Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed - it's much appreciated as this is my first attempt at writing a CSI fanfic.

Disclaimer: I forgot this in the first chapter, and so I state it here, and it applies to the story in it's entirety: I do not own, nor did I create any of the characters, places, or dialogue of CSI. That said, be advised that there is dialogue in this chapter that is taken directly from the transcript of the Butterflied episode.


And I listen for the whisper of your sweet insanity, while I formulate denials of your effect on me ...

A Stranger – A Perfect Circle


I could do little more upon reaching my apartment than throw my coat over the back of a kitchen chair and wearily stumble into the living room before collapsing on the couch. My tears had not ceased; as I'd climbed the stairs to the third floor I'd begun to weep openly, and I had avoided taking the elevator for precisely that reason. Curled up then on the couch, I clutched a throw pillow and pressed it tightly against face, trying to muffle the noise of my gasping sobs. I hated the sound; it was abrasive, an unwelcome sign of my weaknesses. I tried to cease, to pull together the tattered remnants of my dignity and regain composure, but I found that I couldn't. I simply could not stop the flow of the tears, nor the rending torment that was shredding me slowly from my innermost soul outwards. Perhaps it was because I'd gone so long without permitting myself to gaze upon the harsh, brutal state my life had long since deteriorated into; perhaps it was because I'd been forced to acknowledge this night that I was nowhere near as strong as I dearly wanted to be.

Time passed – seconds or minutes I could not discern. My body began to ache from the exertion of my sobbing. And it was then I realized – I knew – that everything was disintegrating because I'd become someone I loathed, someone I despised. Was there a way back to who I'd been?

Could I return to who I'd been?

I didn't want to dwell on that. And so, inevitable, mind returned to Grissom. Quite abruptly my tears stopped, and I could breathe again. The very thought of that man imbued within me so many things – rage, regret, sorrow, longing. He'd managed to thoroughly tie me up in emotional knots like no one ever had before. Amid all the self deceit I fed myself there remained at least one unblemished fact, and that was that I held Grissom in partial blame for what I'd become.

Was it unfair of me, I mused as I unfolded myself from the fetal position and lay the pillow down, to push the blame onto him? I didn't have to think; for I knew the answer, and it came with unbridled anger. Always he danced around me, flinging out compliments and enigmatic remarks as if they were particles of dust on the wind that would have no ultimate consequence. Never did he just present me with the solid truth – oh, no, that wasn't Grissom's way. And when I thought I'd read the signs right, and had finally taken that chance ...

I didn't finish the rest of the recollection, for it would have returned me right back down the desolate path I'd just walked. Instead, I rose to my feet and navigated my way – clumsily – across the darkened room to the patio door on the opposite side. I fumbled with the latch for a minute before sliding it open. A chill breeze hit me, stealing my breath for a moment. Shaking it off, I stepped out onto the small balcony and moved to lean against the iron wrought railing, leaving the door open behind me. My eyes were drawn instantly to the stars, as they always were. The night sky was one of my most favorite things to look at. Here, in the heart of Las Vegas, I couldn't see much of it, obscured as it was by clouds, by pollution, by the glare of the glowing city itself. Staring up and wishing I was far, far away, I felt a deep emptiness yawning within me. Great gaping chasms marring the sparkling sky stared back .

I sighed. Holes in the sky, holes in myself.

I pushed myself away from the railing, and went back inside, closing the door behind me. I didn't bother turning on the lights; instead I walked slowly, carefully, back to my kitchen. I knew that lying down to sleep would prove fruitless, and so I resigned myself to finding a reprieve the only way I knew how.

"Brass spoke to me. He's concerned you have a ... drinking problem."

Grissom's words returned to me in a distracting echo, but I merely smiled grimly before opening my fridge and grabbing the nearest bottle.


"It's sad, isn't it, doc? Guys like us. Couple of middle- aged men who've allowed their work to consume their lives. The only time we ever touch other people is when we're wearing our latex gloves. We wake up one day and realize that for fifty years we haven't really lived at all. But then, all of a sudden ... we get a second chance. Somebody young and beautiful shows up. Somebody ... we could care about. She offers us a new life with her ... but we have a big decision to make, right? Because we have to risk everything we've worked for in order to have her. I couldn't do it ..."

It took me a long time to realize I was awake. My face was cold, wet; I had been crying in my sleep. I opened my eyes slowly, still able to hear Grissom's voice in my dream, and embittered all the more because those words had been spoken once in reality. I was still unsure whether he had known I'd been standing outside the two way glass when he'd said those words to Lurie, and I was too afraid to ask. Standing there, listening and comprehending, finally, what it was Grissom had never said ... I'd felt as though the earth had given way beneath my feet. It was like an aching void, devouring me from the inside out. From that point onwards I'd treated Grissom as nothing more than a comrade, a coworker, thinking that by distancing myself I would begin to heal, begin to forget.

How very wrong I was.

I moved my body, and instantly moaned as every muscle I had protested. I was, I noticed through a haze, lying in a contorted position on my couch. My eyes then fell upon the myriad of empty bottles on the floor, and the previous night's events came rushing back in vivid clarity. I groaned and let my head fall back against the arm rest. A steady, rhythmic pounding was beginning to beat a staccato in my head, and so I lay there for long moments willing the pain to go away. It didn't; as if to join the headache in harmony a wave of nausea assailed me, and I was off the couch in a split second and racing for the bathroom.

Minutes later, the contents of my stomach now flushed away, I staggered to my feet and made it to the sink. I turned the water on and filled my cupped hands with water; after dousing my face several times I felt somewhat better. I raised my head, breathing deep, and it was then I saw myself in the mirror. As I'd suspected, I looked much the way I felt, which was somewhere in the region of completely horrible. My hair hung lank and stringy, my face was hollow and gaunt, and I was still clad in my clothes from the night previous. My eyes, however, were the clearest indication of my fallen state. My mother had once said my eyes were the most expressive part of me. What would she say now, I mused, if she could see them so empty, so devoid of anything remotely resembling emotion?

And, I wondered as I began to brush my teeth to rid my mouth of its acrid taste, what would she say if she knew that in order to sleep most nights, I drank myself into a stupor?

A sudden pounding at my front door broke into my grim reverie, and hastily I rinsed my mouth out and headed to see who it was. My hangover was worse than I thought, however, and as I entered the kitchen the world swam in my vision, which sent me stumbling into the stove. One of my pots, perched precariously on the burner, clattered loudly to the floor as I clutched at the countertop to regain my balance.

"Sara?"

"Damnit." I whispered. It was Grissom. I had completely forgotten he'd be checking up on me.

"Sara? Is everything ok?"

"Damnit," I muttered again, a little desperately, "Damn damn damn damn damn –"

"Sara? I know you're in there. Open the door."

I swallowed hard. If I opened the door, if he saw me like this –

Let him, an insidious voice inside me whispered. What harm can it do?

I already knew the answer to that. And so I took a deep breath, tried without some success to straighten my clothing that was wrinkled beyond any and all help, strode to the door, and opened it. Grissom's expression altered from one of mild concern to a mixture of greater concern and disappointment as he took in my bedraggled appearance. His gaze was clinical, analytical, and I knew with no small measure of bitterness that he was assessing my condition with a doctor's eye.

After a moment, he said what I knew he would say. "You look terrible."

I smiled without humor. "I feel terrible." I opened the door further and stepped aside so he could come through. He did so slowly, ever observant, ever the investigator, and I closed the door behind him while fervently wishing he would quickly leave. Too late I remembered the abundance of empty beer bottles in the living room, which were clearly in sight. Before I could move to block his view he spotted them, and turning back to me I could see him putting two and two together: the scattered remnants of my binge littering the floor in front of the couch; the rumpled clothing I still wore; my red and puffy eyes.

"Sara ... what did you ..." He paused, and sighed. "Why?"

"Why not?" I regretted the words the instant they were out of my mouth. Instantly his expression hardened, his eyes cooled, and I steeled myself for the reprimand that was coming.

"Why not? Come on, Sara. I thought we reached an understanding last night."

"That's right, Grissom. You thought we reached an understanding last night. Forgive me if our small and insubstantial exchange of pleasantries on the car ride home wasn't exactly all that clarifying. I recall nothing of the sort."

He stared at me for a moment. "You're mad at me."

I made a noise of exasperation and spun away, stalking with as much dignity as I could to the window overlooking the balcony. He was so infuriating! The very first words out of his mouth had raised my level of indignation tenfold. How dare he? And as much as I hated him for doing this to me, as much as I hated the effect he had ...

"Sara, you can't keep doing this."

"It was only a few drinks."

"No, it wasn't. You were arrested for DUI last night, Sara. Or did you drink enough to forget that even happened?"

"No," I whispered, closing my eyes and leaning my throbbing head against the cold window pane. "I didn't forget."

"Then why ...?"

Because I hurt, I wanted to say, because I can't stand to be sober, when all I do is think of what could have been, and will never be. Because I want to forget. "Look at it this way, Grissom. At least I got some sleep."

A hand seized me by the shoulder then and spun me around so quickly I gasped. Grissom was glaring down at me, and I'd only ever seen his eyes shine with that kind of fury in the interrogation room. "So that's how you justify this? Surely you're not that idiotic –"

That did it. Something inside me snapped, and I wrenched away furiously. "No, I'm not justifying it, Grissom! You wouldn't understand even if I tried to explain! If I try and sleep normally, I lie awake thinking. If I take medication I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. The only way I can sleep is to ... is to ..." I trailed off, fury abruptly gone, feeling drained and weak.

"So you drink and drink just to sleep?"

"No," I whispered, averting my eyes because tears were threatening to spill over. "I drink to forget."

"To forget? Sara, what are you talking about?"

For such a renowned detective, he was incredibly obtuse. Or perhaps I was just being vague. Either way, I didn't care anymore. My vision was beginning to swim again, and the pain in my head had intensified with my yelling. I just wanted to lie down, so I muttered. "Never mind. Look, I'm not feeling all that hot, so maybe you should go."

"No."

What? "Grissom, please –"I was walking past him, wanting to sit down, when suddenly the world tilted violently, and I found myself crumpled on the floor. Grissom was there in an instant, crouched by my side.

"What's wrong?"

I snorted, and then winced and closed my eyes as the sound made my ears ring, "It's a hangover. Kind of obvious."

He was silent for so long I cracked my eyes open again to see what exactly he was doing. He regarded me with a degree of intense speculation that made me distinctly uncomfortable, and so I tried to sit up. He surprised me again, however, by reaching out and putting one hand on my shoulder and pushing me back down. I scowled – hadn't I asked him to leave? But he held up his other hand to stop me from speaking, and I fell silent.

"I'm going to stay," he said in a deathly soft voice, "And you're going to have a shower, and change clothes, and then you will eat something. And when all that is done, we are going to sit face to face and have a long talk."

My heart sank. I didn't want to do this, not now, not when I felt like this. He shook his head, seeing me about to protest, his gaze steely and brooking no room for debate. Knowing it to be of no use, but deciding to try anyways, I asked, "But aren't you tired, Grissom? You just got off shift."

"I'll be fine."

I sighed, and sat up. He stood, and offered me his hand, but I got to my feet without his aid. I cast a glance at the floor around us, at the empty bottles of beer, and felt a swift and sharp longing to be dead drunk, to be immune from the emotional torture I knew was coming.

"Don't," Grissom said quietly, and I glanced at him in confusion.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look like that. Like you'd rather be drunk."

The sad truth was, I would rather be drunk. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" He asked, and then continued so quickly I had no chance to ask what he meant, "Go shower, Sara. I'll make you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. I'm not leaving to you eat something." That made me stiffen. What gave him the right to barge in here and order me around? Off duty, he wasn't my supervisor. He went on, "You're too thin. And I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Inwardly, I winced. So my fall into disgrace hadn't been as subtle as I hoped. I wondered then if everyone at work knew about my DUI, but I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. Instead I shrugged. "Fine. Pots are in the upper right hand cupboard, pans in the lower left."

He nodded, and watched as I wove my way around the furniture in order to head to my bedroom. My vertigo wasn't gone completely, though, and I faltered in my steps. Grissom was there immediately, one arm around my shoulders to support me. I didn't want his help, didn't want him to touch me, but I was too tired and feeling too ill to put up a fight. Resignedly I let him walk me to my bedroom. I turned before closing the door.

"Grissom ... why are you doing this?"

"I'll answer that," He said softly, "When you tell me why you're doing this to yourself."

A stalemate, then. I shrugged. "I won't be long in the shower." And I closed the door, only to collapse against it weakly, glad to have this barrier between he and I.

As much as I hated it, as much as I wanted it gone, I couldn't deny my attraction to him anymore then I could deny that I was alive. And here we were again – his being here and his concern were both signals I was unsure how to read. Did this mean he cared in a manner other than a supervisor for his employee? I didn't think so, and besides, what point was there in hoping? So I would endure his presence, although pieces of me would continue falling apart for longing of what I couldn't have.

I could hear him rattling about in my kitchen. I grabbed my terry cloth robe from a hook on the wall and headed for the shower.


TBC