Rating: M, but not in that smutty, enjoyable way.
Spoilers: Nesting Dolls, if you squint and turn your head to the side.
Disclaimer: The characters on CSI are not mine. This story is.

A/N: Written for the geekfiction elemental ficathon. My prompt was Earth: Iron. Many thanks to mingsmommy. For the beta, for the encouragement, for being you.

Four Times Laura Sidle Didn't Kill Her Husband, And One Time She Did.

It's funny ... the things that you remember and the things that you don't, you know. There was a smell of iron in the air. Cast-off on the bedroom wall.

Part One: Shoulda

Sara Sidle had lived this way for as long as she could remember.

Then again, memory wasn't something that plagued her very much anymore. She had everything she needed right here in the group home: three meals a day, a dedicated, conscientious staff, a devoted mother visiting every weekend, and all the finger paint she needed for her daily art time.

She would tell anyone who listened that she loved the color purple, that her room had pink flowers on the wall, that one day when she was all grown up, she was going to wear a shiny lavender wedding dress with a pink veil, just like her Barbie had.

Sara Sidle was 35 years old.

She spent her afternoons watching cartoons and painting bright yellow daisies with her thumbs; she drew clumsy crayon renderings of her mother and father – sometimes together, sometimes apart – and wrote her name on every picture in large, looping letters. The nurses praised her and shared pained looks behind her back.

She had one suitcase – a little girl's pink suitcase – where she kept her most beloved possessions, and she would show them to the nurses every day.

Through it all she would smile the most lovely, guileless smile.

Memory didn't plague her often, but some days she would glimpse what happened to her in bursts of intense imagery. On those days, she chose red, brown, and black paints, and her smudged prints were made with all five of her fingers pulled angrily down the large sheet of paper the home provided. Sometimes, she would beat her hands against the easel, sobbing, until a nurse brought her medicine in a little white paper cup and soothed her with soft words.

Twice since she'd been at this home, her outbursts were so violent that she had to be restrained in order to prevent her from hurting herself.

The damage is extensive, the doctor had informed Laura, pointing out the bright, jagged white line on the x-rays where her skull had cracked. All the doctors in every previous home said the same thing: The trauma to her brain is such that she's lost short-term memory formation and the ability to learn new concepts; she'll never remember anything past that day… The nurses looked on with disapproval, their eyes saying the same thing Laura whispered in her own mind every day: Why didn't you stop him?

She wanted to explain that she'd never, in over 15 years of marriage, known how to stand up to Don Sidle; and that she only wished that she'd learned how before it was too late. That bringing Sara to this Las Vegas home was the farthest she'd ever been from home herself. That she'd left Don to rot in jail, finally, to do right by Sara.

She visited Sara for two hours on Saturdays and one on Sundays. She wrapped and re-wrapped the same gift for every visit; Sara certainly never knew the difference. On her birthday, she brought cake and balloons and tried to avoid Sara's questions about friends and family; she learned the hard way that answering only caused Sara pain. She would leave when the nurse tapped her watch and sometimes Sara would ask to come too. She would beg and plead to go home, or to have her mother stay; but it always ended with Laura leaving and Sara standing at the door, Barbie doll in hand, tears streaming down her sweet, confused face.

I should have been a better mother, she'd think as she walked away.

But she never looked back.

Part Two: Woulda

Sara Sidle had lived this way for as long as she could remember.

There were nights that the fighting and the sound of her mother's body slamming against the thin wall separating her bedroom from theirs sent her scurrying to the other side of the room. She would eye her bedroom door distrustfully from beneath her desk, knowing that their argument would escalate. She would be sure that this was the time he'd go too far – or come for her instead.

By the time she was 12, she'd had enough.

She started sneaking money from her father's wallet when he came back from poker nights with his buddies. Sometimes he'd lose that week's paycheck, but more often than not his natural analytical abilities carried him, and his wallet would bulge from his winnings. He would come home smelling of cheap beer and cheaper cigars; he would place his wallet on the coffee table and shuffle upstairs to bed, or to a fight. She learned patience on those nights; she knew he'd have had enough to drink that he was too tired to count his winnings, but not so much that he would get violent. That wasn't a risk worth taking.

On the nights he lost, she had to make sure she got to her mom's wallet before he did.

Once she realized that taking from Laura's wallet made the fights worse, she stopped.

By the time she was 14, the fights were so violent that the police knew her by name. A young cop offered her a place to stay if things got too bad, but she'd already learned not to trust them too much. Cops were only there when they had to be – they never really stopped her father from hitting or throwing things. Hell, this guy couldn't even hold down dinner after looking at her mom's mangled face.

When she was 15, she bought a one-way ticket on a bus to Reno, Nevada. She'd saved up close to 1100 over the years and figured that would be enough to get out for good. She'd squirreled it away in a little pink suitcase – a little girl's suitcase – at the back of her closet; she'd rightly assumed that no one would think to look in there if anyone noticed money missing. It was this she took with her the night she sneaked out and ran to the bus station. Two pair of underwear, two pair of socks, an extra pair of jeans, and three shirts were all that she took with her besides the money.

Just enough to start over, she thought.

She never thought that five years later, she'd be standing on a street in Vegas offering 10 blow jobs around the corner in a back alley. She'd smack her gum in between johns – cigarettes were expensive, and despite everything, you couldn't call Sara Sidle stupid – and trade stories with the older working girls. Sometimes the cops would show up, but they were mostly harmless; they liked her legs, she knew, so she made sure to flash as much as possible when they showed up.

And through it all, she'd smile the most lovely, sexy smile they'd ever seen; but it never reached her eyes.

Sometimes, when her legs were in the air and she was counting stains on the ceiling tiles in a cheap motel, she'd wonder where it all went wrong. She'd wonder if she could change, or get ahead somehow; there were no more wallets to steal from and no home to go back to, but she knew there had to be something better than this, this dodging cops and spreading legs.

She left Vegas on her 21st birthday. She'd gotten a letter from the cop who'd arrested her dad; it's how she found out he'd finally stop caring about control and decided not to stop hitting Laura until she was dead. She'd died of internal bleeding, the letter said, topped off by a skull crushed so badly that one eye was completely missing.

She took a bus back home for her mom's closed-casket funeral.

She'd bought new clothes and make up and thought, this, this is where I start over, as her mother was lowered into the earth. She'd brought the old pink suitcase with her and laid it – and the hopes of the girl she was – to rest with her mother. If the handful of people who'd shown up wondered who she was and what she was doing, they never asked.

I would have stayed with her if I'd known, she thought as she walked away.

But she never looked back.

Part Three: Coulda

Sara Sidle had lived this way for as long as she could remember.

She got up every morning at six and tiptoed downstairs to make his coffee. She would set out a cup and saucer at his place at the little kitchen dinette, then go to make his breakfast. The key here was that it had to be something that would keep warm but not dry out in case he decided to sleep in, but also be ready in the event that he got up early. It was a tricky balance, but one that she'd almost perfected over the years.

Almost, as evidenced by yesterday's smack still circling blackly around her eye.

She would then set out his clothes for the day; neatly pressed, cleanly starched in just the right places, and always set out in the way he would approve of. She would hang them on the coat closet door and check them for lint and, if he hadn't come downstairs yet, she would shine his shoes to pass the time.

Once he had come down and started breakfast, she was dismissed to make his bed and get her shower. She had 9 minutes for both, and heaven help her if she took too long. She then dressed in something equally smart and acceptable and rushed downstairs to help him get dressed for work. She tied laces, buttoned buttons, and straightened lapels. She stood at the door and waited while he examined his uniform in the hall mirror and then pinned on his badge and handed him his hat. As he left, he locked the door, bolting it from the outside.

She didn't have the key.

This was her cue to begin her daily cleaning routine. Starting at the front door, she vacuumed the hallway, wiping down the baseboards as she went. She polished his beloved mirror and used a line level to make sure it was perfectly straight. She dusted, swept, mopped, scrubbed and polished until everything gleamed, knowing that he would check it when he got back.

And through it all, she'd smile the most lovely, desperate smile that no one would ever see.

At 11am, she would start his lunch: steak, medium rare; baked potato with butter; beer, in a chilled stein. She was permitted to eat a baked potato, no butter, no sour cream, chives. When he arrived at quarter til 12, she was allowed to serve him and eat. She sat at his left so that if anything was wrong with his meal, he wouldn't have to reach across his plate to hit her.

When she was bolder, she used to think, So, this is marriage.

When lunch was finished, she would stand against the kitchen wall and lower her slacks for inspection. If she was the least bit wet, for any reason, he would remove his belt and beat her across her bare cheeks and thighs. He would call her whore and cunt and dirty bitch and she would have to kneel with sore thighs and make it up to him before he left. She had exactly 7 minutes to get him off, and if she didn't please him in time, he would beat her again before dinner at 6.

If she wasn't too wet, she would have 10 minutes to suck him off before he left; and if it was very good, he would leave the front door unlocked so that she could go outside and check the mail at 3.

When he'd left again, she'd curl up on the kitchen floor and think back to when they'd first met: he was a young cop, barely out of high school when he'd answered the call to her house. Her mother lay sprawled and broken on the floor of their kitchen, Don Sidle passed out in the corner with a bloody rolling pin in his hand. He'd run outside and vomited into the bushes, muttering, "What a waste," under his breath.

At the time, she'd thought that meant he was a good person; time had taught her he meant something very different that day.

He allowed her to take one small suitcase of belongings from her old house that day. Not really department policy, he'd said with a shy smile, but I think this is a special case. She kept a little pink suitcase in the back of her closet with a little money and a few trinkets back then and, in her state, it was the only thing she could think of taking with her. He escorted her to the waiting social worker and, just before he helped her in the car, he'd whispered, I'll see you real soon, Sara. Real soon, baby, so hang in there.

He'd picked her up from her foster home when she was 16, pink suitcase in tow, and she'd been with him ever since. He took her for a drive and they got married in Vegas. If she was the type to think about things anymore, she would have wondered why no one knew, why no one was there on their special day. But he'd long since beaten any free will out of her - and so she never wondered.

Sometimes when she checked the mail, young women with long ponytails and short shorts and college textbooks would walk past her on the street on their way to UNLV. She found it mesmerizing, enthralling almost; she'd stand there and watch and think, it could have been me if things had been different.

She'd clap a hand over her mouth, horrified that she'd almost said such a thing out loud, and run back inside the house, mail forgotten.

But she never looked back.

Part Four: Didn't

Sara Sidle had lived this way for as long as she could remember.

Until the day she didn't.

She'd felt it inside her for a long time, just under the skin, boiling below the surface, itching in her veins. How long, she'd never be able to say; but she did know that since they'd moved to Vegas – and maybe it was the heat or the relentlessly busy pace of life here – things had been worse both for her and inside of her.

He'd bullied her since she was barely walking, she knew that. After her mom had died from an apparently accidental fall from the roof, her dad had had no one else to push around. Sara was too small to fight back – until she realized she wasn't. Somewhere along the line, she'd discovered that she was looking him in the eye when he swung his fist and she'd decided to do something about it.

A broken nose and a matching set of black eyes prompted her first retaliation.

The first time it happened - this snapping, letting go feeling – she'd embraced it out of a sense of self-preservation. She'd thrown her arm wildly in front of his fist, clumsily deflecting his attack, and brought around her other arm and shoved with all the strength she could bring to bear. He'd fallen backwards, surprised, and gone over the ottoman, landing on his back with both gangly legs in the air. Although he was clearly confused, she backed off and fled to her room.

But she never forgot the triumphant feeling of finally coming out on top; and she smiled the most lovely, predatory smile from then on.

There were other beatings after this, but he was always more cautious. He didn't hit quite as hard, or quite as long, or with so much ferocity as in the past. After that first victory, she'd become bolder and started looking him in the eye when he approached, warning him silently to back off. She wasn't going to be a punching bag anymore, she decided; and somewhere along the way the balance of power shifted.

Completely.

Don Sidle was a mean drunk; but sober, he was as cowardly as any cartoon villain. He was 5'10" and lean, almost rail-thin from his janitorial job and liquor habit. Sara had always been a smart girl, and once she'd done the math, it was easy enough to take advantage of the situation. Fighting back became picking fights, and fights became her stress relief. She was tired of it all, damn it, and she wasn't going to take any of Don Sidle's shit anymore.

And she didn't, right up until the night she got in over her head.

It was their last fight. He'd come home late while she was washing dishes, and she'd started in on his drinking and he'd started cursing at her for smoking and one too many fists were thrown. She'd ended up with a bloody lip, a broken rib, and two loose teeth, and he'd ended up with the kitchen knife she'd been cleaning stuck between his ribs.

He'd looked down at his chest and back to her face inquiringly. She'd think later that he didn't seem surprised that things had ended so badly, just shocked that she'd finally done it. When his last breath gurgled out in a stream of foamy blood, she'd started screaming.

Her noise alerted the neighbors, who dialed emergency services. The first officer on scene took one look at the splattered blood and her lacerated face and vomited on his polished black shoes. They cuffed her, informed her of her Miranda rights, and escorted her to the backseat of the patrol car. Through it all, she was still screaming.

But she never looked back.

Part Five: Did

Sara Sidle had lived this way for as long as she could remember.

But Laura Sidle came to understand what was going on, and decided she shouldn't have to live that way any longer.

She saw how her daughter was withdrawing from her family and friends. She saw the slump in her shoulders and the flinches when doors would slam or when the yelling would start. She noticed that Sara had lost her bright, beautiful smile and outgoing inquisitiveness.

The beatings had become so commonplace in the Sidle household that Laura had almost forgotten what it was like to not have to hide bruises or treat her own fractures behind closed doors.

But Sara – Sara shouldn't have had to.

So when Laura came home from her second shift job, struggling to kick off her nurses' white shoes from her achy, swollen ankles, and she found her daughter slumped against the kitchen doorframe, something became clear to her that was never so clear before. There was Sara; 12, going on 13, cradling her left hand against her stomach and pressing an ice pack to her clearly broken nose with her right, sobbing quietly between the two rooms. There was Sara, her baby girl who'd heard too many curse words and seen too much blood before she was old enough to understand it all, and she seemed halfway gone already.

There was Sara, looking like Laura was sure she had so many times before.

And it was all so very clear: every way in which things could have gone wrong, every moment when Laura could have changed things with a word or an action – or a lack of action – and how Sara's life was going to be if things went on as they were. How all of their lives would be in this miserable, painful place where one person's rage defined who they all were and how they lived.

She could see it all in one bright, painful moment of clarity; and so she took action.

She felt sorry for the poor officer who responded when she dialed to report her own crime. He'd just come off of dinner break from the diner around the corner and his steak and eggs soon decorated her lawn.

Social Services picked up Sara as Laura was being cuffed. Sara wouldn't look at her, but Laura felt sure she saw some glimpse of relief in the girl's face as she walked by carrying her little girl's suitcase with the last remnants of her little girl's life.

When the police asked her later why she did it, she told them. She explained the years of beatings and how she'd hidden her injuries. She showed them her slightly bent forearms and where her right ankle had healed crookedly. She showed them the scar from where a small chip of bone had cut open her skin right below the knee. She pointed out her crooked nose and the ugly white line on her forehead she received from a thrown bottle of Jim Beam. She explained how to breathe in the right way in order to hide broken ribs while minimizing the pain.

And then she pulled out the picture of Sara from her third birthday that she kept in her wallet, the one where she had such a lovely smile, and slid it across the table to the detectives.

They let her plead guilty to a lesser charge: voluntary manslaughter, minimum sentence of 15-20 years. And while prison was long, and not pleasant, and she worried constantly about Sara, she served her time with a smile that she hadn't shown during most of Sara's life. She worked in the infirmary treating other women for scrapes and bruises and broken limbs and spent every Saturday in her court-mandated therapy session. She'd tried to maintain contact with Sara but understood the girl's reluctance; after all, her mother was, for all intents and purposes, a murderer.

Sara was 28 when Laura came up for parole; she'd sent a letter postmarked from Las Vegas letting Laura know she wouldn't be attending. While she might have hoped for more, Laura understood and never felt angry. She wrote Sara a letter a month for 15 years; she wasn't going to stop just because of this, she thought.

Shortly after Sara turned 35, Laura began to notice she wasn't feeling well. She took her first day off from the battered women's shelter clinic in four years to see one of the staff's trusted nurse practitioners. She knew the symptoms and understood the ramifications, but she wanted the second opinion anyway. Suspicion confirmed, she missed that month's letter; there was no way she was telling Sara about this.

So when Sara showed up on her front stoop a few months later, her first question was, "How did you know?" She never got a chance to ask; Sara lurched forward and grabbed her, crying, and they shared their first hug in over 20 years right there in San Francisco's smoggy, brilliant sunset.

Each knew the other wasn't saying something, but neither pushed. They shared meals and quiet and hard work, and they took care of each other as best they could.

Until they couldn't anymore.

Laura would never have thought Sara would end up standing in the rain with Gil Grissom in a field full of stones overlooking the impossibly blue sea, right there with her to see their reunion. She'd heard about the man over the months Sara spent with her and gleaned enough information to know that he was part of what Sara was running from. Or running to, depending on how she talked on any given day. But still, it was a little embarrassing to watch them kissing so… well, so ardently right there in front of her.

She was glad, in some small way, to have brought them together this way; God knows, Sara deserved to be happy and they clearly needed one another. Standing together the way they were, looking out towards the waves, Laura felt secure in the knowledge that whatever else had happened in her life, Sara was exactly where she was supposed to be right now.

So when they reached in, together, and took out her ashes and spread them on the wind, Laura was content to move on.

And she knew she would never need to look back.