DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI

Okay, thank you to blu3crush, Suzie Rose and cms4ever fore reviewing this. I've decided what I want to do with this now, I'm going to write a chapter for each of the CSI members and maybe some of the lab techs or detectives on how they find out about Sara and Greg. So, in the first chapter, Catherine, Brass and Warrick find out. This next one is about Nick. Hope you like ti!

It was supposed to be her night off. Nick Stokes felt bad for Sara, being called in on the first night off she'd had in weeks. But the case was important. The job was important. She was important to the lab.

Grissom had said it so carelessly.

"Nick, call Sara. Tell her to meet us at the Monaco casion in an hour."

"But Griss, it's her night off."

"Does she have plans?"

"I think so."

"Well, this is a high profile case. We need all the help we can get."

"She hasn't had a night off in weeks."

"I haven't had a night off in months."

If he had been Catherine, he would have said something about just because he didnt have a personal life didn't mean nobody else should be allowed one, or how people needed their time off, and just because he chose not to, didn't mean everybody else had to do the same. But Nick wasn't Catherine. So he just shrugged and dialed her number.

They'd had a conversationt the night before. Probably the first non-case realted conversation he'd had in a long time. Sara had been looking forward to her night off.

"Any reason in particular?" he'd asked, teasing. When he'd seen her blush he'd been a little shocked.

"No..." she'd said, obviously lying.

"There is something!" Nick had realised, slightly surprised.

"I have a date." she'd admitted.

"I thought you didn't have enough time for dating?" Nick had asked, remembering the last time he and Sara had talked about their social lives, or rather their lack of, about two months before.

"Well, I met somebody."

"This your first date?" Nick asked.

"No."

"How long?"

"Abaout two months."

"I can't believe you never told me this."

"You never asked."

Nick realised it was true, besides the basic, 'how are you? I'm fine and you? I'm good.' interchange, the CSI's rarely talked about each other, or themselves. It was just dead people and criminals they talked about.

"Well have fun then."

"I'm sure I will."

Nick hadn't told anyone that Sara had a date. For some reason, it didn't feel right. So he'd kept quiet. And now he wished he could tell Grissom. But he didn't.

Sara didn't answer her phone. He got voicemail twice. But Grissom didn't care. He said that he needed Sara in that night. And for some reason it was up to Nick to get her.

If he had been Sara, he would have complained, insisted that he shouldn't have to go on a wild goose chase for Sara. That since he was the one who wanted her in, he should go get her. That he had his own work to do. But he wasn't Sara. So he just sighed and went looking for anybody who might know where she was.

He passed Catherine in the corridor. She was walking beside Brass, nd she was giggling. Actually giggling. Catherine had been acting starnge since last night. He wasn't sure what had gotten into her, but she spent the whole time whispering to Warrick, and at first, Nick had thought there was something going on between them. But Warrick had been texting some other girl all evening, some chick he'd met in court. And then Catherine was acting the same way with Brass. And Nick was certain nothing was going on there. When he'd asked her about it she'd just giggled. And then she'd been mad at him for being out at a case? It was crazy.

"Nick!" she'd yelled, when he'dcame back from a scene the day before.

"Hey Catherine..." he'd said, slightly uncertain of her excitedness.

"Where the hell have you been, I've been looking everywhere!"

"I was investigating a workplace accident, suspicous circs. Why?"

"I've been trying to contact you for the last hour."

"Like I said, investigating."

"I called." she pointed out. "And texted."

Nick looked down at his phone and realised she was telling the truth. Eleven missed calls and sixteen texts. All of them asking where he was, and what he was doing.

"Why did you need to find me so badly?"

"I needed to tell you something really big."

"Tell me now then."

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"Can't. I found someone else to tell, and then the whole THING happened, and we decided not to tell anyone else."

"Okay."

"Sorry."

"It's cool."

Today as he passed her, she was still giggling and whispering. She was like a teenager.

"Hey Cath, you seen Sara?" he asked her.

"Sara?"

"Yeah."

"Sara Sidle?"

"What other Sara do you know?"

"I haven't seen her recently."

"Okay. Tha-"

"I wonder what she could be doing?"

Nick raised his eyebrows, very confused. Now Brass was giggling too. That's right, Detective Jim Brass, giggling. Had the world gone mad?

If he had been Warrick, he would have demanded to be let in on the secret, wouldn't rest until he knew what was up. He wouldn't stop asking until they told him exactly what was so funny, and why. But he wasn't Warrick, so he just rolled his eyes and continued on down the hallway. He got in his car and started to drive to Sara's apartment.

He'd been there onceor twice before, normally to drop her off after a night out when she'd had too much to drink. He had been in twice. Never for more than ten minutes. Still, he knew the way pretty well.

He'd turned on the radio on the way, to the country station. Eric Church was playing. A new song called Sprinsteen. Nick hadn't heard it before. He turned up the volume.

To this day when I hear that song, I see you standing there on that lawn

Discount shades, store bought tan, flip-flops and cut off jeans

Somewhere between that setting sun, I'm On Fire and Born To Run

You looked at me and I was done, we were just getting started

I was singing to you, you were singing to me

I was so alive, never been more free

Fired up my daddy's lighter and we sang oh

Stayed there 'til they forced us out

We took the long way to your house

And I can still hear the sound

Of you saying don't go

When I think about you

I think about 17

I think about my old Jeep

I think about the stars in the sky

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory

Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night

Springsteen

I bumped in to you by happenstance

You probably wouldn't even know who I am

But if I whispered your name, I bet there'd still be a spark

Back when I was gasoline and this old tattoo had brand new ink

And we didn't care what your momma would think 'bout your name on my arm

Baby is it spring or is it summer

The guitar sound or the beat of the drummer

You hear sometimes late at night on your radio

Even though you're a million miles away

When you hear Born In The USA

Do you relive those glory days from so long ago

When you think about me

Do you think about 17

Do you think about my old Jeep

Think about the stars in the sky

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory

Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night

Springsteen, Springsteen

Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Woah-oh-oh-oh woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory

Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night

Springsteen, Springsteen

Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Woah-oh-oh-oh woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Woah-oh-oh-oh woah-oh-oh-oh Woah-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

It was a pretty good song, and by the end, Nick was singing along.

He pulled up in the carpark to Sara's apartment building. It was a warm night, igh temperatures, but with just the right ammount of a breeze. Perfect. Unusual for Vegas. Nick clicked his door locked and shoved the keys into his jacket pocket. He felt bad for having to do this to Sara. But it hadn't been his decision. He just hoped she wasn't out somewhere for this date. Nick wished he knew her home number. He wished he knew if she had a home number. But he'd tried calling and texting, and nothing had worked. So now he was left with only this option, going up to her apartment, knocking on the door and ruinning her first night off in ages. And her date. Great. He just hoped she wouldn't be mad at him. Sara was famous for shooting the messenger.

As he walked through the double doors and over to the stairs, Nick briefly wondered what number was hers again. Was it 126? or 621? Maybe it was 216? He was pretty certain he was on one of the top floor. So it had to be either 612 or 621. He decided to try them both. Nick knocked on 612 first, simply because it was closest to him. There was no answer fo a minute, although he could hear movement from inside. He was just about to leave, when the door swung open.

And somebody who definately wasn't Sara was standing in front of him. Not Sara, but still very familiar.

"Shit." the preson said, slamming the door again.

Nick decided to try 621 instead. It had to just be a coincedence that they lived that close to each other. But the owner of 621 was an old man with a pet turtle. Defiantely not her. Convincing himself that he couldn't have seen what he just saw, he couldn't be right, Nick went down to the reception.

"Sorry, I'm looking for my friend, Sara Sidle? Could you tell me what apartment is hers?"

The receptionist looked up from the novel she was reading. She sighed, took her gum out of her mouth and stuck it between the pages of her novel, to mark her place. Then she pushed her thick-rimmed glasses further up her nose and checked her log.

"Room 612." she droned. "Is that all?"

Nick nodded and the woman flashed him a bored glare before opening up her book again and popping the gum back in her mouth. She put her feet up on the table. Nick didn't notice though, for he was too busy re-living what he had just seen.

He had knocked on Sara Sidle's door.

The night she had a date.

And somebody else had answered.

Greg Sanders had answered.

Dressed only in his boxers.

What the hell?

The goofy, spiky haired DNA tech with the ugly shirts, the loud music, the constant talking, the secret stash of coffee, the porn magazines, the bad jokes, the presentations, the dancing with showgirl head-dresses. The crazy lab rat, who was twenty six years old and flirted with everything on two legs. It didn't make any sense.

All of a sudden, Nick realised that he still had to get Sara to come into work. So he trooped back up the stairs again, wondering what the hell he was going to say, how the hell he was going to react.

Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe Greg had come over to drop something off at her house. And his clothes had just blown off. Maybe he had just come over for a drink. And it just so happened to be the night she had a date. Maybe she wasn't there, and Greg just liked to go to her apartment, take off his clothes and watch television? But Nick knew that none of these were likely. There was only one thing that made sense. And yet it made no sense whatsoever.

He knocked on the door. Thsi time, Sara answered, in a pair of sweatpants and a black t-shirt that looked suspicously like one Greg had worn a few days ago.

"Nick" she began, but Nick interupted her.

"Grissom wants you to come in for a case. Monaco casino. And we have about ten minutes to get there."

She began to say something else, but she was interupted by Greg.

"Sara, you forgot this..." he was saying. He stopped as soon as he saw Nick in the doorway.

"Shit." he said again, still holding the balck bra Sara had 'forgotten.' Nick ignored him.

"I'll be in the carpark." he told Sara. "Waiting."

Then he ran down the stairs, trying to let his mind adjust to what was happening. Three minutes later, Sara slid into the car behind him. She had changed into jeans and a black vest.

For a while neither of them said anything. Then eventually, Nick broke the silence.

"You have some explaining to do."

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