Disclaimer: I don't own it, I don't pretend to own it, and I don't mean to offend anyone's sensibilities.

Thank You: Stelmarta for being there! Mom because I love her!

Chapter Three

Nick decided to wait for Sara, Catherine, and Grissom. Warrick left to fetch Catherine's daughter Lindsay; the two men had a busy night. Beyond the robbery Nick told Sara about, they'd had two vehicle crashes and one assault and battery.

 Ecklie was also waiting for the graveyard shift of Vegas CSI, apparently furious that Grissom had got the suicide bombing and not the day shift. He marched up and down the hallway, glowering and snapping at random people. Nick ignored him, there was not much Ecklie could do about it, first come first serve.

 FBI and ATF had been in and out of the Las Vegas PD building all night. They didn't look to happy with night shift either, the restraining order must have held longer than Judge Parker predicted. When he could see dawn kiss the parking lot, Nick told Warrick to go pick up Lindsay from Catherine's house and take her to school. Lindsay was very fond of her 'Uncle Wawick' almost as much so of 'Nicky-pie' and 'Mr. Gwissom". Whenever it became clear that Catherine couldn't make it, one of them took care of her daughter.

 Anything that came up after that point either he or Ecklie's day shift CSI could handle. For lack of anything better to do, and out of hunger, Nick fetched some 'breakfast' out of the CSI fridge. He hoped that whoever owned the Tupperware full of pasta primavera would forgive him, but his stomach was growling like a whole pride of lions. He also checked it very carefully for any trace of one of Grissom's 'experiments' before digging in. Experience was a very efficient teacher.

He had a long wait. It was almost ten in the morning before Catherine staggered into the break room. She whipped the door open, bouncing it off the far wall and catching it back in her hand. Her clothing, usually if not pristine, then neat, was askew. Her hair was flying out of a loosely clasped ponytail, blonde wisps sticking out everywhere. She made it three steps into the break room and collapsed on the sofa, making it sigh and give up some of its padding with a soft "whumph".

"Rough night?" she gave a vague grunt and flipped off both boots, before propping her feet on the edge of the sofa. "I told Warrick to go get Lindsay and get her to school, so she should be fine. I haven't heard anything over the police radio yet."

"You're a God, Nick. There ought to be a statue raised to you in the middle of the Strip. I swear if I see one more little tiny bit of red, I'm gonna hurl." When Nick moved to give her stocking feet a little massage, she groaned out loud. "Griss and Sara are still with, oooh that was nice; yeah they're still with the Doc trying to piece together our victims." She closed her eyes and Nick could see the strain that the past few hours had inflicted on this (almost) single working mom.

"Yeah that's me, Nick the Foot-rub God."

 Ecklie walked by the break room, unbeknownst to Catherine as she had her back to him, he looked as though he was going to walk in, but the sight of Nick rubbing Catherine's feet seemed to convince him otherwise. Just as well, thought Nick, none of them needed Ecklie's kind of vitriol that morning. Grissom walked in and arched his eyebrow in one of those incomprehensibly 'Grissom' gestures.

"Keep it clean kids, there are police in the building. I'd hate to see you arrested for disturbing the peace or indecent exposure." Catherine gave an unladylike snort, and chucked one of her boots in his general direction.

"Hey! Watch it!" Sara, who'd been hiding behind Grissom, fielded the boot, and tossed it back. "What did I do?"

"Nothing, it was supposed to be for Gil." Now he knew that Catherine was tired. She didn't usually refer to Grissom by his first name in mixed company. "What's that smell?"

"Oh someone left some pasta in the fridge; I warmed it up while I was waiting."

"You're eating my pasta?" Sara put her hands on her hips. "That's my takeout, not yours. It's fresh from the Pasta Garden. See, look my name's even on the lid."

"Hey, if you want it back."

Nick shifted from Catherine to the table and thrust the half empty primavera at Sara. That was the wrong gesture, she took one look at the lumpy, red sauce and limp, soggy noodles and turned three shades of pale before bee lining for the trash can and returning whatever it was she ate before she planned on pasta as a midnight snack.

Nick would have gone to help, but Grissom put a hand on her shoulder and waved him off. Sara heaved until there was nothing left and then heaved some more for good measure.

"Sorry about that, I wasn't thinking" Nick felt like a well and true heel, 'she walks in the door, you make her puke, great job Nick-o.' he berated himself. That was a good way to win her trust.

"That's alright; it was going to come up anyhow." She straightened, slightly wobbly, "You got some water?" That he did have, he twisted the cap off of his Aqua Fina bottle and handed it to her. She took a gulp and swished it around before spitting that up too. "Thanks"

"Nick, you take Sara home. Catherine's coming with me. I don't think any of us are fit to drive home by ourselves." Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Doc's got the …remains…all that's left to do is the processing. We've got three dozen Federal agents at our disposal, I'm going to put them to use. Things should look better after we get some sleep."

It was likely measures of their mutual lack of sleep and severe strain that neither Catherine nor Sara objected to Grissom's orders. Nick walked Sara out to his Tahoe; she climbed in the passenger seat and promptly fell asleep.

 Halfway down the interstate he realized something: he didn't know where Sara lived. Stealing a glance at her sleeping form, he mentally shrugged. If she was this out of it he didn't want to wake her up, not to mention that having her wake up in his apartment would tickle him no end as well.

Sliding one arm around her he gently lifted her from the seat of his Tahoe, she was light. He regularly benched more weight then he was sure she weighed. Warmth filled him as he carried her to his home, more than usual. If this had been Catherine it would have been different, she was his friend, Warrick would be walking, no way was he carrying a guy, but Sara was different, she made him feel all protective and fuzzy inside. 'Great, now you're turning into Mr. Sensitive type' he snorted, "Next thing you'll be comparing tile samples or paint chips'

It took a bit of fumbling, but he managed to get the key in and turned without having to put her down. Sara was truly dead to the world. He didn't stop when he got the door open, he just barged right back and set her down on his bed. Going back to fasten the door shut, he took in the sight of her, asleep on his bed, curls tangled against the white pillowcase. She really was a beautiful woman and she looked so good in his bed. 

The next step was the difficult one: he unlaced and removed her boots, pulled off her socks, and was faced with a dilemma. Her jeans, although rolled up and tucked in to the blue CSI coveralls, were still bloodstained around the cuffs and through the knees. Her shirt was spotted with bits of things he didn't even want to think about, but if he removed either article of clothing she'd likely do something to him that both of them would regret. The hell with it, he didn't want that crap on his sheets anyhow.

He unsnapped and removed her jeans and pulled the tie-dyed t-shirt off over her head. Experience with removing clothing from women who were awake and responsive was one thing, getting them off of  Sara Sidle while asleep and when he desperately didn't want to wake her up was another can of worms entirely. She was zonked though; nothing short of a full scale nuclear explosion could have got her up, never mind the removal of most of her clothing.

When he did get one arm out of her shirt off he rolled her on her stomach to get the other and froze. On her back, cris-crossed like a checkerboard, were about a dozen fine white lines, punctuated by small, slightly puckered wound that he recognised as a bullet hole. The bullet hole was relatively fresh only a year or so old, it was still slightly pinkish-brown, but the checkerboards were old scars, years if not decades old.

He swallowed, hard; this was not what he wanted to see. CSI that he was, he wasn't stupid. Checked lines were so clearly evidence of some form of abuse that he immediately knew why she always got too involved in cases of spousal abuse or rape. He flinched away from the R-word; no way would he accept that. She was too strong, too energetic, too… Sara… to take any kind of abuse. It couldn't be. She rolled herself over, back to her back. The bullet hole had gone clean through; there was a mark on her stomach as well. He looked away, this was intruding on her privacy, and she was a very private person. Shaken, he got off the bed and pulled the sheets up over her.    

He went to his linen closet and pulled a spare set of sheets for his couch. This wouldn't be the first time he camped out here. Throwing everything in to the washing machine, Nick grabbed a spare set of boxers and his shaving kit out of the bathroom. He shut the door behind Sara and made a firm resolution to himself not to open it again unless fully dressed and in a true emergency situation. Anything else would tempt him way too far for any normal red-blooded American male. He left some soap, shampoo and a razor on a prominent place on the bathroom counter before he left, God knew what Sara's afternoon routine was, but Nick was pretty sure she'd want a shower when she woke up.

He pulled a package of taco stuff out of his freezer and set it on the counter to thaw, it would be just about ready when they woke up. Sighing he tried to stretch out on his sofa, ending up with his ankles over the far end. Oh well, he'd live.