NOT A GRISSOM/SARA ROMANCE. I cannot overemphasize this fact.

A/N: I hope six pages makes up for the long wait All of you brilliant people who told me to give it time were right. I have in store some Greg-abuse/angst (in a couple chapters). Also, I do not condone illegal drug use of any kind, I do support abstinence until marriage and, on that note, I strongly urge you to avoid eating Clinique lipstick. Finally, I deeply appreciate your kind reviews, especially those that contain constructive criticism. As a writer, reader, and teacher, they mean so much to me. Thank you—your humble author.

Meet the Sidles

Catherine stood in Doc Robbins's lab, waiting for news on Mr. Hammer's death. Everything seemed in order; a textbook suicide, only without the note. She idly watched David getting ready to make the Y-incision on somebody else's case; that boy took way too much pleasure in autopsying.

"He takes too much pleasure in it, doesn't he?" Robbins asked, causing Cath to wonder if he could read minds. "Just give him another couple of years for the honeymoon to be over. Now, your David Hammer."

He pulled the sheet back and presented her with a very dead, lipstick-ed corpse. "Personally," he told her, "I'd have gone with a darker red."

Someone had drawn a hangman's noose, starting from the bellybutton and working…down…in pink lipstick. It wasn't a particularly artistic representation, but it served to get the point across.

"I don't know why this would surprise me. Do you know anything else?"

"Wanted you to see this before we cut him open and get samples. David already took pictures and scraped under his nails; nothing out of the ordinary, though. Well, except this."

Catherine thanked him and left, but was called back an hour later.

"Don't tell me someone drew on his insides."

He didn't tell her anything, but handed over a Clinique tube of lipstick (in "Berry Berry"). "Where did this come from—and if you tell me it served as a suppository, I'm leaving."

"We found it in his stomach."

"He swallowed a tube of lipstick?"

"Or somebody shoved it down his throat."

She sighed and left, lipstick in hand. "Nothing's ever simple."

It was Catherine's rendition of the facts which sent Grissom to Lady Heather's abode during Sara's physical. He had a disturbing feeling that the death was related to something sexual, but he didn't know how.

Heather stood in her doorway, calm but cool. "May I help you?"

Gil wanted to turn around and leave, suddenly sure he'd made a mistake in coming. Unfortunately, running away wouldn't look very good. "I've come to seek your advice." That sounded much more professional than running away looked. She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. Leading him to her parlor, she left to get some tea, then returned and waited. Grissom would have to initiate the conversation.

"We had a hanging and it's got my CSI's questioning what appears obvious. I thought you might be able to help."

"May I assume it's of a sexual nature?"

"I'm not sure."

He pulled the file from his briefcase while Heather poured their tea. Oddly, if he didn't look at her or speak to her, everything seemed normal.

"When he got to the morgue, they discovered he a noose on the pelvic area drawn in lipstick. He and his girlfriend had a fight this morning. It looks like a suicide, but I'm not comfortable closing the case yet."

She reviewed the photographs while sipping tea. "You didn't need to come to me with this," she stated casually. It surprised Grissom and he didn't enjoy being surprised.

"That's true. You didn't need to hold my job against me. We all make choices."

"Do you wish to contend that your decision to have me interrogated was without fault?"

"I brought you in for questioning for no other reason than that my job required it. The circumstances pointed to you as a suspect. What would you have done, were our positions reversed?"

"Maintained my humility and sense of decorum while questioning you privately. Above that, I would have examined the evidence and realized you had no motive and less opportunity. Means does not a killer make."

Darn it. He really needed to stop associating with women who possessed such articulacy and intelligence. A very long silence reigned while Heather studied and Grissom thought. He said finally, "You're right. And all I can do is ask your forgiveness and look for a way to make amends."

She took that moment to explain the crime scene to him, ignoring the contriteness for a time. "Your Mr. Hammer's death is neither a murder nor a suicide; he died by accident."

"Are you calling this an autoerotic asphyxiation?"

She nodded while laying out the photos which aided her argument. "The give away is the beam he hung himself from; it's got some wear on it—probably from other times he hung himself there. It says here—" she pointed to a spot on Catherine's report—"that he had recently fought with his fiancé. Down here, it states that the couple was waiting to consummate their relationship until after marriage. Likely, they fought often and many of the arguments were begun by him due to sexual frustration. When she left, he turned to his only outlet and in quite a hurry. He didn't bother wearing women's clothing or makeup and took no pornography, as is common. Drawing with the lipstick and then swallowing it seemed to suffice. He blacked out suddenly and never regained consciousness. Tragic, but not uncommon."

Grissom merely sat back in his seat, stunned by her brilliance. How had she deduced all that by looking only at a report? "Your skill is rather unnerving; but quite helpful."

"Then we share something common."

Though she couldn't see it, Gil smiled while he picked up the papers and photos. Was this the beginning of forgiveness? "Have you eaten yet?"

She was slightly surprised by his forwardness, but shook her head. "I'm afraid this business takes up a lot of my time; eating is for those who do not wish to succeed."

"That's quite machiavellian of you."

"I try."

As he started to walk out, she stopped him with a word. "But." He turned around. "Even Bill Gates has to find nourishment now and then. Does Thai sound palpable?"

"Indeed."

They sat in Greg's condo. All in all, the house was very pleasant. Rather Spartan, but nice for a young man living on his own. Two bedrooms, a bath and a half, and unusually tidy. She would have assumed he lived in messy squalor from the state of his hair; after some actual observation, however, she realized he was always trim, his clothes neat, and fastidiously clean shaven.

Sara found herself examining Greg acutely as they spent so much time together. He had a few odd habits; whenever he ate pizza, he would eat the toppings first and then the rest. When you called for his attention, his face would turn with his eyebrows up, almost inviting whatever you wanted to say. And he seemed to have some sort of oral fixation; his nails and cuticles were bit almost to bleeding and he chewed gum constantly (except at work, where he claimed it got in the way). He also bounced his knee while sitting, which could become annoying at a dinner table.

A phone call interrupted their Original Star Trek marathon. Greg took it into the other room, but she could still hear him.

"Hello? Hey, Geffy! How's my favorite girl? Wait a minute. Wait. I know that tone. What happened?" There was a long silence as he listened. "Really? But you're only in middle school right now. You must have that natural Sanders' genius. So, when do you start……what? Why? You what? Why?" Another long pause, then a sigh. "Gef, this is the second time you've been suspended and it isn't even the middle of November! Why are you doing this?…People make me mad, too, but I don't go around starting fights—that was a singular incident!…you broke his nose? Thank God they didn't expel you."

Sara crept into the kitchen and gave Greg a questioning look. "Should I go?" she whispered.

"No, it's okay," he replied quickly. "You can change the DVD if you want. Just a friend," Greg said, back at his conversation with Gefjon. "Yes…no…we're having a Star Trek marathon, and I don't think you called to question my personal life. You want me to tell you it's okay to get into a fight, but I'm not gonna…I do understand that, but that doesn't give you the right to hit anybody; something's wrong, Gef, and I'm worried about you…I wish I could, but I have a lot of work to do here…not then; probably Christmas, though." He closed his eyes wearily, then added, "You know I love you, don't you? Gef. Gef?" With a sigh, he hung up.

"Something wrong?" Sara asked when a drained Greg walked back into the living room. "Your niece, right?"

"Yeah. Geffy's a little troubled. She has a great mom and step-dad, a comfortable life, but she's so angry inside. I don't know what to do. I'm worried she'll eventually become someone in our cases."

"Victim or criminal?"

"Yes."

Captain Kirk had just been beamed onboard to confront an emotional Mr. Spock. Why couldn't all problems be solved in an hour? "Where does she live?"

"New York City, and I don't think there's a single mugger out there who would risk his well-being on her. Nice to have around when you're walking the streets late at night, though." He fell back in the couch and grabbed for the popcorn, smiling a little, if not sadly. "So, what do you want to watch next? The City on the Edge of Forever or Mirror, Mirror?"

She shrugged. "I don't know; you're the expert."

"Yeah, right," he muttered while rolling his eyes and pulling out Mirror, Mirror (only the best episode ever). "Like you don't have these at your own apartment. You're a Trekker; I can see it in your dorky little eyes."

The second prenatal visit was no more enjoyable than the first. She had put on some weight, however, and that seemed to satisfy Dr. Miller, although he remained concerned about her blood pressure. They discussed her diet (fetus gets first-dibs on all nutrients), smoking (don't), bathing (no soaking in a hot tub), sexual intercourse (be hygienic), sleep (no skimping), and medications (take what you're prescribed and limit what you're not). At two months and one week pregnant, it didn't seem too bad. She wasn't showing, Grissom didn't know, Greg proved an invaluable help, and the nausea was under control. So why did she call her mother?

"Hey, I'm calling about Thanksgiving."

"Oh, hi, honey. Yeah. Thanksgiving. So, do you want to come here?"

Could she handle the long drive? Well, it might turn out to be useful. Maybe her mom had some tips on pregnancy. "I guess so. Will Sam and Jake be there?"

"No, your brothers are going on cruises. But, y'know, more tofu turkey for the rest of us. And your dad's gonna have a ceremony to welcome the winter solstice."

Oh, just swell. "All right. I'll be there by noon."

"Hey, Sara, do you wanna bring that guy you've been seeing?"

"Guy? You mean Greg? I haven't been dating him. He's just helping me with the pregnancy."

"Yeah, well, do you wanna bring him? I mean, I think Moe and I should meet him, don't you think?"

"I don't know if he'd want to."

"You should ask."

She ground her teeth. "Okay. I'll ask. Look, I gotta get going; I have some paperwork to do."

"Right. We'll talk to you, y'know…later."

Sara hung up as fast as she could. Now she had to ask Greg to join her for Thanksgiving with her insane, hippie parents. Fortunately, the odds of them both being off on Thanksgiving Day were astronomical, especially considering the hours Greg put in.

Which was why, when he cheerfully agreed to go, her jaw almost hit the floor. And things had been going so well, too.

"So, um, what should I expect?" Greg asked as they pulled into Mr. and Mrs. Sidle's driveway.

"Not a lot; my parents are really…earthy. My dad makes all the furniture. Oh, and we have tofu turkey, so I hope you weren't expecting—"

"Tofu? As in, from a soybean?"

By the time he got over his shock, they were out of the car and at the door, which Sara's mom flung open and then grabbed her daughter in a hug. Sara returned it, but didn't look very pleased.

"Where's dad?"

"He's in the kitchen fixing up a little snack for later on. You know him. So, this must be your friend, Greg. Hi, I'm Annie Sidle, but my spiritual name is Mingen. It's Native American for "gray wolf"."

"Oh…kay. I'm Greg Sanders. I don't have a spiritual name. But when I was four, I wanted everyone to call me Batman."

She smiled and bobbed her makeup free face and long, slightly unkempt head of hair. As she walked them towards the stairs, her loose skirt swished about the floor. "Go ahead and get cleaned up; dinner will be ready in a half hour."

"Wow," Greg whispered as they walked up, "Your mom's a hippie!"

"With deductive skills like that, I can't imagine why Grissom doesn't take you out on more field work."

"Ouch. Try to stay above the belt, Sara."

A half hour later, they ate. Actually, Sara and her parents ate, while Greg pushed the food around his plate. Tofu turkey? Who ate tofu turkey? What was wrong with actual turkey? They didn't mind. They lived to be part of some human's Thanksgiving feast. They probably waited in the yard, crossing their…feet? in hopes of getting picked for the honor. These people were depriving some poor turkey of his dreams!

"I'm gonna go lay down," Sara said, excusing herself from the finished meal. "If I'm not up in an hour, come wake me."

Greg helped Sara's dad, Moe, with the dishes, then retired to the living room. He was pretty tired, too, come to think of it. The drive from Las Vegas to San Francisco seemed to take forever, with his only reward being a meal he couldn't stomach. The Sidles didn't own a TV, so he paged through a random magazine. The trip was looking pretty dismal until Moe brought out a pan of brownies.

"Hey, man. Like, I saw you didn't eat your dinner. Thought this might cheer you up, if you know what I mean."

He grinned. Brownies! Edible, non-tofu brownies! He almost had one to his mouth when he stopped. These people were obviously hippies, so he needed to be on his guard. "This isn't, by any chance, made with soy, is it?"

"No, man, that's Annie's thing. I'd give anything for a real turkey, y'know, man?"

"Wow, thanks!"

Greg devoured two and was reaching for a third when Mr. Sidle (who had also been eating at a fast rate) moved the plate away. "Like, don't be so greedy, man. I used the strong stuff in these, so two should be enough. You don't wanna, y'know, get sick."

"C'mon, I barely ate anything at dinner; I'm starving!"

"Yeah, like, all the more reason, man. This stuff on an empty stomach could really wreak havoc on your mind."

The biochemist frowned. What on earth was this hippie talking about? The guy looked to have done so many drugs in his life, he probably still thought Nixon was president. "Why would brownies hurt my mind?"

"It's not the brownies, man. It's, like, the hash I put in 'em. Geez, don't you know anything?"

Greg turned a shade of white unknown to most people. Hashish? He was up the stairs and into Sara's room before Moe even knew his drug-companion had left.

"Sara! Sara, you gotta wake up!"

She shot up a little wildly, obviously used to most sleep interruptions being a call to a case. "What's the matter? Greg? What do you want?" She stopped, seeing him. "Are you okay?"

"I ate brownies," he whispered. "But they didn't have soy."

"Hold on; you ate brownies? Were they my dad's brownies?" He only nodded. "Have you ever done drugs before?" He shook his head. "Then let's get you somewhere you feel comfortable. It's gonna be a long night."

"Sara." Greg repeated the name, emphasizing the "s" and giggling wildly. "Did you know that your name has an "s" and an "r" and both of them are next to each other in the alphabet? That's kinda weird."

She sat and nodded. At first she had been angry with her father for offering brownies in the first place. Then she had been angry with Greg for accepting them from a man who obviously did drugs as a passionate hobby. Then at herself, because she hadn't told Greg not to eat any food her dad offered. After a couple hours, the anger proved futile and she almost enjoyed watching the effects of Greg's high.

"Wow, I can see every single hair on your head. Did you know that hair doesn't biodegrade like most things? Even mummies have hair left. But I couldn't run DNA tests on their—oh my gosh!"

"What?"

"I'm floating!"

Sara had to stifle a laugh. "You're not floating. You're safe on the ground."

"No, I'm floating," he stated adamantly, then smiled. "But it's okay, because it's more peaceful up here. It isn't scary like life is."

"You think life is scary?"

"Would I be taking Paxil every day if I didn't?"

New thing I learned today: Greg takes a psychotropic drug. "Well, as long as you're happy up there."

"I am." He hummed a nameless song for a minute, then turned to her. "I really like you, Sara. I mean, in a romantic way. But not, too. I think you should tell Grissom that you're carrying his child, but I don't want all this to stop. I'm so happy you finally stopped ignoring me and let me be your friend. I didn't like that you ignored me, you know? I'm not a bad person."

Hello, shame. "Of course you're not."

"And Grissom's not, either. Except he's kinda self-absorbed." There was a pause while Greg stared off into space. "You won't stop being friends with me, will you? I promise to keep helping you."

Maudlin was setting in, and doing an excellent job of shaming her. "I won't stop."

"Good. And you'll tell Grissom about the baby?"

"I'll tell him." Eventually. When he or she is having his grandchildren.

"Good. Good, good, good. Good. Good's a good word, you know? It can mean good like an object or good like excellent." He stared at her dimly for a moment. "I'm sleepy now. But in a good way."

She helped him to the guest room and into bed. "Well, that's…good."

In case you were wondering what Gefjon said: "Pretty well, I guess…" "Well, I entered that science project I was telling you about into our science fair and won first place. They even asked me to join the high school science club." "Uh, I don't. I got suspended." "I got into a fight." "Some jerk got in my face at lunch! I was standing in line to get a piece of pie from the al a Carte tray when he cut in. I told him to move back but he wouldn't!" "People just make me angry, okay?" "What about that time—" "Hey, at least I won. I broke his nose." "Who are you talking to?" "Is she a girl?" "Are you dating her?" "Then why is she at your house?" "Why can't you just understand? I get angry and I don't know what to do!" "Can't you come visit? I know I'd be better if you came home." "What about for Thanksgiving?" "Fine. I'm going to my room. Mom grounded me anyway." "Whatever. I'll see you probably around Christmas."

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