Chapter One

He had always loved flames. Not merely for the heat, or the intricate patters of yellow and red, but for the sound. From the low hisses to the loud cackles, it was a symphony of brilliance to his ears.

The wild ones were the most magnificent, towering against the sky, smoke spiralling upwards in all the shades of grey and black.

At first the fires were merely a diversion, a method of solace he sought rarely. There was comfort just knowing he could seek it. But the need grew as the emptiness in his life grew. To all those watching him from the outside, he seemed successful. Fortunate Mark Grundy, a life to envy.

But he did not feel alive. Only the flames gave him that. He sought them as often as he dared, fear mixing with anticipation until his body was aflame with the fire also.

All that had been wonderful, but never before had he felt as he did now, palms sweaty and heart thumping painfully in his chest as he drove, not quite knowing where.

Killer. He had killed. He had not meant to, but as he had swung off the highway, he had suddenly seen an all too familiar face. Gil Grissom, older, but still the same, still with judgemental eyes.

Mark remember those eyes all too well. Resentment had bubbled quietly, but he had not thought to act upon it.

Even as he thought that, he had pulled up by the small shop. A broken streetlamp offered him the cover of darkness, his steps soft on the wet ground. Sprinklers, perhaps, for it had not rained.

He had not meant to kill. He had not meant to do anything but watch, perhaps leave a scrape in the parked car, a cheap little revenge. He had not meant to kill... Had he?

Grissom was on the phone, back turned and in that everlasting moment, Mark had moved. The tin can made contact with flesh and bone, and Grissom fell forward.

"Hey!"

The store manager bolted from his safe haven behind the counter, springing forward. He got two steps before Mark reached for his gun and fired, again and again, until there were no bullets and still he pulled the trigger.

The man looked baffled for a moment before pain took hold of his face, and soundlessly he screamed. Blood fell to the ground, the tiny drops splattering, the fat drops pooling. Such a vivid colour. Almost like the flames.

There was such a silence, broken only by Mark's rapid breathing. In that one moment he had felt more terrible then there were words for, and yet, so alive. His knees had nearly buckled under him as he tried to steer the gun towards Grissom. No bullets, yet he tried to pull the trigger. The metallic click broke the silence, and he awoke from one trance into another.

Already his body was gripped in the fever of the flames. Some petrol, a lighter, and the symphony began.

He took the tin can with him, a momentum, a reminder. His shoes he threw into the fire as he always did. One day that would doom him, he knew, and the thought heightened his fear, heightened his excitement.

He nearly threw up in the car as he fought it back onto the road. He did not care if he had been seen then and there. Nothing mattered but the fever, the knowledge that he had killed once and the flames were killing once more for him.

Never had he even dreamed that killing could be so horrible and so wonderful.

II

The sounds were muffled, as if she was under water, adrift in a sea of treacherous emotions threatening to drown her. Heat tickled her skin, as if a fever had taken hold of her. She wished for nothing more than to sleep, dreamlessly, numbly.

She could not, of course. She had to sit here in the crowded hospital waiting room, waiting… Waiting for any news, any hope, feeling as if it was all slipping away from her with each breath, while Nick and Warrick were at the crime scene with some of Ecklie's people.

The crime scene.

Her fists balled and for a moment she wished she could be there, analysing rather than reacting. But perhaps that would have been worse, to see blood and not know if it was Grissom's. She wasn't sure if she could have managed.

She was not sure she was managing.

It had all happened so fast.

Gunshots over the phone, pulling up in her car, seeing the flames, charging in without thinking, finding Grissom by a pool of blood and a dead body, the agonising wait for the ambulance, the smoke, the blood, the fear…

All a blur, tied up in a knot in her heart, making every heartbeat painful. It was as if she had seen it all from the outside, and only now had returned to her body to feel the anguish.

He could not die.

Unbidden, tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with her shirt, it was already ruined. Ash streaked it, and the flames had taken their share. Some of her skin seemed to burn at the memory still.

In vain, she began to brush at the ash, as if getting it off would erase what had happened. It did little good, of course, and she only managed to make it worse.

"Sara?"

Slowly, a voice penetrated and she looked up at Catherine's face.

"They won't tell me anything," she whispered.

Catherine said nothing, merely took a seat, looking stunned and… Angry? Frustrated? It was hard to tell behind the mask of steeled determination.

"Someone had hit him over the head," Sara muttered. The words forced themselves out, spilling over each other. "Blunt weapon. The other guy was shot. The fire was raging when I got there, I…"

The words died away and she leaned against Catherine, unable to sit upright any more. It hurt. It all hurt.

Outside, the stars shone on as a thin crust of red and orange spread over the horizon. Flames and blood and a new morning.