Spoilers: None that I know of.
Archived: Just ask.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and with my paycheck, I never will. J
The Apartment
Grissom turned the key and heard the deadbolt click softly as it unlocked, granting him admittance into the apartment. He pushed softly on the door, slowly swinging it open to reveal the room beyond. Every cell in his body snapped to attention as his eyes scanned over the apartment before him. The rooms were all still dark; it was hours yet until the sun would rise.
Stepping into the apartment he took a deep breath, feeling the air flow freely into his lungs. It was cool, and smelled a little like fresh rain. 'There must be a window open in here,' he thought as he closed the door softly behind him. He didn't reach for the light switch, nor did he turn on the flashlight that was in the pocket of his jacket. He moved slowly into the room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim glow from the security lights in the parking lot below.
The first room he entered was the kitchen. There wasn't much to it; it was very small. It didn't look like it was used much. The top of the stove was piled high with newspapers and junk mail. Opening the refrigerator, he was greeted by a bare sight. A few cans of soda, coffee beans, and an old cool whip dish full of takeout packages of ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, and barbeque sauce. It seemed lonely somehow. Closing the door he blinked a few times to get his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Looking to the kitchen sink he saw a pile of cereal bowls and spoons. 'She cooks as well as I do' he thought.
Stepping into the dining room, he surveyed the table. It was covered in manila file folders overflowing with documents and paperwork and scattered notebook paper covered in hastily scribbled notes. Three of the four chairs were piled with files and textbooks. Only one was clear, with a closed laptop computer sitting in front of it.
Moving patiently towards the living room he continued scanning the apartment with his eyes, taking it all in. The walls were mostly bare; not a lot of art or photographs to adorn the walls. The rooms did not have the feel that they were home to the inhabitant, but that they were more of a temporary place to pause and rest. There was however a line of plants next to the window, a stark clump of vibrant life in the otherwise subdued apartment. On the couch was a pillow and an old comforter. A recent visitor? Or maybe it was a night of insomnia spent on the couch in front of the television. No, he thought, not watching television, reading a book. He traced his fingertip down the spine of a book that was lying open and face down on the coffee table. Much Ado About Nothing…Shakespeare, a nice lighthearted choice for an evening read.
A soft humming noise caught his attention, pulling his gaze from the book up in the direction of what he assumed to be the bedroom. He cocked his head to one side and stepped around the table on his way to the closed door. Reaching out his hand hovered over the knob, hesitating. No, not yet, he decided. He turned instead to the bathroom across the hall.
Stepping into the small room, the scent that met his nose was decidedly feminine. That always amazed him to some degree. It didn't matter if a woman wore perfume, hairspray, scented lotions, or no scents at all. They still possessed some sort of feminine scent that was unmistakable. A sort of cross between baby's skin and springtime rain. He smiled as he examined the contents of the medicine cabinet: toothbrush, comb, deodorant, and a few scattered odds and ends of makeup. Not a whole lot here. She was apparently not one to spend too much time getting all dolled up. He absentmindedly fingered one of the necklaces sitting in a pile on the counter. It was a strange thing to get to know someone most intimately by looking through his or her home. Sometimes he thought that was the easier way. When people were standing right in front of you they could lie, they could deceive you. Even if they were honest, you may interpret something incorrectly, or taint their projection by what you are thinking or feeling. Evidence didn't have feelings; maybe that was why he was so drawn to it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he again saw the door of the bedroom. A faint bluish light was emanating from the crack under the door. Walking over he again hesitated with his hand an inch from the knob. He took a moment to compose himself before he entered the room. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath and opened the door.
The humming sound that he had noticed earlier was now more of a bubbling. A fish tank to be precise. He walked over to it and squatted down to peer inside. He watched the bubbles escape from a treasure chest in the bottom and float to the top of the tank. A little scuba man bobbed happily up and down in the water. Other than that, the tank was empty. Not one fish that he could see. Strange.
Standing up he let his eyes wander lazily around the room. The room had a very comfortable feel about it. There were disheveled blankets on the bed and an oversize t-shirt and boxer shorts tossed on the floor to one side. Grissom reached down and caressed the sheets between his fingers. The sheets were a light purple, and made of a sort of satin material. They looked new. He momentarily wondered what had prompted that choice of color, as it didn't match the bedspread or the other blankets.
Looking over the bedside table he took in all of the little details, as was his habit. The little table held a small radio alarm clock that was flashing 12:00 in red neon numbers. Had there been a recent power outage, or did she just not use an alarm? Also on the table were a half full glass of water and a bottle of over the counter sleeping pills. Perhaps she had not been sleeping well, maybe stress? In a pile on the floor next to the table was another stack of books and manila file folders. Every room in the apartment except for the bathroom seemed to contain pieces of work and research, work life bleeding over into home life. That was something he could relate to, unfortunately.
Casting one last look around the room, he turned his attention to the walk in closet. Feeling his heartbeat speed up in his chest, he took a step towards the closet door. Two steps before he reached the door he was interrupted by a buzzing from his pocket. Without taking his eyes off the closet door he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.
"Grissom."
"Griss, its Sara. Are you still in my apartment?"
"Why?"
"You are taking forever, how long does it take to pick up a file?"
Grissom turned again to look at the bedside table. He walked over and picked up the file that was sitting on the top of the pile.
"I've got it, I'll be back at the lab in fifteen."
"Were you snooping in my apartment, Grissom?"
He cast one last glance at the door of the closet. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"
"No reason."
THE END