A/N: Yeah…this story took a weird, weird turn. This part is not the end.

Part III

"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way"

--Pink Floyd, Time

By the end of January, Sara had become resigned to the fact that Grissom wasn't going to make any kind of contact with her. Her mind continued to play tricks on her, however, and she'd see phantom shadows float past her windows every so often, but she didn't chase them anymore.

She pretty much stopped moving altogether.

All of the hopes she had in this world were pinned on him. That had been part of the reason she left in the first place. For years, Sara had believed she needed two things in life: her job and Grissom. She had thrived on both her work and the idea that, one day, he'd welcome her into his world. Her wish was granted and for two mostly glorious years, Sara got to work alongside Grissom at night, spend mornings with him lounging around his place or her place, and then sleep by his side, soaking in his warmth. Her life was cut into thirds, and all three parts involved him. Revolved around him.

And it was heaven.

Right before she moved to swing shift, Sara did her best to rationalize that she still had everything she needed. She was still a CSI Level III at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. She was still Grissom's girlfriend, and more firmly cemented as such now that everyone and their mother knew they were a couple. Sara smiled desperately to herself in the mirror right before she started her first official shift on swing, trying her best to convey happiness when all she felt was a sinking feeling that life, as she knew it, was irrevocably changed. Eight rather uneventful hours were spent puttering around the lab, sans Grissom. She returned home to spend eight more uneventful hours with Hank. Sara stared into space, her good hand haphazardly patting the dog's short coat as she waited for the door to open. Grissom arrived home an hour early, and with him came a sweeping sense of contentment. The stifled air that surrounded Sara in his absence gave way to a burst of freshness. The hopelessness she had been feeling moments before was barely a memory. With her uninjured arm securely around his waist, Sara had leaned into him, pressing her lips against his neck.

"I take it you're happy to see me," he had said, his own hands gently sweeping over her back.

"I'm always happy to see you," she whispered back.

He was her bliss.

It soon became evident that he was the only blissful aspect of her life. Work was tedious on a good day and practically unbearable on a bad one. At the lab or in the field, she'd find herself tuning out Ronnie's incessant chatter and looking at the clock, her bittersweet nemesis. While Sara would want nothing more than for her shift to end, she knew all that was waiting for her at home was an empty bed and a dog. And in those precious few hours that she did get to spend with Grissom, time raced by, the hours feeling like mere minutes. That period spent together should've been peaceful, but it suddenly felt rushed. Sara constantly felt time on her back, the gray cloud over her head, nipping away at her hours with Grissom. When he just wanted to sit on the couch and watch TV or peruse a magazine, she'd get anxious. Didn't he know they didn't have much more time together? Didn't he know the hours were flying by, and soon she'd have to go back to the hell that was her job? At first, the soothing hours she spent with Grissom were enough to tide her over for the sixteen hours of the day she was without him. No matter what she was feeling before he was in the room, her face would light up the moment he entered. But very quickly came the time when, the instant he was out of her sight, the sadness would seep back into her. In her two short months on swing shift, Sara found herself becoming increasingly agitated.

And when she could feel that agitation, that frustration, creeping into her time with Grissom, she knew it was time to go. Whatever was wrong with her was murdering the only beautiful thing in her life, and she had to leave in order to save it. She wished she had the words to truly express that to him. She tried. Her letter, what she could remember of it, had grazed the topic of her past, but mostly she could recall telling him over and over again how much she loved him. She hoped, if he took anything away from the letter, it was that she adored him.

That was the one thing that time could not change.

"Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came"

--Beatles, Eleanor Rigby

The knock on the door was no longer a surprise. Her neighbor, Ana, seemed to be testing out her mothering instincts on Sara, bringing her plates of food every day or so, smiling at her in hopes that she'd put some meat on her bones. The pregnant woman, usually accompanied by her stoic German Shepherd, would grin encouragingly as she presented Sara with various meals. Sara would smile back and nod, waiting for the woman to leave before she looked under the tin foil. She didn't have the heart to break it to Ana that she was a vegetarian, so the carne would usually end up in the garbage while Sara got full on flan or vegetable rice.

Though few words were spoken between the two women -- or perhaps because few words were spoken -- Sara enjoyed the interaction. The months she had spent in California without any real human contact had her appreciating the simple fact that someone -- besides Grissom, of course -- cared that she existed. She spent most of her days living in her head, going over every mistake she had ever made, every bad thing that had ever happened to her, but those few minutes of every day she spent thanking Ana in very broken Spanish while Ana responded in equally broken English were a respite. Sara would, without fail, sink back into her own sad world the moment she washed and dried off the plate to give back to her neighbor the next day, but for a brief, shiny period, she'd get to feel worth something, she'd get to feel hopeful that Grissom maybe thought she was worth the wait.

"I know I know I know
Abraham, Abraham
I know I know I know
Abraham, Abraham"

--Cake Like, Abraham Lincoln

On what would've been Abraham Lincoln's one-hundred and ninety-ninth birthday, Sara celebrated the former president by watching depressing biography after depressing biography, detailing the great man's rise from obscurity to become one of the most important people in history. By the time the sun set, Sara had seen so many recounts of Lincoln's life that she had memorized the events and dates, and could repeat the oft said quotes by heart. "With malice towards none, with charity for all," she sighed, whispering the words along with the narrator as more pictures of Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address were shown.

She sighed. It always ended the same way: Our American Cousin, the laughter of the crowd, "Sic semper tyrannis!"

And one loan gunshot.

Almost one-hundred and fifty years had passed since Abraham Lincoln was assassinated while enjoying a play at Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C. As the sepia-toned images flooded the screen, it seemed like longer. The world had cars and televisions, now. It had computers and DVDs and cell phones. Those who were freed by the Emancipation Proclamation were now running for President of the United States of America. The passage of time had brought about such great, sweeping change.

Except for murder.

Murder was timeless. President Lincoln's assassination would not mark the last time a life was ended by the path of an angry bullet. No…unlike horse-drawn carriages and stovepipe hats, murder did not go out of style. Guns were just as much in play as when John Wilkes Booth aimed a .44 caliber at the president's head. Humanity showed no hope of advancing in that respect. People still killed. The murder rate was on the rise. No matter how hard Sara had worked in her years as a CSI, the world did not get better. It never was going to.

Lincoln was a chump.

"Load up on guns, and bring your friends"

--Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit

She had to pee.

Sara was loathe to get up from her comfy position on the couch -- indeed she had made a nice, warm imprint in the cushion that cradled her body quite nicely -- but her bladder was calling out to her. She blinked at the clock on the wall on her way to the bathroom. A quarter to ten. Ana had not shown up that night with her usual plate of food. Sara frowned. She supposed she had dozed off during one of the Lincoln biographies. She couldn't remember. The hours ran together in her mind. Had it not been dark outside, she wouldn't have known if it were a quarter to ten at night, or a quarter to ten in the morning. Sighing, she ignored the phantom shadow that stalked her windows and made her way to the bathroom.

She peed and then flushed the toilet. The loud whoosh of the water was accompanied by muffled crack. Sara shook her head and washed her hands, wondering if something was wrong with the pipes. The previous winter, Las Vegas had experienced a short cold burst, temporarily freezing the pipes in the townhouse. Grissom had taken care of it then.

Now…well, if that sound accompanied every flush, she knew she'd have to call the man who rented her the cottage.

Sara left the bathroom, trudging back to the couch. Just as she sat back down on the couch, she heard the sound again: a loud crack that had her jumping back up. It wasn't the pipes.

"I hear pounding feet in the,
in the streets below, and the,
and the women crying and the,
and the children know that there,
that there's something wrong,
and it's hard to believe that love will prevail"

--Jane Sibbery, It Can't Rain All The Time

Barking. She heard barking. Sara slowly walked to her front door and opened it. The hinges seemed to creak for an eternity as she pulled the door open, letting a gust of cold wind envelop her. The German Shepherd came bounding for her, barking. He stopped short at her feet but continued to bark, and, somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurred to Sara that she had never heard him bark before. He began to run in the direction of his masters' cottage, and she followed, practically floating behind him in the freezing air.

She knew what she'd see.

She knew what was waiting for her.

Sara pushed open the unlocked door and saw blood. In that moment, she was half-girl, half-CSI, reliving her father's death, but with the knowledge of a trained scientist. Ana was slumped, face down, on the carpet in front of the couch. Her husband had shot her from behind in the back of the head. She never saw it coming.

Her husband was closer to the entrance of the kitchen. The front of his face was gone and pieces of skin and skull were splattered artfully like a Jackson Pollack painting on the wall above him. The shotgun lay to his right.

Classic murder-suicide.

Two lives gone. Two lives…

Sara sucked in a breath. She ran to Ana and quickly turned the woman's body over, wincing at the star-shaped hole that was her left eye.

The baby.

Ana couldn't have been dead for more than five minutes.

The baby.

Her eyes darted around the room for the telephone. Hands shaking, she grabbed the receiver from a side table on the far side of the couch and dialed 911.

"911 Emergency. How many I help you?"

Her throat tight with emotion, Sara speedily relayed the necessary information. "She's pregnant. She…the baby. It's moving in her stomach. She's gone, but…the baby."

"We're on our way, ma'am."

She hung up the phone and squeezed her eyes shut, dropping the receiver to the floor. The dog's cold, wet nose nuzzled her hand and she let out a choked sob.

"Sara?"

TBC…

A/N: I know a lot of you are not American and haven't learned all about Abraham Lincoln in school. He was born on February 12, 1809 in Kentucky and was, of course, one of the greatest presidents of the United States. He was murdered by the actor John Wilkes Booth on April 14, 1865 at Ford's Theatre during a showing of the play, Our American Cousin. Booth apparently waited for the funniest joke in the play before yelling "Thus away to the tyrants!" in Latin and shooting Lincoln at point blank range.

A/N #2: "It Can't Rain All The Time" was totally my emo song fifteen or so years ago when I was a kid. Before there was emo.