. They didn't know who she was, but she was drinking heavily."

Catherine waved her light at the group. "No one? You're telling me that no one at this party knows this girl?" She couldn't keep her annoyance out of her tone. With this many witnesses at the scene, she was wary to believe that no one knew the victim. Although from what she'd heard, it wasn't all that difficult to crash a party at WLVU.

"Catherine?" David's voice sounded. He motioned wordlessly to the body of the girl, which the two coroners had been lifting off the ground.

The girl's hair had fallen to the side, revealing a large bruise at the base of her neck, in a shape easily distinguishable as a palm and five fingers.

"Someone knows," Brass said, looking back at the frightened party at the curb with a frown.

Sara Sidle stalked into Gil Grissom's office and not so much placed as slammed a piece of paper onto his desk. He gazed up at her questioningly, pausing from polishing a glass jar containing a large, exotic beetle.

"You're cutting my overtime?" she asked, an angry look in her eyes.

Gil looked at her patiently. "The call came from above my head, Sara." He knew she would understand the implications of this statement. Ecklie.

Sara shook her head, a disbelieving look on her face. "I don't buy it. You wanna know why? Because I just talked to Nick, who as I'm sure you know, has pulled two doubles this week, not to mention the fact he's been working six days a week for the past month. His overtime's not getting cut. Neither, for that matter, is Warrick's."

Gil understood where her frustration was coming from. This job was all she had, and she put everything she could into it, including nearly every waking moment. She would go stir crazy with the standard forty hours a week.

"Sara." He set down the jar on his desk and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He settled into his chair and folded his hands on the desk, nodding at the chair next to where Sara stood defiantly.

She couldn't hide her eye roll as she shut the office door and sat.

"We have to make special allowances. Nick's just getting back into the swing of things, and I think it's good for him to put a lot into his work right now. It'll keep his mind off of things. Furthermore, Warrick has spent most of the last few weeks in court over the Shelton case that's in jeopardy of being dismissed, and I see no problem in now allowing him more time in the field and lab."

Sara shook her head. "So it didn't come from over your head. It came from you."

"The order to cut overtime came from Eckile. I decided who to take the hours from." Gil turned back to the jar, picking it up and taking it back to shelf against the far wall, where he kept his most prized specimens.

"That's not fair." Sara's tone was firm and defiant. "You can't hold any of that against me, it's all circumstantial."

Gil had to smile at her choice of words; she was a CSI through and through. "Fine," he resigned. "I'll split the hours with Greg. You're still cut on field time, though," he added as he saw her smile and move to leave.

She huffed just the slightest and continued out. She paused on the threshold. "Thanks," she said.

"You, too," he returned.

"For what?"

"For telling Greg," Gil said with a small smile.

Warrick Brown stifled a yawn as he made his way past the DNA lab and through the door to the locker room. He'd taken full advantage of his night off and was out with his girlfriend Tina well into the early morning, crashing at her place around six. He was still trying to get back into the swing of working Graveyard. It had been a couple of months since Ecklie had reassigned he and Nick to the night shift, but it was still wreaking havoc on his internal clock.

I'm not the only one who's in here early, he noted, seeing Nick sitting on the bench between the rows of lockers, intently staring at a piece of paper.

Warrick wasn't really surprised to his friend in early. Since being kidnapped and buried alive, Nick, understandably, was not sleeping well, and didn't like being alone in his house. Even during his two months off, he'd spent a lot of time in the lab, conked out on the couch in the break room or chatting with anyone he came across in the lab.

Poor guy, he thought, and caught himself, taking it back immediately. For God's sakes, Brown, he's a grown man. He plastered on a smile. "Hey, Nick."

Nick didn't look up.

"Nick, what's up?" Warrick tried again. "Hey," he reached out and tapped Nick on the shoulder.

He jumped just a bit. "Sorry, man," Nick said with a sheepish smile. "Didn't hear you."

Warrick looked down at the paper his friend was holding and moved to his locker. "What's that?"

Nick sighed. "You know that key position that they were gonna give me a while ago but the budget was cut? Well, they want to give it to me again."

Warrick raised his brows and opened his locker. "That's great, man." Of course, he'd already known about the offer. They'd all sat down and talked about it with Ecklie, saying that it would be good for Nick.

Nick shook his head with a smile that looked more like a grimace. "I don't know. I've only been back in the field for a few weeks. It took me years to get that recommendation from Grissom."

"Don't worry so much about it, you deserve it." Warrick reached into his locker and grabbed his gun, sticking it in his holster. He took his ID card and clipped it to his belt.

He couldn't but feel disappointed, used the open locker door to conceal his expression. He'd thought the promotion would make Nick happy, not make him doubt his work. But then again, how could they not have expected Nick to figure something was up. He was a smart guy.

Nick shrugged and tossed the letter into his own open locker. He stood and stretched. "Hey, how'd it go in court the other day?"

Warrick and Catherine had built a solid case against twenty-six-year-old Christian Shelton for the murder of his parents and younger brother. It had been a very public case, all over the news for weeks. The prosecutor had rushed the case and pushed for an early preliminary, ready to get this guy behind bars as soon as possible. However, when Warrick had shown up the previous Wednesday for the final hearing, he learned that the murder weapon, a Glock, had been misplaced by someone in his own lab. Without the weapon, they had nothing. No prints or even a ballistics match to the seven total bullets that Doc Robbins had pulled from the three victims. Everything rides on the murder weapon.

The judge had ruled there was insufficient evidence to hold the defendant, and the son of a bitch had walked right out of the courtroom. It had been hard on both CSIs, who'd spent weeks building the case. Of course, they needed the gun to prove anything but motive, which wasn't enough. Judge Thompson had given the lab twenty-four hours to find the missing gun, otherwise don't bother.

Those weren't his exact words, but it was what Warrick told Nick, who let out a low whistle. "That's harsh, man. It always sucks when they get away."

The two men gathered the rest of their things and headed for the break room to get their assignments for the night.

Warrick wore a grim expression. "It's gonna suck even worse when he does it again."

Greg Sanders stretched a knot in his back and rolled his neck. He knew he was getting a little too old for the serious partying that had marred his recent past, especially if he was serious about continuing his career as a CSI, but he just couldn't resist, and had had himself quite the night. Bought a couple of drinks, got a couple of numbers, and even if he never called, considered the night a success.

Greg looked around the break room and scratched his head. He checked his watch. Still a little early, I guess, he thought. He wasn't really ever the first one ready for shift. Turned out, it was pretty boring.

"Any time now, guys," he said aloud, taking a long pull from his coffee mug.

At that precise moment, Sara came into the room and flopped next to him on the couch.

"Hi," she said with an abnormally large grin.

"Hey," Greg returned, a little warily.

"Listen…"

Greg frowned. He could tell instantly that Sara wanted something. Fortunately for him, she never got to ask the favor he was sure was coming, because Grissom came into the room with Catherine, Warrick, and Nick right on his heels.

The group was talking energetically about the D.B. Catherine had just come back from. Warrick was saying something about how much he loved to bust punk-ass frat boys with a pointed look at Nick. Nick punched him in the arm, declaring that he may have been a frat boy, but was never punk-ass.

Greg chuckled and Sara frowned, leaning back against the couch.

"Okay," Grissom said loudly enough to silence Nick and Warrick. He set the stack of assignments on the table and starting sifting through them. "Listen up. Warrick and Nick, I'll let you guys handle that 419 at WLVU."

The two high-fived, earning a good-natured eye roll from the supervisor.

"Sara and Greg, you guys are gonna work with me on another D.B. in Henderson. Next-door neighbor of the Sheltons," he stated in a meaningful tone.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Gris," Warrick interjected. "You're thinking Christian Shelton did this? You gotta give us this, man." He gestured to Catherine and himself. "Son of a bitch won't get away again."

Catherine also moved forward and nodded her agreement, a determined look in her eyes.

Grissom shook his head solemnly. "No. You two aren't allowed on this case, and that comes straight from Ecklie." He paused to look at Greg. "That reminds me, Greg. Thanks for taking that overtime cut."

Greg's mouth hung open. What now? It would be difficult to miss Sara's guilty expression. "But, I – " he started, but was cut off.

"Gil, no one knows this case like we do," Catherine said firmly.

"I know, Cath. But you know Ecklie. He's not sure what to do about the compromise in evidence, and wants different CSIs on this case. And remember, it's always good to have fresh eyes, right?"

Catherine gave a curt nod. "What do you have for me?" she asked, resigned.

Grissom smiled. "Administrative duties." He gestured to the large stack of files in front of him.

Catherine opened her mouth in protest.

"And I need you to get everything you have on Chris Shelton to Greg and Sara." He pushed out of his chair and left the room quickly, signifying the end of their meeting.

Catherine stalked out of the room after him. "Gil!"

Nick and Warrick looked at each other. Warrick smiled and held up his fist. Greg was confused for only a second before Nick shook his head.

"Nah, man. You drive."

Greg noticed Warrick looking a little downcast as he followed Nick out of the break room. The two guys had always relied on a quick game of 'rock, paper, scissors' to decide, well, anything. Nick's refusal to participate told Greg that the Texan wasn't as over his ordeal as they had thought. It was a game of chance, and apparently Nick just wasn't ready to take any chances yet. After all, it had been a coin toss that had landed him in that box.

Sara turned to Greg, breaking his train of thought. "We better catch up with Grissom," she said.

He nodded and got up to leave. "Hey, Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Why's my overtime getting cut?"

Catherine couldn't help but slam things. She was shut up in her too-small office, decorated with various pictures of her daughter and that ridiculous fetal pig Grissom had given her as an office-warming present. She was ticked off and she wanted people to know it.

Enter at your own risk, she thought as she pulled a pen out of her desk, slamming the drawer shut.

Catherine wondered what Gil's problem was, why she was stuck in here her office and he was out at her crime scene. Well, hers and Warrick's. She'd tried to talk some sense into the man, telling him that while Sara and Greg were very competent CSIs, they just weren't up to par with Warrick and herself. Greg was still a level one, and they were potentially dealing with a repeat killer. If the suspect was Chris Shelton, there was a good chance he had wised up and would leave hardly anything at the scene. As more experienced CSIs, already familiar with the suspect, she and Warrick would be more qualified to process that kind of crime scene.

Catherine scowled at the fetal pig as she pulled out the files Grissom had left for her and started flipping through them.

"Seven…maybe eight. No, no, more like eleven. I think…"

Nick rested his head in his hand and stared at the twenty-year-old kid seated opposite him in the makeshift interview room Brass had set up for he and Warrick in the kitchen of the frat house. Nick had simply asked this kid how many people he'd noticed talking to their dead girl, but it was clearly wasted breath. He'd already discarded his pen to the side of his notepad.

He glanced over at Warrick, standing at the counter talking to another kid. His palms were resting on the marble surface, elbows locked, that serious expression on his face, the one he reserved for interrogations. Nick wasn't even bothering to listen to the dingbat he was supposed to be questioning. Hell, he could tell from the kid's bloodshot eyes and slurred speech that he was still drunk.

Nick saw Warrick glimpse his way and frown at his unprofessional posture. Nick cleared his throat and sat straight in his chair, looking quickly away. "Uh, thanks for your help," he said, possibly cutting the kid off. He didn't care and it didn't matter. "We'll keep your name and number in case we have any more questions."

He raised his eyebrows at Brass, signaling that he was ready for the next one, though he already felt their investigation was coming to a dead end. He'd never encountered so many people claiming to have no information about a crime, especially one where a pretty young girl had been murdered.

Nick offered a small smile to the girl who slid into the chair that had just been vacated. She returned it with a timid smile of her own and preempted his first question.

"I know you're probably hearing a lot of this," she started, looking away. "But I don't have any idea who that girl was. She looked too young to be at a party like that anyways. She was probably a crasher from one of the high schools. We get them all the time."

She glanced at the autopsy photo Nick had brought as an aid in identifying the body. "She's pretty. The guys don't care how old they are when they're that pretty."

Nick leaned forward. "Can you remember any of the guys she was with? Talked to, danced with, anything?"

The girl chewed on her lip. "There was this guy that came in around ten. He looked a little too old to belong to any of the houses around here, but he wasn't like old old, you know?"

Nick nodded, vaguely wondered what she was considering old old. "Did you see him here while you waiting for us to talk to you?"

The girl shook her head.

"Well, thank you. You've been a big help."

The girl smiled and Nick gathered his pictures and papers and waved to get Warrick's attention. "I'm gonna go have a look around."

Nick felt much less antsy once outside. They'd been interviewing the college students all night and it was getting close to morning, and he'd been in that the kitchen for a while. It hadn't necessarily been a small kitchen, but it didn't have to be to cause him discomfort. Ever since the whole…episode…he hadn't been able to stay in one space for too long before becoming so antsy – bad choice of words - uncomfortable that he could hardly stand it.

None of his fellow CSIs ever jumped at the chance to work a case with him that required a long drive, as Nick had developed many new nervous habits over the last few months. He drummed his fingers, popped his knuckles, changed the radio every two minutes…he knew he was driving everyone crazy, but he couldn't help it. He had a newfound, full-on claustrophobia, always taking the stairs instead of the elevator, leaving the windows in his home and car open all at times.

The early morning air was cool, and Nick kind of wished he'd brought a jacket. He shined his flashlight at the cluster of bushes where the girl's body had been found. A few of the partiers had been able to tell them about scream and a thud around 10:20, but most of them had been too drunk to hear or remember anything. Nick had to chuckle, reminiscing on his own college experiences.

His flashlight beam reflected on a piece of what looked like metal sticking out of the closest bush. He frowned and knelt by the bush, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his vest pocket. He snapped them on and moved a few of the branches. His eyes widened and he pulled out his cell phone.

"Yeah, Jim. Our vic wasn't shot, was she?" He nodded at Brass's reply. "Then you might wanna come out here and take a look at this."

He snapped his phone shut and pulled the gun out of the bush. A moment later, Brass emerged from the front door, followed closely by Warrick.

"What'd you get?" Brass asked.

Nick held up the gun.

Warrick drew in a sharp breath. "Where'd you get that?" he demanded.

Nick was taken aback by Warrick's harsh tone. This should be a victory conversation, a break in the case. "I found it here in the bushes, right where the body was found." He noticed the look in Warrick's eyes, like he'd seen a ghost. "What's wrong?"

Warrick pointed, and Nick noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. "I recognize that gun. That's the missing weapon from me and Cath's case. It's Christian Shelton's."

The entire team was gathered in the conference room. Covering the surface of the table in the middle of all of them were spread out various photos of the three crime scenes: the Shelton house where the original murders had taken place, the fraternity house, and the neighbor's house that Gil, Sara, and Greg had gone to.

"Okay," Gil started.

Though he and Catherine were sharing the supervising duties of the graveyard shift, he still commanded their case meetings, and Catherine didn't usually complain. He was just used to being the boss. She was now, however, tapping her heel anxiously on the linoleum, wanting to jump in and take over. Everyone looked at him expectantly.

"Let's run it," he continued. "Catherine, why don't you start with the original scene?"

Catherine nodded jumped right in. "The original 911 call was for a single D.B. Neighbor was bringing by some cookies and got no answer at the front door. She became suspicious after noticing all of the family vehicles in the driveway, so she went around to the back, where she found the screen door open." She paused for a moment. Everyone was listening intently.

"She entered the house and immediately found the first victim, the mother, in the kitchen. One shot to the head, close range. Paramedics and police arrived, found victims two and three in the hall and den. Father in the hall, three shots to the chest; son in the den, two to the chest, one to the head."

Warrick cut in. "We assumed that the mother and father were in the kitchen, and the son was in the den. He was most likely shot first. Father went to the den, drawn by the sound of the shot, but was moving slowly, maybe thought it was the TV, which we did find turned on. The close range shot to the mother's head first led us to believe that it was someone she knew. We looked into the surviving family member, Christian, and found the murder weapon in his garage." He sighed. "And we all know how that turned out."

"Good," Gil said. "Okay, now it's a few weeks later, and the neighbor, Maureen Thomas, is dead, two shots to the head. Bobby Dawson matched the bullets to the gun used at the Shelton house."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, and I found the same gun ditched in the bushes outside the frat house."

"Prints?" Sara piped up.

Nick shook his head. "Nah, it'd been wiped clean. Jacqui couldn't find a single print."

"Which leads us to the conclusion the gun was planted." Catherine wrapped up. "Most likely by Christian Shelton."

"Yeah, but how'd he get the gun?" Greg asked, leaning forward.

Gil's eyes narrowed. "I spoke to the tech who misplaced it. He says another tech he'd never seen before came in to bring the gun to trial and he handed it off, without question."

"He walked in here, in this lab, right under our noses?" Warrick exhaled deeply. "He's screwing with us."

"So what does the girl at the frat house have to do with the original murders?" Sara asked.

There was a knock at the conference room door. The CSIs looked up to see Brass leaning on the doorframe.

"I think I might know," he said. "Girl at the frat house was Anna Thomas."

"The neighbor's name was Thomas," Sara said.

Brass nodded. "Anna was Maureen Thomas's daughter."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "I think we just found our link."

Catherine yawned as she walked through the parking lot to her car. Grissom had let her go home for a shower and a nap, since she'd been on for almost twenty-four hours straight. It was supposed to have been her night off, but she was willing to settle for half the night. She missed Lindsey desperately, after only one day away. She just wanted to get home and give her daughter a kiss and a big bear hug.

She also wanted to find Chris Shelton. There was no doubt in her mind that he was behind these new murders. The group had come to the conclusion that Shelton had killed the neighbor and her daughter because she'd found the bodies. It wasn't the strongest link, but the only reason they could think of. She hoped he wouldn't feel compelled to kill again.

Catherine heard sirens approaching behind her and pulled to the shoulder and stopped to allow the fire rig and ambulance to speed past. She squinted to see what direction they were heading.

Why is it we're all so interested in accidents, she thought, pulling back onto the road. The rig and ambulance shrieked around a corner a couple blocks up, at the light were Catherine was going to be turning into her own neighborhood. She begin to panic, thinking of her neighbors. It would be horrible if one of their houses had caught fire, and she hoped it was a false alarm.

Catherine turned right at the light just as the sirens stopped screaming. The emergency vehicles had found their destination. She craned her neck to see through the trees, the lights flashing from the next street over. Her street. Her heart picked up as she drove faster, nearly taking the turn onto her street on two wheels.

"Oh, my God," she breathed.

The fire truck was stopped in front of her house, and despite the dark of night, she could make out thick columns of smoke coming from the roof. She slammed her vehicle to a stop behind the ambulance and jumped out, keys forgotten in the ignition.

Catherine was always hearing people say things like this seem to happen in slow motion, but she didn't feel like the scene unfolding around her was moving slow. It was moving fast. The fire was fast. The destruction, the impending doom, was all happening very fast. She was moving fast, too, running faster than she ever had before.

"Lindsey!" she screamed, running for the front door.

A fireman caught her around the waist and held her back, keeping her from running into the house.

"Let go of me!" Catherine struggled with the man.

"Ma'am, is this your house?" The fireman's question was pointless.

"My daughter's in there!"

Right then, a large shape materialized on the threshold.

"Lindsey!" Catherine screamed again.

The fireman loosened his hold on her once the shape made it a safe distance from the house. Catherine ran over to other fireman as he placed Lindsey safely on the lawn. The young girl was coughing, but seemed to be fine.

Thank you, God, Catherine thought as she wrapped Lindsey up in a big hug. "It's okay, baby."

Lindsey was crying as she rocked her back and forth.

The fireman placed a hand on Catherine's shoulder. "Your daughter should be fine. Just a little smoke inhalation."

A paramedic came up and crouched beside her. "We want to take her to the ER, just in case," he said in a gentle tone.

Catherine nodded. She looked over the top of Lindsey's blonde head at the stream of dirty water coming from the firemen's hose, putting out the flames issuing from her house. Her home. She wiped a tear out of her eye and kissed the top of Lindsey's head.

"I'm fine, Mom. Really." Lindsey had been telling her mom this over and over again for a long time now.

Her throat felt a little scratchy, and something inside of her chest felt hot, but that was all. She was sitting on the edge of an examination table in the emergency room of Desert Palms Hospital, her socked feet dangling in the air. She hadn't been able to grab any shoes out of the house before the firemen got there.

After they'd gotten Grandma out, who'd been her babysitter for the night and sleeping in her mom's room, where the fire hadn't even reached, they had all been taken to the hospital. There were a lot of people in the room with her, and Lindsey felt uncomfortable. Her mom was sitting on the table next to her, holding her hand tightly. Her face was streaky like she'd been crying, but she had her mean mom face on. Captain Brass was standing with his pad of paper out, talking to her. Lindsey liked Captain Brass; he was funny. She knew he wanted to ask her questions, too, but she wasn't paying a lot of attention to him right now. There were a lot of other police officers in the room, and Lindsey could hear Mr. Grissom, Warrick, Nick and Sara talking in the hall. This was where her attention was currently focused. She leaned on the table, trying to see around the others in the room.

Lindsey could feel her mom shaking her hand. "Linds, Captain Brass asked you a question."

Lindsey smiled up at the captain. "Sorry."

"It's okay, kiddo. I'll ask again. What do you remember about what happened tonight?"

Lindsey thought hard. "I was asleep, and I woke up when I heard the door open. I thought it was my mom coming home, and I waited for her to come in and say goodnight but she never did. Then I saw smoke coming under my door."

Lindsey could hear her mom take in a sharp breath. "What's wrong, Mom?"

Her mom shook her head and smiled, but Lindsey could see that she trying not to cry. "Nothing, baby, as long as you're okay."

Catherine left Lindsey in the hospital room with Jim and went out into the hall to dry her eyes. She walked in on her fellow CSIs mid-conversation.

"Yeah, yeah, I just don't…" Nick trailed off when he say Catherine emerge from the room.

They all fell silent.

Catherine ran her hands through her hair, pulling at a few strands. "Lindsey's gonna be fine," she said, knowing what they were all asking with their eyes. "My mom, too." She blinked back tears. "Lindsey said she heard someone come into the house, right before the fire started."

Gil nodded slightly. "We heard."

"I know what you're thinking." Catherine looked hard at him.

"It's our job to process the evidence, and that includes motive. Don't worry, Cath, we're going to find out who did this."

"No," Warrick cut in. "We know who did this. He's not going to come near you again."

Catherine offered him a small smile, but it was weighed heavy with worry. "If it was him, then you're probably in trouble, too, Warrick." She knew that he knew this already, but he wouldn't admit to it.

"Yeah," was all he said, not meeting her eyes.

Catherine leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "I know you'll find out what happened. I'm gonna stay here with Lindsey."

"Of course," Gil said.

Catherine tossed her hair, attempting to clear her head. She'd gotten the tears out that she'd needed to, and now she was pissed off. "Who's doing the house?"

"Warrick and I are heading over there now," Gil said, crossing his arms. "Greg is gonna stay in the lab and go over everything one more time, see if we missed anything from one of the other scenes that could help us find Shelton."

Catherine understood. "He wasn't at his house."

Gil solemnly shook his head.

Jim came out of the room. "Catherine, O'Reilly's on his way to talk to you and take over. I'm heading over to see Judge Keller. There's no way we're not getting a warrant out of this."

"We'll meet you there," Nick said. He nodded to Sara and the two headed out, offering Catherine sympathetic smiles on the way.

She knew what everyone was thinking, and where everyone was going. She didn't care if they didn't currently have any proof. She knew in her gut that Chris Shelton was behind this. She'd worked hard to build a case against him and to put him in prison, he'd gotten lucky, and now he was exacting his revenge. Nick and Sara were obviously heading over to Shelton's now; it was probably what they had been talking about when she came out. It Shelton really wasn't there, then maybe they could search the house properly and find something to hold him. Once they found him, that is.

Chris Shelton was used to hiding. As a child, he'd spent many years hiding from his brother, who, though younger, had always been taller and heavier than Chris. Once Brad got to high school and made the varsity football team as a freshman, he didn't care that Chris was a junior; he had the whole team on his case every day, all day long. Chris ate lunch in a bathroom stall, just trying to escape the constant mocking and teasing and tripping and those goddamned CSIs asked for it.

Chris's thoughts often ran together, something he'd recently lost control of. When one loses control over their own mind, that's when it's time to worry. Oh, it's time to worry.

Chris clenched and unclenched his fists. He was agitated. He'd planned to start his campaign against those damned CSIs with a bang. The redhead was supposed to have been home when he started the fire. The woman's kid hadn't even died. No one had. His first strike had been a complete failure.

He'd practiced. Not the arson, per say, but the killing. Last time he'd killed, he hadn't been thinking, it had just happened. It had been easier than he had ever thought. He'd gone to Maureen's house. She was always home in the middle of the day.

I'm so sorry about your family, Chris. Would you like me to make you some cookies?

No thanks. Bang. Always with the cookies.

He knew what kind of girl Anna was. Always hanging out at the college, flashing those slutty smiles to get into parties, and that pissed him off. The girl was only seventeen, and way too into older men.

Chris visited with his family on the weekends, risking the panic he still felt when in the presence of his slacker brother to see his parents. And Anna. If an older man was what she wanted, well, he was right there. But no, she went to the university. To the fraternities. She didn't know anyone at the college; all she knew was how good-looking she was, and she also knew that was often enough to get into any party she wanted to. It wasn't hard to track her down.

Chris smiled, recalling the look on Anna's face when she'd seen him at the party.

She'd been heavily intoxicated, had staggered toward him with a sultry smile and a plastic cup in her right hand. "Chris!"

He'd taken her hand and led her upstairs, trying to focus his anger towards her. She'd leaned in to kiss him, due to the amount of alcohol she'd consumed and not from any feelings, and he'd been thoroughly repulsed, grabbing her roughly and dragging her to the balcony.

"Chris…what? No," she'd yelled at him. And then she'd screamed.

The gun would have been too loud. He would have never made it out of the house. He'd held her tightly by the back of her neck and slammed her head onto the edge of the railing. Then he'd tossed her light body over. Everyone in the house was too busy having a good time to come running, the music loud enough to cover the scream.

On his way out, he tossed the gun, which he'd earlier wiped clean, eliminating all current and past prints, into the bushes with her body.

He wasn't two blocks away when he heard the first scream.

Chris forced himself to think about the task at hand. He wasn't going to mess up again. He grabbed his keys and went outside.

If they want a killer, they're going to get a killer.

Nick started coughing when they got to the highway. He cranked up the A/C, and Sara wrapped her arms around herself, suppressing a shiver. It was five-thirty in the morning, and the air still carrying a chill. Not to mention the fact Nick also had all the windows in the Tahoe down.

Nevertheless, she put her own discomfort aside and stared at Nick. "You all right?"

Nick coughed again, turning into his shoulder. "Uh huh."

Sara thought his voice sounded a little hoarse but she didn't press the issue, choosing instead to inspect her nail beds and wait for the fit to pass.

He coughed once more and cleared his throat. "Just got a little stuffy in here."

Being so early, and Sunday, the roads were practically deserted, and Nick was driving pretty fast. There was so much air coming into the Tahoe, it was all Sara could do not to shudder. But Nick's body was stuck on completely different settings now, much different than her own.

"Here," she said, "I'll get you a water."

Sara twisted her body and reached for a bottle of water out of the cooler in the back seat. She glanced out of the rear window. The only other vehicle on the street seemed to be a large black truck that was staying about a hundred feet behind them.

Big truck, she noted, making a joke in her head about the average man's need to overcompensate. She straightened and offered the bottle to Nick.

As Nick's fingers closed around the bottle, the truck rammed into them.

Sara yelped at her seatbelt dug into her shoulder and belly. She gasped and sucked in a deep breath. What the hell…it took her a second to regain her thoughts, and then another to see that the Tahoe was starting to veer to the right. She took another painful breath and glanced over at Nick.

A thin line of blood trailed down the side of his face from a cut on his forehead, where he seemed to have struck the steering wheel. Though clearly disoriented, he was valiantly trying to keep the truck on the road, having a hard time keeping a grip on the wheel.

Sara reached out and took hold of it with her left hand, guiding it back to the road, all the while looking around frantically for the truck that had hit them.

She heard the roar of a very large engine, and whipped her head to the left in time to see the truck speed up, pulling dead even with them.

Chris Shelton smiled as he saw the panicked look in the woman's eyes as he guided his truck closer to the driver side door of the smaller SUV. He turned the steering wheel just a tad to the left…and then hard to the right.

He watched as his right side mirror went right through the open driver side window and slammed into the son of a bitch CSI's shoulder. The man shouted and let go of the wheel completely. The woman was thrown into her own door from the impact, and no one was steering the SUV. One second was all he needed.

The SUV was losing speed, as the driver was apparently not applying pressure to the gas pedal any longer…but he wasn't hitting the brakes either. Chris slowed enough to remain even with the vehicle, and prepared for one final ram.

Afterward, he stopped just long enough to watch in satisfaction as the SUV went straight through the guard rail. The vehicle took a nose dive over the edge of the rise, and fell twenty feet, slamming to the hard ground, landing perfectly vertically, the front end smashing inward. It teetered for just a moment like that, on the front end, before tipping and landing right side up, steam issuing from the mangled hood.

There was no movement inside the vehicle. Chris smiled, feeling nothing. It was their own fault, after all. He looked around, pleased to see that the highway was still deserted, and drove off into the foggy morning.

A loud, constant buzz drew Nick back to the surface.

Morning already? His alarm sounded much louder than normal. Without opening his eyes, he reached out his left hand to hit the snooze. Except his left arm didn't seem to want to move.

What in the hell…A sharp pain caused him to open his eyes. He lifted his head up and the buzzing stopped.

It hadn't been his alarm clock after all. His head had been resting hard against the horn on the steering wheel of the Tahoe. Nick tried to shift in the driver's seat of the SUV, but could barely move a muscle. It looked like the car had cradled in on itself. The steering wheel was literally inches from his face, the dashboard pinning him to his seat, and that was not a position he wanted to be in. Being trapped like he was cleared his head considerably. He tried to wriggle, and gasped as another sharp pain lanced through his left arm.

When the black truck had hit them from the side, its side mirror had slammed into Nick's shoulder, dislocating it from the feel of things. He'd dropped his hand from the wheel, cradling his arm close to his stomach. When the Tahoe had gone over the ridge and the front end had smashed in, his arm had been trapped between the steering wheel and his body. It had probably saved him a couple of broken ribs, but was still going to leave a hell of a bruise.

Nick turned his head, the one thing he found he could move, and looked in Sara's direction. Her head was slumped forward, the dashboard only inches away, and there were several cuts on her face from the shattered windshield. Nick was sure he had a few himself. He contented himself that she was okay for the moment.

Nick took a deep breath and leaned his head back as best he could, closing his eyes. He never thought he would be so grateful for the airbags to malfunction. They could have suffocated.

He heard Sara stir. Without opening his eyes, he asked her if she was okay.

"Yeah, I think. Ow."

Nick opened an eye and looked at her. She was holding a hand to her head, shaking it slowly to clear the cobwebs.

"Yeah, I got one, too," he said. He hissed at another stab in his arm, tried not to focus on it. He also tried not to focus on the fact that the cabin of the Tahoe seemed to be shrinking by the second.

He tried for a little levity. "You think anyone saw that?"

Sara didn't need to answer. The distant whine of sirens did it for her.

Greg rubbed his eyes and looked up at the clock. He'd been staring at the crime scene photos from the Shelton home for nearly three hours, and nothing had jumped out at him yet. He had to admit to himself that he would rather be anywhere but sitting in the lab, looking at a stack of pictures, while everyone else was out actually doing something.

Greg knew that he was most likely stuck with lab work because he was the newest field investigator. Everyone else had more experience, so it was probably a good move on Grissom's part. But he still wanted to feel more helpful.

He leaned back in his chair and let out a frustrated shout. It echoed down the hall of the nearly empty lab. It was morning, and most of the day shift had already headed out to their newest crime scenes – no lack of crime and violence in Las Vegas - and the lab rats were either just showing up or had already scurried off to their little corners of the lab.

Greg scolded himself for getting so worked up about his frustrations pertaining to the case. What about Catherine? It didn't matter if he had to stare at the photos for a week straight, he would do his part for his team. He would help them catch the man that had nearly killed Lindsey in an attempt to kill Catherine.

Coffee. That's all he needed. Then he would be back on track. He stood and stretched, turning for the door. As he did so, his left foot ever-so-gracefully caught on his right pant leg and he went sprawling to the floor.

Embarrassed, Greg looked around to see if anyone had seen his trip. He was picking himself up off of the ground when a thought struck him so hard he nearly slipped again.

Wait a second…he reached up and shuffled the photos on the table while on his knees. When he came to the one he'd been searching for, he drew in a sharp breath, slowly rising.

"Oh, holy crap," was all he could think to say.

Gil rounded a corner in the busy corridors of Desert Palms Hospital and sped up when he saw O'Reilly standing in the hall, hands in his pockets. The detective had been waiting for him.

"Where are they?" Gil demanded.

O'Reilly held up his hands. "Take it easy, Gil. They're okay."

O'Reilly had been sitting with Catherine when his cell phone had rang, and he had been informed that a MVA involving CSIs Stokes and Sidle had occurred and they were en route to the emergency room. He'd called Jim first, and then Gil.

"Okay! I passed the scene on my way here. I saw the car."

"They're a little banged up. Concussions all around. Nick's got a dislocated shoulder and a hairline fracture on his left arm. Sara's got a sprained wrist and bruised knee. Gil," O'Reilly said seriously, "if you saw the car, you know it could have been a lot worse."

Gil nodded curtly. "Where are they?" he repeated.

O'Reilly sighed and jerked backwards with his head.

Gil moved past the detective, maintaining eye contact. He was taking his anger out on the detective, and it wasn't fair. He'd called O'Reilly himself and asked the detective to stay with Catherine. The person he was really angry at was himself. He shouldn't have assumed that just because Nick and Sara hadn't worked Shelton's case that they wouldn't be targets. It was stupid leadership on his part, and he felt the sharp pang of guilt as he walked into the room where his CSIs were.

Nick was sitting with his eyes closed on the bed, leaning against the wall. There was a flesh-toned bandage on the right side of his forehead, and his left arm was in a cast and sling.

Sara was in the chair, hands dropped between her knees. Her right wrist was in a brace, and Gil could make out the unnatural bulge in her pant leg where a bandage was wrapped around her knee. They both had several cuts and scrapes on their arms and faces from shattered glass, and both looked up as he entered the room.

"Hey, Gris," Nick said, sitting forward.

Sara offered him a small smile, but it seemed out of place on her scraped face.

Gil wanted to say something encouraging. He wanted to say something…anything to let them know how happy he was that they were both okay.

"Do you guys remember what happened?" was all that came out.

Neither of them seemed to want to talk. A moment of excruciatingly painful silence lingered between them.

At the precise second Gil chose to speak next, his cell phone rang. He eyes went from Sara and Nick, who looked away and shrugged, respectively.

"Grissom," he said, flipping open his phone and turning towards the door. "What? Greg, slow down. What do you…" His eyes widened as Greg spoke. "No, I'll – we'll be right there."

He snapped his phone shut and addressed Nick and Sara. "It appears we may have made a very big mistake."

Greg took a deep breath. He'd always had a flare for the dramatics, and this was as good as it got. He had a piece of key information and an audience of peers he wanted nothing more than to impress. He looked around at the expectant faces watching him: Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, Nick, and Sara. Captain Brass was even standing in the doorway, seeming hesitant to step fully into the room.

Greg had noticed a look cross Brass's face when he first saw Nick and Sara, like he felt responsible. Greg thought it was ridiculous; Brass couldn't have known what was going to happen. But he was getting sidetracked. Everyone was here for a very specific reason. They'd all heard his theory and were waiting for the show, and Greg wasn't one to disappoint.

"So, I took another look at the photos and notes from the first scene. I took several looks actually, I was shut up in here for about six years – "

"Greg," Grissom prompted harshly.

"Sorry." Greg looked down sheepishly. "So, I looked at the things from the Shelton house. We missed something."

He gave them a meaningful look. "I'm not going to lay blame on Cath and Warrick just because it was their scene…we all put a hand in at some point, so I say 'we.'"

"Thanks, Greg," Warrick gritted out, not at all sounding thankful. Catherine just glared at him.

Grissom raised his eyebrows, signaling for Greg to move along.

"Okay, here it is." He held up a photo of the father, Patrick Shelton. His body was splayed on the floor where he had fallen after being shot, a puddle of blood beneath his form.

"The father," Nick said. He was hunched forward, keeping his injured arm close to his body.

"The second victim," Catherine said in a reprimanding kind of way.

"Yes," Greg said. "The only one we got right." He smiled at the questioning looks he received. Even though the situation was grave, he couldn't help but eat up the attention.

"I looked at the direction the body fell. We assumed he was drawn into the den from the gunfire. He wasn't. He was drawn into the kitchen."

Grissom sat forward, his brow furrowed. Greg had already explained this to him, but he still didn't seem to be grasping the concept.

"I looked at everything again, from a different perspective. We assumed the son was killed first. He was killed last, and he was the only one killed by Christian Shelton. Hear me out," he said quickly, as his co-workers moved to speak.

"You guys talked to the neighbors, right?" He addressed Warrick and Catherine, who nodded. "We know what kind of kid Brad Shelton was. He was screwed up royally. One day, he snaps, I don't know why yet, but he goes home with a gun. Mom's in the kitchen, making dinner. He shoots her once in the head. Dad hears from somewhere in the house and comes running. Brad takes him down in the hall, multiple shots. Dad was a fighter. Afterwards, Brad's emotionally shut down. I don't think he really understands what he did. He sits down and turns on the TV. Sometime, not too long after that, Chris arrives at the house, finds his mom and dad dead, and his younger brother watching TV like nothing happened. Chris does some snapping of his own. Now we know why Brad was shot three times when he was in a prone position on the couch."

"Rage killing," Sara said slowing, perhaps understanding all too well.

Greg nodded.

Everyone was silent. Nick opened and closed his mouth several times, at a loss for words. Catherine chewed on her lip.

After a moment, Grissom spoke up. "You figured all this, on your own."

It wasn't really a question, but Greg nodded anyway. "Yeah."

Warrick let out a low whistle. "Damn."

"He was exacting some kind of justice for the murder of his parents," Catherine said quietly.

"And we treated him like a goddamned cold-blooded killer," Brass said bitingly from the doorway. "No wonder he's pissed."

"It doesn't matter now," Grissom said solemnly. "Because now, he is a cold-blooded killer."

The initial shock of the situation had worn off, and everyone was talking. Loudly, and at the same time. Nick and Warrick were arguing. Greg and Sara were arguing. Grissom and Brass were arguing. Catherine just wanted all of them to stop talking.

"Guys," she said. No one acknowledged that she had spoken. "Hey, people," she said, a little more loudly, to no avail.

Catherine finally sighed, stood, put both pinkies in her mouth and let out a sharp whistle. "Everybody, shut up!"

Six mouths hung open and twelve eyes stared at her.

"What'd you do that for?" Nick asked, with wide innocent puppy-dog eyes.

"This is getting us nowhere." Catherine took it upon herself to be the voice of reason. "If we want to solve this case, then we're going to need to think clearly and listen to each other."

She didn't speak again until she saw six heads nodding. "Okay. We have one very important question that needs to be answered."

"What's that?" Sara's tone was almost challenging.

Catherine shook it off and addressed Greg. "Greg, your theory is great, and the evidence you've presented is definitely something we're going to need to look into, but you didn't explain one thing. Why weren't Brad Shelton's fingerprints on the murder weapon?"

The silence continued. Greg started to speak a couple of times and stopped. Catherine saw him glance at Grissom, who shook his head, almost in disappointment. This seemed to restore Greg's confidence in himself.

"There are a number of possible reasons," he said, maintaining eye contact with Grissom. "He could have worn gloves, or he could have wiped it down, or held it with a towel, or – "

"It doesn't really matter now, because Christian's prints aren't on the gun either," Nick spoke up, saving Greg the trouble of trying to think up more possible scenarios. Greg shot him a grateful look.

Warrick nodded. "I hear what you're saying, Cath, but I think my man Greg here is right. It was something we overlooked."

He glanced down at the photos spread out in front of him. "I'd assumed the surviving family member was the suspect. It never occurred to me that the other brother might have done it."

Grissom stood and laid his hands on the table. "We can reassess the circumstances under which the Sheltons were murdered after we find Christian. If Greg's theory is correct then we still need to find him for the murder of his brother, and most likely Maureen and Anna Thomas." He glanced at Nick and Sara and then up at Catherine. "And for three cases of attempted murder."

Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "That really doesn't make sense, either," she said.

Grissom eyes her carefully. "What do you mean?"

"Well, okay, Catherine worked his case. But what about me and Nick? We didn't really do anything to him, did we? Is this just random revenge?"

"It looks like it," Grissom said gently. "And that makes him very dangerous."

"What do you want us to do?" Nick asked.

Catherine shook her head. "Oh, no. You and Sara are confined to the lab. Neither of you are in any condition to find this guy," she added, as both CSIs moved to protest.

Brass spoke up. "Actually, PD isn't going to want any of you out of the lab. You're obviously being targeted, and we need to keep you under strict surveillance."

At that, a small mutiny ensued.

"Ah, hell no," was Warrick's indignant reply.

"You're kidding, right?" came from Catherine.

"But this is our job," Greg said loudly.

"Come on, man. This is nothing," Nick protested, indicating his arm with a jerk of his head, causing him to wince as his shoulder shifted.

Brass grimaced. "That's exactly what I mean. He's already tried to kill half of you, and I'm not losing anyone." A steely gaze halted any further rebellious outbursts.

Grissom had not participated in fighting Brass's decision. Catherine could tell by the look in his eyes that he agreed with the detective.

"There's no point in arguing. I'm calling up O'Reilly and having four uniforms sent over." Brass surveyed the group. "You're all to stay here. Under no circumstances are you to leave the lab. Understood?" He waited until every one of the faces watching him nodded.

Catherine and Warrick were the last to comply. Catherine was pissed. This meant that she couldn't even go see Lindsey.

Brass, it seemed, could read her mind. "We'll send another uniform to the hospital with Lindsey," he said.

Catherine resigned, just a little. She nodded again. "Okay."

With that, Brass slapped his hands on his legs. "Okay, I'll go call the station, get those guys over here. Then we'll go find Shelton. Don't worry, we'll get him."

Catherine hoped he was right.

Warrick was pissed, and he was sure everyone knew it. None of them had really taken the news of their quarantine, of sorts, lightly. Sara hadn't really minded, and although Nick had protested, Warrick could tell his friend was tired and hurting.

Nick was currently stretched out on the couch in the break room, his arm resting on his chest. His eyes were closed but Warrick knew that he wasn't sleeping, just attempting to pacify Catherine, who had been mothering the two since they signed themselves out of the hospital. Sara had limped into the room and sunk into a chair. Warrick knew that she, too, was tired. The both of them had concussions, and really should have been home resting. In a perfect world, they would have been. But Warrick knew all too well from years of working crime scenes that this was nowhere near a perfect world.

Greg entered the break room, snapping his fingers, trying to make the best of their situation. "Who's up for some Madden football action?" he asked, clapping his hands together. "Sara?"

"Oh, no. Count me out. Too much hand-eye coordination for me right now." She smiled at him. "Maybe later."

"You got it. Catherine, Nick?"

Catherine merely snorted and turned her attention back to the fashion magazine she was flipping through.

Nick opened an eye and chuckled. "Man, I can't play with one hand."

Greg smirked. "Just as well. Wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself." He turned to Warrick. "Guess that leaves you and me, man."

Warrick shrugged. He wasn't really in the mood for video games. He really wanted to give Brass, or at least Grissom, a good piece of his mind, but Brass had gone to the station and Grissom was holed up in his office. Apparently Greg read the shrug as an enthusiastic 'yes!' and proceeded to pull various games out of the cabinet until he came to the one he wanted.

He held up the game. "Who do you wanna be? I call Pats."

Warrick shook his head and allowed himself a small laugh. "I don't care if you play with the Pats, you're still going down."

He moved over to the couch and gently knocked Nick's legs off, making room for himself. Nick grunted but sat upright, pulling his arm in.

Warrick's mood was short-lived, even with the game and Greg's lively antics. He, of course, cleaned the floor with Greg and his beloved Patriots, 42-17.

"What do you want to play now?" Greg knelt by the TV and PS2, taking the football game out.

Warrick sighed and tossed the controller on the floor. "Man, I don't wanna play anything. I hate sittin' around here like a punk."

It had been a couple of hours since they'd been confined by Brass. Catherine had found a deck of cards and was playing solitaire, tossing cards onto the table instead of placing them. Sara had curled up in the chair and fallen asleep. Nick was still sitting on the couch next to Warrick, head slumped to the side. He, too, had started to drift off before Warrick's toss of the controller. His head snapped up, eyes a little unfocused. Greg stared up at Warrick, kneeling on the floor.

David Hodges picked this moment to poke his head in the door. "How are you guys holding up?" he asked with a venomous smile.

"Get out!" Catherine and Greg yelled at the same time. Nick chucked the TV remote at him.

Hodges ducked under the remote, laughing, and went on his way.

Warrick stood and began to pace. He didn't know what he was thinking, but he knew he had to get out of there. He was a crime scene investigator, and it was his job to process crime scenes and analyze evidence. Any old police officer couldn't wander into a crime scene and see the things that he and his colleagues saw. They wouldn't make anything of a stray hair or a silk fiber, but these were the little things that spoke volumes to Warrick and the others. He just had to figure out how to get past the uniform posted at the break room door, the one by Grissom's office, the one at the stairwell, and the other one outside at the front door.

Warrick sighed and put his hands on his hips.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

Chris Shelton threw a glass and watched it shatter against the crappy dingy wall of the crappy dingy apartment he'd been living in. His heart was racing, his head was pounding. He was so angry, he could hardly think. When he'd driven away from the site of the crash, he'd been so sure that those annoying CSIs hadn't made it. He made it back to his apartment just in time to turn on the TV and catch a news report about how two officers of the Las Vegas Crime Lab had survived a horrific crash with minor injuries. This was ridiculous. Could nobody get a little old-fashioned revenge anymore?

Well, okay, so Chris had gotten a good chunk of revenge out of his brother. He couldn't describe in words the emotions he'd felt when he saw his parents lying in twin pools of blood. His mother, always so kind to everyone. His father, strong and proud, sure, but he had stood up for Chris when no one else had. And now they were gone.

Chris laughed bitterly as he recalled the brief moment of panic he'd felt for his little brother. Wasn't that crazy? Everything Brad had put him through, and he'd still been worried for him. Then he'd found the son of a bitch sitting in the den as though nothing had happened.

Chris had been blinded by some kind of fiery rage. He'd spotted the gun lying on the coffee table, wrapped in an old rag from his father's workbench in the garage. In retrospect, he wondered if Brad had even seen him enter the room. Chris had never fired a gun before in his life, but it came so easily. He'd put three bullets into his little brother before even thinking twice about it. And now, he was consumed with a kind of anger he didn't think he could ever feel.

He'd thought that of all people, the CSIs would have understood what had happened. That he had done what he had to do, for his parents. But no, they'd shown up at his home with the police, kicked in the door with a warrant. It had taken them all of three minutes to find the gun and haul him away in handcuffs. He'd been so shocked, it hadn't even occurred to him to try to explain.

He gave into the anger. And now the anger was in the driver's seat.

Speaking of which…

Chris once again grabbed his car keys. There were things back at his parents' house he was going to need. It was time to get serious.

Gil stared at his computer screen. It seemed they were doing a lot of that lately. Staring at computers, photos, people…just waiting for the answers to pop out at them. They weren't hunting for them the way they were meant to. In fact, for the last few days, Gil felt that he and his team were being far too passive. They were supposed to be go-getters. They searched for evidence and sniffed out the bad guys.

Not now. Now, for the safety of his team, they were shut up in the lab, hiding from someone they had failed from a professional standpoint. Gil had never felt so ashamed. He hadn't been a primary on the case, but he was shift supervisor, and it was his job to ensure all evidence was processed to the best of the team's abilities. He'd never doubted Warrick and Catherine's skills for a second. Their judgment, maybe, but that was for another day.

Right now, Gil had one goal: find Christian Shelton and put him away for a good long while. He told himself that he couldn't feel personally responsible for the murders of Maureen and Anna Thomas…but that didn't mean that he didn't.

Gil frowned as he went over the police records. Something was off about the pattern of the murders. He understood the motive for the murder of the first victim, Brad Shelton. He didn't understand why Christian killed Maureen and Anna. And he didn't understand to de-escalation Shelton was showing in the attacks on his team. Not that he wasn't grateful for it.

Perhaps it was nothing more than Christian only had the one gun, and had left it at the scene of Anna's murder to let them know it was him. Without a gun, he was forced to come up with different plans of attack. Or maybe he was just acting on impulse, doing whatever popped into his mind.

Gil heard indistinct voices coming from the radio of the officer that was standing at his door. He looked up at the officer's knock.

"Uh, Mr. Grissom, sir? Captain Brass is on his way in, something to do with a couple of your CSIs."

Gil stood up so fast that he nearly knocked his chair over. "What?"

Getting past the officer hadn't been the hard part after all; getting past Nick had.

Warrick had stopped pacing and stood still in the middle of the room for a minute or two. This didn't seem to catch the attention of his friends, who wrote it off as his being antsy over being cooped up. They were all feeling a little weird, and one of them was bound to start acting it.

Nick, on the other hand, knew Warrick pretty well, and could tell something was up when Warrick had mumbled something about to the bathroom and left in a rush. Way too quickly to actually be going to the bathroom.

Nick leaned forward and watched Warrick's retreating figure. He was going in the opposite direction of the bathroom. When he saw Warrick check his hip to make sure he had his gun on him, Nick decided to check things out. He got up and followed Warrick.

"Where are you – " Greg started to ask.

"Bathroom," Nick answered without looking at him.

Catherine laughed. "And I thought it was only women who went to the bathroom in pairs."

Nick ignored her. He found Warrick in the hall by the DNA lab, eyeing the officer posted at the stairwell. "What are you doing, 'Rick?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

Warrick didn't look at him as he answered. "You think I'm just gonna sit in there and let those cops go out and get themselves killed? They don't know what they're doing."

"I think Ecklie and some of the day shift were going over the scenes. Man, it's not like they're not going to find the guy." Nick watched the officer stifle a yawn and adjust himself. He laughed quietly.

Warrick shot him a look. "Who do have more faith in? Us, or Ecklie?" He practically spat out the director's name.

Nick had to admit that Warrick had a point. He would feel much better knowing that their team was still the primary on the case.

"I'm gonna take care of this," Warrick continued.

Nick sighed. "What's your plan?"

Warrick shook his head. "Oh, no, man. You're not going anywhere with that arm."

Nick was stubborn, wasn't about to be written off. "It's not that bad, really." Although I kinda wish I'd taken some of those painkillers the doctor gave me, he thought, fighting not to wince. "Besides, you think I won't go straight to Gris and tell him what you're up to?" That was his ace in the hole and it worked like a charm.

Warrick sighed and gestured towards the stairwell with a jerk of his head. "Follow my lead."

Nick nodded and followed Warrick down the hall.

The officer saw them coming and started toward them. "You guys going somewhere?"

Warrick raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Paul. Yeah, we just gotta run out to the truck, get some case files for Ecklie. He wants 'em pronto."

Nick nodded in agreement.

The officer didn't hesitate. They all knew Conrad Ecklie was a prick. He gave a small chuckle. "Buddy system, huh? You guys better hurry. I know how he gets. How's the arm, Nick?"

"Huh, oh, great," Nick said in a rush as the two made their way past the officer. "How do you plan on gettin' past the one outside? He'll see us leave."

Warrick gave him a look. "Have a little faith in a brother."

They stood in the corner right outside of the double glass doors, unseen by the few lab workers milling around in the halls. Nick waited impatiently next to Warrick, shifting from foot to foot, expecting Warrick to make a big move. He made a face at an itch inside his cast.

"Would you calm down?" Warrick said, his gaze never wavering from looking out the doors. All of a sudden, he smiled. "Let's go."

Nick was confused, but then he saw what Warrick had, and had to laugh.

The officer at the door had been there for a few hours, and there were certain bodily functions that needed to occur at regular intervals throughout the day, and it was apparently time for this guy. Obviously afraid that Brass would rip him a new one if he saw him away from his post, he'd opted to relieve himself around the corner of the building, away from the doors and, more importantly, away from the parking lot.

The two men moved quietly as they made their way to Warrick's truck, and once out of the parking lot they drove for a while in complete silence.

"How long do you think till Brass knows we're gone?" Nick asked his partner. He wasn't one to normally sneak around breaking rules, and was a little worried about the repercussions of their actions. Brass was going to kill them. Of course, he wouldn't have much to work with after Grissom and Catherine got a hold of them.

As if on cue, Nick's cell phone rang. He jumped and looked down at it. Grissom, he thought. "Man," he whined.

"Be strong, man," Warrick said, trying not to laugh.

Nick stared at his phone until it stopped ringing. It wasn't a minute later that it started again. This time the number was Brass. Nick shook his head. "Why aren't they calling you?"

"'Cause they know I won't answer."

Nick fought with himself for a minute. His phone kept ringing. "Ah, hell," he said, flipping open the phone. "Yeah – "

"What in the hell do you two think you're doing?"

Nick had to hold the phone a few inches from his ear, Brass was yelling so loud. "Jim, listen," he started.

"No, you listen. You two get back here right now or so help me God, I'll – "

Nick didn't want to hear what Brass was planning to do them that would warrant divine restraint. He snapped his phone shut and put it on silent mode.

Warrick laughed in the driver's seat and offered Nick his fist. Nick reached over with his right hand and pounded it.

He leaned his head back and put the window down. "So, where are we headin'?" He figured the answer would be Chris Shelton's house.

He was surprised to find out he was wrong. "Before we got put into day care for the day, I was checking Shelton's credit card. He slipped up. Found a record of a payment for three hundred and fifty dollars to Parkway Apartments."

"You get the apartment number?"

"Building three, apartment five."

Nick nodded to himself. They rode for a little while longer without speaking. One thing was still bothering him, though. "You do have some kind of plan, right?" he asked Warrick.

Warrick just stared straight ahead.

Great…Nick thought.

Jim was so mad, he could hardly think straight. At the moment, he wasn't even worried about the two CSIs, he was just mad. Mad at them, and mad at himself. He should have known Warrick and Nick better than that. They weren't the kind of men to sit around and have their hands held. They were doers. He had a feeling that this whole thing was Warrick's idea, and Nick had gone along with it so Warrick wouldn't be alone. That pissed him off, too. Nick had no business being out searching for a killer in his condition, and Warrick knew it.

Jim had gotten the call from Officer Tomlinson, stationed at the break room door, about twenty minutes ago. He told Jim the two guys had said they were going to the bathroom. After fifteen minutes, he went to check on them, found the bathroom empty, and radioed the other officers in the building. The officer at the front door had been the one to radio Jim, and had suffered his wrath at letting his post go unwatched for even a few minutes.

Jim had stalked into Grissom's office to find it empty, as well, and followed shouting to the break room to find Gil, Catherine, Sara, Greg, and two of the officers all yelling at each other.

"How could you not notice they were gone?" Gil yelled that at his remaining CSIs as Jim came into the room.

Silence fell over the room when they saw him.

"Do any of you guys have any idea where they're going?" Jim demanded.

They all shook their heads. "No idea," Greg said

"I bet we can guess," Catherine said icily.

Jim knew that she was blaming him for the guys taking off. The day shift and the PD had been searching for Shelton for half the day and had turned up nothing.

Grissom pulled his phone out and punched in speed dial #5, Nick's number. He shook his head at Jim, signaling that there was no answer.

Jim swore and pulled out his own phone. He, too, dialed Nick's number and let it go to the kid's voicemail before hitting redial. Nick picked up on the forth ring of the third call.

"Yeah – "

"What in the hell do you two think you're doing?" Jim yelled into the phone. He saw the others in the room flinch at his volume and tone.

"Jim, listen – "

He cut the kid off again. "No, you listen. You two get back here right now or so help me God I'll rip you – "

Jim stopped when he heard a click and the line went silent. "Damn it!" he yelled and hit redial. No answer. They didn't even bother to call Warrick's cell.

"Do you want me to try?" Catherine offered.

Jim shook his head. "Nobody in this room even so much as scratches their ass without my permission, got it?"

Everyone nodded. Gil opened his mouth to speak.

"Even you, Gil." He turned on his heel, addressing the two officers. "If they get out of this room, you'll be working a desk till the day God takes mercy on your pathetic over-worked souls. You hearin' me?"

He smiled in satisfaction at their nervous "Yes, sir"s.

"Jim, I'm going with you." Gil's voice was firm. "You can't keep me here."

Jim sighed and gave a slight nod. He saw Catherine about to say that she was coming, too, and put a stop to it. "No one else moves," he said.

He and Gil turned to leave.

"What if we have to go to the bathroom?"

"Officer Kendall, could you get Mr. Sanders a bottle, please?" With that, Jim was out the door. He had a few good guesses as to where Nick and Warrick were heading.

He just hoped he was wrong. Chris Shelton was still out there.

As a cop, Jim's idea of taking care of the problem at hand was to go out to all the possible places Warrick and Nick might be headed, or places that they had known Chris Shelton to frequent. He was even contemplating putting out an APB on Warrick's vehicle.

Grissom was a CSI, and his idea of finding the guys was completely different.

When the two left the break room, Jim started for the exit while Gil headed for one of the small offices down the hall. Jim had made it halfway down the stairs before he realized that Gil wasn't behind him. He found him sifting through what looked to be about a hundred papers.

Jim threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "You wanted to go, so let's go." He made a sweeping gesture towards the door.

Gil looked at him over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows raised. This truly Grissom-esque action just served to further anger the captain.

"What the hell are you doing? Those guys are gonna get themselves killed and you're doing paperwork?"

"Warrick was tracking Shelton's credit records. He may have found something and not told us."

Jim crossed his arms. "And what possible reason could he have for not giving us information about the location of a suspect?"

"I don't know, Jim. It's possible that it slipped his mind in all of the chaos. He was probably worried about Nick and Sara and forgot. I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt, as I do doubt very seriously that Warrick would have withheld this information just for the hell of it." Gil's tone matched his own perfectly.

Jim didn't care whether or not Warrick had a reason. The point was that there was a possibility that he had knowingly and purposefully withheld important information. "I trust that you're suspending them when this is all over."

It wasn't a question, and he was aware that he had unconsciously said 'them' instead of 'him'; but he didn't chastise himself for it. Neither of the guys had any right to take off like they did, against strict orders, playing cops and robbers like little boys. They were scientists, not cops.

Gil didn't look up.

After a few moments full of random sighs and snorts, Jim's preciously wasted time was rewarded with an "Ah ha!"

Jim was amazed. Gil was one of the few people he knew who actually said that. He leaned in to look at the paper Gil had uncovered. "Looks like an address," he commented unnecessarily.

"Looks like this is where we're going. Now aren't you glad we didn't just run out of here?"

Jim understood that Gil Grissom was well-educated. The man did have a Ph.D. He understood that Gil Grissom was usually right. But sometimes, he hated that guy.

They left the SUV at the entrance to the apartment complex and walked stealthily through the low-rent neighborhood. Nick's heart was pounding like mad, so loudly in his head that he was sure if Shelton was in the apartment, he would hear them coming. What the hell were they thinking? They had weapons training, sure, but Chris Shelton was a murderer. What were they doing running out after him like some kind of pair of low-budget television detectives?

The only thing that kept him going was the confidence radiating from Warrick. If Nick had been acting alone, he would have turned right around, driven back to the lab, and faced the wrath of Brass and whatever punishment was surely awaiting them. Of course, if he'd been acting alone, he would never have decided to go out like this in the first place.

He tightened his grip on his gun as he entered building five, right on Warrick's heels. In his one-armed, bum-like state, he was content to let Warrick take the lead. It seemed that Warrick was content to let Warrick take the lead, as well. He shot Nick a worried look over his shoulder.

Nick rolled his eyes. "I'm fine," he said, quietly but forcefully.

Warrick looked like he wanted to say something, but apparently thought better of it.

The two men moved slowly down the hall. Luckily, there was no one out in the corridor. It was getting to be pretty late, and it was a school night.

Would you focus, please? Nick asked himself.

They came to the door with a paint-chipped plastic number '3' on the surface, and stopped. Nick couldn't help but notice Warrick was breathing heavily. This did nothing for his already weak confidence in their abilities and situation. They were just crazy.

"Hey, 'Rick," he whispered. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, you know?"

Warrick ignored him and quietly tested the doorknob. It turned with ease; the door was unlocked. Nick didn't know if this was a good or bad thing.

He hadn't spent much time at the house. If he'd tried, it wouldn't have been easy, as there were several CSIs and police officers roaming the premises. Chris had seriously considered taking a couple of them out. He didn't have a problem with random violence…not anymore. But these weren't the CSIs he was interested in.

He couldn't explain it, but they didn't hold his attention in the least. He was running on pure emotion, driven by a deep rage and thirst for vengeance. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he knew he was thinking and acting irrationally. It was strange, chastising himself for his behavior. What the hell did he care about what was rational? It wasn't as if the night shift of the Las Vegas Crime Lab had been thinking rationally when they'd dragged him into a cramped, white, claustrophobia-inducing room and accused him of killing his parents.

There was a very select group of people he'd planned to take his revenge out on, and he couldn't afford to become distracted now. Too much had already gone wrong. He'd had the chance to kill three of them already, and had failed miserably. Failure did nothing to his anger. Nothing positive, anyway.

They'd found that damned handgun in his garage weeks ago, lying on a crate where he had carelessly and mindlessly dropped it after returning home. At the time, they thought it was his gun, and hadn't bothered to look for any more weapons in the house. They hadn't found any in the obvious places, and besides, the gun was sitting right out in the open. What was the point in searching every nook and cranny of his house when they had enough to put him away for a triple homicide?

That's how the CSIs thought, and so they had missed the gun that Chris had bought two years earlier when he'd been feeling particularly threatened by a man down the street. He'd freaked, and purchased the gun. After the man moved away, Chris was humiliated with himself for buying a gun because some idiotic former jock kept running over his mailbox. He'd hid the gun in a shoebox in the farthest corner of his closet, and hadn't given it a second thought. Until now.

The CSIs had been in the garage. Two of them. One cop at the garage door, one cop at the front door. No one at the back door. He was in and out in less than three minutes, and those brilliant scientists and well-trained police officers had been none the wiser.

Now, Chris was coming up on the turn to his crappy little apartment complex. A flash of navy blue caught his eye. He slowed the truck and eventually halted next to the SUV. Chris recognized the vehicle. He smiled.

Warrick pushed the door open a few inches with his left hand, keeping a tight grip on his gun with his right. He could feel Nick right close him, could tell that the other man was nervous, but he couldn't think about that right now. He knew Nick would stay with him. They had come this far already, and besides, they worked better as a team.

Warrick entered the first room and trained his gun along the bare white walls. Seeing no one in the room, he motioned for Nick to follow him and eyed a closed door across the space, presumably a bedroom. He cleared the kitchen next while Nick stayed in the living room and Warrick was perfectly happy with that. Nick's left arm was still in a sling and although Nick was not a lefty, Warrick knew his friend had never had the steadiest hand when it came to firing his weapon. Warrick moved to the closed bedroom door and once tested the knob quietly, and it pushed open with just the softest creak. Nothing.

"We're clear," Warrick said, holstering his weapon.

Nick nodded nervously. "Great." He, too, returned his gun to its holster. "Now what?"

Warrick moved back through the sparsely furnished living room, hands on his hips. "Well, it's obvious Shelton's been staying here." He gestured to the kitchen, where there were various boxes and cans on the counter and the unmistakable smell of old food.

Nick squinted and mimicked the posture with his free hand. "'Kay. So then where is he?"

Warrick shook his head. "I don't know." He went back into the bedroom. There was simply a mattress on the cheap carpet. A pillow and blanket were strewn carelessly on top of it. "I'm gonna have a look around in here," he called into the other room. "You take the living room."

"Copy," came the reply.

Warrick heard Nick's footsteps and the sound of various things being moved around in the other room.

Warrick frowned as he surveyed the room. There was really nothing there besides the mattress. He looked around at the plain white walls. The paint wasn't really white, but more of an eggshell color, marred with strips literally peeling off the wall.

"This guy's living it up big time," he said, to no one in particular.

His eyes focused on the sliding door of the closet. He pushed it open with the back of his hand, realizing that he didn't have a pair of gloves on him. Hanging inside the closet were about six tees of various neutral shades and a single pair of jeans. Other than a few empty hangers, there didn't seem to be anything else to be found the closet, either. He was just about to slide the door shut when a piece of paper on the top shelf caught his eye.

Warrick picked it up by a corner, trying to use his short fingernails and not the pads of his fingers. He scanned the contents of the paper and his eyebrows jumped.

"Hey, Nick," he called, "I got something here. A list of our names. Should be enough to get him on the attacks."

There was no answer from the living room. Warrick hadn't noticed that Nick stopped making noise. "Nick?"

"Yeah…'Rick?"

"What's up?" Warrick folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket.

"You, uh, you did tell someone about the apartment, right?" Nick's voice was shaky, and drawing closer.

Warrick turned to the door. He gave himself a mental slap, hell, a mental punch to the groin. He hadn't thought until then that he hadn't actually told anyone. He'd just assumed they'd told Grissom. After the accident, the events of the day all seemed to blend together.

"Uh, no. Actually, I didn't." He suddenly picked up on the panic in Nick's voice. "Why?"

"Oh, well, I was just thinking it might be nice if someone knew where we were right about now." Nick backed into the room, holding up his good hand.

Chris Shelton entered the room behind him, holding a gun at eye level, right at his partner.

If Nick Stokes could pick one thing he getting very sick and tired of, it was being held at gunpoint. This was, what, three times now, and it was getting ridiculous. Amy Hendler, Nigel Crane, and now Christian Shelton.

Nick cast a sideways glance at Warrick, standing there with his patented "I'm big, I'm black, and I'm pissed" look. Seeing this made Nick feel just a little bit better. At least this time he wasn't alone.

He turned his attention back to Chris Shelton, standing only two feet in front of him, still holding that damned gun, still pointing it right at him. He hadn't spoken since he'd entered the apartment.

"We know you didn't kill your parents, Chris," Nick said. He was relieved to hear his voice sounding much stronger than it had only moments before.

"It's a little late for that." Shelton took a step forward.

Nick instinctively took a step back. He heard Warrick draw in a sharp breath.

"Yeah, it is too late, Chris." If Warrick was even half as nervous as Nick was, his voice didn't show it. "You should have just walked away."

"Shut up!" Shelton screamed, his arm moving to the left, his aim moving from Nick to Warrick.

If Nick knew his best friend at all, he knew this had been Warrick's intention. Later, Nick was going to have to remind himself to take the time to be pissed at Warrick for the constant older-brother protectiveness. At the moment, he was just worried about the two of them getting out of this alive.

"He killed them!" Shelton continued to yell at Warrick.

"So what gives you the right to kill him? The police would have taken care of it!" Warrick was beginning to yell, himself. The irony of his statement was not lost on Nick.

"He deserved it!" Shelton's tone was continuing to rise.

"What about Maureen and Anna Thomas? What did they do to deserve it? What about my friends?"

Nick watched the two men go back and forth as though watching a tennis match. This last outburst from Warrick seemed to push Shelton over the edge that he was already teetering precariously on.

"Shut up! You were supposed to be on my side! That's what you guys do!" Shelton took another step towards them.

While Nick took a step to the side, Warrick did not waver. "What we do is put criminals behind bars. We don't just go around shooting them!"

Looking at the gun straight-on, Warrick couldn't see Shelton's finger tense on the trigger. But from his point of view, Nick could.

"Warrick!" he yelled, and threw himself sideways at his friend, just as Shelton fired.

Warrick was pissed, and wasn't one to hide it. If he felt there was something that someone needed to hear then he told them. Despite their situation, and the fact Shelton had a gun, this had been one of those times. He wasn't able to keep his mouth shut. It wasn't very often he found himself face to face with a criminal without a sheet of glass or a member of the LVPD between them.

Not focusing on the gun in his face, Warrick told Shelton exactly what he wanted to. The guy was messed up. Warrick could maybe understand the murder of his brother; if it had been Warrick's family that had been killed, he didn't know if he would have the restraint to keep himself from taking out the murderer if he knew who it was. And besides, it didn't matter what Warrick was feeling, Shelton had no right to kill his brother, or his neighbors. Not only did he have no right, he had no reason.

Warrick had slowly been moving his hand to his hip, his fingers just grazing his holster when Nick yelled and rammed into him. He had a couple inches and a few pounds on the other CSI, but Nick still took him by surprise.

Warrick slammed into the sliding door of the closet as he heard a gunshot. The door pulled off of the sliding track and buckled with his weight and Warrick fell to the floor. All he could think about was that gunshot, and the fact that it didn't feel like he had been hit anywhere.

He was slightly dazed but managed to get a firm grip on his gun. He sat up, pointing the weapon wildly in front of him. In a heap at his feet was Nick.

"Nick!" he yelled and reached out to his friend.

He ignored the rapidly spreading bloodstain on the front of Nick's shirt and focused on finding a pulse. He felt it, weak as it was, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he saw the shadow fall over his fallen friend.

Warrick moved the gun quickly and tightly to his side, hoping Shelton hadn't seen him remove it from its holster.

"You asked for it," Shelton whispered, and leveled the gun at Warrick's head.

Warrick tightened his finger around the trigger of his own gun and started to bring it up.

A shot erupted through the room, and for a moment, an eerie silence fell over the small apartment.

Chris Shelton's eyes seemed confused, and as they started to glaze over, he looked down at his chest, eyes widening as he took in the overwhelming amount of red there. His gun slipped from his limp fingers and clattered to the thin carpet.

Warrick watched with a strange sense of fascination as Shelton seemed to crumple in on himself and fall to the floor. Only then could he see that Brass and Grissom had entered the apartment. A tendril of smoke was curling out of the tip of Brass's drawn gun.

"God, Nick."

Grissom's voice drew Warrick back to reality. The supervisor knelt by Nick and held a hand to the wound in his side. Warrick let his gun fall to the ground and knelt on the other side of his friend.

"We need emergency medical assistance, Parkway Apartments…" Brass was talking rapid-fire into his radio as he left the room, walking back to the front door of the apartment to wait for the paramedics. "…now." The urgency in Brass's voice sent a chill down Warrick's spine.

Nick appeared to be conscious but his eyes weren't focusing on either of the men crouched over him. His breathing was slow and shallow, and he clung to Warrick's hand so tightly, he was momentarily taken back to the night that they had rescued Nick from the plexi-glass coffin. Warrick had felt Nick hold his hand this tightly then. He couldn't help but notice how pale Nick's face was.

"Hang on, Nicky, we'll get you outta here," Warrick said. He didn't have to look up at Grissom to see the disappointment in his eyes. He could feel them burning twin holes in the top of his head.

It seemed forever before Warrick heard the shrill comforting whine of sirens, but it had been only three minutes. Another minute passed as the sirens grew louder, and then came to an abrupt stop.

"He's in here," he heard Brass shout.

The paramedics rushed into the room and Warrick was shoved aside as they stabilized Nick for transport to the hospital. Warrick stood in the corner and watched them work as if in a haze. One paramedic checked Shelton for a pulse, shaking his head at Brass.

Warrick didn't move when they rolled Nick out on a gurney. Grissom left with them, and Warrick was left standing in the room with Brass and the body of Christian Shelton.

"He'll be okay," Warrick said quietly, only speaking to comfort his own inner turmoil.

Brass just stared at him. He looked over at Shelton's body and pulled out his cell phone once again. He locked eyes with Warrick as he left the room, calling for the coroner.

Warrick nodded to an empty room. "He'll be okay."

Jim let Warrick simmer in his guilt as they rode to the station. They had gone to the hospital first, but hadn't been permitted to see Nick. An ER doctor told them Nick had lost a lot of blood, and while there didn't seem to be any serious damage caused by the bullet, they were going to keep him in the ICU for a few days.

Grissom had stayed there, sitting in a chair in the waiting room. Jim knew it didn't matter if he had to wait a whole day to get in and see Nick, he would sit in that chair until it happened. Warrick had voiced his opinion to stay as well, but Jim had been firm in saying that they needed to go to the station to take Warrick's statement.

They walked quickly and quietly through the station, drawing many looks from the various officers who'd already heard about what had happened at the apartment. When they reached Jim's office he held the door open for Warrick before shutting it with just the faintest slam.

"Sit down, Warrick."

"Jim, I – "

"Sit down."

Warrick complied, sinking heavily into the chair. He rubbed his face and leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs.

Jim walked around his desk and set his hands on the tabletop. "I spoke to Gil," he began.

Warrick looked up, and the look in his eyes told Jim that the young man knew what was coming.

"Four weeks. No pay."

Warrick hung his head. He sighed and made as if to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jim couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

Warrick just looked at him. He opened his mouth but couldn't seem to form any words.

"If it were up to me," Jim continued, "you'd be out of here. And possibly charged with obstruction of justice." His eyes narrowed. "You're just lucky that Nicky's going to be okay."

"Lucky," he heard Warrick mutter under his breath. There was a moment of silence. "I did it wrong," Warrick finally said aloud.

"You're damn right you did it wrong," Jim spat. "When Gil or I tell you to do something, when Catherine tells you to do something, you do it. Under no circumstances are you to ever take police matters into your own hands. What were you thinking?"

Warrick shook his head. "I just wanted to get this guy. I wasn't thinking straight."

"Maybe you should start." Jim sat in his chair. "Get the hell out of here."

Warrick looked up at him, surprised. He gave a few small nods, lips pursed. He sighed, stood, and turned to leave.

He stopped on the threshold. "I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim didn't answer.

Catherine was waiting in the hall when Warrick got back to the lab. She'd fully intended to be the good cop to Brass's bad cop, but when she saw him walk through the glass double doors, all of the anger she'd been feeling towards him since he and Nick had left, all the anger she'd been trying to push away, came rushing back.

She tossed her hair. "What'd you get?"

Warrick winced at her icy tone and his shoulders sagged, something very un-Warrick-like. "A month."

"You're lucky. If I was still your supervisor, you'd have gotten at least two."

Warrick looked away. "How's Nick doing?" he asked, avoiding her steely gaze.

Catherine felt the anger crumble away, broken down by his defeated tone. "It's not good, but he's going to be okay."

Warrick breathed a deep sigh. "Good. That's, uh, that's good." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "When can we see him?"

"Probably in the morning. Grissom's going to call when they let him in." Her tone softened, just a bit. "Why don't you go home and try to get some sleep."

"Nah, I'm cool. I was thinking I would just – "

"Warrick." Most of the anger Catherine had been feeling was replaced with a sudden mix of exhaustion and empathy for Warrick. "You can't be here."

Warrick gave a small laugh. "Right. I forgot." He started down the hall. "I just need to get a few things out of my locker."

Catherine watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, she released a deep breath and leaned heavily against the wall. Everything that had happened and could have happened hit her hard, and she brought a hand up to her face in an attempt to stop the few tears threatening to escape.

Sara and Greg hadn't moved from the break room after Brass and Grissom left. Greg tried to make small talk a few times, but Sara didn't feel like talking. Catherine had resumed Warrick's path of pacing, and Sara eventually had to avert her eyes. The constant motion made her nauseous.

When Brass called to tell them about what had happened at the apartments, it was the first time that Sara could remember Greg Sanders having nothing to say.

Her own reaction was one of anger, and she saw something similar reflected in Catherine's eyes. Since Chris Shelton was dead, the officers were released, and Sara had excused herself to the bathroom. Hey, it had worked for everyone else.

Once inside, she locked herself in a stall and sank to the floor. She felt herself shaking, and she started to cry. Not tears of sadness, or relief that the whole thing was over, but hot tears of anger. She was angry with Warrick for going after Shelton. She was angry with Nick for going with him. She was angry with Greg for trying to make the situation light with his damned video games. She was just angry.

Sara didn't know how long she stayed in the stall. When she finally calmed herself down, she threw some cold water on her face. As she was coming out of the bathroom, she saw Warrick walking slowly down the hall away from her. She walked after him as quickly as her bruised knee would allow, hobbling pathetically and painfully.

"Warrick," she called.

He turned and stopped when he saw her. He leaned his head back and waited for her to limp her way to him. "Sara, I really don't feel like taking any more verbal beatings right now, if we could just do this later – "

"I don't care what you feel like," she said, the tears welling in her eyes again.

"What do you want me to say?" Sara could see a few tears in Warrick's eyes as well as he spoke.

Sara let her arms fall limply to her sides. She couldn't keep the tears in any longer. "I don't know."

He drew her to him, and she let him. She'd been so scared for him, for both of them. She'd barely been able to keep it together during Nick's abduction, and she couldn't do it now. She cried into Warrick's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he whispered, and she felt a few drops on the back of her neck. "I'm sorry."

Gil Grissom was good at a lot of things, but there was one thing he was not very good at. He was not good at relating to people, and he was not good at showing people how much he cared about them. Such was the case now.

Gil was still sitting in one of the uncomfortable white plastic chairs of the waiting room outside of the ICU. He'd been sitting there for a while now. He held his head in his hand, massaging his right temple, trying to work out the migraine that had started to pound there.

He had a lot of things going on inside at the moment. He was angry with Warrick, at both a professional and a personal level. He'd known as soon as Brass informed him that his guys had flown the coop that he was going to have to reprimand them. In fact, he'd been prepared to suspend both of them.

After discovering Nick had been injured, Gil's anger towards the younger man faded. Not completely, but it had been replaced with worry and a fatherly affection he hadn't felt so strongly in months. He unconsciously refocused the missing anger towards Warrick, telling Brass to suspend the CSI for however long he felt would get the message across, but not to go crazy. The standard would have been two weeks. He was sure that Jim would at least double it, and he wasn't in the least bit sorry.

"Mr. Grissom?"

Gil looked toward the nurses' station, where a short brunette in blue scrubs stood holding a chart, looking around the waiting room. He stood. "Yes."

"We're going to take you in to see Mr. Stokes now."

Gil nodded and followed the nurse down the hall.

She stopped at a room and checked the name on the door. "Here we are." She started to push the door open, but Gil stopped her.

"How is he?" he asked, his voice low.

The nurse gave him that patented smile they're all taught to give. "He's doing well. The surgeon removed the bullet with no complications. He's awake and coherent. The doctor will probably release him within a day or two."

Gil nodded and the nurse opened the door, holding it for him as he entered the room.

Nick was awake, just as the nurse had said. The small television bolted to the corner was tuned to a sports program, but Nick didn't seem to be paying any attention to it. He was propped up on his pillows, his face pale with uncharacteristic dark circles under his eyes. There were a few bags hanging from an IV stand next to his bed; blood and what was presumably a pain medication of some kind.

When he saw Gil, he smiled. It was small, but it was there. "Hey." His voice was quiet and hoarse.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" Gil moved around Nick's bed and sat in yet another plastic chair.

"Numb."

Gil smiled. "That's probably the morphine."

Nick looked down at the IV line running into his hand. "It's cool."

"Yes, it is."

Nick swallowed and looked away, out the small window. "We screwed up, boss."

Gil nodded. "Yes, you did."

When Nick looked back at him, Gil could see the question weighing on his mind.

He thought a moment before speaking. "Two weeks medical leave, one week unpaid suspension, one week in the lab."

Nick nodded and looked away again. "What about Warrick?"

Gil leaned forward. "That doesn't matter."

Nick sighed. "I should have just told you. And I knew it. When I saw him leaving, I should have just told you."

"Why didn't you?"

Nick shook his head and didn't speak for a few minutes. "I don't know," he finally admitted.

Gil stood.

Nick struggled to sit up in his bed. "You're leaving?" he asked, wincing.

"I promised Sara and Catherine I'd call when we were allowed to see you. They'll go crazy if I don't get ahold of them soon." Gil paused. "I'm glad you're okay, Nick."

With that, he was out the door.

Nick waited for Grissom to leave and slumped against his pillows, wincing. He hadn't exactly been lying when he told Grissom he felt numb. He really couldn't feel the hole in his side. Every now and then, however, there was still a sharp pain in his sore arm or shoulder.

He didn't know how he felt about the situation in which he now found himself. He'd been expecting the suspension, but had actually anticipated more than one week. He felt a twinge of unnecessary guilt. He was sure Warrick would get more, and that wasn't fair. They'd both been there, side by side, and deserved the same punishment. Nick knew that none of them would feel that way. Grissom, Brass, Catherine, even Warrick, himself. He could practically hear what they were thinking. Poor Nicky. We should probably cut him a little slack.

Nick knew he shouldn't complain. He should take the leave, take the one-week suspension, and be happy with his minimal punishment. But that wasn't him. He was sick of being treated like the baby of the group, like the fragile one. He didn't want a boy's punishment, he wanted a man's.

At the moment, with as tired and sore as Nick was, for all he cared, Grissom could take his one-week suspension and shove it.

A light knock on the door drew Nick out of his thoughts. Warrick stood in the doorway.

Nick found himself having to force a smile, which was ridiculous; he had no reason to be mad at Warrick. He'd gone along with him of his own free will.

The two friends stared at each other uncomfortably for a few agonizing moments.

"Listen," Warrick said.

Here it comes, Nick thought. He braced himself for a lecture, for pity, for sympathy. He didn't want any of it.

Warrick seemed to really think about what he wanted to say. "Thanks for saving my ass, man."

Nick laughed. It hurt his shoulder, but he didn't care. "You do tend to need it from time to time."

"I tend to need it? Do we need to go over your sparkling past there, cowboy?" Warrick sank into the chair Grissom had vacated, and the two chatted easily for an hour or so, ignoring all things pertaining to murders, breakouts, and suspensions.

They were going to be just fine.

The End