Title: Rollercoaster

By: Mercury

Rating: G

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI - that would be CBS and all of their associates.

A/N: My first CSI fic, inspired by the first season episode "Gentle, Gentle". However, the case Grissom's pissed about is an imaginary one. Expect angsty fluff (is that a category?). Oh, and it's unbeta'd, so constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms.

The sensation in the pit of his stomach as the rollercoaster turned wasn't from the coaster itself. It was from the sinking sensation he got whenever he had to tack up another case on the big fish corkboard, when he had to recognize the fact that he had done everything he could and someone was still dead, lying encased in a narrow, cold box. Trapped underground, without closure, while the person who had put them there was still free, profiting from taking the life of an innocent civilian.

The ride stopped and he exited, walking through the throng of people. As a whole, they were a faceless mob. As individuals, they were victims, mourners. They were murderers, the previously unseen body that matched a name somewhere on the corkboard in his office.

He found his way back to his house, closing and locking the door behind him as he always did. The townhouse was closed off to the world, and it bothered him that he was trying to close himself off from reality. Trying to block out memories and images, thinking that maybe if he locked himself in, nothing else could get in and haunt him.

But memories stayed, even after he had locked his door and sealed himself in. There was nothing he could do to rid himself of those images and the guilt that accompanied them.

His eyes were distant as his fingers ran across the surface of his desk, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers. There was nothing left at the crime scene, nothing at all that could give them a lead on the killer. And while he sat in his chair, alive and well, a woman lay lifeless and still. There was nothing he could do about it now.

He didn't hear the tapping on the door at first, but when it became more persistent he looked up. Sara was standing at the door, gazing at him curiously, her eyes piercing Grissom himself.

"I've got a match on the hair we found," Sara began, making her way to him, passing the shelves of insects and files, "and it was planted."

His eyes quickly flicked up to meet hers. "What do you mean?"

"It was from an Andrea Robbins. Been in jail since '93 for murder of her husband." She sighed and sat in the chair facing him. "There's no way she could've done it."

The desk shook with the impact of the force from Grissom's fist slamming against the wood. Sara furrowed her brow, puzzled and alarmed by his outburst. "What is it?" The shock in her voice masked the concern.

"Every day, Sara." He began, breaking his gaze from Sara's and bringing them to the desk once more. "Every day we're expected to figure out how these people died. But nothing we do can really help these people."

"That's not true," she replied in her usual stubborn, persistent manner, "we bring them closure. And that matters to people."

He sighed and leaned forward, his tone becoming more vehement. "We can tell them what happened, that's true. But we can't - " he broke off, searching for the right words, gesturing vaguely with his arms. "We can't bring them back to life. Nothing we do will help anyone. It'll only ruin someone else's life by putting them behind bars."

"Grissom," she said softly, reaching her arm across to bring his down and lay it on the desk, "You don't know if they would've killed more people if we hadn't put them away before they had their chance." She paused and placed her hand on top of where her other already rested on his. "You've saved more lives than you'll ever know by doing your job, Griss. And that is what matters at the end of the day."

His hand was still tingling from the warmth of her flesh when she left his office.

The TV was on, but he didn't feel like watching anything. With an impatient scowl he clicked it off, the glow from the screen promptly disappearing as the darkness enveloped him. It was comforting, the feeling he got from being in the dark. It made him feel small and insignificant, unable to help or hurt, to convict or to do otherwise. Sara's words came back to him, and the feeling turned from pleasant helplessness to an unexplained fear he hadn't experienced in a long while.

His right hand was cold where she had enveloped it earlier that day, and he felt alone. But this wasn't the comfortable loneliness he usually enjoyed experiencing; it was a feeling of utter hopelessness. Slowly he picked up the phone from its cradle and began to dial.

"I thought you were going home." She said, peering up from a microscope in the lab. He was suddenly struck by how beautiful she looked in the eerie half-glow of the lab, when all the other lights had been turned off. Her eyes were focused on him, filled with the cold determination she felt while working on cases. But there were dark spots under her eyes where she had been deprived of sleep for how long, he didn't know.

"You should be going home yourself." He said. There was nothing else he could think to say then in her presence other than, "You should get some sleep."

Sara grinned, her hair falling in her face as she bent down to examine the specimen under the microscope briefly before looking back up and meeting his unwavering gaze. "I don't need sleep, Gil. I want to catch this guy."

He shook his head, and she noticed the distraught look in his eyes. "Grissom." She called, attracting his attention. "I know you wanted to catch the other guy. But sometimes people get away. It's a fact of life."

"Sara," he said tiredly, "I - "

"You win some, you lose some." By the time she started her sentence, she was halfway across the lab. Reaching Grissom, she stood across from him and locked her weary eyes on his. "You can't get every murderer in Vegas. You're not God."

She was desperately trying to incorporate humor into her last statement, but the sleep deprivation only gave her tone a failed, tired quality. Slowly he reached out a hand and brushed aside a stray hair, her flesh once again warming his.

"I think I will go home." She said, breaking away from his touch. "If you want to talk or anything . . . " she trailed off with a shrug. "Just give me a call."

The house was too big for him, too large and dark. His fingers pressed the buttons unsurely and listened to the harsh, piercing ring until it finally ended with a click.

"Hello?" He asked, tapping his fingers nervously on the sofa's cushion.

A sleepy voice answered, sounding to Grissom as if she had already been awake but fighting sleep. "Griss?"

He smiled slightly. "Yeah. Um - " his voice suddenly faltered, at a loss for words. "You told me to call you if I wanted to talk . . . you still up for that?"

"It's five in the morning." She replied, dashing his hopes immediately. But then she continued, "I would love to."

He hung up the phone a minute later, reassured and comforted, if only by her voice. When she arrived fifteen minutes later, he found himself comfortable in her presence, no longer feeling the awkwardness he usually experienced during their time together at the lab. And then they sat on the couch together, watching the sun rise before their eyes, their fingers intertwined atop the cloth of the couch.

The next day at work, she walked into his office only to find him confidently attaching the last case's file to the big fish board with a bright red pushpin. With a small smile, Sara left the office, feeling more rested than she had after having entire nights of sleep.