A/N: Thanks so, so much to Ace. :)


Grissom exited the big white building, unprepared to meet with the blinding bright lights of the early hours of the morning. Dazzled, he quickly moved his gaze downward, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the magnitude of the night's events had just started sinking in.

A few hours ago, the worst thing that he thought could have happened to him was not finishing his paperwork in time and having Ecklie breathing down his neck as a result, but now, he had to deal with far greater concerns, ones that he wished his muzzled brain would just forget and block out. But if that were to happen, someone would have to knock him unconscious.

The brief encounter with Sara had left him with a bitter taste, causing him to want nothing more than to spit out the invisible wretched flavor, and pretend the damn thing hadn't already left a permanent mark inside his mouth.

But he couldn't, for there was no real physical sign that anything had gone wrong with him. If people had passed him by at that time, they never would have guessed that the seemingly unaffected man who stood across from them, motionless, had an uncontrollable storm raging inside of him, so fierce that his heart was being torn apart by the sheer force, and it hurt so much he could cry.

They never would have guessed, or known, that the man was not even remotely close to feeling anything like the false, calm façade he was exhibiting, but then again, why would they? He had made damn sure that no one would ever be capable of doing so, he had taught himself to be the master of emotional disguises, and it would have taken someone extremely special and gifted to have been able to see through those masks.

Someone like Sara.

There was no one around though. No people, no Sara, only he and his thoughts, accompanied by his worries and his indescribable need to hit something or someone.

In the course of the latest hour or so, he had gone from panicking about the possibility of Sara not being alive, to worrying about Sara not wishing to be. So now that she was physically safe, a heavy burden had been lifted off his chest, only to allow for another one to take its place – a burden of guilt.

He couldn't escape from the obvious conclusion that he was a part to blame for Sara's possible mental condition.

There was no way of avoiding the simple truth that for the past five years he had been a bastard to her.

Just as he was aware of the power she had over him, he knew the power he had over her was even stronger. After all, the woman had waited for him for five long years, and if he ever stopped playing dumb and had given her a loud and clear message that he wasn't interested, she would have moved on a long time ago.

But he didn't. He kept playing with her, with her feelings, and whenever she had shown signs that she had had enough of his bullshit, he would say something or do something that caused her to take a step back and remain silent.

It was a way for him to not have her and still make sure no else would either.

What a selfish bastard he was.

He wished he would have realized that sooner, or at least admitted to it, so that maybe none of this would have happened, and he wouldn't have had to stand there, wanting to bang his head against the wall.

It's not like he was just a manipulating prick though; he had to add another adjective to his growing list of negative traits. So he did just that; he added 'fool'.

What a fool he was for not confronting his fears and doubts when he should have, and for tricking himself into believing that everything would stay the same if he stayed the same. And in hindsight, it was probably the worst mistake he had ever made.

Grissom didn't know whether he had done all those things consciously or not, but if he hadn't, it still wouldn't have prevented him from feeling like he should be punished for his actions, or for the lack of them.

There were no excuses for what he had done, and even though he knew it was pretentious of him to assume that his poor treatment toward her was to blame, he was still responsible - he should have picked up the clues that something was wrong with her. He was a criminalist for God's sake; they paid him to know these things.

He should have known, dammit; he should have done something, anything. 'If only I didn't allow things to go this far,' his mind taunted him, and the 'what if' parade began marching inside of his head.

He could have stood there berating himself for a long time if he hadn't finally admitted to himself that in spite of everything he thought and felt, he didn't believe anything could have prepared him for this. There was just no way he could have predicted that Sara, intentionally or not, would be involved in an accident, and he couldn't have known that his reaction to it would have been this devastating.

Grissom had never even considered the possibility of Sara being gone; he had always thought that the worst possible scenario concerning her was her leaving, but for that, he always had a back up plan, far more complicated than sending a plant, if such wishes ever arose in her again. The concept of her early death though, was far too grim for him to even cross his mind, and for a man who always had an answer for everything, such an event was not even a part of the test.

He was thrown off balance by something he had no control over, but the harsh reality that he would need to face in the next few minutes, days, and weeks, meant that he would urgently need to recondition himself emotionally in order to adapt to his current situation - which he was surly not familiar with, everything about it was unfamiliar. This new emotional roller coaster he was riding in was turning out to be faster and scarier than he had ever anticipated, and he couldn't find a way to stop it, nor did he wish to.

He had never felt so hurt in his life, physically, and mentally. He didn't know where he was coming from or where he would go next. What he did know was that the short hospital visit had left him in a state of exhaustion, and he was finding it hard to think.

He could painfully sense the adrenaline slowly draining out of his system, his muscles twitching in painful chains of spasms, and the hammer banging inside his skull indicating to him that he was having a migraine. The way he felt at that time, he might of as well had been hit by a car himself.

All he wanted to do was lay in his comfortable bed and forget that night ever happened; well, he didn't really want to forget, he didn't think he deserved to, but he did wish he could just have a break from the images, the possible meanings, and the new decisions. He wished he could have a break from himself.

He wanted to sleep; right now he needed to sleep.

But with so much going on in his head, would he really be able to? Would he ever be able to sleep?

There was so much at stake, for him and Sara.

The things he would have to deal with in the future and the decisions he would have to execute were all making his stomach turn.

Whatever he decided to do would lead to major changes and would result in huge consequences, and he couldn't make any more mistakes; he had to do things right this time.

If he was to ever become the suitable partner that Sara deserved, some things would have to change.

The days of being a socially inept individual would have to come to an end, and if he was to ever get lucky enough to be in a relationship with Sara, there would be no room in his life for the usual ambiguity which he had insisted upon using again and again when he couldn't find any other way to express himself adequately.

Other behavioral rituals that he had grown accustomed to would need to be replaced with new ones. From now on, being passive and avoiding everything that could potentially leave him vulnerable would not be an alternative for facing what he feared the most. And if rejection happened, so be it. Aggressiveness would be his new defense mechanism; his new way of coping with the world. With Sara, he would not give up without a fight.

His list of priorities would also need some serious readjustment because at that point, the job didn't matter to him. He'd worry about the job later; right now priority number one was Sara - everything else was irrelevant.

He wasn't sure he was capable of doing all those things, but he had to try. He just had to try for Sara; he owned her at least that much.

Grissom didn't know how much he needed to change for her, and if he knew her half as well as he thought he had, she would never ask him to, but he wanted to - he needed to.

He only hoped that he would be given a chance to; he hoped she could forgive him for his mistakes and allow him to make things right. He wished and prayed that it wasn't too late, for him or her.

He would certainly have to plan his actions carefully, but before he could do anything, he needed call Brass first. He had to find out what happened; he desperately needed to know if Sara had done the unthinkable.

Knowing Brass' P.D connections and his own connections very well, there wasn't going to be much of a problem gaining access to the culprit and interrogating him.

So what if his intentions weren't going to be very pure - screw it. Even though there was a chance that the rage residing inside of him would not show itself in its usual calm and old fashioned way, if such a confrontation occurred, he still needed to do it; he needed some peace of mind.

For the most part, he just needed to occupy his mind because if he'd be pissed enough at that guy, it meant he wouldn't be so busy being pissed off at himself, and if his body filled with hatred, it meant there couldn't be enough room for the guilt and regret - he would rather hate someone else than hate himself.

XXXXX

Taking a deep breath, he slowly made his way back to his car, every step turning out to be one hard effort after another.

When he reached his SUV, an earlier thought crossed his mind, and he cursed himself for forgetting to ask Sara about the others.

He had to remind himself that he wasn't the only one who cared for her - there were other people in her life that hadn't inflicted her with pain like he had, and there was no question that they would want to know. After all, she was their friend as well, and right now, he was sure that she could use all the support she could get.

He climbed into the driver's seat and pulled out his cell phone from his pocket. The small screen flashed out the words 'You have 7 new messages,' and he finally figured out that people were probably wondering where the hell he was.

Disappearing in the middle of the shift and not answering his cell phone was bound to leave some question marks.

Following his latest decision, he speed dialed Brass' number, and he soon heard the detective's voice from the other line, which he thought held a mixture of annoyance and concern in it.

"Grissom!" he practically screamed, "Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you for the past hour…"

"Listen…" he paused before continuing, lowering the volume of his voice considerably, "there's something I need to tell you, it's about Sara…"

He knows.

Grissom closed his eyes and mentally sighed; he knew the other man had a special bond with Sara, and he was definitely relived to find out that he didn't have to break the bad news to him.

"I know, Brass," he told him softly, his tone sounding calm and contained, unlike the way his body felt, "I just saw her in the hospital."

"Is she alright?" Brass asked, his voice notably edgy with concern and fear for his younger co-worker and friend.

"She's in a pretty bad shape, but the doctor I've spoken to seemed to be optimistic," Grissom replied honestly.

"Well," Brass thought for a second, "I was just on my way to the hospital, but I got a call, and apparently the scumbag who hit her turned himself in."

"I'm in the midst of processing him right now," he added.

"Good. You won't mind if I meet you at the station then," Grissom said nonchalantly as though he was merely setting up an appointment, "I'd like to meet him myself."

Brass weighed Grissom's words carefully, and if he hadn't known the man, well, as much as he could have, he wouldn't have contemplated the suspicious indication that he had detected in the other man's voice, which prompted an alarm to flicker inside his head.

He understood Grissom's need to confront the perp for injuring one of his team members; he was indeed somewhat responsible for his younger subordinate's wellbeing. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about chopping the jerk's head off himself, but he couldn't help but wonder if something else was going on, something deeper.

He was well aware of the feelings Sara had for the forensic entomologist. He didn't think anyone who worked with them wasn't aware of it, but just as her feelings were obvious, Grissom's, on the other hand, were far from decipherable.

Brass could admit to himself that he, like the rest, had frequently viewed Grissom as a man devoid of all emotions, but every so often, Grissom would prove him wrong.

He had seen him displaying all sorts of feelings on several different occasions, mostly during those rare cases that had affected him slightly more than usual, and similar feelings that he had shown when concerning Sara weren't completely lost on him either. He often wondered if those feelings were the same as his own toward the young woman, if they were more like his own paternal concerns, but his gut instincts that he had learned to rely on during his years in law enforcement were telling him otherwise.

"Gil, I don't think that's a very good idea," he told him gently, wishing the other man would agree and leave it at that, but at the same time knowing that the chances for that happening were slim.

On the other line, as Brass figured, Grissom was not planning on giving up that easily. "I promise I'll behave," he responded innocently and quickly added, making sure the other man would have no time to protest, "I'll meet you at the station in fifteen."

Brass was hardly surprised by Grissom's reply. Hearing a click, he spoke loudly into his cell, "Grissom!" But it was too late; the man on the other line had already hung up.

XXXXX

After he had placed his cell phone back in his pocket, Grissom pulled out his keys, started the car, and drove away. With his goals clearly set in mind, he blessed the fact that for the next hour or so, there were no questions or doubts as to what he needed to do, and there was nothing to stop him from doing so.

XXXXX

"Grissom!" a voice shot from across the room, "Over here!"

Hearing his voice called, Grissom turned around quickly and correctly assumed that the familiar voice belonged to his friend.

Brass slowly made his way toward him while he remained glued to his spot.

"Whoa, that was quick!" the detective shot out again once he reached him.

Now that Grissom was in clear view, Jim could clearly see the weariness in the other man's expression. "What did you do, run every stop sign on your way?" he asked jokily as he searched his face for any hints of amusement - there were none. His attempt to lighten up the mood passed right through Grissom, whose eyes were now thoroughly scanning the loud and busy station, as if he was expecting the criminal to be led down the hall at any second, perhaps so he could jump him right there and tear him apart.

Brass watched him carefully and waited patiently for him to stop his diligent inspection.

Finally feeling he was being scrutinized, Grissom's eyes traveled back to the man standing in front of him, meeting his worried eyes.

He blinked slowly, placing his hands in his pockets. "Where is he, Jim?" he queried with a firm tone, his question almost sounding like a demand.

Brass, surprised by Grissom's assertiveness, did not answer right away, taking the time to study him further. He was now beginning to regret his earlier attempt at humor since Grissom was clearly not in the mood for jokes, not that he could blame him.

"He's in lockup right now," he answered, completely serious, "But listen Grissom…" his voice softened as he prepared him for his next statement, "We've got it covered here, the kid came out of his own free well, and he already admitted to hitting her and leaving the scene."

"Looks like you had a rough night," he said, knowing it wasn't a lie - Grissom did not look good. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep?"

Grissom broke eye contact. Turning his head to the side, he cautiously observed his surroundings once again. "I will," he paused and nodded, "when I find out what happened."

"I told you what happened, Gil…" the detective folded his hands across his chest as he continued, "The guy blew .12; he shouldn't have been driving."

Gil quickly jerked his head back, immediately finding the new information a slight relief. It couldn't have been a coincidence that Sara would throw herself in front of a car which had no business being on the road in the first place, couldn't it?

".12?" he asked in mock-horror.

Shaking his head softly he continued, "He shouldn't have been walking Jim, let alone driving."

Brass nodded slowly, "Well, he did the right thing by coming in," and without further comments he proceeded to state the facts, "His name's Gavin Dale, nineteen years old, no priors."

"I had a little chat with him earlier… as much as I can call it that, since it was mainly composed of me talking and him bawling his eyes out."

"He looks like a good kid, Grissom, I think he just made a very stupid mistake tonight, but at least he knows it," he acknowledged with a slight shrug, "He does seem genuinely distraught by what he's done."

Grissom's jaw dropped a little, 'What the hell?' he thought, not quite sure he had heard correctly.

"And you fell for that?" he blurted out angrily, unable to hide his disgust with Jim's take of the situation. Why was he defending the little brat?

"Since when have you become an advocate for drunk drivers?" he threw at him with a mocking tone as his face became flushed with anger.

A few seconds passed before Brass answered. "Ever since I heard Sara was one of them," he threw back quietly, his tone clearly projecting his discontentment with the accusation.

Grissom furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and decided to wear a bewildered expression on his face in an attempt to make the other man think he had no idea what he was talking about.

Brass shifted irritably. "What?" he asked, lifting his chin, "You didn't think I would know something like that?"

There was no point for Grissom to continue with the charade. Brass obviously knew he had picked Sara up from the station, or else he wouldn't have informed him of the incident so blatantly.

"She told you," he said as a matter a fact.

"No, she didn't, and I haven't told her I know either."

But Grissom remained unconvinced by Brass' explanation. Sara may have driven drunk, but she never hit anyone and left them for dead, and even if she had thrown herself in front of that car, it was no excuse for the guy to leave her the way he did. What if no one had seen what had happened and she didn't get the help that she needed?

She could have died.

She could have died. His mind repeated the thought, spurring more anger and resentment, toward whom? He wasn't sure, but he was beginning to worry that those emotions were coming dangerously close to the surface, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was to blow up in front of the detective.

"Jim, we can argue about this later," he said absently, "So, should you lead the way or should I?" he asked lightly, raising his arm to point in the right direction.

Brass, realizing that the other man was not about to budge or compromise, sighed in defeat, "Be my guest…" he said reluctantly, mimicking Grissom's hand gesture.

'I hope you know what you're doing,' he whispered to himself.

Grissom nodded and made his way to the lockup area with Brass by his side.

Both men arrived there a short minute later.

After a brief stop to arrange some bureaucratic and technical details, they proceeded further down a block of small cells, stopping near the one holding the young man who might have been responsible for Sara's condition and who was definitely, indirectly or not, responsible for Grissom's recent change of tune.

Through the bars, Grissom carefully studied the figure huddled protectively on the bench. It was slightly dark in the small cell, but he could tell the brown-haired kid had obviously been crying; his face was all puffed up, and his eyes were undoubtedly red.

He cleared his throat and stepped closer. "I'm Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," he said softly, even though he hadn't intended to, "I'd like to ask you a few questions." And beat you to a bloody pulp while I'm at it, you little son of a bitch.

Grissom couldn't remember the last time he had beaten someone up, but he didn't think it was something anyone could have forgotten how to do.

Like riding a bike.

Of course he had no intention of doing so. As much as he wanted to, he still hadn't gone completely insane yet. He was still Grissom, a law abiding citizen with enough geek genes to pass along to a couple of generations ahead, but even those facts wouldn't have stopped his personality from making a 180 if the outcome had been different - if he was now grieving the loss of someone he just couldn't have afforded to lose. If that had been the case, he had no doubt that the kid would have suffered through a much worse punishment than the justice system could have had to offer. It wouldn't have mattered if he had spent the rest of his life in jail as a result because to him, there was no life without Sara.

The kid stood up and advanced hesitantly toward the two men who were standing on the other side of the metal bars.

Just a foot or so away, he spoke, not daring to look in the other man's eyes. "I… Uh… already told him everything…" he stuttered, pointing his finger at Brass.

"It's okay, Gavin," Brass assured him, "just tell him what you told me."

But Gavin, instead of answering, began sobbing. "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to hurt anyone; I'm so sorry…" he repeated, his body rocking with each whimper.

Grissom glanced briefly at Brass, who like him, was not impressed with the kid's emotional display, even though as Jim told him, it didn't appear like a show.

Normally, he would have felt something for a person crying his eyes out in front of him, but not for this one.

He wondered if the kid was crying for Sara or himself.

"Why don't you start from the beginning…" Gil told him blankly, trying his best to sound detached, "You were drinking, then what?"

Gavin sniffed. "I swear I didn't see her."

It was becoming clear to Grissom that it wasn't going to be easy getting clear answers out of him. It didn't look like he was completely sober yet, and he was obviously not stable.

"Was she on the road? Gil continued the next line of his interrogation, "On the curb, the sidewalk?

"Where was she?" he grilled him further.

"I'm not sure," came Gavin's nervous reply as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"What do you mean you're not sure?" Grissom snapped, his solid composure that he had managed to sustain so far beginning to fall apart.

The quick shift in Grissom's demeanor caused Gavin's body to freeze, and his eyes, which were now filled with fear, drifted to the detective in seek of protection. It didn't matter to him that he was protected by strong iron barriers – something about that man's approach scared him, and he wished for the millionth time that he was somewhere else, anywhere other than this hellhole.

"Answer me!" Grissom yelled out as he grabbed the bars with both of his hands, finally breaking into Gavin's trance and forcing him to take a step back.

Brass, responding instinctively to his friend's unusual interrogation method, stepped a little closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Grissom…" he almost whispered, cocking his head a little, "Come on…"

"I'm not done here yet," he replied with a low voice, his death-glare still fixed on the kid.

As he heard the tension in Grissom's voice and saw his features turning into a mix of frustration and fury, Brass was beginning to suspect that the scientist had other motives to be there other than to 'find out what happened'. He hadn't figured out what they were yet, but he had a few ideas.

"You're not going to get more out of him," he said firmly, glancing at Gavin who was now looking like he was about to pee his pants.

Hearing Brass' words, Grissom closed his eyes briefly and swallowed hard. At that moment, he realized that he wasn't going to get what he wanted from that kid, and he would have to leave with the same doubts he came in with.

He could go over the evidence, he could interview the witness, and he could do a lot of things, but there was one other person he could ask for the truth, and he knew that he would eventually have to.

But could he? Could he ask her the question that was going to burn a hole in his skull if he didn't get an answer soon. Could he ask her in these words: 'Sara, did you do this?'

Do you want to die?

Could he?


TBC…