Author's note: Do you know, I think this is a first. Two parts, less that two months between them*g*. Who knew I had it in me. Thanks so much for the awesome reviews... Keep them coming*g*.

For the record, I do actually agree with Grav; this is kinda disjointed... which is what happens when you leave months between updates. Let that be a lesson to me. I've re-edited and reposted the first few parts of this story and am going to post them soon (i do MEAN soon this time, not in the next quarter*g*).

Part 8

Three words: There's blood here. Three innocuous little words but put them together and his home wasn't his home anymore. It was a crime scene. Again. The garish, yellow police tape crossed his door for the second time in six months. God knew what the neighbours thought. At least this time there was no body to be stretchered out. A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled through his lips. Nick glanced around surreptitiously, but no one paid any heed to him. People thinking he was losing it was the last thing that he needed. Not now, now wasn't the time to fall apart. Not when a murder had been committed in his kitchen of all places. There was no question about that. Not in his mind anyway. Nick Stokes was willing to bet his pay check that the blood that Catherine had discovered belonged to his last minute baby-sitter. He didn't need Greg's gadgets to tell him that. A sample had been sent back to the lab, care of Warrick Brown, anyway. Instinct wasn't usually something that held up in court.

They'd all been there. The lab had been called and the team dispatched. It must have been a slow night, Nick thought, sardonically, as the three CSIs who weren't there already showed up at his door escorted by a couple of cops. A sample had been scraped from the tiny amount of dried blood that remained at the base of his stove unit and taken to be analysed. Truth was, anyone other than Catherine probably wouldn't have noticed it. He'd have continued on his merry way, systematically dissembling a crime scene. If he hadn't been well, out of the country at the time, he'd have made for a pretty viable suspect. Motive. Cover-up. What more did your average trashy crime writer need? Now Sara, Grissom and Cat were going through what was left of his apartment, analysing it at thoroughly as he'd torn the rest of it apart a few hours before. He almost couldn't watch. Almost. Except he didn't have a choice; he couldn't help so he would watch.

And blush, as Cat held up one of the few pictures of him in his gawky, adolescent stage that hadn't been burnt. At least he could say that he'd faced his friends now, Nick thought, ruefully. Not in any real kind of way, not beyond a nod from Warrick and a hug from Sara, but it was something, acceptance even and he could work with that. It was more than he'd expected and the relief was beyond anything he'd ever felt. The secret he'd been keeping for twenty five years was out there, gone. Almost feeling like it had taken the part of him that was too scared to scream with it; he could scream. Nick grinned. He could tell his folks. He could... he could... God, he could do anything. Almost anything, anyway. Starting with helping to solve a murder. That would be it, he decided. That would be his therapy, his closure. Now all he needed to do was persuade his boss.

Hey guys? Sara's voice called from his bedroom. Nick bit back a groan, trust her to get his bedroom, but nevertheless rose to see what she had found. He followed Gil and Catherine, pushing down the part of him that resented the intrusion into his life and resolving to go flat hunting in the morning.

Whatcha got? Grissom started, once everyone was present. Nick looked better, more at ease with himself at least.

Sara Sidle gestured towards the deconstucted gun that she'd laid out on the bed. This is a nine mil, right Nick? he nodded mutely, not sure where she was going. It was his spare gun, mostly it lived in the top draw of his bedside table with his highschool year book and more god-awful photos of him and his friends in their youth. Do you keep it loaded? she wanted to know.

Nick looked at her blankly for a moment, and then at other his colleagues. They seemed to see where she was headed even if he didn't. No, uh, no, not since... he trailed off, somehow not able to fill in the rest: Not since my stalker tried to kill himself with it.

Well it is; there's also a slug missing, Sara expanded, apparently aware of her friend's confusion. The vic was shot with a nine mm bullet. She rested a comforting hand on his arm, as he made no effort to disguise his agitation.

A potential crime scene and a potential murder weapon, the boyish CSI grimaced at his friends, the job momentarily forgotten. This night just keeps getting better and better. He'd have collasped back onto his bed dramatically if it hadn't been part of a crime scene, he thought, ironically.

Anything else? Grissom asked hurriedly, suddenly aware of the emotionally and physically draining affect that their presence was having on the youngest CSI.

A few prints, a couple of hairs, Catherine contributed.

Grissom nodded. Get them checked out.

I cleaned before I went away, Nick started, volunteering something without being prompted for the first time since that arrived and in doing so reminding them that the seeming eternity since the case had started was only in fact a couple of days. Shaking off his lethargy, he continued: The only other person who's been here is Cat. As far as he knew. The thought came unbeckoned into his mind.

Stay with me tonight? Sara solicited, clasping his hand in hers as Nick seemed to be drifting back into himself again. He nodded distractedly. He couldn't stay at his place for obvious reasons and the home of a friend had to be better than a hotel.

If Sara was honest with herself about her offer she'd say, she almost didn't want to leave him alone. This new Nick scared her. Not so much him but what he meant in her well ordered universe. The sense of unease that had permeated her soul since that briefing where Gil silently communicated a grief, a horror that shook his team, maybe even from before then, maybe since the body of an unidentified caucasian female was discovered half buried in sand outside Vegas, had found its source. Was it a kind of precognisance? She didn't know. As it turned out she didn't know much at all, not anywhere near as much as she thought she did. And she'd thought she knew a lot. That was her thing but he'd fooled them all, so easily. And he'd have kept on doing so, of that she was certain. Except that now everything was different. In a world where Sara's confidence, came from her intelligence, her knowledge, her ability to read people she was suddenly blind. With a friend, who was hurting that she desperately wanted to but couldn't reach.