Hi! I am new to this board. Haven't done fan fiction in a few years. Used to do West Wing in the 2nd season. I apologize for any mistakes I am making in pulling this all together. Only started watching CSI two months, but have managed to watch all 5 seasons since then.

I forgot to put a disclaimer up at the beginning. So here it is: I don't own these characters, but am merely borrowing them for my own fiendish purposes.

Sheila

She moved up to the door sideways, gun jutted out in front. It was wide open. Inside, she heard crying. She took a deep breath and swung around through the door. "Police! Everybody down! On the ground!"

She moved in now, swinging her gun left and right. The kitchen appeared straight down the hallway. To the left was the living room. A woman lay half on the couch, half on the carpet, holding her face. A girl perched behind her. The man stood at the staircase. She swung her gun on him, yelling for him to hit the floor. He looked up the stairs for a moment, and then slowly he got down on his knees.

"All the way down! Flat!"

Her gun jerked about in her hands. She wanted to calm herself, be cool she willed herself, but she couldn't find it.

Hey you! You okay?" She was still shouting, spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. The woman nodded, dragging her daughter to her side.

"Okay. Now, I want you to get out of here. Take your girl. Get to a neighbor's. Your little ones are already there." The woman slowly responded. She fixed her eyes at the top of the stairs for a moment.

"It's okay. Go on now." Sara was starting to recognize her voice again. "I'll stay with this guy. Police are almost here.

"My husband ," the woman started. "He's…still here."

"Yeah, I got it lady. Now you go. Okay. Now."

"You don't understand…" The woman's eyes were looking past her now.

Sara turned her head and saw him coming down the stairs at her. He seemed slow as did her arms when she tried to turn her gun at him. He yelled something when he hit her. The gun popped up and out of her hands. The ground hit her hard and he came down on top. There was yelling everywhere. She felt an explosion on the side of her face. She wondered if this was what getting shot felt like. One arm was trapped, and the other was pulling at his hair. Another explosion and the room dimmed considerably. She felt outside herself: no longer panicked, a disinterested observer. The weight was gone for a moment and she turned over. Something hard drove itself into her side. And then again. And again. Her breath left her and she struggled. One more explosion on her chest. Then quiet. She floated for a moment, waiting.

"Ah jeez, you can't do it, Man. She's a cop."

"What else am I supposed to do?" The voice was shaky like her hands were.

"No way, Boyd. I got kids. I agreed to help you get yours, but no way am I gonna sit on death row for you." This voice seemed high, almost like a little girl.

Sara wanted to lift her head and look, but every little movement was electric with pain. She listened to them and wondered if the lab could survive another dead CSI. Would people whisper her name with the same horror that they imparted Holly Gribbs? She wanted to say something, tell them about Holly, explain how killing her would be very complicated for her friends. They should know how much people suffered after Holly was murdered, how much they still hurt.

A siren sounded in the background. The men were shouting now. There was movement everywhere. Sara laid still. She waited for the sound of her own gun.

There was a slam and Sara jerked. Then she was met with silence. No smell of gunpowder. With tremendous effort, she rolled to her side. Her body screamed and she cried out. Her vision cleared slowly and she could see the door. It was closed. She was alone. She noticed sirens. They were loud. She was suddenly conscious of herself lying on the living room carpet. Helpless. A victim. She rolled back onto her belly with a strangled cry. The carpet was scratchy on her face. She crawled one lunge at a time, determined to get to the kitchen , somewhere she didn't feel so terribly exposed. Each pull forward and she cried out, letting the tears have her face.

………………………………....................................................................................................................

Brass was yelling through Grissom's cell phone now. Grissom softly closed it on his old friend. Warrick parked behind Sara's truck. The sirens were loud. Help was coming. They should wait. Brass was loud and clear on this point. But Grissom was out of the truck before Warrick could get it into park. He had never done anything but follow Brass into a scene so he could think of no approach other than going straight for the door.

Warrick was with him trotting alongside, gun drawn. At the door, Warrick motioned. Grissom shook his head. He would go in first. This was his risk. Warrick insinuated himself between the door and Grissom. He didn't move. The point was argued without words. Warrick was the best shot. He was younger, quicker. Grissom finally nodded.

They went through the door, both of them shouting their arrival, swinging guns in all directions. But there was nothing. No sign of life. They breathed heavily into the silence. Warrick's eyes stopped at the carpet. There were stains. Dark, wet stains. Nothing pooled neatly. It was chaotic, and then he spotted the pattern. The trail. Moving away from the living room and down the hallway. He turned to Grissom, but the older man's eyes were already following the trail.

Grissom started and then stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a breath.

"Please Sara..."

He whispered it quietly, looking not at Warrick but at the trail before him. Warrick stepped ahead, covering the room, moving stealthily like a cat. He motioned to Grissom and they stepped carefully down the hallway, instinctively hugging the wall on either side of the blood trail.

Yelling erupted at the open front door. Grissom and Warrick trained their guns on the sunlight streaming in. They were all shouting at each other, each side ordering the other to the ground. Brass' voice emerged. He shouted them all down. The short, fierce man appeared in the doorway, gun pointed at the floor. He glared at Grissom and Warrick, motioning them back with his head. They stayed still.

"This is what I do," Brass growled through gritted teeth. "How many dead CSI's did you budget for today?" He motioned for a squad to hit the stairs. Then he moved past Grissom and Warrick. The blood trail took a sweeping left at the end of the hallway. Brass crept forward slowly. He heard what sounded like a whimper and stopped. He turned back to look at Grissom and Warrick, they nodded their heads, and he moved around the corner.

"Ah, Sara…" Brass stopped only for a moment, shook his head, and then moved through the kitchen and to the back door.

Warrick stared for a moment. She lay curled up on her side, blood pooling under her face. Her face was red and thick. Grissom dropped to the floor beside her. He lightly touched her shoulder, and she cried out.

He turned to Warrick, but didn't need to say anything. Warrick saw the look on his face, and turned on his heels and ran.