Cardinality
Summary: A serial killer is stalking the citizens of Las Vegas. Started out as a case file but the G/S aspect demanded equal representation. This is the edited version for this site. The complete version can be found at my web site.
Rating: R for subject matter
A/N: No real spoilers. Many thanks to Burked for teaching me how to be a serial killer, among many other things.
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything related to CSI. If I did, certain characters would be getting more screen time – together!

"I cannot help it; in spite of myself, infinity torments me." – Alfred de Musset

Chapter 18

Brass pocketed his cell phone and re-entered the hospital room, a pained expression on his face. The two professors had continued to review Brandenburg's notes on the equations from the murder scenes while he'd taken the call.

The who and the how of the case were falling into place. They knew Peddicord was the killer. They knew where he'd gotten his supply of warfarin. Now, they'd established a link between Peddicord and the other victims.

O'Riley had talked to the owner of the restaurant where the insurance salesman ordered carryout regularly. Peddicord had worked there for three weeks before Wallace's murder, and he'd been the one to deliver his food.

Brass waved Grissom over. Leaning in close to his ear, he quickly updated his colleague on the latest development.

Sinking into one of the chairs, he gave Brandenburg a sullen look. The why of the case remained a mystery, and the mathematician's explanations of what Peddicord had tried to accomplish weren't making things any clearer.

"The guy did what?" Brass asked, his exasperation plain.

"Tried to make infinity go away," Brandenburg replied kindly.

The detective turned to look inquisitively at Grissom, who had gone back to reviewing the mathematician's notes. He gave Brass a tentative nod, turning his attention to another page.

"I think this is worse than having different sized infinities," he groaned. "I gave up trying to understand that one before I ended up in the loony brigade."

Brandenburg chuckled lightly, keeping his attention on the detective. "I did say it wasn't logical."

"Hah! It's not logical when a guy shoots his best friend when he finds out he's been slipping his wife the salami, then brags about it to a dozen friends," Brass said sharply. "This is crazy. What's the deal with insanity and infinity?"

"It's a complex concept. I wasn't being facetious earlier. The rules no longer apply when you deal with infinity. Simple things like A plus B equals B plus A are no longer true."

"What? No! Never mind. I don't want to know," Brass stated, holding out his hands in surrender when the mathematician started laughing harder.

"Infinity is at the heart of most paradoxes. It's a paradox in itself. Logic will only take you so far," he replied, giving Grissom a brief look. "Infinity is not intuitive. Some people never learn how to handle it. Like I said, it's rather like love."

All three men looked up when the door opened suddenly, revealing an attractive physician there to check on Brandenburg, who responded with an infectious grin.

Grissom watched with a mixture of ire and fascination at the ease with which the younger man flirted with her. Earlier, it had been with a buxom nurse who had brought him a soda and some cookies from the cafeteria. Before that, an older member of the cleaning staff had left glowing from his attention.

Grissom scowled slightly as he wondered if Brandenburg had been serious about Sara, or if she was merely one in a line of women the mathematician was entertaining. He certainly basked in the extra attention the staff was showing him in return.

As much as he wanted to see his flirtations as a sign of shallowness, Grissom had to admit the younger man's interest seemed real; he'd taken the time to learn something about each woman as an individual. In each case, he'd tailored his results to that particular woman, seeming to instinctively know exactly what to say to please her.

It was an innate ability to relate and respond on a personal level that Grissom knew wasn't his strongest suit. Seeing the reactions of the women around Brandenburg, it was a skill Grissom wished he had some measure of.

Not that he craved that type of response, but it would help with his relationship with Sara. He wanted to open up to her, but he'd grown so accustomed to keeping his feelings and secrets to himself that it had become second nature.

Brass saw his friend's baffled expression and grinned as he settled back into his chair. As tired as he was, Brass was glad for this latest interruption; it gave him a chance to try to process what Brandenburg had explained.

All three men had agreed that the writings left at the drive-in didn't tie in to the other equations. It had been left to taunt or tell them they had missed the initial victim. The fact it had been placed in such a public location led credence to the theory.

The formulas from the insurance salesman's apartment dealt with shapes. The spirals obviously continued forever, but so did the other equations. When graphed, the line would make a certain shape; as additional values were added, the pattern repeated, tracing over itself.

Peddicord had rewritten the equations using forms that weren't defined for all values, in essence creating breaks in the graphs. He then had tried to use that to prove the original forms were wrong. Between his flawed skills and flawed logic, he had made little progress.

Brass knew enough about trigonometric equations to follow that part of the conversation. It was the writing from the second scene that had him confused. He had never heard of complex analysis before.

Brandenburg had kept the explanation simple. That branch of mathematics dealt with contours – joined line segments. Equations could be performed on some contours that could change their shape.

Peddicord had tried to use those equations on the actual infinity symbol, but it wasn't the right type of shape. The rest of the writings were his attempts to figure out how to approach the problem.

Brass turned his attention to Grissom, who was still scowling behind his paper shield, much to the detective's amusement. On the way to the hospital, Grissom had discussed what they knew about Peddicord. It sounded like he could have a mental problem.

If the mathematician was right about his intentions, Peddicord had more than a few screws loose.

"You certainly have a way with the ladies," the captain quipped after the doctor left.

Brandenburg gave him a dismissive shrug, smiling when Grissom shot him an irritated look. Turning to focus his attention on the detective, a playful look crossed his face.

"Everyone likes to be appreciated. Little things can mean a lot. Let's say there's a woman who's basically stuck at home. Her movements are restricted. Even if she isn't the type to go out often, it's still frustrating."

"The choice isn't hers anymore," Brass replied, trying to keep his laughter in check when Grissom looked up, clearly interested.

"Exactly. Now, that's someone who would appreciate a surprise. Show up with a movie, a pizza and maybe some beer."

Grissom darted his eyes from Brass to the mathematician and back. Had he just given out dating advice? When Brandenburg turned to fix him with a pointed look, Grissom felt himself under scrutiny.

"Good beer. You won't go wrong with Heineken," Brandenburg told him with a smile.

"Right," Grissom eventually answered, blinking his eyes in confusion. "Anything else you can tell us about these equations?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Thanks, Max," Brass said, as he stood up quickly to leave.

His observations helped to confirm that Peddicord probably wasn't playing with a full deck, but it didn't help them locate him. The address the killer used on his job application at the restaurant was a post office box; he used his out-of-date driver's license to get that.

Nick and Warrick were checking out the properties his parents had owned. No one had spotted either Peddicord's truck or Morabito's van. The papers and TV news were running his picture, advising people to call if he was spotted, but it was as if their killer had vanished.

Peddicord could be anywhere.

Sara's scream of pain died in her throat, the wind knocked out of her as she was slammed forcibly into her apartment door. As she shook her head, she became aware of a strong arm across her shoulders, pinning her in place.

Coming out of her daze, she opened her eyes in time to see his other arm swing the machete handle into her right hand. Sara hoped the cracking sound was only the cell phone's case as it was crushed against the door.

"Let it go! Let it go! Cell phones are dangerous. You'll hurt someone," an anxious voice said urgently behind her, pulling away to land another crushing blow on her hand.

Sara fought to take a deep breath as she lifted her leg back and upwards. When her boot made contact with her attacker's leg, she ran the instep of her foot down his shin. She tried to shift all her weight onto that foot as it slammed into the top of his shoe; if done properly, the self-defense move could break multiple bones in the attacker's foot.

Peddicord let out a grunt of pain, and pulled away slightly. Feeling the pressure lessen on her back, Sara swung her right arm back forcibly, letting out her own yelp of pain as her elbow made contact with his face.

As he stumbled backwards, Sara spun away, trying to keep her balance as she placed distance between them. She took several ragged breaths as she tried to ignore the pain radiating from her head and hand. Blood was running down her face; she must have cut it on the metal door number.

"Las Vegas Police Department! I have a gun!" she exclaimed loudly, her mind racing through her options.

Her attacker looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was short for a man, standing about an inch or two shorter than she was, but he was strongly built. She'd managed to bust his lip, but he was still able to walk.

As far as she knew, none of her neighbors would be home; they all worked regular hours. There was no way to get into her apartment before he could attack again. The deputies in the parking lot wouldn't be able to hear her from here. Her attacker was between her and the stairwell. She was injured; he was armed.

She winced as pain washed over her. This was something no self-defense class could teach you. They never hit you hard enough to cause injury. They also neglected to mention how painful it was to hit someone with your elbow when your hand was broken.

"I know that, Sara," he chuckled, wiping away the blood flowing from his mouth. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, but you had to get rid of the cell phone. They're bad. They make people disappear."

"Stay back," she warned as he took an ungainly step forward. A fresh wave of pain swept over her as she tried to reach for her weapon.

Blinking back the moisture forming in her eyes, she silently cursed Brass. The bulletproof vest he insisted she wear added extra bulk and restricted her movements. On top of that, Kevlar was useless against a blade; the machete would be able cut through it with no trouble.

"Let's go inside," he said kindly. "You'll be more comfortable there. I was beginning to wonder where you'd gotten to. You're lucky I'm patient."

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, stalling for time as she gingerly tried to extract her gun again. Tears formed; there was no way she could pull out her weapon with that hand.

"I need your blood."

"I'm sorta using it myself," she said, cursing herself for letting that slip. She needed to keep him talking. The last thing she should do was aggravate the killer.

Instead of being angry, Peddicord stopped and laughed. He let the machete fall to his side as he wiped more blood from his face. Sara shuddered as he sniffed it, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Now I understand. You're confused. That's common. I didn't understand for the longest time myself," he said with a sweet smile. "You don't need your blood any more, Sara. You're already dead."

"I'm dead?" she called out loudly, hoping a neighbor had decided to take a long weekend.

"Of course. You can see me. I'm a ghost, so you have to be dead, too."

"I don't think we're dead," she replied, wondering how you reasoned with someone who was unreasonable. "If you're a ghost, how come you can't walk through walls?"

Peddicord laughed. "That's only in movies. Don't be afraid. I'm here to help you. It's my job. Your soul is stuck here. I'm going to let it free."

"You don't have to go to the trouble," she offered.

"Oh, I don't mind. It helps me, too. Let's go inside. It won't hurt. I promise," he said, turning sideways to hobble back down the hallway.

There was an insulated carrier used to deliver pizza on the floor. When he leaned over to pull a ziplock bag of blood and a paintbrush out of it, Sara moved forward and picked up her purse from where it had fallen by the door.

"Sure, I just need to get my keys," she said sweetly, holding her purse in her left hand by the strap.

When he started to get up, she stepped forward, pivoting on one leg as she swung around. The purse caught him in the back of the head, tossing him further off-balance. Using her momentum from the pivot, Sara followed through with a kick to his back, sending him into the wall.

She cursed again as she ducked behind him. Jeans were more restrictive than gym clothes; the blow hadn't been forceful enough to incapacitate him. Reaching around her, she awkwardly retrieved her gun with her left hand as she backed to the stairwell.

Peddicord pushed away from the wall unsteadily, shaking his head from side-to-side, sputtering like an angered bull. The bag of blood he'd been holding had burst, covering both him and the plaster. He started to take short breaths through his mouth; his nose had broken when it hit the wall.

He turned to face her, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Dammit, Sara! I'm trying to help you! Don't you get that! Do you have any idea what it's like being stuck here, dead? No one sees you. You can go through an entire crowd, and no one will pay any attention to you."

"Stay back," she warned as she fumbled with the safety, walking slowly backwards.

"I need your damn blood. Now! I can't wait any longer! I want to go. I'm sick of being stuck here!" Peddicord roared.

Sara reached the stairwell. If she made it downstairs, the deputies would see the commotion and be there in a second. But Peddicord was staggering. If he fell as he came down the steps, he could break both of their necks, or the machete could kill either of them.

She had started to make her way up the steps, moving cautiously so she could keep Peddicord in sight and steady the gun with one hand. Peddicord rounded the corner, his face flushed with anger.

"Get down here, bitch!"

"Stay where you are!"

"Damn cunt," he yelled, lifting up the machete and charging up the stairs.

Catherine trudged into the locker room, uncertain whether she had the energy to be angry with Philip Kane. The forensic psychologist had listened patiently as she explained all they knew about Peddicord and his change in behavior. Kane then refused to make a comment until he had a chance to review the various writings.

Normally, she would have been more understanding, but she was tired. The entire lab was still on edge after Sara's poisoning. Peddicord had gone after one of them; he could strike again.

This guy was either a creep of the first order or a nut. Whatever the case, he was dangerous, and they hadn't been able to catch him yet.

She let out a sigh at the thought that maybe he had decided to flee the area after trying to frame Carrasco. They knew who he was now; if he struck in some other area, they'd be able to match his DNA and prints.

Packing her bag wearily, she was vaguely aware of someone entering the locker room and walking towards her.

"I need you."

"In your dreams, Jim," she snorted. Her intention to barrel past him and head home died when she saw his distressed expression.

"It's weird. Don't tell me you don't think it's weird," Nick said as Warrick pulled the SUV off the main road onto a gravel path.

"I don't think about it, man."

"Come on. Grissom and Sara. Together."

"We're here," Warrick sighed as he parked the Denali and hopped out. His friend had a literal one-track mind, speaking of only one thing all night. And morning.

They'd been checking out the properties owned by Peddicord's family. There were five total, spread across the outskirts of the city. The first three were in such bad shape even the city's homeless were avoiding them. This one seemed in slightly better repair.

The two CSIs stood by the SUV as the officers cleared the house. Each took the time to scan their surroundings as they waited.

"Look," Warrick said, pointing to a cable running into the building.

"Someone's tapped into the power supply."

Once the officers nodded to them, they quickly entered the building. It was immediately clear that someone was living in the shack. An unmade cot was pushed into a corner. A folding card table and chairs were set up nearby. A computer and printer were resting on a collection of milk crates. A small fridge hummed, an assortment of prepackaged food sitting on top of it.

"You gotta have an opinion," Nick pressed as he began snapping shots.

"My opinion doesn't mean squat. Get a picture of this," he said, nodding towards a ripped cardboard box under the table. Once that was done, Warrick pulled back the cardboard flaps. Reaching in, he pulled out one of the large plastic bottles. "Warfarin."

"The lot numbers matches what was stolen from Convesco."

Warrick moved to the fridge while Nick photographed the rest of the scene. "Damn," he exclaimed when he opened the door. The appliance was empty, but dark streaks and the smell of decomposing blood remained behind.

"There's a digital camera over here," Nick said from across the room.

Warrick nodded, moving to the card table. Various papers were littered across the top. One in particular caught his attention. It was a fire escape plan for an apartment building, the logo for the facility on the bottom of the page.

"What's the name of Sara's apartment complex?" Warrick asked for verification.

"Why don't you ask Grissom?" he snickered.

"Nick, drop it. Trust me: Sara's not a woman you want to piss off."

Grissom moved through his office quickly, tossing various folders into his briefcase. He was off tonight, and nothing short of an emergency would get him back into the lab. A smile formed as he thought of asking Sara to take the night off as well.

He could think of several ways to make her evening more enjoyable than being stuck doing paperwork, and Grissom wanted to try them all.

He cocked his head in confusion as he lifted a folder. The letter Brandenburg had sent him earlier was resting under it. Grissom had never finished reading it; he didn't need the other man listing his shortcomings for him.

Then why had he given me dating advice? He's right about Sara. It probably is frustrating for her to be stuck inside. Until Peddicord's caught, she's not free to do what she wants.

Giving a half-hearted shrug, he tossed the letter into the briefcase. It didn't matter what Brandenburg thought – he was the one going home to Sara. He couldn't stop smiling at the thought, wondering if this was some protracted dream from which he'd eventually awaken.

Grissom checked his watch; Sara had probably eaten breakfast by now. He could still pick up a movie and beer, though. Some of the food Greg had picked up for her earlier had to be non-sugarcoated. He could fix them a nice dinner afterwards.

His briefcase was packed, and Grissom was headed towards the door when Catherine and Brass entered his office.

"Whatever it is, it can wait," he said, impatient to get to Sara's apartment. When Brass closed the office door, he noticed their grim expressions.

"We have some bad news, Gil," Catherine said softly as she led him to a chair.

Grissom sat in the back of Brass's car, staring vacantly in front of him. Catherine was beside him, keeping a careful watch on her friend as they headed towards Sara's apartment. He'd been funereally quiet since they'd broken the news to him.

What news they had.

The only information they had was that Sara had been attacked. She shot Peddicord, but not before she'd been hurt herself. They didn't know how badly, only that the deputies had called for two ambulances.

As they approached the turn off to her building, one ambulance roared past, it's siren blaring. Grissom looked up at the sound, following its passage as it headed down the road. Catherine patted his knee reassuringly, causing him to snap his head around quickly.

She smiled weakly at him; the pain and fear he was trying to mask showed clearly in his eyes before he closed them and leaned his head back on the seat.

God, be all right, Sara. Please be all right. I can't lose you. Not now. If you d…, no. No! She's fine. She has to be. She was able to take the bastard down. She couldn't have been hurt too badly.

Could she?

Oh, God. This is my fault. I should have told her to stay at the hospital. She didn't have to leave. I was too damned worried about appearances. Did I think the world would end if anyone knew the truth? Now, she's … please be okay. Please, Sara.

I can't lose you.

An ambulance and a collection of police vehicles were in front of Sara's building. Brass parked nearby, joining Catherine as they flanked Grissom as he made his way quickly through the crowds.

Grissom froze when they reached Sara's floor, his breath coming in short gulps. He quickly scanned the carnage, seeing the pools of blood, the reddish smears on the walls and floors, the crushed cell phone.

Normally, his mind could automatically and dispassionately recreate the events suggested by the evidence. Now, flashes of Sara's smile as she fell to sleep in his arms after their lovemaking, their only lovemaking, commingled with the violent images of her assault.

Catherine ran her hand down his arm, nodding towards a crowd at the opposite end of the hallway. He caught an occasional glimpse of Sara as various people shuffled around. He started down the hallway slowly, wanting desperately to see that she was all right, but afraid at the same time it was an illusion.

O'Riley saw them approaching and broke off from the main group to join them. Brass gave him a harsh look.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Looks like Peddicord hid in the stairwell. He snuck down when Sara came in, jumped her outside of her apartment. There was a struggle. Sara shot him when he rushed her with the machete," he said gravely.

"Is she okay?"

The burly detective looked at Grissom in surprise. His voice had been low, barely above a whisper, but it carried his concern. O'Riley saw Grissom was staring at the two distinct blood flows on Sara's door.

"Most of the blood is Peddicord's, or what he brought with him," he said reassuringly. "Remind me never to get on Sara's bad side. She beat the crap out of the guy. Broken nose, busted lip, knocked some teeth loose, possible concussion, may have broken his foot."

"Sara?"

"The paramedics are checking her out. She's banged up a bit, a little shaky, but in pretty good shape considering."

Grissom pulled away and made his way quickly towards the crowd. Despite what the detective told him, he needed to see her for himself. His pace slowed as he caught sight of her, feeling his chest tighten.

One paramedic was working on her hand, but he couldn't tell the extent of injury. A bandage was on her head, but he could still make out the bloodstains on her face and in her hair. A second paramedic was standing in front of her, shining a light in her eyes. Head injury.

He started breathing again when the paramedic gave her a friendly smile and nod before pocketing the flashlight.

As Grissom stepped closer, he could see that she'd changed into a pair of coveralls. A dayshift CSI was putting her clothes into an evidence bag. He paled when he saw the slash through the outer layer of the bulletproof vest.

Catherine could tell Grissom was fighting to keep himself under control. His posture was rigid, but his hands were trembling slightly. He probably wanted – and needed – to hold Sara.

From her vacant expression, Sara could probably use the comfort as well. She was pale and distracted. Her answers to the questions the sheriff were directing at her seemed to come without her being aware of them.

Of course, both of them were very private. Neither was likely to initiate a public display of affection, even if Cavallo, Atwater, and half the lab and deputies weren't there. Catherine, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

She nudged Brass sharply with her elbow and walked quickly to Sara. Catherine pulled her into a gentle hug, asking if she was okay. Brass followed suit, smiling at her softly as he backed away.

The others turned to look at Grissom expectantly. He stood there, locking eyes with Sara who gave him a weak smile. Finally, the sheriff finally waved him over impatiently.

"It's only a hug," Atwater sighed quietly.

Grissom stepped forward and awkwardly slipped his arms around her, pulling Sara into a hesitant embrace. It wasn't the audience that bothered him; he was beyond caring if they knew how he felt.

He was afraid of losing control. It was taking all his self-discipline to keep his rage in check; rage at the monster that did this to her, rage at the deputies who were supposed to have been watching over her.

Rage at himself for not being there when she needed him.

"I'm okay. Really," she whispered softly into his chest, feeling his tension and the slight trembling in his body.

He stepped away so the paramedics could continue working on her. When they started to question her, his irritation grew. A psychotic mass-murderer had attacked her, and they wanted to know if she had warned him before shooting?

"Easy, Gil," Brass said, recognizing his mood. "This is a formality, in case Peddicord or his family try to sue."

Grissom scowled, but kept quiet, moving to stand beside her protectively. Cavallo gave him a curious look before continuing his questioning of Sara. Grissom's silence was broken when she failed to stifle a whimper of pain.

Looking down, his temper rose when he saw her hand. The paramedic was using a pair of forceps to remove pieces of the cell phone's plastic case that were embedded in her palm.

"Enough!" Grissom roared, causing everyone to jump. He placed his body between Sara and his supervisors.

"My CSI was just attacked. She needs medical attention. Now! You can ask questions later." Grissom didn't wait for a response before turning to the paramedics. "What hospital are you taking her to?"

"University."

"Take her there, now. Conrad, let Catherine in Sara's apartment. She can't stay here, and she'll need some things."

"Do you have someplace you can stay until the scene is released?" Atwater asked.

"She's staying with me. I have a guest room," Grissom added when the others gave him a shocked look.

"Sara, you're on paid administrative leave until a Shooting Board can be held," Cavallo said, but not unkindly. "As Captain Brass said, it's a formality. Clearly, this was an act of self-defense. Until then, consider this a paid vacation."

"Gil, why don't you take some time off yourself. You look like hell," Atwater said.

"Fine."

"Come in tomorrow morning, Sara," Atwater added. "We can cover any questions we have then."

Grissom paced around the small cubicle in the emergency room angrily. A number of small accidents and a food poisoning outbreak had flooded the hospital with cases. They had to wait three hours before Sara was taken to X-Ray.

He was waiting for her to return when Brass pulled the privacy curtain back and entered. "Sit down, Gil," he urged.

"That's something cops do."

"Huh?"

"Where the hell were her escorts, Jim? Why weren't they with her? Were they too damned lazy to walk up a flight of stairs?" he hissed.

"Whoa, there," Brass said. He knew his friend was on edge, but he wouldn't allow him to disparage his men. "We were working on the MO that he'd show up with poisoned food. No one expected him to be waiting for her."

"She never should have been alone. An escort should have been with her at all times."

"Really? Even when she was in your place?" Brass asked innocently. "Yeah, I know about that. Everyone knows about that. You're worried. I get it. Don't take it out on my guys, though."

The disagreement died off when Sara returned. It was obvious she was in pain and trying not to show it. He joined her sitting on the cot, running his hand lightly down her back until the doctor came to splint her broken ring and pinky fingers.

Grissom wrapped his arm around her protectively, taking the pain medication and pamphlets from the nurse as they walked towards Brass's car. The ride to Grissom's townhouse was silent, Sara staring absentmindedly out the window.

"Here," Brass said, tossing him a set of keys. "Catherine brought your car over. Sara's stuff is inside. You're entitled to a department rep when you're questioned, Sara. I can do it, or we can get someone else."

"You're fine. Thanks."

"No problem. If you're not up to talking tomorrow, give me a call. We can do it later."

"Tomorrow's fine."

"Yeah," he said, sharing a concerned look with Grissom. She seemed tranquil, but the doctor had only given her a local before setting her fingers. "Call me you guys need anything."

Grissom retrieved Sara's items from his trunk, a hint of a smile forming at Catherine's practicality. She'd not only packed a bag of personal items, but had brought Sara's laundry as well.

Once they were inside his townhouse, he set her items down and pulled her into a quick embrace.

"Are you okay?" he asked, moving his hands to cup her face.

"Yeah."

"Sara?"

"Really. Can I get a shower?"

"Of course," Grissom said, wondering if she was in shock. He grabbed a glass of water and a plastic bag from the kitchen, then took the bottle of painkillers from his pocket.

Grissom walked into the bathroom in time to see her struggling to pull off her boots. Sitting her on the edge of the tub, he removed them and her socks. Getting up, he turned on the water to start warming.

He handed her one of the pills, frowning when she declined.

"No tolerance for them. They knock me out," she offered.

"You don't need to be anywhere," he said, giving her the water and the pill, smiling wanly when she swallowed it.

Helping her to stand up, he lowered the zipper on the coveralls, slipping it off her shoulders. Working her injured hand carefully out of the sleeve, he eased the garment the rest of the way off.

Grissom walked to the medicine cabinet and retrieved a roll of tape, using it to secure the plastic bag over her hand to keep it dry. He quickly stripped his own cloths off, then joined her in the shower.

He turned her so her back was to him, letting the hot water rinse over them. Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, he began washing her hair, gently working away the blood. Grissom frowned as he worked out the mechanics of washing longer hair on another person.

Once that was done, he soaped up the washcloth and began moving it in gentle circles over her shoulders and back, being extra careful around areas that looked painful.

When he turned her around to wash her front, Sara cocked her head as she watched him. Reaching her left hand up, she brushed it over his cheek. For the first time, he was aware he was crying.

"I'm okay," she whispered before wrapping her arm around him, leaning into his chest. Grissom held her, finally letting out his suppressed emotions, rocking them gently as their tears flowed.

TBC