A/N – I hope you enjoy. I'm having fun with the case. If I ever make one 'normal' or dull, please shoot me, because I'm into the weird and obnoxious. LOL
I have to add this... IT'S SNOWING BIG FAT FLAKES! OMG, I just looked out the window and it's THICK with snow. COOL! The kids are going to LOVE this. Woo hoo!
Disclaimer – I really don't want to write one. Can you?
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Greg, Warrick, and Grissom stood around the lit layout table, examining the evidence they'd collected from the gallery once again.
"Okay, so Billy Gaunt's blood was used in the paint and handprints," Warrick started, reviewing the evidence.
"That's a lot of blood," Greg said. "What do you think, Griss?"
"I think that's a bad assumption to make," Grissom replied.
At the other men's looks, he explained, "We've been assuming that bloody handprints were put on the wall, and then wiped off with a liquid cleaning solution. However, what if a small amount of blood was mixed in with some cleaning fluid and that fluid used to print the wall?"
"Yeah, but if it was done that way, then wouldn't the handprints be smudged? They were fairly clean when we lit them with the ALS." Greg stated.
"There's just one problem with that… we only found them because of a tiny smudge in extremely faint pink against the wall," Grissom murmured, leaning back against a counter. "What if it was more like this…" Walking over, Grissom grabbed a small flat pan and poured in a cap of liquid cleaner and half a cup of water. Grabbing a lancet, Grissom pricked first one finger and squeezed out a couple of thick droplets of blood into the solution. Going to the next finger, he did the same. He continued this on his fingers until he got well over a dozen good size droplets of blood in the pan of liquid, which was now very faintly pink.
Dipping his hand into the liquid, he placed it on the wall. "Go get a cup of coffee and come back in ten minutes," Grissom told them.
When they returned, the wall appeared dry. "Hit the lights," he said, pulling out the ALS and placing the corresponding goggles over his eyes, indicating the others to do the same. Warrick turned off the lights, and Grissom turned on the ALS. A handprint appeared clearly on the wall. Turning off the gear, Warrick flipped the lights back on.
"We never checked the area around the handprints for trace – we focused only on the handprints," Grissom stated. "Since we've released the scene, there's no way to go back and check the walls again."
"But now we have a working theory," Greg stated.
"How did you come up with this?" Warrick asked.
Pulling up the pictures of the destroyed paintings, Grissom said, "It occurred to me that if traces of blood were found in the paint – mixed in – then why not with the cleaning solution? To that end, I had Hodges go over the concentration of the blood in the paint, and he confirmed it was a very small ratio of paint to blood – not more than half a pint per gallon. There can't be more than a gallon and a half used on the paintings. Since the amount of blood in the handprints contained a minute amount of blood in comparison to the cleaning solution, I think this is a valid theory."
"So Billy Gaunt is alive?" Greg asked.
Looking at the wall where he knew his DNA lay in an invisible handprint, Grissom grimaced and replied, "Yes, Greg. It does look that way."
Staring at the blank wall he knew contained a bloody handprint, Greg sighed, "Now… how do we find someone who obviously doesn't want to be found?"
Exactly at the end of shift, Sara sat in Grissom's office, waiting for him to get off the phone with Jim Brass. She had opted to stay and finish shift, but was fading and felt the need to get away from the lab to home, where she could allow herself to relax – or fall apart – whichever happened first.
"Hey, Griss," Nick said, his head bent towards the folder in his hand as he rapidly entered his supervisor's office, and promptly cut himself off. Whispering, "Sorry, man," when he realized Grissom was on the phone, he lightly placed the file on his supervisor's desk and started to back out when he noticed Sara half dozing on the couch. Beckoning her, she wearily rose and followed him to the hall.
"Man, Sara. You look beat." Looking back at Grissom's office and seeing the call wasn't about to end anytime soon, Nick offered, "Want a ride? I know you usually arrive and leave with Grissom, but…" he left off.
Looking back at her husband, Sara sighed, blinked her eyes a few times, and raised her drooping shoulder, with "That'd be great, Nick. I'd appreciate it."
Grabbing a piece of paper, she scrawled, "Getting a ride with Nick," and placed it in front of her husband. Reading it, he looked up, and said, "Hold on a moment Jim," before covering the mouth piece.
"Will you sleep?" he asked, and saw the faint shake of her head. Not wanting to press, he accepted the denial and said, "I'll be home as soon as I can."
Raising her head, Sara frowned and shook her head, "Please, Gil. Come home when you're ready." Sighing, she said, "Besides, I have my appointment with Dr. Granger in three hours. I won't be home for awhile."
"Then let Nick drive you to your appointment," Grissom requested. When she looked ready to argue, he held up a hand and said, "Do you really think you're safe on the road right now?" On a whisper, he added, "You're exhausted." He received his response in the form of a frustrated grunt.
Sara asked Nick to drive her to an appointment later that morning, and he replied "Sure, sunshine," with that big Texas grin. Opting to pick up take-out on the way, they made it to the Grissom residence and settled in front of the television on the couch. Sitting back, watching television, they relaxed. Too tired to help it, Sara nodded off, and Nick followed suit just minutes later to the sounds of an explosion on Mythbusters.
Nick's first sign that something was horribly wrong was getting kicked in the ribs – hard. He'd settled on one end of the long couch, slumped in the corner, while Sara had stretched out in her sleep, her feet apparently finding a home on his leg. The lashing feet jarred him awake. The scream that tore from her, as she dropped to the floor and scrambled into the corner just plain scared him.
As she rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her knees that were pulled back into her chest, Nick tried to get close… only to have her eyes clamp shut and eerie whimpers creep up her throat. Trying several times to touch her, Nick finally settled on sitting in front of her – she was halfway behind the couch, shoving herself into the corner trying to hide. "Sara," he said calmly. "It's just a dream, Sara. It's okay, sweetheart. It's just a dream. It's just a big nasty dream."
Over and over he talked to her, until the eyes opened suddenly, glazed and disoriented. Within moments, they sharpened, and her head came up. "Hey Nicky," she smiled, then buried her crumpling face in her legs and let the sobs overtake her. Scooting closer, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and whispered, "I had them for over a year, sweetheart," and thought, they've never gone completely away, but at least I don't feel ants eating me in my sleep anymore and they only happen every few months.
"I've had them for years and years, Nick," she replied, leaning on his shoulder. Tilting her head up, she got a look at the confusion on his face. He'd naturally assumed she was dreaming about her ordeal in the desert. Closing her eyes, she whispered, "Sometimes I see Natalie, or the car, or the haze of the desert. Sometimes I see my mom stabbing my father to death," and felt him tense.
"Christ, Sara, you should have told me," he breathed out, half angry she'd never mentioned it. "I'm your friend. I could've helped. I would've found a way."
A vague smile on her face, she replied, "You have helped, Nick. You're right here, and you're taking me to see a shrink in a little bit to get shrunk."
Laughing, he said, "Geez, Sara," and shook his head. Standing, he took her hand and lifted her to her feet. Pulling her into a hug, he murmured, "Just do me a favor. If you have any nightmares and Grissom isn't around, please give me a call, okay?"
Holding her away from him so he could make clear eye contact, he sadly added, "I can understand about nightmares. Sometimes I see ants and feel like I'm suffocating. Sometimes I'm a kid back in my bedroom being molested by my babysitter." At the shocked look on her face, he leaned in and murmured, "We all have a past," in her ear.
Nodding, she pulled him back into a hug, laid her head on his shoulder, and let the silent tears fall as she grounded herself. "I'm so tired right now," she whispered. "The last time I slept was when Gil and I had our night off together."
Grissom didn't arrive home until much later than he'd intended. He hoped his wife slept, but at the same time knew he'd be more comfortable to be there if she woke with another nightmare. It surprised him to see Nick's truck parked out front, and assumed the CSI had been too tired to drive, and called a cab. He truly hadn't expected to find him in bed with his wife.
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A/N – Nick or Grissom. Which would YOU choose? Hit the review button and let me know.