A/N: Hello all – hope you are all doing well. Thanks again for your continuing support/interest, it really means a lot. Here is the next chapter.

Enjoy!

CATHERINE POV

Grabbing the case file from Grissom, I head out to find Sara. It's been a week since I had my talk with Nancy, and I have barely even seen the brunette since.

Our paths will finally cross tonight, however. We have been assigned a hit and run out in Henderson.

I head toward the labs, figuring she is likely working the evidence from one of her other open cases.

Sure enough, I find her in her favorite lab studiously poring over pictures from her scene. I selfishly take a moment to look at her lean frame as she grabs another picture off the table.

Clearing my throat, I step into the room.

Sara barely offers me a glance as she silently puts the contents of the case file back into their proper place.

"We have hit and run, Henderson. 12 year old vic, she was on her way home from school."

Sara tucks her case file under her arm and turns to me. "Okay."

Okay then.

Leading the way, I head out to the parking lot. Sara follows closely behind, dropping her file off on our way out.

Reaching our Tahoes, Sara looks at me. "You drive."

Well, that's a bit unusual to say the least.

"Sure."

I hate that our relationship has turned to this, monosyllabic responses and half sentences.

The car ride is awkward, and that's an understatement. I think a car ride with the pope and Marilyn Manson would have been more amicable than this.

Turning to Sara right before we arrive at the scene, I can't help but ask. "How are you?"

She laughs, and it sounds strange in the stiff silence of the car. Her voice is soft, dead. "I'm great. Yourself?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Yup."

Exciting the vehicle after we pull up, I realize that Sara's injury is not bothering her nearly as much today. Just yesterday I watched her practically drag herself painfully out of the lab and into her car after a long day on her feet. Today, her leg still appears weak, and her limp still quite pronounced, but Sara barely seems to feel any pain at all.

Strange.

I don't have time to give it much more thought as we approach Brass. He tells us the details of the scene, and I can't help but notice he is watching Sara closely. I guess I'm not the only one who has been finding her behavior concerning as of late.

Sara seems unaware, and simply thanks Brass and heads over towards the scene. As is typical of Sara, she automatically gives me the body while she takes the surrounding area.

Glancing over at the body, however, she notices that it is a young blonde girl. A girl that looks a lot like Lindsey.

Approaching me hesitantly, she asks, "Cath, you want me to take her?" Her voice is almost warm, and since Sara is showing a little bit of her old self, I decide to take her up on the offer.

"Sure."

I spend the next hour or so working the perimeter. It's a cluttered scene, and there is lots of evidence to process. I am grateful when Sara finishes with the body and joins me. Silently, we methodically comb the remaining portions of the landscape, sun glistening off the pavement in stark contrast to the somber mood.

After the better part of the shift is over, we are finally packing up our evidence and driving back to the lab.

Once we return, I tell Sara she can have the car to herself to process, knowing it's one of her favorite things to do.

Or at least it used to be.

She barely smiles and simply walks off towards the garage.

Grabbing my evidence, I head to the layout room to work on my own. Shaking my head, I realize sadly that working by myself isn't going to be much different then working with the recent ghost version of Sara.

After vigilantly processing much of what I had, I asses our victim's clothing.

Seeing the tears on her jeans where she came in contact with the car, I decide to take a break and check in with Sara to see if she found matching shreds of the little girl's denim on the vehicle. Such a match would do wonders in ensuring a conviction. It's not often that I find myself hoping for damning evidence, trying to remain neutral in my investigation, but in cases such as this I don't want to leave any room for reasonable doubt. Nothing about hitting a little girl and leaving her to die is reasonable.

Entering the garage, I see Sara's long legs sticking out from underneath the BMW. Not wanting to startle her, I wait for her to wheel herself out before asking her about the clothing.

Not a minute later, she emerges from under the black vehicle, absently removing her grease streaked CSI jumper and tossing it over a stool. Seeing me sitting at the work bench, she heads over and hands me the bags of evidence she collected without a word.

Looking through the clear plastic of the bags, I indeed find what look to be pieces of the girl's jeans.

Sometimes I hate the world we live in. That someone could hit a little girl and take off running is bad enough. But when they don't even have the decency to call 911 before they leave the scene, that's when I begin to wonder if human nature can allow for such evil. Or if we are instead dealing with a whole different breed of existence entirely.

But that's just my humble opinion.

Gathering all the evidence together to add it to my collection in the layout room, I turn to thank Sara just in time to see her rub her face above her eye.

"Sara."

Turning to me, she raises her eyebrows in question.

Approaching her, I grab her hand in mine. I am absolutely shocked when she doesn't even stiffen. I would be taking this as a good thing, but when I look at Sara, she seems completely spacey. Her eyes can't even focus on me correctly.

When I feel wetness on my hand, it pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the reason I grabbed her. Looking down, I see that Sara's blood has begun trickling onto my fingers.

"What happened to your hand?"

Sara is still looking at my face.

"Huh?"

"Your hand, Sara. What happened to your hand?"

Finally looking down, she raises her eyebrow.

"Oh."

Oh, indeed. The cut isn't horrific by any means, but it is certainly deep enough that Sara should have noticed. Just like her leg, Sara doesn't seem aware of the pain.

Pulling her toward the sink, I hold her hand under the faucet. After washing away as much of the blood as I can under the cold stream, I virtually drag her to my office.

Pointing toward a chair in front of my desk, I order her, "Sit."

She does so almost robotically.

Pulling out my first aid kit, I sit behind my desk and look at her expectantly.

She doesn't move.

"Give me your hand."

I feel myself growing concerned when she hands me her right hand, the hand without the cut. Once again, she is staring straight ahead, no expression on her face.

"Your other one."

Without a word, she places her other hand on the desk, effectively giving me both. Sara is really out of it.

Taking her left hand in mine, I place cotton gauze on the back of her hand after cleaning it, just below her knuckles. Holding it in place over the gash, I wrap medical tape around her hand to hold it in place. I make sure it is tight since it was still bleeding a bit.

Sara doesn't even flinch.

I give her her hand back, and she leaves it on my desk along with her other one.

She is just sitting there, staring off into space. Her vacant gaze is focused somewhere above my left shoulder.

Taking this time to study her, I conclude that she most definitely does not look well. The pale, drawn skin of her face and arms contrasts harshly against her black tank top.

I absently wonder how long she would remain sitting here if I were to get up and leave.

"Sara."

Finally coming out of her trance, she takes her hands off my desk and stands up.

"Sara, are you alright?"

She looks at me, the expression on her face almost confused. "I'm fine."

"I'm worried about y-"

"Catherine, thanks," she holds up her hand with the bandage wrapped around it, "but I don't need you to take care of me. Hell, I don't need you period."

He voice is lifeless, void of emotion.

And with that, she is gone.

The first free moment I get, I set out on a hunt for Sara. This has gone too far. She is obviously not alright, and I am obviously not alright. I want to figure out what has happened to my friend, and hopefully in the process, what has happened to us.

Stopping by the locker room, I see that her locker door is hanging open, her stuff gone.

Our shift is long over, but the fact that she left before finishing running the information she got off the car makes me really nervous that something is not only wrong, but that something is very wrong. Sara isn't one to leave a hot case under her own power. Ever.

Unfortunately, I cannot leave for another hour or two since I am covering half of swing shift tonight. The regular swing supervisor recently lost his wife to cancer, and is well deservedly taking some time off.

Instead, I do the first thing I can think of.

Grabbing my phone, I dial Nancy.

"Hello?"

"Nance, I need your help."

"You alright? What's wrong?"

I can hear the panic in her voice. It's not often I ask her for help like this.

"No, I'm anything but fine. But it's Sara I'm worried about right now. She was, off, tonight. Completely spaced out, acted like she didn't even know where she was half the time, and she took off with an open case. Needless to say, that is a sign of the apocalypse. Do you think you could stop by her place on your way home? Just make sure she is alright?"

I can hear her sigh.

"Look, Nancy, I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important. I'm really concerned about her, she didn't look well tonight at all."

"No, it's fine, Cath. I'm happy to do it, I'm just not so sure how happy Sara will be to see me is all."

I don't know what went on between Sara and my sister, but I am glad Nancy is willing to work through it to do me this favor.

"I'll check in on her and give you a call to let you know how she is."

"Thank you so much, Nancy. I owe you."

"No one should ever owe someone anything for giving them help when they need it."

And with that, my sister, her voice laced with a mixture of guilt and determination, hangs up.