Walking down the corridor, Catherine tried to ignore the stares that met her echoing footsteps. Lab technicians raised their eyes through the office windows, undisguised curiosity on their faces as they tracked her. She realised then she was a celebrity, the potential epicentre of a drama that fluttered the edges of their mundane boredom. It was with one hard sweeping look that she sent them scurrying back to their tasks. Even so, it was not until they rounded the corner into Grissom's quiet office, and Ecklie had left for downstairs, that she felt safe to speak.

"You gonna fill me in?" she asked.

Though the corridor outside was empty, he kept his voice low. As he spoke he tugged at the cord of his blinds, shutting off witnesses.

"In August 1973 four bank employees in Sweden were taken hostage by a man named Jan Olsson. He held them for a ransom of three million kroner. They were held for five days while negotiations were carried out, but when the talks ultimately failed, the police used gas to quell the situation, releasing the hostages unharmed. But when police attempted to charge the offender, the hostages leapt to his defence, refusing to testify. Experts who studied the encounter later called it Stockholm Syndrome - a condition in which a life-threatening situation forces the victim to identify with their captor in order to survive."

Catherine nodded. Somewhere in the back of her mind a distant memory stirred; she had heard of it before.

"You think he held her captive?"

Grissom paused after closing the last blind, blocking the corridor from sight. The light in the office dimmed.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But whatever he did do was never physical. Something frightened her, Catherine. Perhaps bad enough that her fear gave way to mere instinct."

"Leaving what?" Catherine asked. "Empathy?"

"The one thing that could save her life," Grissom replied. "In that situation the smallest niceties can be interpreted as kindnesses. The sparing of her life becomes a sign of love and decency."

"I don't believe it," Catherine said. "She's been in the force a long time. She knows what crime is."

"She said she slept with him at four. We didn't get the call until twelve. What happened in those intervening eight hours?"

Catherine shrugged. "If she'd been to bed with him, I expect she slept."

"Then why doesn't she testify?"

"I don't know," she admitted, sighing. "Maybe the reason just went back downstairs."

"Ecklie?" Grissom asked, looking unconvinced.

"If she's feeling vulnerable the last thing she'd want is to be interviewed by him, laying open her sex life to the scrutiny of everyone in the building."

Grissom paused, taking in the idea. After a moment of silence Catherine sighed.

"All right," she conceded. "Let's say it's the Syndrome. What's the plan?"

"We talk to her," Grissom said simply. "Before it's too late."

At that moment Catherine heard footsteps and turned to see Warrick, Nick and Sara all come through the doorway. Sara looked uncomfortable, but resigned to her summons, and Nick had a hand lightly on her shoulder. Warrick stepped forward to set several coffees and salad rolls on the coffee table near Grissom's couch.

"Nick?"

Grissom beckoned Nick and Warrick back to the doorway, and the trio slipped briefly back into the corridor. Through a crack in the door Catherine saw Grissom talking to them in whispers, Nick and Warrick nodding helpfully.

"Come sit down," Catherine said.

She sat on the small old two seater and held out a coffee. Sara hesitated a moment before giving in, sitting beside her. She stared at the coffee in her hands with a morose expression.

The door to the office clicked closed as Grissom returned. He moved a chair close.

"Sara," Catherine began gently, "We need to talk."

Sara looked away, dread etched into her face. For a brief moment Catherine wondered if she would bolt, but the moment passed and she did not move.

"I'm not telling Ecklie," Sara said flatly.

"We understand," Catherine said sympathetically. "We're not suggesting you do. We just thought that maybe ..."

She trailed off at the look on Sara's face. Her sentence was finished by Grissom.

"... that maybe you could tell us," he said gently.

Catherine watched as Sara met Grissom's concerned eyes. As they linked something in Sara's seemed to soften, as if she was both touched and drained.

"We're not going to just leave you with this, Sara," Catherine added.

There was a momentary silence as Sara turned the coffee with her fingers. Somewhere in the distance a phone rang.

"We just want to help," Grissom said gently. "If you don't want to press charges, that's fine. We just need to know you're okay."

There was another brief silence. Sara did not react.

"Off the record?" Catherine suggested gently.

"Nothing goes any further than this room," Grissom said. "You know you can trust us."

It was this remark that finally caused her to raise her eyes. Under the strength of Sara's brown gaze Catherine wondered if she was recalling the existing promise that both herself and Grissom had kept; the haunting secrets of Sara's past that both of them had been trusted with. At last, she nodded.

"I was going to tell you," she said softly, looking toward Catherine. "But then at the hospital things just ..."

"Got out of hand," Catherine agreed.

Sara nodded.

"I'd been drinking," she confessed softly. "I was alone at the bar. It was quiet. After a while he approached. We got talking, one thing led to another and ..."

"You both went back to your place," Catherine finished. To save Sara the pain of stepping through the obvious she added, "What time did you get there?"

"Close to four," Sara said. "I fell asleep, didn't wake until after six. When I did, I saw he was gone. I got up, found him in the kitchen. I thought he was just getting a drink, maybe a snack, that he hadn't wanted to wake me. But ..."

She trailed off, and Catherine saw a pained expression pierce her eyes.

"What did you see?" Grissom asked gently.

"I think ... that he hadn't realised who I was."

"Who you were?" Grissom repeated.

"You mean CSI?" Catherine asked.

Sara gave a faint nod.

"He had my gun," she went on. "He'd found my wallet, my ID. He was pissed."

"You mean angry?" Grissom asked.

But Catherine saw a dark shadow settle in Sara's eyes. She was again staring at her coffee, her fingers white and tense on the cup. Suddenly her eyes seemed to be glistening.

Sensing they were close, Catherine placed her hand lightly on Sara's knee.

"Sara ... did he use your gun against you? Threaten you?"

It was a long moment before she replied, slowly lifting her eyes to meet theirs.

"He terrorised me for six hours."

The words slammed Catherine straight-on, and for a brief moment she was winded by them. She heard herself take in breath, checking Sara's haunted eyes for a lie, but there was none to be found. There was new moisture in Grissom's eyes as he stared at her, momentarily lost for words.

"God, Sara ..." she started, but could not go on. The events of the evening played again her in mind with renewed meaning. She saw again Sara's hand reaching for her leather jacket, peeling it back to check that she was armed, her need for reassurance in the time thereafter that she was safe. The real truth, so lost at the time, was more painful than she had imagined.

Automatically Catherine slipped her arm around Sara's back. Despite everything, Sara looked remarkably calm.

It was several moments before Grissom recovered.

"Sara," he said, "tell us precisely what he did."

"He held me at gunpoint," she said. "Had it trained on my stomach. He was waving my badge, shaking it in the air, demanding to know what it meant. I told the truth, said I was CSI. He hadn't known. He flipped."

"I don't understand," Grissom said. "Why did it matter?"

"Does he have a thing against law enforcement?" Catherine asked. "Or against female cops?"

"I didn't find out why until later," Sara said. "He locked my door, so I couldn't escape, and made me kneel on the floor. He circled for a long time, agitated, hurling questions. I had to answer them. He threatened to kill me, and I knew for sure that he would."

"What questions?" Grissom asked.

"About our jobs. What we do. For a while he just kept getting madder, and then he was crying."

"Crying?" Grissom repeated.

"I didn't dare ask questions," Sara said. "His finger was slipping on the trigger. He was rambling, talking to himself. Pacing. It was hours before I pieced together what he was saying."

She drifted off. Catherine continued rubbing her back, hoping to ease her on.

"Sara," Catherine said carefully, "Why was he crying?"

"He mentioned a girl's name," Sara answered. "After a while I realised he was repeating it. He chanted it like he was talking to her, at one point asking her forgiveness, in others vowing to kill me. She was his girlfriend. I think it was serious."

"Was?" Grissom asked.

Catherine felt on edge, sensing the answer.

"She's dead," Sara clarified. "And then I learned that it was at our hands. She'd been charged with murder - one he swears she didn't commit. After she was charged she killed herself. She took an overdose, enough pills to down an elephant, and he found her on the bathroom floor. He rushed to her aid, called an ambulance, but it was too late."

Sara spoke in detached monotone, staring blankly ahead, and Catherine tightened her arm. She tried to take in the words, to wrestle them for control.

"He blamed you for her death?" Catherine asked.

Sara nodded. "Yeah."

"So this is about vengeance," Grissom concluded. "He seeks to kill you to avenge her suicide."

Sara nodded. Catherine saw tears now clearly in her eyes.

"The kicker is, when I met him, he said he was putting his life back together. He'd alluded to a recent break-up. I didn't think anything of it. He was sweet, charming, sincere ... he'd been getting help, seeing a psychologist. Moving on."

"Until he discovered your identity," Grissom said.

"Yeah," Sara said, voice trembling. "He hated himself, was disgusted with himself, felt he'd betrayed her. When he finally told me the story he was crying, breaking down. He sank to the floor next to me, sobbing. I reached to comfort him, to touch him, for a second he accepted it, and I thought it was over. Then he suddenly jabbed the gun back into my chest, flew into grief-stricken rage. He was screaming, and some time after that you got the call."

Sara drifted back into silence, and in the wake of her words, Catherine closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath. At last, she understood. She understood Sara's terror, and yet also her empathy and reluctance to testify. Yet though she understood where Sara was coming from, she herself felt no sympathy, and hesitated for a moment, wondering how to bring Sara around.

"Do you pity him?" Grissom asked gently.

"It wasn't his fault," Sara said quietly. "Grief does things to people, scars people. If he'd known who I was he would never have approached me. And I know what it's like to the body of someone you love at your feet."

Catherine took another breath, trying to steady herself yet finding little self-control left.

"Sara," she said, her patience ebbing away, "this was not your fault."

"He held a gun to your head," Grissom pointed out firmly. "He threatened to kill you."

"He didn't hurt me," Sara said calmly.

Catherine remembered Sara sitting terrified on the bathroom floor, and considered that that was a matter of opinion.

"He shot at Sofia," Grissom went on. "He entered that hospital to kill you, Sara. He nearly did kill Sofia. He shot at her across the emergency room. Are you telling me that's not a crime? That we should condone her attempted murder?"

Sara did not answer, looking slightly confused.

"Sara," Catherine interjected, "let me tell you something. A nice guy, if he doesn't like you, he leaves. If he resents your role as a forensic scientist - as someone who uses objective evidence to uphold the law - he might even storm out. What he doesn't do track down your gun, press the barrel against your chest, and threaten to kill you. He doesn't make you kneel in your own living room to beg for your life. And he certainly doesn't follow you to the hospital afterward to attempt to finish the job."

She paused, watching as her words rattled through Sara. She put a hand over her eyes, looking upset and confused.

"He abused you, Sara," Grissom said calmly. "He broke your trust. Can you tell yourself that?"

Sara did not reply, eyes behind her hand. Catherine felt her tremble under her arm.

"I need you to think about this," Grissom went on. "If this had happened to someone else - to anyone else in our team - and you had been called to their aid, how would you feel?"

Sara lifted her moist eyes to Grissom's. She could not seem to bring herself to answer. A single tear escaped her eye, and she quickly caught it with a fingertip.

"There's a name for these types of situations, Sara," Grissom said softly. "A term I think you may have heard of. A condition which may help explain what you're feeling."

Sara's eyes narrowed, reading Grissom, and then her tears gave way to disbelief. "Stockholm Syndrome?"

"We think so," Catherine said gently, rubbing her back.

"Unless there's something else," Grissom invited. "Another reason you feel unable to testify."

Sara swallowed in disbelief. Further stray tears rolled down her cheeks, but she did not catch them.

"No," she admitted, still sounding surprised. "It's just ... you know I ..."

She trailed off. Grissom raised an eyebrow, making his point. A moment later Catherine felt Sara sigh heavily under her arm as realisation sank heavily into her.

"We can't decide for you," Catherine said. "It's up to you. But what we can say is that you don't have to go through this alone. You have our support."

"We'll come with you to court," Grissom offered sincerely. "Stay with you through the whole thing."

There was a moment in which Sara looked ready to resign, to agree, but then she sighed again.

"I can't think about this," she said, looking shaken. "I need some time."

Catherine nodded, knowing it was all they could ask for.

"Sure," she said quickly, stroking her back. "It's okay."

"Take your time," Grissom said.

Sara wearily nodded her gratitude. Catherine's eyes drifted to the food and drinks they had not touched.

"When's the last time you ate something?" she asked.

Sara half-heartedly shrugged one shoulder. Grissom pushed a roll into her lap.

"Eat," he said gently.

Catherine took her coffee. It was luke-warm, but she was glad of the caffeine. She knew the wait for news would be long.

Originally intended to end this chapter with a cliffhanger, but thought I'd give it a break. This feels like a more natural ending.