Disclaimer: Neither of us owns CSI or any of its characters. neither of us is making any money from this fic. We both do, however, have the hots for William Petersen in the worst way.

A/N: This story is a sequel to mingsmommy's 13 Beers. This story is a collaborative effort between dreamsofhim and mingsmommy. The NC-17 version of this story was previously posted on GeekFiction. Spoilerish up to 7X14, AU beyond.

Chapter 7 – And Then Some...Physics

Newton's first law: the law of inertia –

An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.
An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.

It wasn't a knife, it was a gun.

And the wife had chosen not to stick around for the psych eval and the possible imprisonment; instead, she had called 911 then put the long barrel of the .44 Magnum in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

And the child was nine, not twelve.

The house was in a moderate middle class white collar subdivision, not a working class neighborhood that had seen better days.

But the overturned furniture in the otherwise tidy house and broken glass stained with blood was eerily similar; similar enough, in fact, to cause a slideshow of memory to click through Sara's brain as she photographed the scene.

Perhaps the mother had assumed the suicide shot would not draw the child out of bed and down the stairs since the fight and the first shot had not. Her assumption had proven incorrect; when Sara had arrived minutes behind Brass and the black and white, the little girl had still been kneeling in the pool of her mother's blood and brains, smoothing her hands over the woman's face.

Her name was Madison, "Maddy," she had supplied through stiff lips. Her pallor in contrast to the drying blood on her cheeks was alarming. But the EMTs had found no wounds or injuries. "Shock," one had murmured to Sara and she had nodded.

Despite the girl's insistence that she be allowed to stay with her mother, Brass had lifted her in his arms and taken her out to the waiting ambulance with a firm gentleness that nearly brought tears to Sara's eyes. Nearly. She would not compromise the case with her emotions; she tucked them away in a distant place where they would wait until she could deal with them. Right here, right now, the case was what mattered the most.

The wife's call to 911 had stated simply that she had killed her husband after a marriage filled with abuse and she was going to kill herself. She had left her sister's name and phone number in a note on the kitchen table along with the paperwork on two life insurance policies. She'd told the operator she wanted a better life for her daughter than she herself had had.

Sara had already photographed the body of the husband. Were it not for the singed hole in the middle of his forehead, his body would have looked as though he had simply fallen asleep on the couch. The blood spatter spoke of darker things, though and when David arrived to move the body, she knew the back of his head would show an empty, gaping hole. The wife had told the 911 operator he had come home drunk from a bad run at the tables, beaten her, torn up their home and then passed out. She had finally had enough, she said, and she had killed him.

The wife's body was harder to photograph.

She was on her back, in the middle of the room, left arm at her side, right arm crossed over her torso, the gun between her left arm and her left side where it had dropped from her right hand. The position was consistent with someone who had eaten a gun from a standing position. Her arms were a mass of bruises, old and new, and Sara thought it looked as though her left arm might have been broken. But it was difficult to tell what damage to her face predated the suicide. The black eyes and soft forehead were consistent with this type of self-inflicted gunshot wound, but it was difficult to say if the split lip and other facial contusions were results of the gun's kick or her husband's fists.

It didn't really matter. All the other evidence was supporting the story of abuse she had told the 911 operator and the note she had left.

Her body, the evidence, all of it spoke of a despair that Sara was all too familiar with. She found herself for the first time in a long time having to work at concentrating. Using breathing techniques to calm herself, a litany of "It's all right, it's not you, that part of your life is over" running in an endless loop through her head.

Pausing, she took a deep, calming breath but the metallic smell of blood hung in the air and overpowered her. Not that it was a smell she could ever get used to, but she had found over the years she was able to disregard it after a few minutes at a bloody scene. Not today, though; not this scene.

She decided on a break for some fresh air; David would arrive with the Coroner's van soon and, hopefully, this would be easier scene after the bodies were removed.

Stepping onto the front porch, she took a huge gulp of the night air. She noted Doris Petersen from Child Protective Services talking to the child as she sat on the ambulance's gurney. Sara sighed with relief. There wasn't a better, more compassionate case worker that she knew of. Doris would see Maddy was cleaned up and comfortable until her aunt could get here from Reno and go through the steps of taking custody of the girl. She might have to stay in custody for a few days, but if everything checked out, she wouldn't be put into the system.

A soft glow was beginning to emanate from the Eastern sky; Sara glanced at her watch and sighed again.

Almost. She had almost made it. Up until now it had been an easy night; a trick roll, a jewelry store robbery, and a hit and run by a car with a unique paint color. It was a near perfect night. Not so slow that boredom had set in, but no deaths, no violence on human beings…theft and property damage only. Perfect.

She had just finished up the paint analysis with only an hour left in the shift and was beginning to look forward to the rest of the day. Her now regular breakfast with Brass, home in time to take Grissom's morning call in private and then her appointment with her new therapist. Or was he their new therapist? Both, she supposed.

She had found Dr. Joseph Argyle through a list her PEAP counselor had provided. She had chosen him because he was the only man on the list and she figured if Grissom was serious about going to couple's counseling, he would probably feel more comfortable with a man. She'd been lucky enough that the good doctor had been available to see her almost immediately.

It had been a serendipitous find. Not only was he a highly respected couple's therapist, he did pro bono work with victims of domestic violence. They had clicked immediately and given her history, he seemed to understand her need to make some progress before Grissom returned. He agreed to see her daily and they had begun to explore how her issues contributed to the dysfunction in her relationship with Grissom.

She walked away from the house as she dialed Joe's office and left a message on his voice mail. Even with a written and taped confession, with the amount of evidence here there was no way she was making today's session. The irony of not being able to make a therapy appointment after a scene like this was not lost on her.

But murder was still murder even if it was justifiable and the murderer was dead. The evidence needed to be recovered and logged in case something came up later. She couldn't make up for the loss the child had suffered but she could and she would make sure this part was done right; that there were as few questions as possible.

Let the evidence speak, even if the story it told was too sad to bear.

xxx

Brass had arrived home in the afternoon, dog tired and ready for a few hours sleep before he had to get up and do it all over again. His coat had been the first to go, the tie was tied for second with his shoes as he was able to kick them off while unknotting the glorified noose.

He was contemplating if five hours of sleep was enough time to sleep off a beer when "My Humps" began playing from his cell phone. Tonight, he swore, tonight, he was going to get a hold of Sanders and put his service revolver to the young CSI's temple, have him change it back to a normal ring and tell him the next time he touched Brass's phone, he would be collecting evidence from his own murder.

"Brass," he barked without looking at the caller id.

"Have you seen Sara?"

"Well, hello, to you, too, Gilbert…how goes the wagon train West? Are they going to be renaming any highways the Grissom Trail?"

He heard a frustrated sound come over the line; the detective suddenly realized something must be off if Grissom was phoning him; that was a fairly big deal.

The CSI repeated, "Have you see Sara? Is she all right?"

Brass couldn't miss the urgency of Grissom's tone and he thought back on the day and night. "We were in doubles. I saw her back at the Lab about," he looked at his watch "four hours ago. She was logging evidence on a case we were working. Why?"

"She didn't take my call this morning…I usually have an e-mail from her when I wake up and there wasn't one this morning. I've tried calling her all day, but it goes straight to voice mail." There was no mistaking the worry in his voice.

Slumping down into a chair, Brass sighed. "Did you do something stupid? Did you two have another fight? You know, if you two ever get your act together, you are going to owe me, big time. I'm thinking all your kids should be named after me."

"No, things have been really good. We've been talking; it's been good." His voice was filled with conviction.

Brass knew what Grissom was saying was true; Sara had told him of the progress they were making. He called her in the morning when he woke; she called him at night when she woke. They e-mailed each other multiple times during the day. The therapist she was seeing had given them some "homework" and she had laughed when she told him how eager Grissom had been to do the work, to prove to her he meant it when he said "whatever it takes." She had been encouraged by Grissom's willingness and her own growth.

Grissom continued, with a trace of anxiousness, "I swear. I haven't done anything."

The wheels in the detective's brain began turning, even as he jibed, "This time."

Grissom sighed as he conceded, "This time."

Brass continued to think, even as he continued to poke, "You think."

"Brass…" Grissom's voice resembled a frustrated growl.

"Sorry," the detective returned, sheepishly.

"I've left messages on her cell, at her apartment; I even tried the townhouse." His apprehension came over the line with every syllable. "Was she all right last night? This morning?"

"Yeah, like I said, it was a double…we pulled a case about an hour before shift's end, a murder/suicide, a domes—Shit!" He hit the coffee table in front of him with a closed fist.

Brass wanted to kick himself. He'd been so concerned about getting the little girl out of the house, dealing with CPS, the neighbors and the girl's aunt and uncle when they finally arrived. It hadn't even occurred to him how the case might affect Sara; he had been so deep in the dirty details of his job he had forgotten about his friend's past.

"What?" The usually dispassionate scientist was starting to sound frantic.

"Look, forget what I said about owing me one. Turns out I'm not so great at this friend stuff," he stated miserably, searching the room for where his shoes might have landed.

"Brass? What does that mean? Should I catch a flight from Denver?" Brass could hear distress and concern warring with the man's need to take action.

He had found the left shoe but not the right; he didn't have time to look anymore. "No, don't do that." He headed towards his bedroom to retrieve another pair of shoes from his closet. "Keep doing what you're doing."

"What happened?" Grissom blew out a troubled breath. "Is there something I should know?"

"It was a rough case. I didn't think about it bothering her." He stepped one foot, then the other into a pair of comfortable loafers. "Give me an hour. If I don't find her, then you can hop that plane." He snapped his phone shut and headed back through the house, stopping only long enough to snag his keys from their hook by the front door.

xxx

He tried the obvious places first. Her apartment, Grissom's townhouse, the Lab, even the diner. Her car was nowhere to be seen.

There was one place left to check before he told Grissom to get to the airport in Denver and get his ass back to Vegas.

He sighed with relief when he saw her Prius sitting in the driveway. He sent a quick text to Grissom..."Found her. Will call soon." It was painfully slow to type the text message…he didn't do a lot of texting. But he didn't want Grissom peppering him with questions until he had had a chance to see if she was OK. The entomologist had already called him four times to check on his progress.

She was in the girl's room, sitting against the pink wall right beside the window on the opposite side of the room from the door. He studied her from the doorway; though she did not acknowledge his presence, he knew she knew he was there. After standing in the door for several moments, he silently crossed the room, stepped over her outstretched legs and slid down the wall to sit beside her.

They sat in silence for a while, until he remarked, "I want to know what you have against sitting in actual chairs. I'm a little old to be spending half my time hauling my tired old ass up off the floor."

Instead of answering, she leaned her head over and rested it on his shoulder. He put an arm around her and pulled her a little closer.

"You're a good friend, Brass." Her voice was soft and tired; he noticed her hair held the faint scent of flowers mixed with the coppery smell of blood: a product of spending so much time at the scene.

He shook his head, sadly. "I don't think so. If I were a real good friend, I would've figured out this case was going to take a toll on you. I would've checked on you before now." He softened his voice. "Grissom is worried sick. You need to call him."

"He called you?"

He snorted. "Yeah, a while ago… and then ten minutes later and ten minutes after that and ten minutes after that…I think you should call him before he calls me in another," he pretended to check his watch, "Forty-three seconds."

"I will. Soon." Her gaze never wavered from the unicorn dancing on the comforter in front of her.

"You wanna talk about this?" He couldn't believe how hesitant his own voice was. He wasn't sure what the right thing to do was.

She shrugged. "Not really. But I probably should." They were silent for a few more minutes before she spoke again. "Did you know I've done all of my course work for my doctorate? I only have to finish and defend my thesis. Of course, it's been so long now, I'd have to re-apply and get a new advisor, but still…my dissertation is all that stands between me and being Dr. Sidle."

"Really?" He didn't know what had caused her to bring the subject up, but anything that kept her talking instead of the still, silent Sara he'd discovered sitting here was all right with him.

"Yeah. When I was talking to Joe yesterday I realized how much psychology and physics have in common." She began idly swiping the toe of her boot against the pink ruffle of the bed skirt.

There sure was a lot of pink in this room; he remembered Ellie's pink phase. It didn't seem to last very long in his mind. It also seemed she went straight from pink and lavender to gothic black and blood red. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Inertia exists as long as things stay the same, either moving or fixed. A force is required to change it. Same thing with people…we stay or move in patterns. In order for anything to change, you have to stop the pattern…physics." She shrugged again.

"Ah," he nodded. It made sense.

"She changed the pattern the only way she knew how." He felt her nod against his shoulder. "She applied force to the inertia."

"The wife?"

She shook her head. "My Mom."

He felt his chest clench at the sadness in her tone. "Sara…"

"No, it's OK." She sighed, softly. "I finally understand and…it's OK." She paused briefly before continuing, "She wanted a better life for me, just like Maddy's Mom wanted for her. I get that now."

She sat up suddenly and looked at him with an earnest expression. "She broke the pattern; she stopped the inertia. It wasn't the best way...but maybe it was the only way she knew how." She chewed on her lip. "Nobody in my family ever did more than a few units of community college…and I have a BS from Harvard and an MS from Berkley…I could have my doctorate in less than a year."

He smiled at the beginnings of her enthusiasm. "Yeah, you're pretty impressive."

She swatted him lightly, before continuing. "I know, my relationship with Gil hasn't been ideal…but I love him and he loves me. And we're trying, Brass…both of us…we love each other enough to the break the pattern." Suddenly, she was beaming at him. "We've stopped the inertia." She blinked at him. "Do you see? Don't you think we can do it?"

He grinned at her, "Sweetheart, I think if the two of you put your mind to it, you could defy gravity."

She quirked a smile at him and then laughed outright as "My Humps" filled the air. "Wouldn't have figured you for a Black Eyed Peas fan."

"Sanders," he groused as he reached for the phone.

She continued laughing, "Are you going to kill him?"

"Oh, he's already dead," Brass handed her the phone. "It's your boyfriend. I'll wait downstairs." He pulled himself off the floor with a grunt.

She flipped the phone open as Brass left the room, "Hey, Babe."

A rushed, relieved breath came through the phone. "Sara." A sigh. "Thank god. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine…I'm sorry I worried you; it was…a rough case," she apologized with soft regret. "I am so sorry…"

"Honey, its OK…as long as you're all right, everything is OK." There was a slight pause, then, "I finally got Brass to tell me about it." His voice touched all the tender places on her soul. "I'm so sorry, Sara. I wish…I wish I had been there."

"Gris, it's OK." She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I'm OK." She leaned her head back against the wall. "It was bad…but I think…I think I understand some things now that are going to help me get better…that are going to help us."

"Sara," his sigh was a caressed her across the miles. "In case I've never made it clear…I think you are an amazing woman…everything you've been through, I can't believe how strong and generous and beautiful, inside and out, you are."

She felt tears sliding down her face at his tender words. "Thank you."

"I should have told you long ago. I should have told you a lot of things a long time ago." She heard him take a deep breath, "But I am going to spend the rest of my life telling you how amazing you are, showing you how much I love you and doing my best to make you happy."

The tears kept falling, even as she smiled at his words. "You really want to make me happy?"

"Oh, Sara, you have no idea how much I want that."

"I want that too. I'm ready for us to be happy together." She closed her eyes. "Come home to me." She sighed. "I want to kiss you, I want to look in your eyes and hear you say you love me. I want to know we can be happy and healthy together...I want a life with you."

"Sara, I want the same things, I swear." His voice was sweetly sincere.

"So?" She deliberately lightened her tone and was gratified to hear his slight laugh before he spoke again.

"I love you. And I'm on my way."

TBC...