::Sweet Sara::

(Just to let you all know, it doesn't end here, so don't kill me!)

Grissom opened the car door and stepped out. He grabbed the suitcase. Small raindrops fell from the sky, a slight drizzle in the night. Beyond the street corner was an open meadow, with a thick forest of trees to the right, just as Molloy had said. Frozen patches of grass covered the opening, like an arctic tundra, and a small hill protruded outwards not far from the streets. A harsh wind blew furiously, swaying the road signs saying, "Desert Rd" and "Whitney Dr". The CSI walked cautiously, and set the suitcase down on the dirt.

"All right, Mr. Grissom, we've got you covered on all angles. You know what to do." Agent Molloy's voice came through Grissom's earpiece. The older man waited, is mind impatient. He didn't want to stand there and put his life on the line – he had to find Sara, dammit! For all they knew, she could already be dead, as Brass had nailed into Grissom. But he was not the kind of man to give up hope, not now.

Grissom searched the plain and barely spotted a black figure emerging from the hill. The man walked briskly, a small, silver gun in his hands. Grissom stood firmly, his fists trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. Before he got to close, Grissom roared, "Where is she?!" The figure stopped, then continued striding towards him.

"The money." He motioned with a gloved hand. Grissom stepped back.

"Where is Sara?!"

"Stop it Grissom. Just give him the suitcase, now." Molloy whispered. Tense, Grissom handed the suitcase over to the shady figure. Suddenly, a pack of agents and LVPD officers rushed towards the two.

"Las Vegas Police, you're under arrest!" Brass called out, holding his gun steady as he ran towards the figure. The dark man held the gun to his head.

"This time, you can't save her! Goodbye, Grissom." Then he pulled the trigger. Grissom shouted and grasped the deceased by his black shirt.

"Tell me where she is now!" He shook the dead man, weeping as Brass pulled him away. Grissom stood, outside of the circle of police that surrounded Brass and the man. He was furious, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, filling his mind with unspeakable rage.

Brass kneeled beside the corpse and fumbled through the deceased's pockets. Grissom panted heavily and turned away, facing the old road. The detective retrieved a wallet, and quickly looked through it, his dark eyes scanning an ID card.

"It's not Charles Homes, it's Eric. The brother." Brass sighed, and dropped the wallet on the wet grass. "Now what?" he whispered, rubbing his forehead. This is all my fault, how could I have let this happen…? We should have cleared the house, and we didn't. Brass gazed up at the midnight sky.

A short, loud gunshot filled Grissom's ears. He automatically turned in fear in the direction of the noise. A large, vacant warehouse stood in the distance, seemingly ready to be torn down. The clouds above then thundered, and released billions of heavy raindrops which pounded roughly on the ground.

"Shot! In the warehouse!" Grissom's shout was faint over the thunder. Half of the FBI agent and police followed Grissom, in a frantic sprint to the decomposing building, while the others stayed with the dead man, waiting irritably for the ambulance to come.

The dense rain hammered on the dirt, turning it to thick mud. Grissom clenched his teeth and rushed to the warehouse door where several officers held their guard. Brass frenetically radioed for backup, pulling his hood up from the ruthless rain. He barked orders to the team, thunder clashing with his roaring voice. A fire burned in Grissom's eyes, he was oblivious to the world around him. He didn't hear the deafening storm or the shouting officers. He didn't feel his legs beating on the broken pavement, running to the warehouse and stepping in mud. He only saw an image of Sara in his mind and the gun gripped in his hands.

Grissom reached the door, and rushed in. The warehouse was an old textile mill that had been empty for years. The entire structure seemed as though it was standing on a toothpick. The roof was caved in at one section, and every single window was shattered. The paint was even scraped off the exterior. Pitch darkness loomed inside, and the resolute CSI rapidly whipped out his flashlight, which he held in his other hand. Without thinking, he sprinted through the narrow hallways, many raindrops soaking the man from the many holes in the roof.

"Sara!" he called, his mind controlled by his dread. "Sara!" A picture of her formed in his mind, the tall brunette, her hair neatly straightened and sitting at her shoulders. But, no, something was wrong. She was sitting in Grissom's office, her lips quivering as she spoke. Tears stained her gentle face.

"Sara ... you got to learn to let this go or you're going to spend all your time in hospitals trying to help the people youcouldn'tsave." He had said, taking his glasses off. She stood, her stunning brown eyes cold, and turned.

"Yeah, I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."

"SARA!" he shouted, breathless from running so deep into the mill. Grissom frantically descended a decomposing stairwell. Rushing down another hall, he heard a faint, muted scream. He froze. Chills ran down his spine and he followed the sound, petrified. He opened a rusted door. Nothing. He reached another and violently swung the door open.

A man dressed in black, just like his brother, lay on the ground, a gunshot wound to his head and a beautiful, brown-eyed woman hung from a rope, suddenly still.

"SARA!" Grissom lifted his gun and shot the rope that held his beloved. She fell to his arms, her breaths short and strained. Her eyelids fluttered open, then she croaked and dropped back in his arms, her body motionless.

"You know, by the time you finally figure it out, you could just be too late…"

(TBC)