Set In Stone

by Burked

In this casefile, the lines between victim and villain blur.

Title: Set in Stone

Author: Burked

Disclaimer: I own the plotline; CBS owns the characters. If they let me borrow theirs, I'll let them borrow mine.

A/N: Many thanks to Mossley for betaing this, and for being a friend when I needed one. When you strip away everything else, that's what this story is really about – being there when you're needed.

By the way, I have repeatedly "fixed" the formatting in this story, both in and out of fanfiction.net, but it won't stay fixed on this site. Just know that every chapter where the "villain" speaks is in italics. I had asterisks (and then other markings) between the scenes, but they wouldn't show up, so I labeled them 'chapters'. No telling what else it changed. Sigh.

Chapter 1

Catherine Willows swung the SUV out of traffic and next to the curb, the tires barely caressing the cement, stopping just long enough for Sara Sidle to climb in, hefting her heavy field kit over the seat to the back. For such a lithe woman, she was surprisingly strong.

"What've we got?" Sara asked, buckling in as Catherine deftly weaved back into traffic, not losing more than 30 seconds of time due to her stop.

"Dead body. Suspicious circs. Night watchman at some new subdivision found an open front door, investigated and found a dead body. That's all I know," Catherine answered in the clipped phrasing of someone accustomed to delivering just the facts when necessary.

The activity on the street seemed incongruous with the surroundings, with a police car, a coroner's van, a detective's unmarked car, and now the CSI vehicle parked in front of the house, each with its emergency lights throwing syncopated blue and red flashes across the immediate area. However, the homes in the neighborhood weren't completed, much less occupied, making it look like a ghost town or a movie set.

Catherine and Sara slowly worked through the house to where they could hear the buzz of activity, finally entering the master bath. They couldn't see the object of their attention, but they had an excellent view of Detective Jim Brass's and Chief Medical Examiner Al Robbins's broad backs as the two men stood transfixed between the door and the bathtub.

Brass obviously had his arms folded across his chest, as evidenced by the tightened fabric across the back of his sport coat. Dr. Robbins leaned precariously on his cane, his head shaking in disbelief.

"I thought I'd seen it all. I really did. The imagination and creativity of people sometimes amazes me," he chuckled.

"This is the damnedest thing I've seen in a while," Brass agreed.

"Gee, fellas, think that maybe we can see it, too? Or do we have to buy tickets?" Catherine asked sarcastically.

"Oh, sorry, Cath," Brass said, moving aside, grinning.

"Uh, yeah, that would definitely qualify as suspicious circumstances," Sara said in a dazed monotone.

"I'll say," Catherine agreed, moving closer. "Is that what it looks like?"

"If it looks like a man up to his neck in concrete to you, then it's what it looks like," Brass answered straight-faced.

Though she could see it plainly, Catherine reached down with a gloved hand, having to feel the cool hardness before she could believe it.

"You guys touch anything?" Catherine said, looking around the room.

"Yeah, I just graduated the academy yesterday," Brass said sardonically. "This is my very first case. How'm I doin' so far?"

"Well, you should know better than to be in here before us, too, but here you are," Catherine snapped back.

"Blame me," Robbins said. "When the night watchman told us that there was body in the bathtub encased up to his neck in concrete, well, I just couldn't wait to see it."

"You probably shook all the Christmas presents when you were a kid, too," Catherine teased.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Robbins shot back. "Besides, I'm thinking that as Chief Medical Examiner, this is really my crime scene and I can be here if I want to," he said in a mock-childish voice, shooting a mischievous grin at Catherine.

"Technicality," Catherine said, shooing the two men from the room.

"Um, where do we start?" Sara asked, still stunned.

"I guess we dust everything in here. It's not like we're going to get anything off the guy."

"Even if we could get through all this concrete, it's alkaline and would probably degrade any biological evidence," Sara surmised.

"Petecchial hemorrhages around the eyes. He was alive when he was put in here. Suffocated as the concrete hardened, I'd guess," Catherine mumbled in disbelief.

"He obviously pissed off the wrong person," Sara said over her shoulder, spreading the black powder over the sink and faucet, bringing up dozens of fingerprints.

"Oh, great. I guess half of Las Vegas has been in here," she huffed in frustration.

"It's a model home under construction, so you probably aren't far from wrong," Catherine agreed.

"It's probably the best spot the killer could have picked, under the circumstances. During the day, there are construction crews all over this street, so it wouldn't look all that unusual to be unloading bags of cement and gravel. All he had to do is dress like a construction worker."

"Yeah, and it's practically deserted from probably four or five in the afternoon until six or seven in the morning, other than the occasional drive-by of the rent-a-cop," Catherine added.

"Plus the utilities are turned on, so he'd have access to water to mix the cement."

"It's obviously a crime involving some emotion, since the guy was put in there alive, to slowly suffocate as the concrete hardened and contracted. You don't normally torture people in that manner unless you're really emotionally involved."

"But it must have some premeditation, to get all of this arranged," Sara countered.

"Maybe they've been hurt or pissed or whatever for a while, stewing on it, driving themselves crazy," Catherine theorized.

"Crazy like a fox," Sara said, using one of her father's old sayings.

"It does have a certain panache," Catherine agreed.

"You been doing the Reader's Digest vocabulary builder again?" Sara teased.

"Bite me," Catherine shot back, with a smiling huff.

"How the hell are they going to get him out of here?" Sara asked, turning for a moment from her work to look at the solid block comprised of one young male, one bathtub and several hundred pounds of cement and gravel.

"I guess they're going to have to cut the tub apart, and use a forklift to lift out the slab."

"They're going to have to tear down an outside wall to get the forklift in and out. There's going to be one pissed builder."

"Yeah, well, if he can think of a better way to get the guy out, he's welcome to try," Catherine snorted.

Chapter 2

I remember the first time I set eyes on him. My first day in Microbiology lab, we were partnered together. Unlike so many other people, he was nice to me from the beginning. He didn't treat me like a suspected terrorist. I remember that he looked me straight in the eye as he smiled and held out his hand. Cook. Darren Cook. That is his name ... was his name.

He was in many ways my opposite. He was blonde and fair-skinned, with pale blue eyes. His hair was straight, where mine is wavy. His arms looked virtually hairless, where mine have black hair covering them. Yes, in many ways we were opposites. But opposites attract, right?

After the first three-hour lab, we were talking and joking like old friends. Darren invited me to a party one of his friends was giving that weekend. I've been in the United States for three years and I've never been invited to a party. I didn't even have anyone who was American I could really call a friend. All of my friends were either from the mosque or from the Iranian Student Association.

I didn't come to this country to turn my back on my culture, but to explore others. I could have gone to college in Iran to become a doctor, but most of the important medical advances are happening here, so this was the place I wanted to study. I want to be right on the cutting edge of medicine.

Then I wanted to go back home. I wanted to make a positive contribution to my people. I wanted to ease suffering. I wanted to save lives. Our parents understood that, and they supported me. They paid for my education and gave me an allowance so that I didn't have to work. They wanted me to be able to focus on my studies. I love my family – all of you, but especially you, Dorri. I've always been able to talk to you, to tell you my secrets.

Chapter 3

The metallic clink of the hammer against the end of a chisel echoed throughout the cavernous room, followed by the hissing sound of small particles landing on the paper spread across the garage floor.

"Doing your Auguste Rodin impression?" Grissom asked, as Sara shook her head – not in answer to his question, but to dislodge the grains of cement that had lodged there. She had on a full faceshield, having learned quickly that goggles weren't enough, as the bits of flying debris had impacted the sensitive skin on her face. She wished she'd thought to put on a hair covering, but it was too late now.

She'd started off wearing the standard-issue blue jumpsuit over her clothes, but her work had made her hot, and she had the top half pulled down and tied around her waist, exposing the black tank top she'd thankfully worn underneath. The body-hugging shirt was no longer black in front, having been dusted with the light gray powder from the concrete.

"Not Rodin," she answered, striking another blow against a ten-pound block of concrete, cleaving a small piece from one protrusion. "Camille Claudel, perhaps."

"You're familiar with Claudel?" Grissom asked, his surprise evident in his voice.

"Yes," she said, putting her hands defiantly on her hips, despite sitting cross-legged on the floor, and despite them still holding the hammer and chisel. The sight was amusing, especially with her covered in concrete dust, but Grissom knew better than to laugh.

"And how are you familiar with Mademoiselle Claudel?" he challenged her.

"Hey, I had to take Fine Arts electives in college, too, just like everyone else. Two semesters of art history and two semesters of music appreciation. Harvard tries to ensure that all their geeks are well-rounded, just like any other college."

"I see," Grissom said, deciding it was safe to approach her. "But, unlike most people, you remembered it. So, what exactly are you doing?"

"Making little rocks out of these big ones," she said simply, sweeping the hammer around her like a pointer.

"Whaddaya in for?" he asked, adopting a stereotypical Chicago criminal accent.

The glimpse at the playfulness she'd loved in the past brought a toothy grin to her face.

It had been a while since she'd overheard Grissom's monologue to Dr. Lurie after the good doctor's interrogation for murdering his ex-girlfriend. Hearing his confession, given to a stranger, that he'd met someone young and beautiful, someone he could care about, had temporarily made her heart swell. His subsequent admission that he couldn't risk his career for her deflated it just as quickly.

That case had recast their relationship yet again, into something a shade different from anything she'd experienced with him before. Now there was an intensity and a protectiveness from him that she wasn't accustomed to; yet, there was still a distance between them. Further away, yet closer still.

He began to make tentative attempts to reconnect with her professionally, eventually allowing himself the pleasure of their easy banter. But Sara wasn't sure what she should do. He didn't know that she knew of his confession, and she wasn't sure how to take his overtures.

She was struggling with the Gordian knot he'd been working on for years. Now that she knew the basis of his fear, even if he decided to pursue a relationship, she wondered if she should allow it – for his sake.

She asked herself which showed more love: to be with him, knowing it could bring about his worst nightmare, or to spurn him, in order to protect him.

She still didn't have an answer she was comfortable with, any more than he did.

"This is what happens when you're the beta female," she answered, chuckling. "The alpha female is watching David do essentially the same thing with the concrete still left on the body."

"Rank has its privileges," Grissom nodded.

"Catherine and I are the same rank," Sara retorted.

"She has more seniority."

"I have more education."

"She's the primary," he answered, shrugging as if it were a neutral fact for which he had no responsibility and even less emotion.

"Because you made her primary," Sara replied, purposefully allowing her words to be firm, but trying not to sound bitter.

"Yes," he admitted, shifting a bit nervously.

"Is she better than I am?"

"No."

"Do you trust her more?"

"No."

"Do you like her more?" she asked hesitantly, knowing that the question could be taken, and answered, on a multiplicity of levels.

"No," he answered, this time more stridently.

"But you prefer to have her answering to you. You prefer working with her."

"Not exactly," he admitted.

"But sort of?"

Grissom stood mute, trying to think of a smooth egress without just turning to walk away. He'd learned enough over the years to know that this was one of those conversations that might seem strictly professional and relatively unimportant, but was nonetheless pivotal.

He wanted to be able to tell Sara that the reason he preferred working with Catherine was because she didn't make him giddy and tongue-tied. She didn't stir up any emotions in him. She didn't make him feel like his mind and body was no longer under his complete control.

"I've been working with her a long time. She knows what I need to know and what I don't. She's comfortable telling me what she thinks, whether I like it or not."

"I've tried that. Didn't work out the same," Sara said, focusing all of her nervous energy and frustration on the point of the chisel as she swung her hammer down, breaking the large chunk of concrete into two almost equal halves.

"She does it in private, not in front of the whole team," Grissom shot back defensively.

"Ah! That would be easier for me if we ever discussed the cases privately."

"We're alone now," he replied, pointedly looking around.

"So we are," Sara nodded, the movement exaggerated by the faceshield that gave her voice a slightly muffled quality. She flipped up the shield and looked at him a moment before speaking.

"As far as the case goes, it's too early to say much of anything. But I would like to know something," she added hesitantly.

"Go on," he said, nodding with a serious expression, hiding the nervousness he felt, knowing he'd left the scope of her question wide open.

"I'd like to know why I'm being treated like a Crime Scene Technician lately, instead of a Crime Scene Investigator. The past few months, or at least the past several weeks, I've been given all the most menial tasks, especially whenever I work with Catherine ... or you, for that matter."

"Someone's got to do stuff like this," he replied. "I'd rather have someone with the tenacity and eye for detail that you have doing it than some technician who might not understand the significance of some unexpected detail."

"That sounds very politically correct, and very practiced," she said, flipping her visor back down, taking out her frustrations on one of the now-halved chucks of synthetic conglomerate.

"But it's true," he demurred.

"If you say so," she mumbled into the Plexiglass, striking another blow, sending a small section of the concrete skittering across the floor, coming to rest at Grissom's feet. He pulled a glove out of his pocket and onto one hand, reaching down to gather the errant rock and returning it to the pile on the paper, both thrilled and frightened to have a reason to get closer to her.

"Sara," he began, her name sounding more like a plea than an identifier, "you and Catherine processed the house and there was next to no viable evidence other than dozens of fingerprints. If there's anything, it's probably in there," he said, pointing down at the pile of debris.

"I understand why it has to be done," she answered heavily. "I just don't understand why I'm the one doing it – or at least why I'm doing it alone. Why isn't the whole team in here? Or why aren't there interns, cadets, or technicians in here, busting up this crap, freeing me to analyze anything out of the ordinary?"

"Because it's the middle of the night, and this isn't a high-profile case, so we don't have the use of the cadets. Because we don't have any interns on the graveyard shift right now. Because the few technicians we have are out gathering the evidence at crime scenes that we're too busy to process, mostly crimes that'll never see the inside of a courtroom," he answered tiredly, venting his own frustration at the lack of resources his shift endured, compared to the day shift or the swing shift.

The graveyard shift in the Sheriff's office and the Las Vegas Police Department had hundreds of uniformed officers on the streets. The Crime Lab had ten people certified as criminalists, and not all of them had field training.

Of the ten, six had sufficient education, training and experience to be forensic scientists. Considering the number and variety of crimes committed daily in Las Vegas – like any other city of decent size – that meant the Crime Lab was spread very thin.

There are normally an average of two murders per week in Las Vegas, and it can take weeks or months to gather and analyze all the evidence for a homicide. Meanwhile, the killings and other crimes don't stop. If the evidence was slim, as in this case, the case would likely end up on Grissom's fish-shaped corkboard, with the other unsolved cold cases. There wasn't enough time or resources to stick with it, not with all the new crimes flooding in.

"Got another hammer and chisel?" he asked, walking over to the tool bench.

"Yeah. But just one thing: if you start singing 'If I Had a Hammer', you're out of here," she teased.

"How about 'Sixteen Tons'?" he asked, knowing she was probably too young to have any clue what he was talking about.

"You, singing a Tennessee Ernie Ford song from the mid-50s, might be more amusing, at least," she said, surprising him.

"Fortunately for you, I don't remember all the words," he said, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the large sheet of paper.

"There is a God," she mumbled under her breath, "and His mercy endures forever."

One eyebrow and one side of Grissom's mouth lifted into a half-smirk. "We could be at this for days. What we need is an industrial drop-hammer to pulverize this pile in just a few minutes."

"Yeah, and any evidence would be pulverized, too. Patience, Grissom. Patience," Sara admonished.

"I like to think I'm a patient person, but I can't hold a candle to you."

"I've had a lot of practice," she said evenly, striking another deathblow to the recalcitrant block of concrete.

"All things come to he who waits," Grissom quoted, nodding his understanding.

"Well, maybe not 'all things,' but some things," she retorted, a hint of hardness in her voice.

"Know anything about Mardi Gras?" Grissom asked, seemingly randomly.

"A little. I went once," she answered, surprising him.

"Really? I've never gone."

"Road trip in college. A few of us blew off a couple of days of school and went for the weekend before Mardi Gras. But what does Mardi Gras have to do with anything?"

"You seemed to be a very different person in college," he noted, though he only knew of two events she'd shared over almost four years of working together: the road trip to New Orleans and the Mile-High tryst with Ken Fuller.

"Who isn't?" she said dismissively.

"I wasn't," he retorted.

"I guess that doesn't surprise me," she mumbled.

"You know about the traditional King Cake? Whoever finds the plastic baby in the cake has to provide the cake the next year," Grissom said, trying to turn the conversation back to the case and away from himself.

"Yeah, so?"

"Does this mean I have to bring the next dead body in concrete?" he asked holding up a small block of conglomerated cement and gravel, a small piece of paper encased in plastic peeking out.

"I've been pounding at this stuff for two freaking days. You sit down for two minutes and find something. How wrong is that?" Sara asked, shaking her head while she reached out to take the chunk from him.

"I benefited from your patience," he said, smiling up at her.

Sara shift uncomfortably, yet again wondering how many levels his statement comprised. She wasn't always sure if he really was a master of double-entendres, or if she conveniently misconstrued his statements to make herself feel better.

She walked over to the vise and clamped the rock into it firmly. She slowly began to carefully chip away the rock surrounding the paper, stopping only to reorient it in the vise a few times to expose new territory to free from the block.

Grissom unfurled his legs, stretching them in front of him and leaning back on his hands casually, watching her. Their job with the rubble wasn't done – if there was one piece of evidence in it, there could well be more. But he wanted to take this moment to watch her at work, marveling at the concentrated focus she had. She was patient, and relentless.

He'd felt that trait focused on him in the past, and it had frightened him. He was well-practiced at trying to ignore her advances, yet on more than one occasion he'd found himself close to breaking.

But he found that the only thing worse than having Sara Sidle doggedly pursue him was Sara Sidle not pursuing him. He missed it. Just knowing she was interested made him feel alive, even if mortified.

He wasn't sure if she stopped because he'd essentially told her to, though not in so many words, or because she'd lost interest. After all, she might have the patience of Job, but he knew that he didn't have enough to offer any woman to keep her waiting forever.

Maybe she found someone else. ... Again.

The thought made Grissom's chest tightened, and his throat felt constricted, just like when he first found out about her previous beau, Hank.

How could she date that idiot? He was so far beneath her it was ridiculous. He never appreciated her, never could. He was obviously too stupid, or he'd have never crapped on her like that. If he knew Sara at all, he'd have known that the last thing she would tolerate was being the 'other woman.'

He found that his jealousy turned to anger, and he wished that Hank was standing in front of him at that moment. He wasn't sure whether he'd rather thank him for his stupidity or hit him for hurting Sara.

Instead, he picked up his hammer and chisel and began taking out his anger and frustrations on the pile of rocks in front of him.

Sara had managed to shave down the concrete surrounding the paper to less than an inch thick. She flipped up her visor and pulled out her cell phone.

"Hey, Ronnie, you busy?" She chuckled and shook her head. "No, it's not a trick question. Of course you're busy. But are you too busy to come supervise the extraction of a piece of paper from concrete? Yeah, I can wait 'til then. See ya."

The phone snapped shut and was replaced in its holster in one fluid motion. Sara eased her head one way, then the other, looking at the remnant of concrete in the vise as if it were the Hope diamond and she the diamond-cutter who was planning the attack on the rock that held the raw gem captive: one false move and it would be ruined.

"I could have sworn that I was your supervisor," Grissom said playfully.

"Huh?"

"You asked Ronnie to come 'supervise' the extraction. I'm the supervisor," he replied, easing from the floor to his feet, his knees complaining slightly.

"I don't want him to think he's got to do the work, but I want him here for the last part."

"What do you think he could tell you that you don't already know?"

"Nothing," she answered, still studying the plastic-covered paper tag hanging from the concrete.

"Then why do you want him here?"

"Because he's the one who's going to analyze the evidence," she answered.

"But you're the one who's going to get it out for him, so why ask him to supervise?"

"What harm is it in having him here? He might have a good idea. He might not. But at least he'll feel like he's got some input on the evidence collection."

"Ah! So you're covering your ass so that he has nothing to complain about if the evidence is damaged in the collection," Grissom said, nodding his understanding.

"Exactly," she replied firmly, an eyebrow raised and a smirk pulling at her lips.

"This isn't going to involve any flirting is it? I don't think I could take that," he said, his face screwed up in a mock-disgusted grimace.

"No," she answered huffily. "I save that for when I need a favor. Wouldn't want to waste perfectly good flirtations on something like this. Of course, if I end up damaging the paper, I'll have to turn on the charm."

"I wish I could do that," Grissom laughed.

"You could, but I don't know if you're Ronnie's type," Sara laughed. "Besides, you don't have to flirt; you're the boss and can get your stuff bumped to the head of the line with just a word. The rest of us have to use whatever leverage we can."

"So, CSI Sidle, you're not above using your feminine charms to get what you want?" he asked challengingly.

"Oh, like you've never flirted with anyone at work," she snorted.

"I can say with impunity that I've never flirted with any of the technicians working at this lab," he retorted mock-defensively.

"None of the current crop maybe. Jacqui's the only female technician on this shift now, and you are so not her type."

"My point is made then," he said triumphantly.

"Not exactly. I didn't specify that you flirted with technicians. That was your parameter, not mine. And I didn't restrict the time to the current staff."

"Oh," he said, deflated.

"Yeah, 'Oh'," she parroted, her own triumph evidence in her voice and her posture.

"Well, it never got me anywhere," he mumbled.

"That's because you never took it anywhere," she retorted in a similar mumble. Somehow it was easier to say what they meant when they pretended the other person wasn't intended to hear it, though they knew better.

Grissom was rescued from the hole he'd dug for himself by the insistent beeping of his pager. The text message informed him that Al Robbins was ready to discuss his autopsy findings.

"Want to go talk to Robbins?" Grissom asked. "Or do you need to wait for Ronnie?"

"Ronnie can't come for a couple of more hours. By the way, is 'Grissom' an Irish name?" Sara asked with amused disbelief written all over her face.

"Why do you ask?"

"You are one lucky man. It seems like almost every time you get into a conversation or a situation that's not going well for you, something totally out of your control rescues you," she answered with a huffing laugh.

"Not every time," he mumbled, thinking of the morning she'd cornered him in his office and asked him out to dinner. He would have gladly sacrificed an entire paycheck to have had anything interrupt that conversation before he'd answered her. He was stunned at her sudden change in topic and didn't have time to think. A reprieve would have been a blessing he'd gladly have paid for.

But his luck wasn't with him that day, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. He had no idea that it would change both of their lives, and in ways he wasn't happy with. He'd essentially told her that he knew of and shared the attraction between them. But he'd also let her know all too hurtfully that he wasn't comfortable with the idea.

The changes he'd started seeing in Sara over the past year – cynicism and a lack of joy – had continued, even intensified, since that morning. Now it even invaded her professional life. He could see where she was headed, but he didn't know what to do to stop it, short of giving in to a relationship that could destroy them both.

Chapter 4

Darren introduced me to all of his friends at the party. He acted like he was proud to know me. Other than to refresh his drink or to get me a soda, he never left my side all night.

The next week, after lab, we went for coffee at the Student Union. He asked me all about my homeland. He seemed fascinated. He didn't seem to have all the preconceived notions that most Americans have about Iran.

He asked about my name, Mohammed Razi. I explained that most Iranian names end in 'i'. Our culture and our language are Persian, not Arab, though we share a common religion. And Mohammed – in all its forms – is the most common name in the world. He laughed and said he thought it was 'John'. I told him that I could be wrong, but I thought 'John' was the second-most common name.

It might all seem boring to you, to talk about a country halfway around the world. To talk about names. To talk about the lab we just finished. But Darren made it seem like it was the most interesting discussion he'd had in ages.

He was so full of life, and he seemed intent on experiencing every moment of it, no matter how common, how mundane. Dorri, other than you, and you were still back home then, he's the only other person I've ever felt connected to.

Chapter 5

"Your victim died of mechanical asphyxiation."

"That's no surprise," Grissom said.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic," Catherine huffed as she bolted through the doors to the morgue. She took up a spot at the end of the line that formed opposite of Robbins.

"We were just getting started," Sara said.

"Was he unconscious?" Catherine asked.

"Perhaps. At the beginning, anyway. Found a small hairline fracture of the right temporal. But I doubt he was unconscious the entire time," Robbins answered.

"Why didn't he just stand up before the concrete hardened?" Sara chimed in, completing Catherine's thought.

"Hogtied," Robbins answered.

"What?" Grissom asked, moving down to look at the ligature marks on the victim's wrists and ankles. Actually, the arms terminated just below the wrists, the hands having been severed by the good doctor, delivered intact to Jacqui.

"Hogtied. His hands were tied to his feet behind his back with a single leather strip, also looped around his throat. If he struggled, he suffocated quickly. If he didn't, he suffocated slowly."

"Hell of a choice," Catherine murmured.

"Someone wanted this guy to suffer. Tormented him with the choice of whether to die quickly, or die slowly."

"I'd have picked quickly," Catherine said.

"Human nature normally dictates that we do whatever we can to live as long as we can. Where there's time, there's hope," Grissom countered.

"Well, there wasn't much hope for this guy," Catherine snorted.

"Maybe he thought he could talk the killer into calling it off. Or maybe he hoped someone else would come into the house and find him," Sara posited.

"Actually, he might have died soon enough, whether he was rescued or not," Robbins said.

"How so?" Grissom asked.

"We haven't gotten in all the lab results, of course, but I have a hunch. I think he was HIV-positive. I'll know for sure in a couple of weeks."

Robbins pulled open the victim's mouth, showing red gums withdrawn from the teeth, and what looked like thousands of tiny ulcerations over his cheeks, gums, palate and down his throat.

"What the hell is that?" Catherine asked.

"Trench mouth. Herpes. You name it. That's why I think he had an immune disorder. Most people who have a herpes simplex outbreak get a cold sore or a canker sore. The body's immune system works to centralize it. In immune-compromised people, even a simple cold sore can turn into an almost incapacitating illness. It was probably sheer torture for him to eat or drink anything."

Despite being gowned and gloved, and despite constantly being exposed to body fluids of unknown origin, knowing that they were in the presence of an incurable virus made each of the CSIs instinctively want to back away. It was irrational, they all knew. But instinct doesn't rely on logic.

"So, the real choice he faced was to die relatively quickly, die relatively slowly, or die slower still," Catherine summarized, shaking her head.

"That about sums it up," Robbins said.

"We all have that choice," Grissom murmured. "No one gets out of this life alive."

"Well, most of us don't have to think about it," Catherine countered.

"Find anything else probative?" Grissom asked, his eyes scanning the rest of the victim's body, grayish-white concrete still sticking to some areas, and raw skin where it had been peeled away, especially from areas with a concentration of hair holding the synthetically created conglomerate in place.

"No. Not a thing, other than the leather strip. Of course, it was embedded in the concrete, so finding any fingerprints or trace should be damned near impossible," Robbins said, handing over a plastic bag that contained the restraint.

"You never know. We found a strip of paper in the rest of the concrete," Grissom said.

"You found it," Sara corrected.

"We found it," Grissom reiterated. He turned his head to briefly look at Sara, meeting her confusion, hoping to assuage it with a small smile.

"Back to the body," Catherine said. "What did you do with the hands?"

"Sent them over to Jacqui. We couldn't get all the residue off of his fingertips, not to mention the corrosive nature of the cement. I figured she might have better luck getting prints, and it's easier to work with a whole hand instead of just the fingers or the skin."

"Oh, I bet she's loving you!" Catherine huffed.

"At least she only has to try to clean up the fingers. I had to try to get this mess off the whole body," David groused as he passed by.

"A modern day Michelangelo," Grissom said, earning questioning looks from all but Sara.

"Michelangelo saw the block of marble he was going to work with as the finished piece, trapped in excess stone. He said his job was to merely remove the marble that didn't belong, that held his sculpture captive, so to speak," Sara explained, earning even more questioning looks, this time directed at her.

"Art history class," she explained, for the second time in a day.

"I took art history as an elective, but I don't remember any of it," Catherine laughed.

"Me either," Robbins said, "Though that was many moons ago for me, so I have an excuse."

"I grew up around art," Grissom said, surprising them with the personal revelation.

"Really?" Robbins asked, a friendly, encouraging smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes. My mother owns a gallery," he answered matter-of-factly. "Of course it's mostly modern era art, but she took me to all the museums and galleries when I was young. She was deaf, so she loved the expressiveness of art that didn't rely on sound."

Catherine had known him the longest of the three, by a few short years, and he'd mentioned his mother maybe two or three times in the last decade, mostly as a comparative for someone in a case. Even she didn't know that Mrs. Grissom was an art dealer, though she did know she was deaf.

Sara's shock was supplanted by a small amount of satisfaction, when she saw that she wasn't the only one who didn't know that Grissom had grown up around art.

She felt like she now understood him better. Many scientists can't relate to art, viewing it as an almost diametric opposite to science. Grissom was rare, in that he loved music, and was intimately familiar with art and literature. Now she understood why.

The silent arts would have been something he could share with his mother, connecting to her in a language she could understand on a visceral level. Music would have been a way to bring sound into his life, growing up in a quiet household.

But, most importantly, Sara now felt like she understood better why he sometimes found verbal expression difficult, and why it seemed that he conveyed so much with his face and eyes.

"You must have inherited your science genes from your father's side, then," Robbins said, inadvertently stepping on an emotional landmine.

"That hardly seems likely," Grissom said curtly, effectively ending the brief moment of personal revelation that the four had been enjoying.

Grissom didn't look at Robbins, who sheepishly shrugged with his face towards the two women, apologizing without words for ruining the warm camaraderie, albeit innocently.

"Is that all?" Grissom asked, finally turning to Robbins, his face set as hard as the stone that had enclosed the victim.

"Yes. I'll let you know when I get back all the test results," Robbins answered in a measured, professional tone.

Without another word, Grissom turned and walked briskly from the morgue. Robbins looked from one to the next, asking the two women, "What did I say wrong?"

"Grissom's never spoken of his father, but I get the feeling he wasn't around," Catherine said, feeling empathy for the hapless coroner, but also feeling sympathy for Grissom.

"Oh. Damn. I didn't know," Robbins sputtered. "I was raised by a single mother, so I know what that was like. Especially back when Grissom and I were kids. It wasn't something you talked about. Back then, people looked down on you, like you were a street urchin or worse."

"I don't know that for a fact. I could be all wrong. I just know that in ten years, he's never, ever so much as implied that he even had a father. So I assume he was either absent, or worse."

Sara felt a growing heaviness in her chest, a sadness that threatened to fill her. Over the past several months there had been plenty of occasions where thinking of Grissom had made her sad, but the sadness was usually for herself. But lately it seemed that the more she learned about him and his feelings, the more sad she felt for him.

She began to see him as a tragic figure, a melancholic whose only joy was his work. No wonder he found it so difficult to risk that for her or anybody else. She used to dream of holding him in a lover's embrace, but she found that lately she felt equally drawn to comfort him, though she knew he'd never allow it.

Chapter 6

I made kabab Hosseini, guessing that most Americans have either eaten a kabab of meat and vegetables, or at least was willing to. For the salad, I made maast-o-khair from cucumbers, onions, mint and yogurt as the 'dressing'. Naan-o-paneer-o-sabzi, pita bread stuffed with herbs and feta cheese, rounded it out. It was a simple, traditional Persian meal, but it was exotic to him.

Darren brought wine to drink with his meal. As a Moslem, I don't normally drink. But this was a special occasion, the first time I'd ever entertained an American in my home. I didn't want to be rude, so I accepted the offered wine. It went straight to my head, even on the full stomach.

We sat on the couch, drinking wine. He told me about himself. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, career-wise, but he knew that he wanted to be able to travel and see the world.

He'd moved to Las Vegas with his father ten years ago. His mother had died, and his father wanted to start over someplace with no memories. Other than some relatives who lived back east, he had no family other than his father.

I admired that he loved his mother and respected his father. It was so traditional. He didn't seem to be filled with the bitterness that I see in so many American young people. If they knew what the rest of the world was like, they would get on their knees and praise Allah for letting them be born here.

I know that there are homeless people here, but most of the people who think themselves poor would be rich by the standards of millions of other people. Do they have a roof over their heads? Do they eat anything most days? Do they have access to medical care? Yes. Many have radios and televisions, telephones and kitchen appliances. They are rich, but don't know it. They are just not as rich as other people. It's all relative.

Darren seemed to understand that. He thought he was blessed, and he was. He was charming, handsome, intelligent, and lived in the richest country on Earth. Allah smiled on him.

I smiled on him.

He smiled on me and touched my face, flushed red-hot from the wine. I never felt that way about anyone before. I was always focused on my studies, even as a teen. I'd never been in love before. I'd never felt the temptation of the body before. Never before Darren.

Maybe he took my blush as embarrassment, because he apologized and said that he'd never done anything like that before. He just felt the need to connect with me.

I can't blame the rest on the wine. Maybe it made it easier, but it didn't cause it. Sooner or later we would have come together. It was inevitable.

When we awoke after our fumbling, but tender, love-making, I was afraid that he'd feel shame. I knew that I should. But I didn't. I cried on the inside when he smiled at me and caressed me. He wasn't ashamed, either.

Allah created us both, and Allah caused our paths to meet. If loving each other was wrong in His eyes, then He gave me a temptation too great to bear.

Chapter 7

"So, Ronnie, ready to rock and roll?" Sara asked, hanging on the doorframe that led to the Questioned Documents lab.

"I suppose. What exactly are we doing?" he asked.

"I have a piece of paper, in a plastic sleeve of some sort, surrounded by concrete. We need to get it out, and see if you can get anything from it."

"Hmm. Concrete. Cement, sand, water and gravel. The gravel's inert, but the cement has lime in it, doesn't it?"

"No. Cement and lime make mortar. But the cement is alkali in nature," Sara answered. "How much of a problem is that?"

"Could be big," Ronnie said, almost bringing a grin to Sara's face, considering the size of the man who'd said it.

"The paper will no doubt be chemically altered, making identification of source almost impossible. And there's no telling how it'll affect the ink. If it was from a ballpoint pen, the oils might help out. But if it's from a gel pen, marker, typewriter, ink jet or laser printer, the print would probably be toast. Unless the sleeve is impermeable, of course."

"We won't know 'til we get it out," Sara said as they moved down the hall. It never failed to amaze her how fast Ronnie could move, considering his bulk. She wondered how anyone who seemed so hyperactive could be as large as he was – his nervous energy alone probably burned thousands of calories a day.

The two arrived at the garage and Sara led him to the vise that held the block of concrete that entrapped their only physical evidence so far. Ronnie looked at it from every conceivable angle, his lips pursed in thought.

"Let's try something," he said, looking to and fro across the workbench. His eyes finally settled on a box that contained a variety of X-Acto blades and a handle. He attached a number 10 blade and approached the evidence as though he were readying for a delicate operation.

Ronnie slit the end of the plastic sheathing that held the paper. "I hope that this keeps going straight down into the concrete," he muttered, pulling a pair of plastic tweezers from his lab coat's breast pocket.

He gingerly grasped the end of the paper and put only the slightest pulling pressure on it, hoping to not tear it.

Sara was glad that it was him and not her who was trying to pull it out of its sleeve. The concrete wouldn't have left much void as it swelled, and it never occurred to her that it might still be possible to slide it out.

He worked painstakingly slowly. To the casual observer, it might look like he was frozen in that pose, bent over the vise, tweezers in hand.

"Is it coming?" Sara asked impatiently.

"I don't know yet," Ronnie answered a bit gruffly. He didn't like having his concentration broken.

Sara watched for another moment, which felt like hours to her, then she retreated to start pacing behind him.

At first her actions annoyed him all the more, but he was soon able to tune her out and focus on his task.

"I think it's coming," he whispered excitedly.

"Cool!" Sara said, almost instantly appearing at his side.

"Voila!" Ronnie shouted, holding up the paper. Sara handed him a small plastic evidence bag and he quickly tucked the paper into it before stopping to examine it.

"Just smudges. At least to the naked eye. But I have toys. And I have tricks," Ronnie said, winking at Sara.

"I'm sure you do," she said noncommittally, mentally shaking the double entendre from her mind. She'd been around Grissom too long, she surmised, and saw layers of meaning where there were none ... or at least she hoped there were none in this case.

While she saw most of her co-workers as 'family', people like Ronnie and Hodges took the roles of the distant cousins that you weren't too thrilled were coming to visit. They're family, and you might have to play with them, but that didn't mean you have to like them very much.

Chapter 8

They have a saying here for the time that came after that. They call it the days of wine and roses. I'm told they made a movie called that a long time ago, but the story was sad and it turned out badly for the man and woman in the movie. It turned out badly for Darren and me, too, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

We spent all of our time together it seemed. I was either at his apartment, or he at mine, or we were at school or out on a date. We couldn't get enough of each other. It was like discovering a new country and having the thrill of exploring it.

It wasn't just physical, Dorri. I promise you that. You know me. I wouldn't waste my time on that, if that was all there was to it. No, it went so far beyond that. Sometimes it was so emotional, we felt so close, that it almost seemed spiritual. They call it 'soul-mates' here. Someone who was perfect for you, made for you by the hand of Allah Himself.

At least it was perfect for a while. No matter how long I live, I doubt I shall ever feel as happy as I did then. I'm so blessed for having that time in my life. Think of how easily I could have missed it. The ways of Allah are wise and mysterious. If I hadn't been in that class, I'd not have met him. If I had been at that school, in this country. So many things had to be in place, put there throughout my life, for me to have been able to experience the love I did. Praise be to Allah!

Chapter 9

"Got a possible ID on your cement man," Brass said, meeting up with Sara and Catherine as they walked down the corridor of the lab.

"It's concrete, not cement," Sara corrected.

"Yeah, whatever," Brass said dismissively. "Anyway, a guy filed a missing persons on his son, Darren Cook. He's in the morgue now, IDing the body."

Comically, Brass stopped in his tracks, looking down at himself as he unbuttoned his sport coat and pulled back a flap.

"Go any further, mister, and I'm calling the cops," Catherine warned.

Brass smiled an unspoken vulgar comeback as he pulled up his beeper, which had obviously been switched to 'vibrate'.

"Positive ID. Guess I'll go meet up with the dad and start getting some background on the vic. What are you guys going to be doing?"

"We're going to do some science stuff," Sara said drolly.

"Yeah, you do some science stuff and I'll go do some cop stuff," Brass retorted as he veered off from the two at the next intersecting hall.

"What are we going to do?" Sara asked, turning to Catherine.

"I don't know about you, but I've got a lot of paperwork to catch up on while we're waiting for Ronnie to come up with something."

"Ugh. I hate paperwork," Sara bemoaned.

"Like two peas in a pod," Catherine mumbled as she turned to head to her workstation, as Sara ventured on down the hall to check on Ronnie. She thought it might be time to turn on some charm, if need be, to speed things along.

"How's my favorite forensic scientist doing?" she asked brightly as she entered Ronnie's lab.

"Oh, you CSIs are so fickle. Today, I'm your favorite. But let there be a little blood or DNA, and Greg's the man. Find a little dirt, or a paint chip, and Hodges will be your favorite," Ronnie shot back.

"Hodges has never been, nor will he ever be, my favorite," Sara answered earnestly. "I may be fickle, but I'm not psychotic."

"That's good to know," Ronnie said, turning back to his work. "Come look. Shot it with different spectra of light, and built a composite of the images, deleting the ones that just had background clutter. I think I've got enough pixels now to read a few letters."

"What is it, anyway?"

"I think it's a typical hospital bracelet. Size is right, anyway."

"Okay, I'll buy that. What letters did you find?"

"Luckily, they were all together. Looks like the beginning, too. I've got an R, an A, then a Z. I can't make out the next letter, but I think it's the last letter of a last name, because there's a dot, like a comma. Normally, they put the last name, then the first name."

"So it's a last name, four letters, starting with Raz." Sara thought for a moment. "Spanish surname? Like Raza?"

"Maybe. No telling," Ronnie said, turning knobs in a vain attempt to find a wavelength of light to bring out more of the faded print. "I'll keep trying, but that may be all we get."

"It's a start," Sara said with determination as she headed off to find a computer to find all the phone listings for last names that would meet the criteria. It would do little good to call the hospitals. Not only did they not have the manpower to search records for a name only partially known, but they wouldn't likely release the information to the police anyway, without a court order.

Fourteen Razo, one Razi, and one Razy. What if it wasn't just four letters? What if the dot Ronnie's taking as a comma is just a speck of dirt or part of another letter?

Sara expanded the search to contain more letters, bringing up one Razavi, one Razee, one Razevich, one Razidlo, and three Razon.

Twenty-three names. Sara had feared there would be more. She printed out the list to give to Brass.

Chapter 10

"I know you told me you were on a new high-protein, low-carb diet, but isn't that a little extreme?" Greg asked as Jacqui slid the two plastic bags out of the manila envelope, each containing a severed hand and each marked "Biohazard".

"Bite me, Greg," Jacqui hissed. She flipped the envelope over to read the chain-of-custody form attached to the front.

"Oh, I will definitely make him suffer!"

"Who?" Greg asked, almost giddy with excitement.

Instead of answering, Jacqui pulled off her latex gloves and stomped over to her phone, pushing the buttons with so much force that Greg wondered which would break first – the phone or her finger.

"David," she said in mock-sweetness, "Have you got an empty slab down there? Um hum. Well, good. You're going to need it. You are a dead man," she said, slamming down the phone.

"Jacqui, I sense hostility," Greg said, smiling evilly.

"That lazy bastard sent me the whole hands! He's supposed to gather prints and other evidence for us to analyze. See this badge?" she asked, holding up her ID. "It says that I'm a fingerprint analyst. A-N-A-L-Y-S-T."

"The next word in our spelling bee is ..."

"Shut up, Sanders! You could be next!" she barked, giving him the evil eye.

Jacqui pulled on two sets of gloves and put on safety glasses and a surgical mask, grumbling with each move. She slid one hand out of the plastic bag onto the work surface.

"Oh, geez! What is this stuff all over his hands?"

"Looks grainy. I bet that's Sara's and Catherine's Concrete Man. They found him up to his gizzard in concrete."

"Mob hit?" Jacqui asked, moving the magnifying glass over to examine the fingertips to assess the work ahead of her.

Greg shrugged and peered over her shoulder.

"If you'd like to do this, have at it. Otherwise, I suggest you get out of my personal space," she growled.

Greg held up both hands in surrender, snorting and giggling on the way out.

Within 15 minutes Greg and Archie burst through the doors to the morgue, with Archie holding a clipboard in hand.

"Dave, what are your favorite flowers?" Greg asked innocently.

"I don't know. I guess roses," he answered as he hosed down a body to prepare it for the mortuary to pick up. "Why?"

"Do you own a black suit?" Archie asked, after writing down David's first answer.

"Yeah, why?" David stopped spraying the body and looked up at the pair in confusion.

"Would you prefer to be buried or cremated?" Greg asked, not seeming to hear David.

"What's this about, you guys?"

"We're just getting a headstart on planning your funeral," Greg laughed. "No sense in waiting until Jacqui after kills you. You are so very dead."

David turned crimson and went back to his work as Greg and Archie burst out laughing and stumbled out of the morgue.

Chapter 11

Things started to settle down into more of a routine for us. I wasn't unhappy with that. We were getting more comfortable with each other, it seemed. Some of the excitement of new-found passion may have fallen off. But there seemed to be a knowing of each other that took its place. We could talk, but we didn't have to. We could just be together without talking.

Or at least that's how it felt to me. I guess it wasn't the same for him. Maybe he's one of those people who finds routine boring. All I know is that he started seeming discontented. I tried to find out what was bothering him, but he said 'Nothing'. But I knew better.

He started wanting to spend time alone. It got to where we'd only see each other on days we had class together, and maybe once on the weekend. For a while, he seemed happier. He said maybe he just needed a little space, as they call it here.

We had been spending a lot of time together, so I could understand how he might feel that way. And if he was happy, I was happy. They have another saying here, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Not seeing each other all the time brought back the sense of excitement and anticipation.

Soon the semester was over and it was summer. He said he wouldn't be going to school until the fall, and that he'd probably spend a lot of the summer with his father, or visiting his family.

I knew I'd miss him, to be sure. But it's a good son who honors his father like that. And it was only fitting that he should visit his family back in the east, if he had the chance to. It's not like he was going to be gone all summer, he said. He'd be in and out of town. I offered to check his apartment and bring in the mail, but he said the landlady would do that, for me to concentrate on my studies. It would help make the time pass faster, I hoped.

Oh, Dorri! I was such a fool. Love makes men fools, I think. At least, true love does. It makes you blind and deaf. You no longer see the signs anyone else would see. You don't hear the words in between the words. You stumble blindly through your days and nights, just happy to be alive and in love. Stupid, stupid fool that I was!

Chapter 12

"You want to go check out Darren Cook's house, or are you too busy doing science stuff?" Catherine asked Sara, who was sitting in the break room, munching on a cucumber and sprout sandwich as she read. "His father gave us permission," she added.

In less than twenty minutes the two women were standing in the doorway to Darren Cook's apartment, his father, Gavin, pocketing the key absently. The three took in the overall look and feel of the place. It was light and airy, spotlessly neat and well-decorated.

"Darren was always ... fastidious," he father said, almost apologetically.

The two women scanned the room as they nodded, then looked at each other in the barest of acknowledgements.

"Thank you, Mr. Cook. We'll take it from here. I promise we won't disturb anything. If we need something for evidence, we'll be very careful with it and we'll give you a list of what we took. Fair enough?" Catherine said, her voice oozing with practiced compassion.

The man nodded his assent silently, obviously trying to control his emotions. He turned and left abruptly.

"Okay, I admit I'm stereotyping here, but what kind of single man – who's not rich enough to afford an interior decorator – lives like this?" Catherine said, walking over to scan the bookshelf. She pulled out what appeared to be a photo album, and flipped through the pages.

"Most of the guys I know don't," Sara agreed. "They may keep their homes clean, but decorating isn't usually their strong suit."

"Um hum." Catherine continued to scan the photo album as Sara began to walk around the other side of the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

"So, just because the guy keeps a clean house, and has some taste, you're assuming he's gay," Sara said with a hint of disapproval.

"Well, that and the fact that there's not one single picture of him with a woman. Every one of these is Darren with another young man. Actually several other young men. He's even captioned the pictures and put the names of his conquests."

"That was thoughtful," Sara said, moving to Catherine's side to look at the pictures. "Any of the names start with 'Raz'?"

"'Seek and ye shall find'," Catherine said triumphantly, turning the album a bit more towards Sara.

"Mohammed Razi, 1998."

Chapter 13

It ended soon after that, of course. He wasn't really visiting relatives that summer. He was just distancing himself from me. I'd see him around sometimes, but I didn't say anything for a while. I finally confronted him about it, and he lied at first. He told me he'd just gotten back and was going to call. But I could tell he didn't mean it.

Dorri, why do some people fall out of love so easily? I don't understand it. We had so much together, I thought. Was I just blind? Was I just a fool who couldn't see that he didn't really love me? Was he ashamed and trying to quit being with a man? I don't know.

It hurt me very badly. I was very sad for a long time. But the days turned into months, and the months turned into years. I had put my energy back into my studies, and stopped going out places. I wasn't interested in trying to find another man. I wasn't interested in trying to find a woman. I had been in love, and I didn't think I'd ever find anyone else who would make me feel that way. And I certainly never wanted to be hurt that way again.

I had just completed my last year of school. I had been accepted to two other medical schools, but I was waiting to hear from my first choice. I was finally on my way to becoming a doctor, and life started to seem to hold promise again.

Then I got sick. At first, I thought it was just a cold, but then it got worse. I suspected that I had the flu, and went to the doctor. He thought that as well, and told me to rest. Not much else you can do for a virus. But it got worse. I started running a fever and could barely breathe. I felt so weak, like a little child.

After a week of this, I went back to the doctor. He became concerned. He felt I had developed pneumonia. I was very sick, and had no one to take care of me. He suggested that I should go to the hospital, where they can care for me while he treated me.

Nothing seemed to make it better, but at least I didn't feel worse. It helped to have people helping me, bringing me food and water. It kept my strength up enough to not get any worse. Gradually, I got better, but it took six weeks. It's a good thing I have health insurance, because the hospital bill was more than what four years of college cost me.

When the day came for them to release me, the doctor brought me a handful of prescriptions. I was confused, Dorri. Why did I need more prescriptions if I was well now? He told me that my pneumonia was due to being HIV-positive.

The words he said didn't make any sense to me. How could this happen? There must be some sort of mistake. I didn't use intravenous drugs. I didn't handle body fluids. I didn't engage in promiscuous sex – not in any sex for years. I hadn't had a blood transfusion. I didn't even know anyone who had AIDS.

I told him that he was wrong, that the laboratory must have made some sort of mistake. He was very nice about it. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. He smiled sadly and told me that there was no mistake, but that there were treatments now. I could probably live years, perhaps longer. He told me that they are working on all sorts of treatments that might mean that I'd be able to live a normal lifespan.

He tried to be hopeful. He tried to make me hopeful. But I was already sick. The HIV was already beginning to turn my body against itself, destroying my immune system. I needed to have someone around who loved me, but there was no one.

I began to become afraid of other people and their germs. Even the slightest cold would have me sick for weeks at a time. I would lie in bed and try to figure out how I came to have this terrible disease. School was out of the question. I didn't have the energy for med school, not to mention that I kept getting sick.

All of my dreams were shattered, Dorri. The person I had loved had left me years ago. The profession I had chosen as a child seemed out of reach. I could do nothing most of the time but watch TV and read. Even a walk around the block would leave me exhausted when I was sick.

Then I'd get better and begin to think that maybe I could get my life back on track. I might not live as long as most people, but I still had hopes of living long enough to become a doctor and go back home.

I wanted so badly to go back home. Sometimes I'd even cry, my little sister, when I'd think of how much I missed my family and how much I needed them. I was afraid I'd die without ever seeing any of you again.

But I was too ashamed to go home like this, sick and weak. I wasn't able to meet what we had all thought was my destiny. How could I go home without finishing medical school? How could I let my family know that all of their hopes and all of that money was wasted? How could I let the woman who bore me watch me die?

So I lied to you all. I told you I was going to go to graduate school to be more competitive and try to get into Johns Hopkins. I used the money to pay my part of all the prescriptions and the medical bills. This disease is so expensive.

Soon it became too much, and I grew tired of taking all the pills, only to still get sick every few months. I used the money instead on good food and vitamins, to build myself up as much as I could in between the bouts of illness. Sometimes I felt almost normal, as strong as I ever was. If I was lucky, that feeling would last for months ... until the next time some microscopic demon would possess me.

I wanted to tell you, Dorri. You, of all people. I knew that you wouldn't abandon me. I knew you'd love me anyway. But I was afraid. I didn't want to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anybody.

Chapter 14

"What'd you find?" Catherine asked as she joined Sara in the kitchen.

"Lots of supplements and prescription medicine. All of them current, too, and from the same doctor." Sara picked up a bottle and read the label. "I'd say that Doc Robbins was right, that Darren Cook was HIV-positive. These are medications for AIDS."

"I found his medical records and files. He's known since 1994," Catherine said, holding up a sheet of paper that was the original lab results.

"He must have been just a kid when he got it, maybe in high school," Sara said, shaking her head slowly.

"Sucks. That's when life's supposed to really get going, and his was already starting on the way down. Let's get this stuff back to the lab. Brass is supposed to meet us to go see Mr. Razi."

The ride back to the crime lab was silent, the two women deep in their own thoughts. They saw the tragedy of untimely death all the time, either due to an accident, suicide, or murder. They had grown somewhat accustomed to it.

But disease was a killer that they couldn't capture and prosecute. And it was worse than the most insane sociopath, in that it was completely indiscriminate and remorseless. It would infect whomever it could, without regard and without pity.

They tried not to think about it whenever they'd walk into a crime scene covered in blood. The liquid that was responsible for carrying life could easily mean the deaths of the CSIs, if they weren't careful.

And they began to wonder how many people Darren Cook had been with since 1994, people who may not have known he was HIV-positive. The album was full of pictures of him and other men since then. Was he as much a murderer as he was a victim?

Chapter 15

They have something called "malls" here, Dorri. You'd love them. It's a big building with lots of different kinds of stores. They always have thousands of people in them, some just walking around. It's a lot like a bazaar, but indoors.

I went to the mall, to a health food store. They don't actually sell much food, but they have vitamins and supplements that I can drink to help keep up my strength. Most of the things there are to help people lose weight – this is a country of plenty, and many people appear to eat too much for their own good. But they have some things to help people gain weight, too. That's what I buy.

That's where I ran into him. He was buying much the same things I was. That was when it hit me. How blind I had been! It was he who gave me this horrid disease! All those weeks of lying in bed, wracking my brain to find the source, and it was Darren. I never once suspected it.

This time, I didn't avoid him. At first, I don't think he recognized me. I had lost a lot of weight, my hair is thinner, and my skin is beginning to get red splotches on it. He looked much the same as before, only older and a bit thinner. But he still looked pretty good. Maybe I was wrong.

I approached him and said 'Hello', and asked him why he was buying that stuff. He was vague and nervous. He asked how I'd been. I told him that I'd not been well. I could see the guilt in his eyes and I knew that I wasn't wrong. He knew he was sick. He knew he had done this to me. The only question was whether he knew six years ago.

I asked him to his face how long he'd had HIV, that he appeared to be coping well with it. He told me the truth for a change. He said he'd had it ten years. I said, "So you knew when we were together that you were sick?"

He admitted that he'd been told he was HIV-positive, but he said that he hadn't ever gotten sick, so he thought they were wrong. He lied to himself, then he lied to me. How many others did he lie to?

I had loved him with every fiber of my being, but now all that had been love turned to anger. Never in my life have I been so angry at anyone. Never in my life did I feel like I could kill someone with my bare hands and be happy about it.

But he stood there, guilty but unapologetic, the killer of all of my dreams. I asked him how he could live with himself, knowing he was killing other people with his love. He laughed bitterly. He'd been given it the same way as just a teenager, and he wasn't ready to give up on life and love yet. No one cared that he'd been thoughtlessly infected, so why should he care?

Can you believe that, Dorri? I finally began to see the real Darren. Everything had been for him. I never realized he was so selfish.

He said he figured he wasn't going to live very long, so he had to pack as much as possible into a few years. He felt like he didn't have time to worry about other people. He only had time to be as happy as he could be for as long as he could hold on.

I asked him why he left me. Had I done something wrong? Had I made him unhappy?

He said that he wanted the thrill of new love, and when that wore off, he'd find another. He said he didn't have time for boredom, for the ordinariness of life with just one partner.

He could see that he hurt me. He told me then that he really had loved me, that he stayed with me longer than with anyone else. He told me that he wished things had been different so that we could have had more time together. But nothing lasts forever, he said.

Ha! For me, it does! My love for him was set in stone from the moment we first shared our hearts. But now, looking into the eyes of my killer, that stone turned cold, the words of love written on it mocking my foolishness.

Had I known he was sick, I would have still loved him. We would have been more careful, but I still would have willingly risked death for him. But that would have been my choice.

Instead, Dorri, he made the choice for me, and then left me to rot in one hospital room after another, never even bothering to call me to see how I was doing, never caring whether he had killed me or whether Allah had miraculously protected me from my own folly.

He paid for his things and left, wishing me well. I put my stuff down and followed him, the anger in my heart feeling at once hot and cold. I wanted to kill him, but I also wanted him to die a day at a time, like I was. Like all the people he's probably made sick. He deserved to go through the same misery I have.

Do you think me evil for my thoughts, Dorri? You are always so loving and kind. You never have known hate, have you? I hadn't either. We had been raised in a house full of love, and that's all we had known. But as I followed him, I realized that the fire in me was hate.

How many more people would he kill? How many more people would he love, then leave to die? How many more lies?

He might not care about other people, but I did. All I ever wanted to do was become a doctor and save lives. I'd never be a doctor, I knew. But I could save lives. It became clear to me what I had to do.

Chapter 16

"Las Vegas Police! Open up!" Brass yelled from beside the door. He had his service weapon in one hand, and pounded on the door with the other.

"Las Vegas Police! We have a warrant! Open up now!"

After a few heartbeats, Brass pointed at Sara and Catherine, his face showing his distrust.

"You two, get back. Don't go in 'til I call you. Got that?"

"They were all single syllables, so I think we both understand," Catherine shot back, as Sara turned away to hide the grin that was threatening to break free.

"Smart ass," Brass mumbled as he nodded to the officer to punch out the lock. The tool easily removed the core of the mechanism on the doorknob, but the door wouldn't open, obviously bolted as well.

One more nod, and another officer came up with a small battering ram, and with one swing he splintered the door and the frame. Brass and the other officer had their pistols trained at what became an open doorway, ready to fire if someone threatened them, but the room was empty.

The three rushed in, moving along the perimeter walls, eyes darting to every corner, every possible hiding place. Within moments, the two uniformed cops came out, looking pale, one coughing to control the gag reflex.

"Stinks in there," the other managed to force out.

"DB?" Sara asked.

"No," the other said, shaking his head.

Catherine and Sara looked at each other in curious confusion, when Brass called to them, telling them it was clear.

They entered as the police had, skirting along the walls, moving down the hall.

"Damn! What's that smell?" Sara said, wrinkling her nose.

"I think I know. Smells a lot like a diaper pail gone bad," Catherine answered.

The two found Brass, standing over a bed, handkerchief held over his nose.

"Mohammed Razi, I'd guess," he said, quickly replacing the cloth on his face.

The women approached the bed, the stench getting stronger every inch closer. The young man was pale and very thin, his skin drawn across his bones, sinking in wherever it could. He was obviously undernourished and dehydrated.

His eyes were open, but rolling around aimlessly. His dry tongue tried to lick his cracked lips to no avail.

"Urine, feces. This guy is so sick he couldn't even get out of bed to relieve himself," Sara said, pulling on two sets of gloves.

"I've called an ambulance," Brass said, backing into the farthest corner of the room. He didn't want to leave the two CSIs alone, but he had to get as far away as possible.

Brown eyes rolled towards the two women, and for a moment there was a flicker of recognition.

"Thirsty," he croaked, barely able to force the breath through his dry throat.

Sara picked up the empty glass that was beside his bed and hurried to the kitchen to fill it. She lifted him up a bit, putting the glass to his lips, urging him to sip it slowly.

He looked gratefully at her, trying to force his eyes to focus.

"Dorri?"

"Mr. Razi, my name is Sara Sidle, and this is Catherine Willows. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Dorri? My sister?"

Sara tipped the water glass again. After he had drunk almost a full glass, his mouth was rehydrated enough to speak. Sara handed Catherine the glass and asked her to refill it.

"Mr. Razi, can you hear me?" Sara asked.

"Dorri? My sister? How is it you are here? Are you a vision?"

"Mr. Razi, we've called an ambulance. It'll be here in just a few minutes and it'll take you to the hospital. You'll feel better soon."

"Dorri, I'm dying. I'm so happy that you're here. I had feared that I'd die alone in this strange land, with none of my family around me, no one who loves me. But Allah has answered my prayers, and you are here."

"Mr. Razi, hold on. Help'll be here in a minute," Sara said, taking the glass from Catherine and helping Mohammed to slowly take in the liquid.

"Not too fast. It'll make you sick. You've got to give your body time to absorb it. When you get to the hospital, they'll give you IVs that will help. You'll feel better in no time," Catherine said, smiling sadly at him.

Razi didn't appear to hear her, or even see her. His eyes were fixed on Sara, though they still occasionally rolled back in their sockets.

"He's delirious," Catherine said, shaking her head. "Poor guy. Too sick to get out of bed. Starving. Dehydrated. Having to lie in his own waste. It's sad."

"Dorri, I had the strangest dream. I think it was a dream. I'm not sure. I can't think straight."

"Mr. Razi, you have the right to remain silent ..." Brass began, when Catherine turned to hold up a silencing hand.

"Don't bother."

"He thinks Sara's someone else. If he confesses, it might not be admissible."

"He'll never see the inside of a courtroom," Catherine said. "If it makes him feel better to think that Sara's this Dorri, let him. Maybe he'll tell her what happened."

"I dream such strange dreams now, my sister. I dreamed that I saw Darren. Every time he'd open his mouth, demons would escape, entering other people. Then they would become possessed, and die."

"He was sick," Sara said, nodding.

"Yes. He made me sick. But I had a dream that I was able to be strong again, and I saved other people from getting possessed by his demons."

"What did you do?" Sara asked softly.

"My love was set in stone," Razi said cryptically.

"Did you kill him?"

"The dream was so strange. It was at a house I don't recognize. He was unconscious and I tied him up. I put him in something."

"A bathtub?"

"Maybe. I don't remember. How do you know my dream?"

"Just guessing. Tell me more of your dream, Mohammed."

"I love you, Dorri. I hope you have a long and happy life."

"I will, Mohammed. Tell me about your dream."

"Don't leave me, Dorri. I don't want to die alone. Please don't leave me."

"I won't. I'll stay with you," Sara said, her voice catching in her throat. Gloved hands went towards her face and she dabbled at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt.

Chapter 17

"Good work on the Cook killing," Grissom said as Catherine entered his office.

"Thanks," Catherine said heavily, not feeling the triumph at the moment.

"Where's Sara?"

"At the hospital with Razi."

"Why?"

"He's confessing, I guess. He was telling her about a dream he had, which sounds suspiciously like the murder. The ambulance came and she rode in with him."

Grissom's brows knitted together in a concerned frown.

"He thinks she's his sister or something like that," Catherine said, shrugging indifferently, though she felt anything but indifferent.

"I'm not sure I like that," Grissom said.

"For God's sake, Gil, the guy's dying," Catherine huffed. "All he wanted was to have someone around that he knew and cared about, someone who cared about him. No one wants to die alone."

"That's not Sara's problem."

"I don't think she sees it as a problem. I think she thinks that it's the decent thing to do. Not to mention that she might get the whole story from him."

"Bad enough to get emotionally involved with the victims. If she starts identifying with the suspects as well, she'll lose all objectivity," he argued.

"Or regain it," Catherine argued back. "She'll see both sides. There are always two sides, Gil."

"And when he dies?"

"I don't know how she'll react. But I'd imagine she'd need a friend," Catherine said, leaning forward to underscore her thought.

"Maybe you should go check on her," Grissom suggested.

"Maybe you should," Catherine huffed back. "Face it, Sara and I just work together. I'm not her friend, and she's not mine. We're not enemies, I hope, but we're not friends. We started off on the wrong foot, and we've been stepping on each other's toes ever since then."

"You could probably fix that," Grissom said, without conviction.

"Don't even start lecturing me on my relationship with Sara. You've got no stones to throw, mister."

Grissom exhaled heavily, then stood, putting on his jacket.

"Where you going?"

"To the hospital," Grissom said on his way out of the door.

Chapter 18

"Can't you do something for him?" Sara asked the doctor as he made notes on the chart and started to walk out of the exam room.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Sidle. He's too far gone. He's obviously been dehydrated for quite some time, and he's developed heart arrhythmias. Even if that weren't the case, he's probably not going to make it through the pneumonia. He just doesn't have the physical reserves to fight it off."

"So you're just going to let him die?"

"Sara ..."

She looked for the source of the familiar voice coming from behind the doctor in the doorway.

"Oh, hey Grissom."

"Hey. How are you doing?" he asked gently, walking past the doctor, giving the young physician a chance to escape.

"I'm fine," she answered.

Grissom could see that the cachectic young man's hand was wrapped tightly in hers. He didn't seem to notice that she had latex gloves on. The warmth and contact still seemed to sooth him.

"Who is it, Dorri?"

"A friend of mine," she answered.

"I want to be," Grissom said to her, putting his hand briefly on her shoulder.

"Don't leave me, Dorri! How come I can't see you?"

"I'm not leaving you, Mohammed. Just rest," she said soothingly.

"How's he doing?" Grissom asked, only to be answered by a negative shake of Sara's head as she sniffed.

"Not good. He was alone and helpless for too long. The doctor doesn't think he'll last more than a day or two at the most."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Yeah, he told me everything."

"Good, good. You can write your report tonight and we can wrap this case up."

"I don't think I'll be coming in tonight."

"Sara, you've got to let this go."

"Not yet. He needs me."

"He doesn't even know you."

"Sure he does. I'm his sister, Dorri, and I've come halfway around the world to be with him while he goes to meet Allah," she said, smoothing back the hair from Mohammed's face.

More words were useless at that point, Grissom knew. She'd made up her mind, and there was little else in the world you could count on like Sara Sidle once she'd made a decision.

He surprised her with a single, gentle stroke across the hair atop her head – a parting gesture that he hoped was more effective than the blank stares that usually marked their separation after a disagreement.

"Don't be too long. We need you, too," he said quietly as he turned.

"The lab needs me?" she said, a slight edge of hurt hardening her voice.

"Of course the lab needs you. The people you work with need you."

Sara turned her head slightly towards him, though she didn't look at him.

After a nervous out-breath, Grissom told her shakily, "I need you."

Sara held frozen for a moment, as though she were trying to search out the meaning of his words, like when Razi would slip into speaking Farsi to her.

The hours slipped by, seeming at the same time like mere moments, and yet a lifetime. Sara realized that the moments belonged to her, but those hours were the remainder of the lifetime of Mohammed Razi, victim and killer.

"Hey."

The greeting was deep and gentle, intent on not waking Razi and not startling Sara.

"Hey, Grissom. Back already? He's not dead yet," she said, a tired, cynical edge to her words.

"It's been ten hours. I'm on my way into the lab. Sara, I'm worried about you. I don't want this to negatively affect you."

"It already has affected me, Grissom. I see a man who had hopes and dreams, but instead he was dying along in his apartment, nobody there to so much as get him a glass of water."

"We all die alone, when you get down to it," Grissom said.

"No, we all experience death alone, but we don't all die alone."

"You can't ease the transition for every dying person you meet. That's not your job. There are people to do that. We could send him to a hospice."

"Will his sister be there to sit with him until the end?"

"I don't know," Grissom said, more an exhale than a statement.

"I can't leave him now. It's close. I can feel it. Do you ever feel death, like it's some presence or force that can be sensed?"

"Yes. Sometimes I do, when we get to a scene right after the victim dies."

Sara pivoted in her chair to look at him as he moved from behind her to stand next to her. She felt almost confused by his admission; she had never expected it. Even if he felt it, she hadn't anticipated him answering.

"Can you feel it now?" she whispered.

"Yes," Grissom silently hissed. "It's all around us."

"How does it make you feel?" she asked, turning back to Razi, hoping the lack of eye contact would free him to answer honestly.

"Anxious," Grissom answered, focusing on the thin, young man who was struggling noisily for every breath.

"Because it makes you think of your own death?"

"I guess."

"Grissom, will you let anyone be there when you die? Or have you decided to do it alone, like everything else in your life?"

"It doesn't feel like a decision. It feels more like a foregone conclusion. I assume I'll die alone."

"Isn't that frightening?"

"I try not to dwell on it. Besides, I'm accustomed to it. It's only really frightening if you're used to having people around you all the time."

Sara nodded slowly, less in agreement than acknowledgement.

"Maybe someone will be there to hold your hand," she said, giving Razi's a gentle squeeze.

"And I can pretend it's someone I love, like he's doing," Grissom murmured absently, more to himself than to her.

"He's not pretending, Grissom. He needs her, so she's here. If you ever allow yourself to need someone, I hope they'll be there."

"I hope so, too," he agreed, his voice losing all strength. "I've got to get to the lab," he said more strongly, trying to shake off the empty feeling that was falling over him.

"I'll see you later," she said automatically.

"Do you need anything? Have you eaten? Want something to read, or to listen to? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Sara compulsively swallowed at the lump in her throat. It was the first time in a long time that he allowed himself to be outwardly thoughtful to her. Had it been anyone else, she would have expected it as a typical social convention, meant only half-heartedly. But Grissom wasn't possessed of those kinds of social graces.

"I'm good, thanks," she said, not actually answering any of his questions.

"Call me if you need me," he said on his way out of the door.

Sara chuckled harshly to herself. If she called him every time she felt she needed him, they'd never get off the phone. The hidden message most people would mean was, 'Call me if the need gets to be too much to bear alone.' With Grissom, she figured the meaning of his words were more like, 'Call me if your need ever gets small enough that I can meet it without an emotional investment.'

But Sara's emotional reserves were running low, and she decided to push those rationalizing thoughts from her mind. Instead, she'd allow herself to feel the odd wave of joy that he even mentioned it to her. She allowed two words to linger in her mind, words she had believed once, then disbelieved, then believed again: He cares.

Chapter 19

It was a horrible nightmare, my sister. I seem to keep having it – a vision I can't shake from my dreams. He's suffocating, struggling to breathe, just as I had in cold, empty hospital rooms.

I don't recognize where we were. It's not his apartment. It's not mine. It's a house, I think, but I don't know whose.

He was dying slowly. In the dream, I am both satisfied that he's suffering as I had, and sickened by what was happening. He kept calling to me to save him, but I had no strength, it seemed. I just sat on the floor of the bathroom, propped against a wall, exhaustion wracking my body like I'd done hard physical labor.

He was getting what he deserved, but every fiber of my being wanted to help him. But I couldn't, just as no one can save me. He and I are damned, and our fates were sealed years ago when we became homes to a soulless creature too small to see. We're millions of times larger, but it's stronger. It's stronger because it has no conscience and no remorse.

I don't remember any more of the nightmare. When I awoke, I was thirsty, but too tired to get out of my bed for water. I don't remember much else until you came to visit me, my sister.

Chapter 20

He wasn't sure if she was asleep with her eyes still partially open, or lost in deep thought. He logged in with the police officer guarding the door, which seemed a ridiculous waste of manpower. Though Razi was officially under arrest, it wasn't as though he were likely to escape.

"Sara?" Grissom asked quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder to rouse her.

"Oh, hey," she said, yawning and stretching as best she could, considering that Razi still held one of her hands.

"I brought you something to eat," Grissom said, pulling a plastic bag from a small sack he held. He gingerly handed the sandwich to Sara, then pulled out a bottle of water.

"I wasn't sure what you'd want to drink. Water seemed like a safe choice."

"Thanks, Grissom. I'm not very hungry right now."

"You've got to eat, honey. You don't know how long you'll be here. You can't let yourself get weak."

Sara looked up at Grissom, her brow knitted in confusion. She'd expected a fight, or at least a lecture, and instead she got a meal and his compassion.

Sara pulled half of the sandwich out of the bag, pulling back at one of the slices of bread to see what was inside, though she tried to be as nonchalant about it as possible. It was kind of him to bring her a meal, but she wasn't sure he'd remember not to put meat on the sandwich.

"It's cucumber, mostly," he said.

"Looks like it's also got spinach and alfalfa sprouts on it."

"Yes," he said, nodding.

"What's this?" she asked somewhat suspiciously.

"Some sort of fake lunch meat made from tofu," he answered. "If you don't like it, I'll take it off."

"No, that's fine. Is this mayo?" she asked, trying not to sound like she was interrogating him.

"No. It's fake, too."

Sara put the sandwich back together and her eyes smiled at him as she took a bite.

"I figured that you might not eat mayonnaise. It has eggs in it. Considering you've been a vegetarian for years now, I thought that you might be a vegan by now. Well, anyway, I didn't want to take a chance that you wouldn't eat it," he said, shrugging.

"That was very thoughtful, Grissom. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Sara handed the other half to Grissom, who managed to stay expressionless as he took a bite.

"You like it?" she asked.

"It's okay. Kind of tastes like a salad," he said.

The two ate together silently, the first meal they'd shared in quite some time apart from the rest of the team.

"If you need to go do anything, or want to go clean up, I'll stay with him," Grissom offered.

"No thanks."

"You want to take a nap?"

"Huh?"

"You can lay your head down on the bed, or back in the chair. I'll keep watch and wake you if anything changes."

"It's okay. You don't have to stay," she offered.

"I know. I want to." Grissom softly laid a hand on each of her shoulders as he stood behind her. "I can't let you go through this alone."

In the past, any other time he had touched her, they had both felt the heat of passion pass between them. But this time was different. This time, she felt the warmth of compassion. She felt an emotional connection that transcended the body. She felt that he cared.

She sat with him standing behind her for two more hours, as Mohammed Razi gasped for every breath, occasionally calling out his sister's name. Each time, Sara would squeeze his hand and assure him that she was still there. Each time, Grissom would squeeze her shoulders lightly, and whisper that he was there for her.

Though she was desperately sad, Sara also felt the joy of being needed, and she felt the freedom to need Grissom. And, for once, he answered that need.

"We need to turn his bed now," Grissom said, glad that it was on wheels.

"Why?"

"His feet need to be pointed towards the Ka'aba in Mecca."

At the movement, Mohammed's eyes fluttered open, blinking several times. He strained to focus on Grissom, but it was obvious that he was having a difficult time of it.

"Who is that, Dorri?" he asked, his voice a breathless whisper. A spate of coughing wracked his body.

"It's a friend of mine," Sara answered.

"Who is that, Dorri? I can't see him clearly at all? Is that our father?"

Shaking her head, Sara was about to answer again, when she was interrupted.

"Yes, Mohammed. I'm here."

Sara turned and looked at Grissom in open-mouthed shock. She hadn't yet fully come to terms with his being there for her, much less making himself available to a stranger.

"I'm sorry, Father. I've shamed you," Mohammed said, tears spilling from his eyes as he coughed.

"No, you haven't shamed anyone. I'm proud of you," Grissom said gently, as fatherly as he could muster.

"I love you," Mohammed coughed out, looking back and forth between what he took to be his sister and his father.

"And we love you," Sara said, her voice catching.

"Mohammed, who is your Lord?" Grissom asked.

"Allah," he answered, almost soundlessly.

"Who is your Prophet?"

"Mohammed," he mouthed.

"What is your faith?"

"Islam."

"And your Book?"

"Qu'ran."

"Mohammed, where is your qibla?"

"Southeast, I think."

"Yes. And who is your Imam?"

"Ayatollah Ali Sistani."

"Say the Kalema Shahadat with me. La ilahaa illalla, Mohammadun rasoolulla."

Mohammed mouthed the words, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. His lips continued to repeat the Shahadat as he coughed and gasped.

As the heart monitor sounded its shrill alarm, Sara was pulled away from Mohammed just as the nurse came in to note the time of death. Shortly, she was followed by the doctor, who pronounced Mohammed Razi dead.

Sara turned to face Grissom, unsure of her emotions, unsure of what she needed from him. He answered by pulling her into a hug, then walking her out with his arm across her shoulders.

"We have to leave now, Sara. You're not allowed to stay around him once he dies, and grieving in the presence of the body isn't allowed."

"Grissom, I'm, um, speechless. That was such a great thing you did for him."

"It seemed very important to him, and it wasn't difficult."

"What was all that you were saying?"

"It was part of the Shi'ite last rites. The questions are things he'll be asked in his grave. The Shahadat is the most sacred part of his creed, 'There is no God but God, and Mohammed is the Messenger of God'."

"How do you know about that?"

"I already knew some of it, but I looked it up before I came here today, just in case. There's really more to it, but he was too weak for the whole ritual. We just hit a couple of the important points."

"You went through all that trouble for him?" Sara asked incredulously.

"For him. For you," Grissom said uncertainly, walking her toward the exit.

"I know he killed Darren Cook. He told me all about it. But if you had heard his story, you'd understand," she said, fighting to hold back the tears. "He loved him, and Cook killed him, just as surely as he killed Cook."

Grissom didn't know what to say. He could condone murder under any circumstance, and he knew Sara didn't either.

"I'm not saying he did the right thing," Sara said as they got in Grissom's SUV. "I'm just saying that I understand where he was coming from. He was half out of his mind from dementia. He'd been given AIDS by the guy, a guy who knew he was HIV-positive. He really loved him, you know? He loved Cook, and Cook killed him without a shred of remorse. He just lost it. Cook would have died anyway, but how many more people would he have taken with him? That's what Mohammed was thinking, anyway."

"It's sad," Grissom finally said, all other words failing him.

"It sucks. He loved this guy, and the guy destroyed him. Didn't even give a damn."

"Sometimes love doesn't work out right," Grissom said heavily.

"Yeah, tell me about it. It's supposed to be fulfilling and give your life joy and meaning. But sometimes all it gives is pain."

"I know," Grissom said, starting the SUV. "Believe me, I know."

"Have you ever loved anybody, Grissom?" Sara asked in the fog of her swirling emotions.

"Yes," he sighed, pulling out into traffic.

"Did it hurt like this?" she asked.

"Yes, it does," he said, not bothering to hide behind the past tense.

Sara turned to him, reaching across to set her fingers lightly on his shoulder.

"Does it have to hurt?"

"I don't know. I just know that love can destroy people. You saw it with Razi and Cook."

"Razi was still grateful for the time they had together. Even though it ultimately killed him, at least he'd known happiness and love for a while. He might have gone his whole life without feeling that."

"Was it worth it? Was it worth dying for? He lost his future. He lost his life. Was it worth it for a short romance?" Grissom asked, the doubt obvious in his voice.

"He seemed to think so. He didn't kill Cook because of what Cook did to him. He killed him to prevent him from hurting other people, when he'd lost all rationality. Even at the end, he loved him and felt blessed, as he called it, to have experienced the love."

"At least he was philosophical about it," Grissom said weakly.

"It wasn't philosophy. It was how he really felt. He was all alone here, a long way from anyone he loved or who loved him. He found someone he could care about. Even though having a gay relationship went against everything he believed, he put everything he had into it."

"And lost. He lost his lover, and now he lost his life," Grissom said, with a slight hard edge to his voice. "If you hadn't been there, he'd still have died alone."

"You don't get it," she said, turning towards the window.

"I get what you're saying. But I don't know if you understand what I'm saying," he said as they pulled into the parking lot in front of the crime lab, and he shut off the SUV's engine. Neither made a move to get out of the vehicle.

"I understand," Sara said weakly, turning her eyes down. "I'm just not worth the risk."

"Don't put it that way, Sara," Grissom said, turning finally to face her. "It's not that you're not worth it. It's not you; it's me. I'm not worth it. I'm not worth the risk to you, and I know how it'll all end. We'll lose, and when we do, we'll lose everything."

"I've got nothing to lose," she said, a sad huff of a laugh escaping her throat.

"You have your career. You're good, and you have a bright future ahead of you. You could easily lose that. Is it worth it?"

"It is to me," she said, turning to meet his eyes. "There's more to life, Grissom, than work."

"Is there?" he asked.

"There should be."

Chapter 21

"Is your car here?" he asked, looking around the lab's parking lot.

"No, Catherine picked me up."

"I'll take you home," he offered, starting the SUV again.

As they pulled up in the lot in front of Sara's apartment, she turned to him.

"Stay with me."

"Sara, I can't."

"Stay with me, Grissom. Just for today. Tomorrow you can go back to your life, and pretend it never happened. Just give me one day."

"Sara ..."

"Just one day to last the rest of my life. That's all I'm asking for. No one but us will know. Just one day. Let me feel what it's like to be with you."

"Sara, don't settle for that. Find someone who can openly love you. Find some young man who can make you happy."

"You can make me happy. All you have to do is stay with me today. I promise I won't let anyone know."

"I'll know. I'll know for the rest of my life what I'm missing," he said sadly. "How could I live with that?"

"The same way you live with it now – ignore it. Ignore me. Don't allow yourself to feel anything. You're good at that. But just for one day, let's feel something. We never know when we'll die. When I'm lying there with my life slipping from me, I want to be able to remember what it felt like to be truly happy and fulfilled, even if for only a little while."

"I'm sorry," Grissom said, holding her elbow as he walked with her to her apartment door. "About everything in the past."

"Grissom, let's not worry about the past. Let's not worry about the future. Let's just live our lives today, okay?" she said, opening the door and waiting to see if he was going to follow her in. She turned, looking at him hopefully.

"It's always today. Tomorrow never comes," he said as he walked in, closing the door behind him.