Who Drabbled What?
Chapter Seven
By MSCSIFANGSR and JellyBeanChiChi

Drabbles from last chapter: 51, 55 by JellyBeanChiChi and 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 by MSCSIFANGSR

Prompts given by CSIBecky: 61. Cricket 62. Shed 63. Broccoli 64. Shaggy 65. Kilimanjaro
Prompts given by Sidle77: 66. Candle 67. Sticky 68. Champagne 69. Tight 70. Glue

We had quite a little three-way competition in guessing who drabbled what. But the victory goes to SylvieT, who just edged Kadian for the most correct guesses. Congrats! (Silly... don't worry, maybe you'll get your sock this week :-)
We hope everyone enjoys this batch!


Learning to sleep while a boat swelled upon the ocean took time, but Sara mastered it. Now she needed to acclimate herself to another environment.

The nocturnal sounds of the rainforest seemed like a single, high-pitched noise. But when Sara concentrated her brain broke down singular sounds. A frog. A caimen. A bird. A cricket. A mosquito, and dozens of other bugs.

"Damn," said her roommate as she searched for ear plugs. "I can't imagine anyone sleeping soundly with all these creepy crawlies."

Saddeness struck Sara. She knew someone who could. But she doubted she'd find out for sure.


Riley, Nick and Grissom assumed their various responsibilities at the darkened crime scene. As Riley surveyed the deceased and tried to identify a substance on the victim's suit.

"Here you go," Grissom said as he handed Riley an item. "Perhaps this will shed light on the situation."

Riley rolled her eyes. "Why do you do that? Do you think you're witty?"

"I'm just trying to help, Ms. Adams."

They worked silently, until Riley headed to the SUV.

"Hey Griss," Nick said. "Riley's just a little..."

"I know. Nick. She's a bitch. I give her 22 episodes... I mean 9 months."


The sight in the refrigerator depressed Grissom. He thought he got rid of everything.

But he knew there would always be something to remind him of her.

Even in his grief, those words should have never escaped his mouth. Now he was left in a thick fog: Moving, thinking, weeping slowly.

Yet he quickly spots the dog-eared, paperback romance forgotten among his books; easily picks which of his shirts she wore to bed.

And the broccoli left in the crisper.

As he threw the spoiled vegetable away, he knew the biggest reminder of her was the hole in his heart.


Sara ran her fingers through the silver curls at the base of Grissom's neck as she kissed him thoroughly. When they pulled apart, she murmured against his throat, "You're getting a little shaggy."

He looked down at her uncomprehendingly.

"I've heard 'shag' or 'to shag' but what exactly is 'shaggy'?

The sound of her laughter made him smile even though he knew it was directed at him.

"Your hair is getting long, Grissom. But I would like 'to shag' you right now."

"Your wish is my command, dear," as he whisked her off to the bed.


"And now he would never write the things he'd saved to write until he knew enough to write them well." Grissom quoted as he snapped digital photos of the famous writer who's dead body had found by the housekeeping staff of the upscale hotel.

"Do you suspect suicide?" David asked just after taking the man's liver temperature.

"No, not yet. Why?"

"You quoted Hemingway, from 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro'. I just wondered." David looked at Grissom, then continued, "Man's been dead for 6 hours."

"Thank you," Grissom smiled, then resumed with the photographic evidence.


Sara was sifting through evidence from her latest crime scene when Grissom walked into the layout room. He was wearing that light blue lab coat; his eyes accentuated nicely with it and Sara smiled in spite of herself. She couldn't deny how handsome he was when he paraded around in full geek mode.

"You busy?"

"Kinda looks like it, doesn't it?"

He shrugged like he hadn't noticed her before. "I can't determine how a candle was used as a implement of death."

"You want me to be your 'victim' in a recreation?"

"Yes."

"Okay."


As Grissom washed off his hands in the washroom of the New Orleans style coffee shop after the accident, he couldn't help but smile.

Sara had spilled her cafe au lait on him when she cheered unexpectedly when the Cubs scored in the bottom of the ninth in a come from behind victory.

His hands bore the brunt of the attack, sticky sugar clinging to the web spaces of his fingers and he recalled Sara erotically sucking the sweet concoction from his digits. He felt himself become aroused, so he left diplomatically for the restroom.

Marriage was a good thing.


The woman's dead body had been found surrounded by empty champagne bottles; opened gallon paint cans and scattered paint brushes.

Sara used a Nikon F-4 to document evidence as Grissom contemplated the scene, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

"'Ballatore spumante' is not expensive; but wonder what she was celebrating?" Grissom wondered outloud.

"That she enjoyed painting the walls of her house? Our time on this earth is sacred, and we should celebrate every moment."

"Very nice, Sara," Grissom smiled. Then was silent for several minutes before he continued, "You know, maybe we should celebrate more together."

"I'd like that, Griss."


He watched as they brought Natalie in for questioning. She looked serene, almost happy.

She had no right to embody a positive emotion because she stole the most precious person in his life. She had no right.

He charged into the interrogation room. He demanded to know where Sara was. But all Natalie did was smile. She had no right, and he wrapped his hands tight around that worthless bitch's throat.

Grissom awoke with a start. He quickly looked down to his left to see Sara sleeping. He closed his eyes, but a tear still slipped down his exhausted face.


Brass met the woman at a bar.

There was no mystery to his small talk or why he bought her three scotches, nor any mystery to their verbal repartee.

They knew the game.

His calloused hands seemed soft, but she felt the distance of his touch.

She smiled, moaned. But didn't attempt to hide the uninspired look in her eyes.

When it was over, they kissed one final time as she said goodbye.

Brass smiled, weakly.

After the blonde left and he was alone again, he cried: the pain of shooting Officer Bell still stuck to him like glue.


TBC

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