A/N: I think it may be a miracle that this chapter is up so quickly, but hey, I didn't have writer's block this time. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, hope you enjoy this one as much.

Chapter 11: Losing Inhibitions

"You don't have to come over, Catherine," Sara said with a sigh, "There isn't much to do except sit and wait for him to either phone or come home."

As soon as she had calmed down, Sara had let herself into Grissom's townhouse using the spare key she had stolen and called Catherine. Upon hearing what had happened, the older woman had immediately offered to come and sit with her. Sara, of course, declined. She knew from the gossip going around the lab that Lindsey had been getting into trouble lately, and she didn't want to be responsible for taking away any of the girl's valuable time with her mother. She knew all too well what it was like to grow up with a mother who was never around.

"All right," Catherine conceded, a little reluctantly. "Just…" she groaned in frustration, "God, I don't know. You're right, there really is nothing to do but wait."

"Yeah," Sara snorted, "And think up painful ways for him to die when he shows his stupid face again."

"Ahhh," came the laughing reply, "You don't mean that."

"Maybe I won't by the time he gets here, but right now I'm pissed off, Cath."

"Yeah, well…" She let the sentence trail off. What was there to say? "I guess I'll talk to you later, huh? Call if he shows up… or if you need anything."

"Definitely."

They both hung up, and it was only a matter of seconds before Sara began to wish she had accepted Catherine's offer. Without Grissom – even an angry and unpredictable Grissom – to fill the townhouse with some semblance of familiarity, the rooms were cold and impersonal. She felt decidedly small and incredibly insignificant, and she glanced around, a little forlornly, trying to find some warmth. She soon realized it was futile, though, and suddenly felt incredibly tired. The house was filled with things that defined the man who lived there, so why didn't she feel like there was some part of Grissom here? Because bugs aren't personal, she thought with a sigh. Once again she scanned the room, and her gaze settled on the door to his bedroom. You can't go in there, she scolded herself, but still she found herself inexplicably drawn to it. She hadn't really looked around when she had been in there before, and she wondered if, maybe, there would be some private, more personal part of Grissom hidden within its confines. Pushing open the door, she inched into the room.

Whereas the rest of the house was bright and looked almost sterilized, like a hospital, Grissom's room was painted in darker, quieter colours. It was, indeed more personal and Sara found herself comparing everything in it with the man who occupied the space on a regular basis. But in the end she decided the similarities or differences didn't matter, because she felt better. She released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and shuffled closer to the large, king-sized bed. It looked perfectly made, as though no one had slept in it in a long time. But you already knew that, she thought with a wry smile. And then, after a moment's hesitation, she sank down onto the mattress and pulled one of Grissom's pillows to her face, inhaling his scent. She remembered, as a child, how she had always recognized people by their smells before their faces. One of her uncles, who had been a carpenter, had always smelled like fresh wood shavings. Another had smelled of tobacco. She couldn't quite define Grissom's smell, but it was clean, and comforting. And as she lay there, all she could see were his eyes staring at her with this awful, haunted look in them. A tear trickled down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it away. Instead, she buried her face in his pillow and cried, for her, for him, and for the people who had died and whose faces now haunted Grissom, day and night.


Grissom drove for hours, without thinking about where he was going or what he was doing. His mind was blank. And God, it felt so good not to think at all. It was as though he were in a trance, with no unwelcome sounds or sights and no unwanted emotions. But then he ran out of gas, and he was forced to pull into a filling station on the side of the road. As with Sara earlier, it was only the sight of another human being that did it, another person going about his day as if nothing were wrong. It made him feel empty and full of pain and furious all at the same time, and he was nauseated by it. He sat in his car and swallowed hard, gripping the wheel tightly as the man filled the tank. With trembling hands he paid, and a drop of sweat trickled down his face as he gunned the engine again and tore out of the tiny parking lot, praying for the blankness that had enveloped his mind before.

Hewas outside of Vegas, on a lonely strip of road where no one travelled, and he rolled down the window and slammed the gas pedal to the floor even harder. The wind that whipped his face caused his eyes to sting and water, and soon he was numb. Soon he was lost once again in a daze of nothingness, and he automatically eased up on the gas and closed the window as he once again slipped into the city of Las Vegas. He was encased in armour. Isolated… protected… separated… a ghost.

"Sin City," he whispered to himself, in a detached sort of voice, as though he were merely stating a curious fact and not twisting the knife in his gut with all the irony of those two small words.


For most of the day Sara had drifted in and out of sleep, always aware of where she was and her purpose for being there, clutching Grissom's pillow to her and resting her head on another. She had cried herself out, and now merely waited in a worried haze that consisted of the blackness of sleep and the soft glow of the sun through the drawn blinds in Grissom's room. A few times she had tried calling his cell, but had only encountered the annoying message, "the cellular customer you are trying to reach is unavailable." She cursed him softly for turning off his phone, but she didn't have the strength to become really angry.

It was almost time for work when her phone rang, and she was fully awake in an instant as she fumbled with the device.

"Grissom?" she blurted out.

"Sorry," Catherine said, regret in her voice, "it's me. I take it you haven't heard from him yet?"

"No," Sara replied in disappointment, sinking back onto the bed and curling up again. Despite all the sleep she had had she still felt exhausted.

"I'm sorry," Catherine apologized softly, and Sara sighed.

"It's not you're fault," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow, "why are you apologizing?"

"Well, someone should."

Sara couldn't help but laugh at the indignant tone of the older woman's voice, but then she sobered. "I was just… I was wondering if I could take the night off."

Catherine held her silence for a moment before speaking. "I'll say yes now, but that might not hold. If we start to get overwhelmed, I'll have to call you in. With Grissom gone as well…"

"All right," Sara cut in hurriedly, "of course. I understand. It's not as if you'll have trouble getting a hold of me," she added dryly, "I'm sitting right here with my phone clutched in my hand."

"Have you tried calling him?"

"Yeah, but he's turned the damn thing off."

Catherine snorted. "That's Grissom for you."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a while after that, and then Sara sighed. "I better let you go, shift's gonna be starting soon."

"Yeah, all right. I guess you don't want anyone clogging up the phone lines, either. What I said before still goes – call me if you need anything."

"Yes, mother," Sara said with a smile, "I'll talk to you later."

Ending the conversation, she lay back down and closed her eyes. Despite her weariness she couldn't seem to sleep anymore, and before long she heaved an annoyed sigh and sat up.

"God damn it," she muttered to herself, "Where the hell could he be?"


Grissom's second escape into nothingness was brought crashing to an end just short of eight o'clock, and now he was hurtling towards oblivion as he downed hissecondbeer. He wasn't completely gone yet, but he hadn't eaten in a whileso he was getting there, andhe heaved a great sigh that could only be described as one of relief. Finally, it would really be ok. Maybe Sara had the right idea, getting drunk out of her mind, he thought, a bit dazedly. Then he immediately felt guilty. Jesus, what the hell was he thinking? Sara… she would be worried sick. No she won't, was his automatic next thought. Then he groaned, and motioned for another beer. He had had enough to drink so that he couldn't stop the unwelcome thoughts from coming – couldn't control them – but a few more beers and it wouldn't matter. A few more beers and he would forget about all this. But Sara… he really ought to phone and apologize. Wait, he told himself, just have anotherdink first. What was he supposed to be apologizing for, anyways?

"Nothing," he muttered, "I didn't do anything." He took another sip of his drink, and glared at the countertop. Sara… she made things so complicated. She was complicated, period. She could make him feel safe one minute and then terrified the next… He really should apologize. What exactly had he done again? His thoughts kept escaping him, and he pondered that for a while untilhe found he couldn't name just one thing he'd done wrong. He hadn't done nothing wrong, he'd done everything wrong, starting from the day he'd asked her to come to Vegas. He'd known she'd come, just as he'd known he wouldn't have the guts to act on his feelings for her. And now he was hurting her at every turn just because she'd had the guts to act on her feelings. Just because she hadn't been happy with the friendship they had, and wanted more, he'd made her miserable. That line of thought depressed him, and he finished histhird beer and lowered his head wearily to the bar. What he needed was another drink.

He made his way through drinks number four, five andsix in record time, and soon found himself fumbling with his cell phone. While he couldn't remember why he needed to talk to her, he did know that he had to. She must have looked at the display before answering, because she knew it was him instantly.

"Grissom, oh my God, where are you? Are you all right?"

"'M fine," he mumbled, his voice slightly slurred.

There was a shocked silence for a moment. "Grissom, are you drunk?"

"No," he replied, frowning as the room blurred before him. "No, don' think so. Not exactly. Only had three beers. No, four. Maybe five… six? Coulda been six…"

"Could have been six?" Sara cried. "You take off and go get drunk? Grissom, where are you?"

"Nowhere," he said. The last thing he wanted was to have her coming down here to pick him up.

Sara gave a frustrated sigh. "Grissom, look, just talk to me. Please, please talk to me." She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

"I'm sorry," he finally blurted, and Sara frowned.

"What for, Grissom?"

"I dunno," he slurred, then he dropped his eyes to the counter, and it made him angry that he did that even though she wasn't there. "Just… for everything. Everything I've ever done."

"Grissom, you don't have to…"

"Yes, I do," he cut in, and he sounded so agitated and upset she let him run with it. "I screwed up. I always screw up. Even when it means someone else's life on the line, I can't get things right."

"Grissom," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears, but he rambled on as though he hadn't heard.

"I just sat there," he mumbled, "Just sat there and watched while he shot those people. I coulda… shoulda saved them… the little boy couldn't 'ave been over five…" He spoke with a breathless, trembling voice that told Sara he was near tears himself. "I shoulda… done something. Shoulda killed the bastard before he got his chance… I shoulda done something, damn it! Might as well have shot 'em myself, for all the good I did… Jesus Christ… Shoulda killed the bastard before he got his chance…" He trailed off until all Sara could hear was a faint mumbling in the background and the heaving breaths of a person trying hard not to cry.

"Grissom, just tell me where you are, I'll come pick you up. We can talk some more."

"Can't," he choked out, "too late."

"Please, Grissom…"

"I'm sorry, Sara, I didn't mean to screw up… thought I'd get by all right if I pretended I was… better than I am. I'm sorry…"

"Gris…"

"I just… I have to go."

"Grissom, don't hang up!"

"Sorry I'm too chicken to be what you need…" She lost him then as he rambled some more about anything and everything, his words slurred and indecipherable.

"Grissom…"

That was all she said, and suddenly he was apologizing again. She blinked against the wetness that had finally spilled to her cheeks as she remembered how he had once said alcohol allowed people to tell the truth – or at least what they perceived as the truth.

"I'm sorry," he said in a shaky voice, "I have to go… were you sleeping? No, you're at work…" he gave a little groan that sounded as though it could have been a sob. "I'm sorry, I have to go… you prob'ly have to go…"

"No," she cried frantically, "It's fine, it's my night off, we can talk as long as you want."

Grissom shook his head, trying to clear it. She felt sorry for him. She probably pitied him.

"No," he mumbled to himself, wiping at the unshed tears of pain and anger in his eyes. You should hang up. He'd apologized for everything it was possible to apologize for; said his piece, and probably a fair bit more, though he couldn't quite remember now. Yet after all that, he didn't want to hang up. He wanted to sit and hear her voice and nothing else, and maybe tell her again how sorry he was, for everything. Tell her again how he would have made everything right if he could have… tell her he loved her. But he couldn't find the words, so he talked about Nick, and Greg, and Catherine.

"Didn't mean to hurt him," he slurred, trying in his confusion to make her understand. "Just… he was there, 'n I couldn't tell, couldn't tell who he was. Thought he was that… that guy. The robber. I had to stop him. I didn't… I couldn't tell it was Nicky. Oh, God," he moaned, "Nicky. Can't believe I did that to Nicky."

"It's all right, Grissom," she soothed, but she had a feeling her words weren't getting across as she suddenly realized he was babbling about Greg now, and Catherine.

"He'll hate me forever… probably hates me anyway. Didn't mean to yell at him… and Catherine… Cath… didn't mean to freak out at her, either.Don't know why I did, it was like… like I couldn't stop myself. Just… she made me so… so God damn angry… I think. I dunno. I can't think," he slurred. "Can't remember." He swallowed hard against the feeling of despair that was rising in his throat, and he tightened his grip on his cell in one hand and his beer in the other as he hunched over the bar. His mind was blank; he didn't know what to say as the uncomfortable silence stretched on. He didn't have the courage to ask her to just… sit and talk to him. So he apologized again, and hung upeven as she begged him not to.

"I need another one," he mumbled, and the bartender complied wordlessly, something that relieved him immensely. But then, why would he say anything? he thought. He's probably seen so many freaks in here he's used to it by now.


"Shit, shit, shit!" Sara screamed, throwing her cell phone to the bed and running her hand through her hair violently. "God damn you, Grissom!" He was drunk – the stupid son of a bitch was drunk and out of his mind. He was going to get himself killed, and there was nothing Sara could do about it. That thought stopped her cold, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Shit. He wouldn't try to kill himself, would he? Of course not, she reassured herself, he's miserable and drunk, not suicidal. He'll get over it. But it still bothered her. That thought, and how ripped up he had sounded. Sure, he was drunk, and some people got depressed when they drank, but he had talked about the grocery store. He had said that he should have saved those people; said that he might as well have been the one who shot them for all the good he did. His words reverberated through her brain: I should have killed the bastard before he got his chance.

"Oh God, Grissom," she moaned, and buried her face in her hands. What the hell was she going to do?


Grissom had slowed down on the beers after his conversation with Sara, but had still managed to make it to thirteen by the time midnight rolled around, and by one in the morning he was sitting slumped over the bar top, completely wasted and merely staring at his fourteenth through half-closed eyes. He felt nothing, and was completely unaware that he was the only customer left in the place and that the bartender, Mike, was attempting to close up so he could go home. For a long moment the young man stared at Grissom with a critical eye. Then he mumbled something irritably under his breath and shook him.

"Hey, buddy, time to leave."

"Mmmmm."

"Come on, man, give me a break," he moaned. It was only his sixth day working at the place, and he hadn't yet had to deal with any drunks who were so inebriated they couldn't leave under their own steamwhen he needed to shut the place down. He had no idea what to do, so he shook him harder. Still no response. And then he caught sight of Grissom's cell phone, just peeking out from under his hand on the counter. He smiled in relief as he grabbed it, and pressed redial. It had sounded as though he was talking to a woman earlier – maybe a girlfriend, or a wife. They would probably come pick him up. Hopefully, they would come pick him up.