Completely random and drunken author's note: Hello, y'all! Yes, if the title of this little rant didn't clue you in, I'm completely toasted right now. Half of this chapter was written before now, and half was written in the midst of my drunkenness, so if you see an obvious line where things start to go south, well, then, there you go. My sincerest apologies, and I promise I'll make it up to you in the next chapter. Blame it on my sister and her fiancé and the ENORMOUS bottle of wine they were feeding me earlier.

Ooh, and while we're at it…my Christmas haul: 3 Victoria's Secret sweaters, CSI Season 3 on DVD (Thanks Mom and Dad!!!!!), a kickin' new cell phone (that was from my husband! He rocks!), a crapload of scrapbooking supplies, Outback Steakhouse gift cards (from the little sis and fiancé), Bath and Body Works loot, Shrek 2 on DVD, some ornaments (I collect), some candles, a Moosejaw t-shirt and Nalgene water bottle, some Pier One stuff for my house, $500 from the in-laws, and a bunch of other stuff. Between the loot and the wine, I'm feeling all right, people! Dear God in heaven, I'm probably going to die when I read this later (sober). But at any rate, hope everyone had a rockin' Christmas!

Dedication: S.C.C. P3, who wrote the longest and most kickass review ever. I mean, seriously, someone who spends THAT long reading my story, and then reviewing it, to boot, deserves a dedication. Although no one can ever top ScullyasTrinity, my dear Bostonian friend, S.C.C. P3 has gotta come close. :)

Warrick stared at Catherine, wide-mouthed. "Close your mouth, Warrick. You're attracting flies," she smirked.

His reply was cut off by Grissom, who chose that exactly moment to sweep Catherine into his arms and spin her around the room in an impromptu, but clumsy dance. "Catherine Willows, you are a genius! By this time next week you'll be my boss," he proclaimed in a sing-song voice born of severe drunkenness.

Sara giggled and then decided to get down to business. "Okay, everybody!" she snapped cheerfully. "I want at least 20 ounces of water and two aspirin in everyone before they go to bed. No hangovers tomorrow, people. Gil, you grab the water from the fridge, and I'll start trying to rustle up some clothes for everyone to sleep in. I'm sure Griss has enough sweatpants for all the guys. Catherine, I've got something you can wear."

Grissom did as he was ordered, bringing bottles of water to his inebriated friends. As they downed the cool liquid, Sara came back into the living room with an armful of clothes. "Jim," she said, and tossed him LVPD sweats, along with a t-shirt. "Heads up, Nick," she said, throwing him a pair of UCLA running shorts, along with a gray t-shirt. Greg received UCLA sweats and said he'd sleep in the t-shirt he had on, thankyouverymuch, and Warrick got a pair of blue and white flannel pajama pants.

He raised his eyebrow at the pants and looked up at Sara. "What are you trying to do, turn me into a white guy?" Catherine found this exceedingly funny, and as she howled, Sara took the opportunity to drill her in the face with a tank top and a pair of cotton pajama pants.

"Oops, sorry, Cath," Sara said playfully.

Ten minutes later, the bottles of water had been dutifully drunk and the nightshift had all changed into their borrowed clothes. Grissom set all the alarms for 9 am and told everyone to sleep well and knock on the door if they needed anything.

As Grissom crawled under the covers and into the arms of the already-waiting Sara, he saw that she had tears in her eyes. "Baby, what's up?" he asked in alarm.

She sniffled as a sad, sweet smile spread over her face. "You. You were just so…so sweet tonight. You didn't have to do what you did with Ecklie, and I know it killed you to debase yourself to him like that, but you did it for me, and that…that just means more to me than you can ever know."

Grissom gave a small chuckle as he kissed away the tears on her cheek. "Anything for you, Sar," he said sincerely. "Now, dry your eyes and go to sleep, Sweetheart," he ordered gently.

----------

At 9 am sharp, the TV in the living room came blaring on, ripping Brass, Nick, and Greg from their deep, alcohol-induced haze. Brass hopped right up, but Nick and Greg only moaned. Despite Sara's best efforts, they were both hung over—Greg because he was still young enough that he always overdid it, and Nick because Texans never do anything halfway.

"Nick," Greg moaned from the pillow where his head was currently buried. "Did you get the number of that bus?"

"What bus, Bro?" Nick asked in pain.

"The one that hit me."

"Naw, dude, but I saw the driver. His name is Sam Adams."

Greg attempted to laugh, but made a strangled sound instead. He immediately jumped up and ran full speed toward the bathroom. He had barely slammed the door behind him when Brass and Nick heard the melodious sounds of Greg vomiting. "Oh, that's disgusting," Nick groaned, his own nausea barely under control.

Two minutes later, Greg emerged from the bathroom smiling. "All better," he said cheerfully. "Nicky boy, that is the fastest way to cure a hangover. I feel like a million bucks now," he grinned. Leaning down close to Nick, he started making disgusting gagging noises. Nick finally rose up and bolted toward the bathroom, shooting Greg a Death Look as he did so.

When Nick emerged a minute or so later, Nick was sitting next to Brass on the couch, smirking. Nick looked at Greg and said, "Greggo, I don't know whether to thank you or kill you."

Greg spread his hands wide and said, "A comment like that, my friend, only means that I have done my job for the morning. You feel better, doncha?" he asked with a self-satisfied smirk.

Nick answered him with a pillow to the face.

Just then, Grissom, Sara, Catherine, and Warrick all poked their heads into the living room. "What the hell was all that?" Catherine asked as she attempted to smooth her strawberry blonde hair down.

Brass rolled his eyes from his perch on the couch. "The cowboy and the fraternity brother here had a little too much to drink last night, and their stomachs were rebelling on them." Patting his own ample tummy, he deadpanned, "They just haven't learned to drink with the big boys yet, eh, Gil?"

Nick pointed a finger in Brass' direction. "Hey, them's fightin' words, Captain."

----------

Four hours later, the gang, sans Jim, emerged from the offices of the Las Vegas Sun, flanked by Catherine's promised lawyer. Catherine's old friend, Rebecca Bishop, had been more than happy to oblige her request for an exposé on the situation at the LVPD Crime Lab. After getting the go-ahead from her editor, who was intrigued by the headline-creating potential of the story, she sat the entire team down for a lengthy interview, along with some group shots. The six of them presented a nice picture, all dressed up in the clothes they normally reserved for court appearances. As they left, Rebecca told them that the story would run in tomorrow's paper, as close to the front page as she could get it.

Now standing on the steps of the newspaper's offices, Jeff Miller, the attorney, handed Grissom and Sara each a thick envelope. "A copy of the lawsuit being presented to the sheriff today," he said with a wink. As the gang crowded around, Grissom and Sara each pulled a thick bundle of papers from the envelope in their hands. Skimming through it quickly, their jaws dropped upon the discovery that they were suing for $2 million each in damages for wrongful termination, including lost wages, emotional distress, and character defamation.

As Sara looked up at the wildly grinning lawyer, the only thing she could think of to say was, "Wow. That was…uh, fast."

Jeff laughed. "Catherine called me last night. I stayed up most of the night drafting the papers. Catherine's an old friend and I owe her a pretty large favor," he said, shrugging.

"Who doesn't owe Catherine a favor?" Grissom muttered under his breath, earning a sharp jab from Catherine. "Ow!"

"At any rate," Jeff continued. "Catherine informs me that what you really want is your old positions back. The dollar figure is just a scare tactic. The goal is actually to worry the county enough that they will be willing to concede to any demand you make, in addition to giving you back your jobs—just to make this lawsuit go away." He gave a sly grin.

Sara caught on quickly. "You mean…they freak out so much over the lawsuit that they give us our old jobs back…and fire Ecklie, too?" She grinned devilishly.

"Smart cookie," Jeff said succinctly. "With any luck, you'll be back at work in two, maybe three days."

----------

"ECKLIE!!!" Sheriff Atwater's voice roared through the phone.

"What?" Ecklie said, genuinely confused at his tone.

"Grissom and Sidle are suing us for wrongful termination—to the tune of two million dollars each!" he yelled.

Ecklie paled and sank back in his chair. He worked his jaw, but no sound emerged.

"Ecklie? Are you there?"

"Yes," he finally managed—a small squeak of a sound.

"I've looked over the papers, Conrad, and if what they allege is true, then we are neck-deep in shit, all because of some childish vendetta you have! What do you have to say about that?"

"They…they took unauthorized leave…Sidle said she was sick…Grissom...he said his mother…" his voice trailed off piteously.

"Not good enough, Ecklie," the sheriff said menacingly. "If we were talking about a couple of rookies, okay, maybe. But we're not. We're talking about two level-three CSIs who have, between them, the two highest solve rates in our department!" he shouted. "Regardless of your personal feelings, they are extremely valuable employees of this lab, and you ought to be professional enough to know it!" With that, he slammed the phone down in Ecklie's ear.

Ecklie sat at his desk and placed his head in his hands. 'This is not good,' he thought in despair.