Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.

Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life."

This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.

As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist!

Note: Yes, it's that Terry "Exterminate!" Nation. grin The quote is from "Blake's 7".

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Brass met them at the station, looking slightly sleep-rumpled himself and surprisingly casual in ancient jeans and a t-shirt. Sara did a double take at the shirt, and read it out loud. "History doesn't always repeat itself--sometimes it screams, WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I'M SAYING? and lets fly with a club. Cute, Brass."

The captain smirked at her. "That's me, the height of fashion." They were already walking quickly towards Interrogation, intent on seeing their quarry at last.

"How was she found?" Grissom asked at her elbow. Brass gave his characteristic snort.

"Believe it or not, Security at the Great Mohave Casino was about to throw her out for causing a disturbance when some bright lad recognized her face from the police bulletins. I'm thinking of offering him a job."

"What was she doing at the Great Mohave?" Grissom asked impatiently.

"Gambling." At their incredulous looks, Brass shrugged. "As far as we can tell, she's been playing either blackjack or five-card stud since Abel was murdered. She paid for her room with cash, and she's been winning just enough to keep it, until tonight."

"Only in Vegas," Sara muttered, and Brass nodded, opening the door to the same room from which they'd observed David's interrogation. "So what happened?"

Brass shrugged again. "Apparently, she had a little too much to drink and started yelling at a dealer."

Almost as one, they turned to look through the window. A small slender woman with trendy short hair sat at the table, arms folded and a stormy, almost petulant expression on her face.

"Voila," Brass said dryly. "Susan Methody."

She didn't look like she'd murdered someone, Sara reflected, but then murderers rarely did. She looked like someone impatient and put out. "Is she sober?"

"She is now," Brass replied. "She's been advised of her rights."

Sara glanced at Grissom. He was staring at Methody with the intensity that told her he was deep in thought. "Where's--"

Before she could finish the sentence, the door opened and a freshly shaved O'Reilly stuck his head in. "Good. You're here," he said flatly. "You guys want to triple-team her, or what?"

Grissom raised his brows at Sara. She gave him a hard smile, and he gestured at the door.

Methody looked up as the three of them filed into the interrogation room, but said nothing as O'Reilly and Sara sat down across from her and Grissom folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Her eyes were glittering with what Sara guessed to be anger, but she didn't blurt out a complaint. Sara appreciated the restraint. Nobody ever said she was stupid.

Sara began; she hadn't done many interrogations with O'Reilly, but he was a professional and she did know his pattern. "Ms. Methody, we need to know where you were the night Corey Abel died."

For a moment the younger woman was silent, but finally she replied in a sullen voice. "I was out."

"After you slept with him, you mean," O'Reilly said. Methody shrugged.

"What time did you leave your apartment?" Sara asked.

"I dunno. Around midnight, I guess."

"That seems a little odd, leaving in the middle of the night," Sara pointed out, and Methody shrugged again.

"I couldn't sleep, so I drove around for a while."

The classic excuse--nearly impossible to either verify or refute. "Was Corey still at your apartment when you left?"

This brought a disdainful sniff. "He took off way before that. I figured he was going to try to fix things with Miss Goody Two-Shoes."

Methody's face was a study in contempt, but Sara almost thought she saw something underneath that, something more profound. Reminds me of...grief.

"Did you and Corey hook up later that night?" O'Reilly looked almost bored, but Sara knew he was listening as carefully as Grissom was behind her.

"Didn't see him." A vague answer--and a flag to the questioners by its very lack of detail.

"When did you lose your car?" O'Reilly's gaze was chilly.

Methody's gaze flicked to the side, the first time she'd shown a sign of nervousness. "I dunno. I stopped for some coffee and when I came out it was gone."

"And you didn't report it stolen?" Sara asked, politely disbelieving.

"I was upset." Methody looked back to Sara, her eyes growing damp. "Corey and I...well, we'd had a fight. We did something kinda dumb, and he took off."

"So where did you go then?"

"To a friend's. She's on vacation now," Methody added hastily. "I crashed at her place for a couple of days, and then I heard Corey was dead, and I..." She sniffled again. "I kinda went a little crazy."

"So you have no idea who might have killed Corey." As Sara had hoped, this produced a reaction.

"Well..." Methody glanced away, as though reluctant to speak. "There was somebody..."

"Maranatha?" O'Reilly suggested. "A woman scorned and all that."

But Methody's face wrinkled in what looked like genuine shock. "No way. 'Natha would never hurt somebody. But--I heard David warn Corey once that if he hurt 'Natha, he would kill him."

The pronouns were a little confused, but her meaning was clear to Sara. Bingo. If Methody really had set David up to take the fall, it was all but inevitable that she would finger him.

Their suspect shifted impatiently. "Look, why are you keeping me here? You already arrested David."

"Keeping track of the news, are you?" O'Reilly said in a less than friendly tone. Behind him, Grissom spoke for the first time.

"We've uncovered new evidence that points in a different direction." He unfolded his arms and stepped a little closer to the table.

Methody's face was a study in mingled hope and apprehension, and Sara wondered sourly how the woman had managed to win at poker when everything showed up so well in her expression. "So why aren't you finding that person?"

Grissom ignored the question. "Ms. Methody, may I see your wrists, please?"

She looked baffled, but pushed up the sleeves of her thin sweater and held out her arms, palms down. Sara knew what Grissom was looking for; he was taking a gamble, but a calculated one.

Grissom came to the table and bent over Methody's arms, taking each of her small hands in gentle, impersonal fingers and turning them over. On the inside of her left wrist was a short, half-healed cut, running about an inch along one of the veins. "How'd you get this?" he asked.

Methody shrugged uncomfortably and pulled her hands away. "I don't remember."

"Really." Grissom looked supremely unimpressed. "It's right over your vein, and it's deep--you must have been bleeding." He glanced over at Sara, who rose and went over to the kit in the corner in the next step of their practiced dance. Popping open the latches, she extracted a digital camera and listened to Methody's voice.

"I dunno, I just looked down and there was blood all over the place." She sounded both petulant and slightly frightened.

"It's very precise for an accidental cut," Grissom said mildly. Sara straightened from her crouch and came back to the table. "Ms. Sidle's going to photograph your wrists."

Methody tucked her hands under her elbows, but Sara merely raised a brow and waited. Methody looked from face to closed face, and reluctantly, like a child about to be punished, she put her hands back on the table. Palm down.

Calmly, Sara leaned over and turned them palm-up, then took the photos. Grissom was being extra-circumspect; having another woman handle the camera eliminated even the faint possibility of a harassment counter-charge.

When she finished and returned to her seat, Grissom had already faded back into his corner, and O'Reilly was leaning in a little, projecting more menace. "Here's what we figure. You and Abel were sleeping together, and 'Natha caught you, so the wedding was off. But instead of being happy about that, Abel decides to chase 'Natha. You go after him, and when he turns you down, you get mad. So mad, you pick up a knife and stab him."

Methody stared at the detective as though hypnotized. Sara picked up the thread.

"There you are, with a dead body on your hands. But you're smart, aren't you, Susan? You watch TV, you know how we find evidence. So you decide to mislead us."

The young woman's eyes were huge, almost panicked, but she said nothing. Grissom spoke up, his tone almost friendly.

"You put Corey's body in the trunk of your car. That must have been quite a job, hmm? He's twice your size." Grissom came to stand by the table again. "And you went to your apartment to pick up a few things."

"Like David's sweater," Sara said quietly, and Methody started. "You probably knew David was off that night, and that he'd be home catching up on his sleep. It was easy, wasn't it?"

"You drove out to I-15 and dumped his body in the woods," Grissom went on. "And then you stopped your car on the shoulder of Exit 22B, and planted the evidence."

Sara folded her hands on the table. "I almost admire you, Susan. It takes a cool head to collect your own blood. But it wasn't enough."

Methody was shivering now, but still she said nothing. "Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts that night?" O'Reilly asked perfunctorily.

The young woman ignored him, instead returning Sara's gaze as though they were the only two in the room. "I'm pregnant," she said in a tiny voice. "It's Corey's baby."

O'Reilly sighed, a deep sound, and stood up. "Susan Methody, you're under arrest for the murder of Corey Abel." He rounded the table to cuff her, reciting her Miranda rights as he went, and she didn't protest, but Sara saw tears start running down her face as the door opened and a female officer came in to escort Methody out.

The detective sighed again as the door closed once more. "That's that," he said tiredly.

"She didn't confess to anything," Sara pointed out, more out of a sense of fairness than anything else.

Grissom shrugged. "Her lawyer will probably try for a plea."

"If we knew where Abel was killed..." Sara trailed off. O'Reilly grunted and stood.

"I'll leave that up to you geeks for now. I'm going to go home and get some sleep."

"Thanks, Ray," Sara called after him as he left, and he threw her a wave.

She stifled a yawn and looked up at Grissom, whose eyes were alight. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "there's still Methody's hotel room to process."

Sara's fatigue vanished, and she grinned. "So what are we waiting for?"

xxxx

The mid-range hotel room was a mess. Apparently Methody hadn't let Housekeeping in since she'd booked the room. Grissom surveyed the cluttered space, pleased; the messier a scene, the longer it took to process, generally--but the more likely they were to find evidence, also generally.

Sara took one look at the rumpled double bed, and her face scrunched up in disgust. "Dibs on the bathroom," she said hastily, and Grissom had to chuckle.

"Do you really think it's going to be any better in there?"

"Nonporous surfaces usually have fewer germs," she shot back, and vanished into the small space. Grissom took a long moment to look over the room, committing it to memory, then opened his kit and began.

He was examining the sheets when Sara's voice rang from the bathroom, echoing slightly. "Traces of blood in the sink drain."

Grissom wasn't entirely surprised. "Human?"

A pause, and then-- "Yep."

"Well, she could have cut herself," he said dryly, and heard Sara laugh.

And he smiled. That sound had been far too rare lately.

He hit his own jackpot not much later, finding a pair of sneakers shoved under the bed. They were dirty and well-worn, and when Grissom flipped them over, he found not one but three small chunks of stone lodged in the treads. He worked one free with a forceps and held it up to the light, smiling again in satisfaction.

"What've you got?" Sara said, emerging from the bathroom.

"Sandstone," he said. "Not at all common in this area."

"Hm." Sara clicked on her handlight and started examining the heap of clothing in one corner.

"Anything interesting?" Grissom asked after a moment.

She didn't look up. "A fork, a hairbrush, two scrunchies, three shirts, two pairs of bikini underwear, and a brochure titled So You Want to Get a Tattoo."

Grissom raised a thoughtful brow. "I wonder if she did."

"Good question." Sara held up a shirt to the light. "If she's at all responsible about her pregnancy, then probably not."

"Do you still have yours?"

He couldn't believe he'd just asked that question. Grissom closed his eyes briefly against the peculiar silence that filled the room.

"I'm surprised you remember," Sara said at last, her voice a little cool.

I deserved that. Grissom shrugged, not looking at her. "The kanji for 'fortitude' under your left shoulderblade. I only saw it because of that firehose."

A tinge of pink rose in her face again, and Grissom couldn't help remembering that day--the two of them and two other CSIs standing outside a burning office building in San Francisco, waiting to investigate possible arson, and one of the firemen losing control of a hose. Four of them had been drenched...and Sara had been wearing a light-colored tank top. The dry CSI had hastily stripped off his own shirt and offered it to her, but before she'd pulled it on, Grissom had noted the elegant image beneath the translucent fabric.

...Among other things.

"Yes, I still have it. Why shouldn't I?"

"No reason in particular." Grissom opened the top drawer of one of the bedside cabinets, finding only a room service menu and a Gideon Bible. "Speaking of which, Nick said you were able to identify the tattoo on the arm of the inmate of the women's prison last year."

"He said that?" Her voice sounded slightly…off, and he couldn't figure out why. He opened the bottom drawer; a phone book lay within.

"That surprises you?"

Sara didn't answer, instead moving to the suitcase lying open on the floor. Grissom sighed inwardly; he hadn't meant to make her withdraw.

"I recognized it," she said abruptly, surprising him, and when he turned to look at her she was examining a pair of jeans.

"You did?" He mentally marked the cabinet and lamp as a place to dust for prints later, and rounded the bed to check the other side.

"Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her bite her lip. "My mother has one just like that."

Oh. Grissom considered and discarded a half-dozen responses, finally settling for a noncommittal "Hmm." She'd told him that her mother had gone to prison, during that anguished, cathartic afternoon, but she hadn't given him details.

The other two drawers were empty, unlike the silence that had settled in the room. After a while spent examining the contents of a jewelry pouch on the cabinet, Grissom looked up to see Sara watching him. Her expression mingled exasperation and amusement. "Go ahead and say it, Grissom."

He raised his brows. She knows me too well. "Say what?"

"Whatever it is you're thinking."

He felt his lips twitch, but he answered seriously. "Thank you."

Now she looked baffled. "For what?"

Grissom turned his eyes back to his work. "Trusting me."

This time the silence was a little more comfortable.

Grissom moved to the overflowing trash can, and had just found a man's wallet at the bottom when Sara spoke from where she crouched in front of the closet. "Griss, come take a look at this."

Grissom snapped a couple of photos of the wallet in situ, then rose off of slightly protesting knees to join her. Sara, sorting through the heap of clothes on the closet's floor, had uncovered a woman's shirt stained with blood and gritty with sand.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he quoted, and Sara looked up at him over her shoulder with a smirk.

"How much do you want to bet this tests out as Abel's blood?" she asked, bagging the shirt expertly.

Grissom merely snorted at her and returned to his trash can. The wallet proved to contain Abel's license and credit cards, and a not inconsiderable amount of cash. He held it up to Sara, who nodded thoughtfully, and they finished processing the room with an ease that had long been absent from their interactions.

It was when he was driving them back to the lab that Grissom remembered a question he hadn't asked. "Do you think Susan Methody will be responsible about her pregnancy?"

Sara shrugged. "Dunno," she said, sounding resigned. "It would explain the lack of birth control, though."

"It had already failed her," Grissom agreed.

It was odd, this balance he was trying to walk. Grissom spent a large part of his life waiting, usually for the measured processing of one kind of evidence or another, and it had schooled his natural patience to near-inhuman capacity. But now he felt it fraying, and tried to pull its threads together.

Sara had asked for time, and he would give it to her. He'd put her through years of uncertainty; he could live with a few days.

Still, when they parked at the lab and went around the back of the SUV to unload their evidence bags, Grissom wanted very much to gently press her up against the vehicle and kiss the living daylights out of her. But that was an old fantasy--sharper now, but still something he was used to.

Sara's eyes were lit, and he knew she had every intention of working through the day on their evidence, probably hassling the dayshift techs. But there were shadows under those eyes, and he didn't like it. "I'll sign this stuff in. Go home."

She didn't like that. Her head came up and she stared at him indignantly. "But--"

"I want this handled carefully, Sara, and that means waiting for the nightshift people. Go home. We'll tackle it tonight."

Her expression softened. As he had thought it might, offering her a logical reason for his dictum worked better than a direct order. Besides, it was true as well; the pressure on David might be lessened, but he wasn't out of the woods yet, and the pressure on the CSIs was just as heavy as ever. He wanted their blood samples under Mia's eagle eye and the rocks in Hodges' capable, if supercilious, hands.

And he wanted Sara in bed resting. My bed, by preference.

Grissom blinked at that thought and shoved it back down again. Now was not the time to let out his own personal wants, though the old beloved imagining of Sara's pale skin against his sheets had also sharpened recently.

"All right," Sara said, with enough mock reluctance to make him smile a little. "But you have to rest too, Grissom."

He opened his mouth to automatically deny it, and then saw the shyness she was trying to hide, and realized with an inner shock that by pushing her concern away all those years he had been telling her silently that he didn't want her to care about him, even though it wasn't true.

"I will," he said. "As soon as I have this stuff logged, I'm going home."

Sara nodded, apparently satisfied, and gave him an awkward wave before heading off towards her car. Grissom watched her go, and sighed.

See Chapter 8