Sara was late.

It wasn't like her.

She had called and apologized. She said she had overslept.

There's a first time for everything, thought Grissom, turning his attention to the autopsy table.

Al Robbins was explaining the cause of death, as if it weren't immediately obvious. The shotgun had removed half the man's face.

Still, it was amazing how often the cause of death turned out not to be the obvious. The man could have drowned, or been poisoned, or died of natural causes. Of course, that begged the question of why someone would shoot a dead man, but it happened more often than a civilian might think, at least in Vegas.

He helped Doc Robbins turn the body, looking for distinguishing marks to aid in identification. They were lucky this time. The man had an odd birthmark on his buttock, in the shape of a heart, and a tattoo of Marvin the Martian on the back of his left shoulder. People are strange.

Sara arrived just as they settled the body onto the table again. Her hair was curly, and it made her look about twenty-five, except for the circles under her eyes. She really must have overslept. Grissom tried and failed to remember the last time she had left her hair curly at work.

"I'm so sorry, Grissom, it won't happen again."

"It's okay, Sara. I'm glad you made it."

She smiled at that, and he could see the speculation in her eyes. He was obscurely cheered. This was his Sara again.

"Can you take his fingerprints? He had no ID on him."

"He has no face." Sara looked green.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the body, print pad in hand. She looked wary, and he wondered why. The body wasn't fresh, but he wouldn't classify it as a decomp. She'd dealt with worse.

Sara's gloved hand grasped the cadaver's hand. She rolled his fingers in the ink.

Suddenly, she dropped the hand, muttering "Excuse me" as she bolted from the room.

Grissom and Robbins stared after her, puzzled.

"Well," said Robbins, "That was unexpected. There's some ginger ale in the fridge there, why don't you take her some and I'll wrap up here?"

Grissom found the ginger ale, then went down the hall to the restroom. He paused outside the door, unsure of himself. He could hear Sara inside. She was definitely sick. Perhaps that was why she had overslept.

Or not. Grissom found himself remembering his first year as a CSI in Minneapolis. He was already well adjusted to corpses, so hadn't embarrassed himself in front of his co-workers once, to their chagrin. Until they took him out on the town after his first high profile case. The next morning, he had the worst hangover of his life. It was the first and last time he vomited due to an autopsy.

Sara told me she doesn't have a drinking problem. I believe her.

But she did drive drunk. That's a problem.

That was a mistake. She was barely over the limit. She'll never do it again. It doesn't mean anything.

The bathroom door swung open, and Sara emerged, looking a little red around the eyes.

"I am so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I guess I must have eaten some bad Chinese last night."

"Food poisoning works faster than that, Sara."

"True. But I don't think I have the flu, Griss. I'm fine now. It won't happen again."

"Sara, how are you doing lately?" There. Now if there is a problem she can tell me.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You just threw up. You look exhausted. I'm concerned."

"I'm fine, Grissom. Embarrassed, but fine. It's out of my system. I'll go print the dead guy now." She headed back toward the morgue.

"Wait!" She turned.

"I forgot to give you this." He handed her the ginger ale.

"Thank you. That was very thoughtful." He could see laughter in her eyes. It was incredibly sexy. What is wrong with you? The woman is sick.

He couldn't help himself. He moved closer to her, felt the warmth of her presence. She could feel it too, this time. He could tell. She was coming back to him.

"Grissom?"

"What?"

"Did you want something else?"

"Uh, no. You smell like cigarettes." Well, she does. Maybe she has been spending more time in bars lately.

"Sorry. I was smoking on the way in."

"I thought you quit."

"I did. It's a process. One step forward, two steps back."

"A process?"

"I had a craving. Why is this any of your business?" She narrowed her eyes at him. Great. Now she's getting defensive. Change the subject, fast.

"Let me know when you run those prints through AFIS."

Sara rolled her eyes and walked away. He watched her go, running one finger down his throat lengthwise, the ASL sign for thirst, and craving.