Dead Reckoning
Summary:
The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.
A/N:
First, a big thanks to the overwhelming response to Pax Vobiscum. It inspired me to try writing something else. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode.

Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.


Chapter 1

Dead: Lacking animation or interest.

Sara settled into the soft leather of the sofa, shifting her weight to find a comfortable position. She knew the seating arrangement wasn't the cause of her unease, but the physical activity distracted her from the reason for her visit. And from whom she had come to see. Noticing the blue eyes observing her sharply, she stopped her fidgeting and took the proffered cup of tea. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes.

"How are you doing, Sara?"

She let out a humorless chortle and shook her head self-deprecatingly. "I came to see you. To talk. That should tell you something."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

Sara snorted derisively, but it only earned her a pointed look. She let out a sigh and settled back in the cushions. Her response had been cutting, but years of practice let her companion hide any pain. After a long sip of tea, she set the cup down and stared out a window. It was a poor delaying tactic, and she knew it, but it gave her time to collect her thoughts. With an obvious effort, she turned back around and offered a half-shrug in apology.

"Sorry. It's not your fault. This is … awkward. I never thought I'd come here to talk about this," she said quietly. "God, never something like this."

"But you came on your own. I would say that's promising."

"No offense, but you have no idea what the hell you are talking about. This isn't 'promising'. This is me trying not to become a mental wreck. Or more of one."

"I doubt if it's that bad. You recognized this was a difficult time. You knew you needed to talk to someone about it. You aren't ignoring the situation. That's a good sign in my book."

"Yeah. If you say so. It's a different perspective from this end. Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but I never wanted to see you again."

The therapist smiled sympathetically as she took a seat opposite of Sara. "I can understand that," the older woman said gently. "And I understand this is difficult. But you know the dangers of repressing. It's best to deal with this. We don't have to cover everything at once. Tell me what stands out the most."

Sara nodded and curled her knees close to her body. She rested her arms on top of her legs, resting her chin in her hands. "Blood. It was everywhere. The smell hung in the air. Metallic. Blood smells metallic. I can never get used to that smell, and I deal with it all the time," she rattled on, pausing to give her head a small shake. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

The therapist smiled reassuringly. Reaching to the end table, she discreetly moved a box of tissues in front of Sara. "You have no need to apologize. Smell is a powerful memory trigger. Take your time."

"Thanks," Sara said softly, her voice quivering with pent-up emotions. Closing her eyes, she felt the tears running down her cheeks, and she gulped a deep breath. "I was standing alone, off to the side of him. He was lying there, dead, and it was all my fault."


Earlier …

"What are you trying to prove?"

Sara set a ruled marker on the ground next to a shoeprint, ignoring her colleague. The question was rhetorical and not even directed at her. She was rapidly learning to filter out Sofia's constant chatter at crime scenes, but that last comment piqued her curiosity. After snapping a bracketed set of photos, she turned to the blonde.

"Getting frustrated already?" Sara asked.

Sofia broke off her rambling to stare at her companion. After a beat, she burst into a wide smile. "That's right. You don't know. There were five other incidents like this while you were out. And just how did you manage three days off in a row?"

"I traded days with Greg. He wanted to go to a concert."

"Uh, huh. This scenario is the same as the others. Shots fired into a rundown building. It's always during the night or early morning. Nothing stolen, no one injured," Sofia continued, rapidly scanning the area. "All the shootings are in an isolated area, but near a pay phone, where a male called nine-one-one to report a break-in."

"And there's a pay phone," Sara noted.

The two headed to a nearby liquor store where a bank of battered phones hung from the side wall. They ran their flashlights over them quickly. Those farthest from the streetlight had been vandalized, exposed wires immediately ruling them out as being used by their caller. Once Sara snapped the photos, Sofia started printing the closest one with a resigned air.

"There won't be any fingerprints. The caller always wiped it down when he was done. The shoeprints belong to a pair of Nikes, size eleven-and-a-half. We'll find shell casings from a nine-millimeter Glock. They'll probably be just inside the building."

"Anything on the casings?"

"Bobby couldn't find any matches in our database. No prints on them, either. Nothing special about the ammo."

"What about the buildings' owners?"

"Different people own each one. They have different insurance companies. Even the building types are different. This is a tenement. The first two were warehouses. One was an old theater. There are no obvious connections between them."

Sara squatted down, shaking her head. The ground was littered with debris – cigarette butts, beer caps, lottery tickets, candy wrappers. If the caller – and probable shooter – left anything behind, it wasn't obvious. Letting out a sigh, she began the arduous task of sifting through it, looking for anything that might be recent.

"Diversion?" Sara posited.

"Grissom thought about that. No major crimes went down at the same time."

"Weird."

"These are pointless crimes. They don't accomplish anything. Why is he doing this?"

With mutual shrugs, the pair resumed their work. Sara methodically bagged and labeled potential evidence, proceeding with a detached disinterest. From her point-of-view, virtually all crimes were pointless. There was no justification for them. She understood that drugs and alcohol were involved in a lot of cases, but she also knew some people just liked to cause trouble. As far as she could tell, this case was no different, and she saw no reason to expend any extra effort trying to discern the motives involved.

Putting away the last of her evidence, Sara straightened slowly, turning to observe the people milling behind the tape. She rapidly snapped a series of crowd shots, but the few people that came out to watch scurried back into the darkness after the initial flash. A sigh escaped her lips as she tried another shot, dreaming of a hot shower. The area was filthy, with mounds of garbage piled around all the surrounding buildings. An odor of urine filled the dank air.

"What am I doing here? Even the lowlifes stayed away. Hell of a life I have," she muttered to herself.

As she made her way back toward the building, Sara paused suddenly. The wind whipped her hair wildly as she took a deep breath. An odd emotion had been playing on the edge of her consciousness for some time, teasing her with its vagueness. It was so elusive she never knew when it first appeared. But over the months, it had grown in intensity. Now, stuck in a rundown neighborhood on a cold night, a realization hit her.

She was bored.

Sara cocked her head in thought. Maybe unsatisfied was a better word. She put her hours in every day, all the while trying not to dwell on the particular horrors seen. Then she went home, alone, where she tried to forget what she'd been unable to ignore. An empty bed waited for her and her nightmares. Occasionally, there'd be an experiment that sparked her imagination – or a case that fired her temper – but for the most part, the job was no longer enough. Work had ceased to be a source of wonder or fulfillment. And for a person who had built her entire life around her career, that was a disturbing development.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied automatically, blinking and nodding at Sofia. A shiver ran down her spine, but Sara doubted it was due to the night's chill. Her answer wasn't the truth, and it was time she addressed that problem.

Lost in her own thoughts, she didn't notice the figure standing in the shadows behind the yellow crime scene tape. Angry brown eyes tracked her every motion until she disappeared into the building.


Once back at the lab, Sara deposited the scant evidence they'd collected at the scene. Grabbing her lunch, she read over the case reports from the previous shootings while she ate. Her mind wandered on occasion, forcing her to reread sections. The distraction irritated her. It didn't matter if she was unhappy; she was a professional. There would be time after work to consider her life.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

The string of gratitude directed her way shattered Sara's musings, and a grin formed automatically. One thing was unquestionable – she had some good friends. "Enjoy your concert?"

"Totally rocked! It was the best! So are you," Greg gushed.

"Don't you forget it."

"Like I could! You won't let me," he teased back. Greg waited until she looked up to playfully waggle his eyebrows, and he mock-sneaked a thermos from under his lab coat. "Kona Gold. Primo stuff. Want some?"

"Hell, yeah. Beats that crap they brew here."

After pouring their coffee, Greg hid the thermos and retrieved his own lunch. He angled his head as he walked to the other side of the table, scanning the reports in Sara's hands. "Someone assault another old building?"

"Yeah."

"Definitely a weird case."

"Tell me about it," Sara said. "Nothing was stolen, no one was hurt, and the property damage was minimal. Analysis of the call center tapes showed the same man called in all of the shootings. Same gun was used at all locations."

"So what type of person just fires shots into a building and then phones it in? It sounds like the guy wants to get caught. Maybe he wants publicity. Is it a personal form of graffiti? Marking his territory? Architectural critic? Deranged termite?"

"Take up profiling disgruntled bugs with Grissom," she answered with a grin.

"Grissom. Yeah," Greg said, clearing his throat softly. He ducked his head down low over the table, motioning with his hands for Sara to do the same. After she put the files down, he cleared his throat again. "Have you talked to Hodges lately?"

Sara raised an eyebrow questioningly. "No. Why?"

"He's been telling a story to everyone since yesterday. Well, not really a story. More like a rumor. Or a fairy tale. I don't know how reliable it is. He heard it from one of the techs on swing shift. They're a bunch of dweebs."

"Greg, there's something to be said for getting to the point."

"According to Hodges, Grissom and Sofia went out to dinner. Like dinner dinner."

Sara stared silently for a minute. Thoughts came sluggishly, but they were still difficult to comprehend. It wasn't until she saw Greg's concern that she forced a shrug. "Really?" she asked calmly, bringing up the coffee cup to cover her expression.

"Yeah. I … well, Hodges is making it out to be this hot and heavy thing. And Grissom? Hot and heavy? No way. Not with Sofia, that is," he amended too quickly. Greg sighed when he noted a flash of something in Sara's eyes. "I, uh, it's Hodges saying all this stuff. You know him. There is something wrong with that guy. It's all innocent."

Sara didn't answer immediately, but when she did it was without any rancor. She smiled honestly. "It probably was. Grissom has dinner with Brass and Catherine pretty often. He had dinner with Doc and his wife last week. I don't think even Hodges could make something out of that."

"Oh, I don't know," Greg quipped. "Doc is pretty with it for an old guy. Don't rule him out as a player. Trust me. The man knows all the good strip clubs."

Sara choked on her coffee. Greg handed her a napkin, which she quickly grabbed and brought to her lips. She stared at her colleague with an open look of disbelief. The idea of the avuncular coroner slipping bills into G-strings was unsettling. Greg confirmed what he had said with a firm headshake.

"Okay, first off, Greg, 'good' and 'strip clubs' don't belong in the same sentence. Forget what Cath says. And Doc? He's … he's … he's like Santa Claus with a crutch. What the hell would he be doing in a strip club? And don't supply details," she added as a warning.

"Hey, don't you go knocking the Santa man. He's the ultimate party dude! Why do you think he's so jolly all the time? Don't forget about that magic corn he feeds his reindeer. And he's got that big bag of toys! There are toys for adults. You know, this is sounding a lot like a movie I saw once."

"You scare me sometimes, Greg."

"Impress, Sara. Impress. Try to keep it straight. I impress you," he chided.

"Only in your dreams. And no details of those, either! You're a Santa pervert."

Sara stood up and cleared the remnants of her meal. On the way back, she gave Greg a light-hearted slap to the back of his head. His mock-glare garnered a look of feigned innocence until they both started chuckling. Gathering up the pages from the case file, she gave them a last going over before putting them away. She didn't bother examining the crowd shots from the previous incidents. The crime was odd, but it was hardly a priority.

She spent the rest of the morning working her other cases. Once the shift ended, Sara put away the evidence she'd been examining. It was unusual for her to leave immediately, but she wanted to go home. It had been difficult to keep her mind focused on her work, and her couch was a more comfortable spot for her ruminations.

After gathering her belongings from the locker room, she headed out. Laughter greeted her, almost mocking her mood. Sara's steps slowed as she passed Grissom's office, but she didn't need to look inside to know it was Sofia that had triggered his vocal response. Squaring her shoulders, she picked up her pace, unaware that Grissom followed her progress with his eyes.

Once outside, Sara slipped her sunglasses on automatically and crossed the parking lot quickly. Her once sluggish thoughts were now assaulting her with their rapidly changing directions. She didn't even pause when someone bumped into her in the parking lot, but just offered an apology over her shoulder.

"Yo, bitch!"

She froze in mid-step, her posture tightening at the insult. Numerous colorful rebukes ran through her mind. A tired sigh came out instead. She wasn't in the mood for a confrontation. Besides, he wasn't more than a kid.

"Yeah, whatever. Excuse you, too. Watch where you're going next time," Sara called out sarcastically, climbing into her vehicle. She pulled away, unaware of the furious look that followed her. Or that he was scribbling down something on a scrap of paper.


After a hot shower and a cold beer, Sara settled at her desk. She finished the last page of her journal, having reread the entire thing looking for any clues it might provide. Signs of her growing dissatisfaction were scattered through the pages, but it provided no hint of its origins. Her old e-mail was the next evidence she examined. The frequency had dropped over the years, but she'd kept in touch with her old friends in San Francisco. Again, it was hard to pinpoint when her enthusiasm started to wane.

Why do you think this is a problem now?

The counselor had asked the question partway through her mandatory sessions. Sara never reached an answer that she found satisfactory. Numerous factors were involved. The stress of the job and the promotion troubles, dealing with cases that constantly reminded her of her past, not having an outlet to help her unwind. Combine those with the fact that the situation had been brewing for a long time and it was a disaster waiting to happen.

"What about Grissom?" she pondered out loud.

Sara never considered he was to blame for her problems, and she never would. But she had to admit her feelings for him contributed to the situation. Her independent streak was a key component of her makeup. She grew up having to look out for herself, and for the better part of her life, she believed that she didn't need anyone else. There was an occasional lover, but she felt fine without someone in her life.

But then she realized she'd never been in love before.

Her initial reaction to Grissom had been attraction. It existed on multiple levels. Physically, he was a pleasure to observe. Professionally, he was a star in the field. Intellectually, he challenged her like no one else could. Personally, they hit it off immediately, both recognizing a kindred geek.

When the call came that he needed her help, Sara never gave it a second thought. She quickly told her boss she was taking some of her accrued leave, and was on the first flight to Las Vegas. Grissom's invitation to join the team permanently was barely out of his mouth before she accepted. In hindsight, it was probably a mistake, but how was she to know she'd fall in love with him?

The emotion was odd. It enthralled her in ways that she never imagined possible, and at the same time it scared her. She'd never felt this way before. She'd never wanted someone to need her as much as she needed him. Given her background, Sara had been hesitant to act, taking three years to make a move.

Grissom's rejection had been hard to accept. More than anything, she felt embarrassed that she'd fallen for someone who didn't care. But she was used to being alone. It was nothing, or so she told herself. Then Sara learned that Grissom did love her, but that he felt she wasn't worth the risk. That had shattered her self-confidence. It had been one thing to not be wanted, but to rank lower than a job was too hard to take.

"Yeah, that probably didn't help things," she said, going to the kitchen to grab another beer. She grinned wryly at the symbolism of the act, raising the bottle in a mock-toast. "To you, Grissom. This isn't your fault. I made my own messes."

Her thoughts went back to Greg's conversation. Grissom's dinner with Sofia was probably professional, or at most just friendly. Sara detected no spark of a romantic interest between them, but she recognized her own jealousy. It had nothing to do with any future the blonde presented, but Sara's own lost present. It was because Sofia was able to interact with Grissom in a way she would never be able to.

She would never have dinner with Grissom, either on a professional or a friendly level. It had nothing to do with worries about the age difference, or that he was her supervisor, or any of his other concerns. There was too much tension between them to ever share a simple meal. They could work together, but the easy-going friendship they once had was gone, and it would never be back. Too much had happened – or hadn't happened.

"You can never go back again. Damn, it wouldn't have been so bad if we had at least gone forward. Even a little bit. Better to have tried and failed, than this. All I wanted was a chance to love you."

And personally? Was there any chance of a future for them? Sara let out sigh. That ship had sunk even before it had a chance to leave the dry dock. It had taken a lab explosion to get a 'honey' out of him. Endangering her life and revealing her painful past had each earned a handhold. Little progress had followed any of those events. What would it take to get him to actually open up?

"That's one thing I don't want to find out," Sara declared. She snapped her head up quickly, and a sad chuckle followed. "Great. Now I'm talking to myself. I am so losing it."

Setting her beer down, she went back to her laptop. There was no future for her in Vegas, and things would never truly be comfortable there. It was time to move on. Quick inquiries went out to her friends in San Francisco before she began surfing the Internet. With a course of action decided upon, Sara began to sing along softly with the song on the radio.


That evening, Sara went to Grissom's office nervously. She wasn't in a mood to discuss her situation, and she offered silent thanks that he wasn't there. After setting the paper on his desk, she went to wait in the break room. He was already there, sipping a cup of coffee as he read over the shift's assignments. They were working an attempted break-in together, but she made no comment about the envelope on his desk.

At the scene, they walked through the crowd outside the house. Detective Vartan waved them over, holding up the crime scene tape as she approached. "Lovely crowd," he said dryly when an obscene gesture was directed their way.

She started to respond, but stopped short. Turning around, Sara fixed the troublemaker with a questioning look. He was a young, black man, around twenty, with a scar running across his face. There was something familiar about him, but it wasn't until he spoke that she recognized him. It was the same man that bumped into her that morning in the parking lot.

"You gotta problem, bitch?"

"Watch your mouth," Grissom snapped defensively, moving back to stand by Sara's side.

"It's a free country. That's what they say. If I wants to call the ho a bitch, I will. Ain't that right, bitch?"

Vartan marched up to him, pressing his finger into the younger man's chest. "Well, I say this is my crime scene. I'm in charge here. And I'm saying you're disrupting it. I can have your scrawny ass hauled to jail if I want. Ain't that right, punk?"

"Chills, dude. Don't go give yourself a heart attack. Dumb cops always making a big deal outta nothin'. We just talking," he said, holding up his arms. Backing up, he lifted both middle fingers at Sara before dropping his hands.

"Sara!"

"I'm fine, Grissom. I'm not going to go chase after him. That's Sofia. Let go of me."

"Who was he?" Vartan asked.

"I don't know," Sara admitted. She watched in the direction he had disappeared, her face a mask of concentration. "I think I worked a case with him. I'm not sure. The scar … I don't remember anyone with a scar like that."

"Your first time?"

"For what?" she asked, turning her attention to the detective.

"A creep coming back to bother you. Goes with the territory," Vartan continued. "You'll get punks that you put away trying to cause trouble later."

"So why didn't you arrest him?" Grissom asked angrily.

"For what?" Sara asked, fighting back her temper. She started to step forward, but realized Grissom still had a hold on her arm. A lone eyebrow rose pointedly as she gave him a cool look. It didn't stop until he finally released her. "He called me a name. That's not exactly a criminal offense. Besides, you should see some of the things I've been called in letters I get from inmates," she added with a chuckle.

"Well, considering some of the ones I get, I can only imagine what they say to you. You're a lot prettier," Vartan said with his own laugh and wink.

"Can we get to work, now?" Grissom asked shortly, marching towards the home without waiting for his colleagues to catch up to him.


"Sara! Come in here."

Hearing her name, she stopped in the hallway. The surprise in Grissom's voice was impossible to miss, and she winced at the upcoming conversation. Planting a smile on her lips, she leaned against the doorframe. "What's up?" she said innocently.

"What's this?" Grissom held the paper in one hand, and his glasses in the other. "Come in and sit down. Close the door."

She complied with his directions. As she took a seat, Sara wondered how hard he was going to make this. "It's what it says it is. That's all."

"What's wrong?"

"Who said anything is wrong?"

Grissom sank into his chair. His head tilted to the side, and he stared at her silently for a long moment. Putting his glasses back on, he picked up the paper from his desk. Sara resisted the urge to laugh when he read it over again. "Isn't this short notice?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that, but I need some time off next week. It's not a problem, is it?"

"No. I'll work something out," he said distractedly. Grissom set it down, almost reluctantly. His gaze bore into her questioningly. "You don't take vacations. Not under normal circumstances."

"And you keep telling me I should."

Grissom leaned back in his chair. His frown deepened, and he began tapping his fingers on his desktop. "Sara … Is something wrong? Is this about what happened at the scene tonight?"

"Relax. I'm fine. I left that on your desk when I first got here. That kid doesn't bother me."

"Nothing's wrong? There's nothing … you want to talk about? I could … listen, if you have something on your mind."

"No," she said, directing a soft smile in his direction. Grissom's concern was touching, even if it was obvious it had been uncomfortable for him to make the offer. There was no way she'd tell him she needed the time off to pursue a lead on a new job. Once she had finalized her plans, she'd give him her notice. "Everything is good."

"Okay," Grissom said slowly, his eyes betraying that he didn't completely believe her.

"See you tonight," Sara replied, giving him a wave before walking out of his office. Once in the hallway, she let out a huff and her shoulders dropped. If a vacation request got that type of reaction, how was he going to react when she told him she was leaving?

A nagging voice in the back of her mind insisted she should tell him her plans now. On the drive home, she considered the options. In the end, Sara decided to hold off on saying anything to him. There was no saying how long her job search would take, or if she would even be successful. She worked at the best lab in the country, but she had that suspension on her record. Telling him before she knew she'd be leaving would only create additional tension.

Reaching her apartment, Sara walked to her building slowly. Last night, the decision to move on seemed obvious. It was the right thing to do. It was the healthy thing to do. But Grissom had let his guard down at the scene. He did care, albeit not enough to act on it openly. Leaving would hurt him, but it wasn't like they were happy now.

As she approached the step leading from the sidewalk to her building, Sara froze. The scarred-face youth from her earlier encounters was there, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He lounged against the brick façade, his legs stretched out, effectively blocking the entrance. She slid her sunglasses up to the top of her head, refusing to be intimidated by him. He snickered lightly, occasionally directing another obscene gesture at her.

"What's the matter? Ain't you gonna invite me in?"

"Do I know you?" Sara asked harshly. His reaction caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. A spark of rage flashed in his eyes, and he climbed to his feet angrily. For some reason, he expected her to know who he was.

Voices came from inside the building, and the youth turned around hesitantly, swearing loudly. He flicked the still smoldering cigarette towards Sara's face, but she easily dodged it. His failure only fueled his barely controlled fury.

"You will, bitch. You'll know me real good," he said darkly.

Sara stayed in place, watching as he walked away. As he reached the road, he turned back around and stopped. Placing two fingers to his lips, he kissed them, and pointed in her direction. Once his fingers were extended, he raised his thumb. The sweat started running down Sara's back when he pantomimed shooting her repeatedly.

TBC