Illusions

Author: Jess

A/N: Sorry it took so long for the next part. I really wanted to get Sara correct in these next two chapters. Thank you for all your kind reviews. Special thanks to my betas, Rouchie, and CSI4nsicAce.

Disclaimer: I looked in my wallet, and I still don't have enough to buy the rights to CSI.

Chapter Twenty-Four

'For in dreams, we enter a world that's entirely our own.' Sara Sidle blinked rapidly, struggling to make her brain and eyes work. She frowned, trying to place the quote that lingered in her mind. Rubbing her eyes, she laughed quietly as she remembered. 'Dumbledore…from the Harry Potter movie that Nick and Greg dragged me to.'

A smile briefly graced her face as she thought back on that day. It was an uneventful day, the movie had been an opportunity to escape the heat, and as they watched, she couldn't help but feel she was reading one of the classics she had devoured as a child. The entire afternoon had been a memorable experience. Laughing, talking, being in the company of other people, it had been a nice escape.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up, taking a second to regain her bearings. She was in the spare bedroom in Grissom's townhouse. The ride to his place had been shrouded in silence, and when they had gotten there, he showed her the bedroom, and she promptly fell asleep, the events of the day finally catching up with her.

She smiled as she looked at the blue blanket that covered her body. Intricate dragonflies were sewn on it, and she traced the insects, trying to keep her mind clear of any conscious thought. Thinking required too much effort, especially when she knew it would turn to subjects she'd rather not deal with at the moment.

Her gaze left the blanket and traveled to the walls. 'White.' A frown settled on her face. The only item on the wall was a dragonfly displayed behind glass. The dressers were bare, and the nightstand simply held a white lamp. Catherine had often joked about the sterility of Grissom's townhouse and she had always rolled her eyes at the comments, but now, looking at the room, she understood the bleakness the other woman was talking about.

Sara sighed and got off of the bed. She quickly put on her pants and exited the room. Idleness was her greatest enemy. It allowed her mind to wander. There had to be something she could do. Meandering down the hallway, she looked at the hangings on the walls, more insects displayed behind glass. 'Does he have anything else on display in this house?' she wondered as she rounded the corner and entered the living room.

"What are you doing?" she asked, startled at how loud her voice sounded in the quiet.

Grissom looked up from his position and wore an expression that implied, 'What do you think?' He turned back to the floor, using the dust brush and pan to sweep up the glass and color that was scattered on the floor. She frowned, surprised that she hadn't heard the crash. 'Was I really that tired?'

She walked towards him, curious about the color she was seeing. Her eyes widened as she discovered that the spots of blue, green and red she saw were butterflies, broken and scattered about the floor. "What happened?" she asked, kneeling for a better look.

Upon receiving no answer, she watched him out of the corner of her eyes. He continued his movements, sweeping the glass and butterflies into the dustpan and emptying it into a small silver trashcan. Without thought, she scooped up a butterfly, carefully examining it. The deep violet-blue right wing was slightly crumpled, and the left had part of the outer white margin of the wing cut away, but otherwise, it was still beautiful.

"Lycaeides Argyrognomon Lotis," Sara said, tracing the large wing span. "You were simply going to throw away a Lotis Blue butterfly?" she added, looking warily at him.

He shrugged and continued sweeping the floor.

"Grissom, these are endangered," she chided. "You must have had this for years."

"Thirty-one," he said no emotion in his voice.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't simply throw it away!" she said exasperatedly and placed the butterfly out of harm's way.

She reached for another one, in part to determine what it was and also to save it from the trash bin. As she picked up a wing, she felt a piece of glass slice her hand. Cursing she pulled her hand back, sucking the cut on her finger. 'The glass must have been under the wing.'

"Damn it, Sara," Grissom scolded and clasped the injured hand in one of his.

He eyed the cut warily before releasing her hand, rising, and leaving the room. She watched him leave, once again sucking the wound, and wondered what was going on with him. The Grissom she knew wouldn't throw away butterflies he had kept for over thirty years. He would have carefully collected every piece he could find and delicately glued each piece of wing, thorax, and abdomen back together with love and determination. She didn't know what was going on in his mind at the moment.

He returned a couple seconds later, a Band-Aid, cotton ball, and peroxide in his hands. Looking at his outstretched hand, she rolled her eyes and handed her own to him. Letting out a low hiss as he cleaned the cut, she studied him as he applied the Band-Aid. "Another scar that I've given you," he muttered and tossed the cotton ball in the bin.

"What is going on?" Sara snapped, desperate for something to make sense. "You're throwing butterflies away, you're talking about scars…I need an explanation."

He sighed, placed the peroxide bottle down, and reached for the brush, obviously intent on not answering her.

Her eyes narrowed, and she grabbed the pan. "You are obviously not thinking clearly right now," she said, removing butterfly remains carefully from it. "You'll regret throwing them away."

"It is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable," Grissom stated.

"Sidney J. Harris," she said, identifying the quote. "Why do you want to throw them away?"

"You should be asleep," he answered, trying to change the topic.

"So should you," she countered, glaring at him, silently challenging him to drop his gaze first.

The two sat in their positions for what seemed to be hours, but was only a few seconds, adamantly locking their gazes and neither willing to talk. They were both stubborn by nature, and neither found it easy to discuss how they were feeling, especially with one another. 'Some things never change,' Sara sighed and looked away.

"Fine," she said bitterly, dropping the butterfly remains back onto the floor and swiftly standing. If he didn't want to talk, she wasn't going to push him. She didn't have the energy for it anymore. "Do whatever the hell you want with them."

"A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us," Grissom stated.

She turned towards him and let out another sigh. "No more quotes, no more riddles or enigmas, Grissom," she pleaded, trying desperately to see inside the man before her. "I want your words, not someone else's words, just yours."

He looked at her, reminding her of a little boy lost in the woods, struggling desperately to get home again. "I don't know what you want me to say," he said, his voice so full of despair that it broke her heart. "I don't know what to say."

She watched his face shift through a multitude of emotions from grievous to melancholy as he struggled with words. Words by John Buchanan filled her mind, 'He disliked emotion, not because he felt lightly, but because he felt deeply.' That described the man across from her to a T. "What happened?" she asked, motioning to the broken display.

He looked at the shattered glass and broken wings and flinched. "They don't matter," he murmured softly, and she struggled to hear him. He turned his attention back to her, and she was taken back by the passion that shone through his eyes. "I looked around my house, at these displays, my life's ambition, and realized that none of it matters."

He picked up a broken wing and looked at it, tracing the delicate designs nature had created. "I am my father," he said, defeat encompassing him. He looked back at her, sadness replacing the passion. "He left my mother and me. I always told myself that I would not be like him. I would not hurt anyone I loved the way he did to the two of us. But I've been doing it for years."

It was her turn to look away, afraid of the feelings he would see in her own eyes. His hand cupped her chin and gently lifted her head so he could see her eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured, resting his forehead on hers. "God, Sara."

Slowly, she brought her lips to his, trying to convey all of her emotions into one simple act.

His hands moved from her chin to her neck, gently massaging it as her arms wrapped around his neck. His mouth moved from hers, placing kisses down her neck and eliciting moans from her as his hands began traveling down her back, causing her body to tingle with each touch. His mouth reclaimed hers, deepening the kiss and causing her head to spin from the sensations he was evoking.

He knew they were moving too fast, jumping headfirst instead of sitting back and analyzing what was happening between them. And for once in his life, Gil Grissom didn't give a damn; he was going to allow his emotions to lead him, if only for this brief moment in time.


'Too fast, god, we're going too fast.' Sara moaned as his hands traveled under the t-shirt she was wearing, caressing her sides and rising slowly up her torso. Every rational part of her was screaming for her to pull away. They needed to talk, figure things out, before they got to the stage they had jumped to, but the feelings he was evoking from her were pushing all rational thought to the back of her mind.

Somehow they had moved from their standing location to the couch, or as close to a couch as he had in this house. She was unsure what had happened; the events of the previous few minutes had become a haze of pleasure, making her head spin. His mouth reclaimed hers, his tongue edging its way back in as his right hand moved higher up her body, stopping to gently caress the underside of one breast.

Rational thought ceased to exist, her moan quickly engulfed by his mouth. This was a side to Gil Grissom she had yearned to see for more years than she could recall. The passion he held for his work, the intensity he had for each case, all of it was being focused on her. The way his hands moved over every inch of her it was as if he was trying to catalogue the differences that he could see, touch, taste, and smell. 'Ever the scientist.'

She inhaled quickly when his tongue touched a particularly sensitive spot on her neck, a shudder moving down her body. She tightly gripped his shoulders, his constant attention eliciting another moan from deep within her.

The harsh tone of a cell phone rang throughout the townhouse, causing the two of them to halt their actions. Grissom groaned and moved off of her, removing the offending object from his pants pocket. "Grissom," he answered gruffly.

Sara took the opportunity to tug her shirt back into place and then began smoothing her hair down, trying to get it under control. She didn't watch him as he talked on the phone, a strange sense of foreboding filling her body. Now that their brief lapse of irrational behavior was over, how would he react? Would he revert to his standard closed off behavior, keeping her at arms length and placing an invisible wall between them? She didn't know if she would be able to handle that.

She heard him end the call and readied herself for his detachment, willing herself to create the stony exterior that she could exude. She wouldn't let him see her break. Slowly, she looked up, his frown the first thing she saw. "I need to work hard on earning your trust back," he said, his voice full of sadness.

She opened her mouth to tell him differently but thought better. "Who was on the phone?" she asked, giving a classic Grissom response by avoiding the issue at hand.

His blue eyes watched her carefully before he answered, "It was Catherine. They have the results."


Dr. Doyle sat with his back against the chair, looking disdainfully at the sleeve of his jacket and occasionally brushing it to smooth the fabric, exuding an air of superiority. The doctor's demeanor made Grissom want to barge into the room and confront him with all of the evidence; to wipe the arrogance off of his smug face. Well crafted restraint and the presence of the swing and night shift, minus Sofia, kept him from acting on his impulse.

"We have more than enough evidence to put him away for good," Greg remarked, breaking the silence.

"He isn't going to get away with it," Nick added.

"I just want to know why," Sara said and stepped forward, coming to stand at Grissom's side by the mirror. "Why did he kill these women? Why did he have my stuff? Just, why?"

He turned to look at her, amazed by the strength, the energy, that she possessed. Even with all that had happened to her in the last few days, hell, with all that she dealt with growing up, she was still able to stand before all of them, to continue on. Examining her closely, he briefly wondered if he had it all wrong. Was she really handling it all okay, or was it all merely a façade she had perfected over the years in order to keep herself sane? She looked at him, and he swore he could see a deep sadness in her chocolate eyes.

"Ready, Grissom?" Brass asked from the doorway, interrupting any further rumination.

He allowed his hand to graze her arm as he turned, offering her a small form of support, before following Brass out of the room. Entering the interrogation room, he readied himself for his encounter with Dr. Doyle. It took all of his self-control not to wipe the smarmy smile from the man's face.

"Gentlemen, you best have more than circumstantial evidence, or my client will be suing this department for harassment," Mr. Pierce stated as Brass and Grissom took their seats.

"We wouldn't be here, Mr. Pierce, if we didn't have new information," Brass countered.

Grissom placed the folders he was carrying on the table and removed the top file. "We obtained a warrant for the property you own near Lake Mead," he stated and flipped the file open.

"Michelle's property," the doctor said, his demeanor faltering for a second, before glaring at the CSI.

Grissom removed several photographs, placing one down at a time. "Christine McGraw's suitcases, found under the bed in the master bedroom," he started and causally withdrew an evidence bag holding a dark blue passport. "As well as her passport," he added.

"Dr. Doyle, how was Ms. McGraw supposed to travel to Europe without either of those items?" Brass asked, leaning forward slightly, "And how did they manage to materialize in your house?"

Pierce leaned towards his client, but Doyle remained stoic, his eyes focused emotionlessly on Grissom. "Tell me, Dr. Grissom," the veterinarian began, "didn't you ever wonder why she moved out here? Away from the life she had established for herself?"

"William," his lawyer admonished, touching his client's arm to try and stop him from incriminating himself.

"She was happy in San Francisco. She had friends, a blossoming career, and I'd wager that she had her own share of romantic liaisons," Doyle continued, shrugging his lawyer's arm away. "And what does she have here? No friends, no relationships, and a career stuck in limbo. And yet, she spends more time at work than she does anywhere else. Why does she stay?"

Grissom ignored the man and pulled out the next piece of evidence, photographs of the clothing found in the trashcans and the reports on the fibers found. "We also located women's clothing in a trashcan," he stated, placing the information onto the table. "Lab analysis confirmed that the articles of clothing belonged to Kimberly Witt."

"Kimberly Witt?" Mr. Pierce asked, taking a closer look at the files that lay out before them.

"But you were alluring her before that, weren't you?" Doyle asked, ignoring his lawyer's attempts to talk. "She could have become a prominent figure in the world of physics. She was already making her mark at Berkley. But she left all of that behind too and became a crime scene analyst."

"We also found a bloody scalpel in the bathroom," Grissom continued, placing photographs of the object on the table. "Kimberly Witt's blood."

Doyle shook his head. "That isn't all you found though, is it, Dr. Grissom?" he asked and picked up the pictures on the table, looked at each one, and let them drop to the table.

Looking back up, a predatory smile appeared on his face. "Where are the other photographs that you took?" he asked, amusement in his voice. "Did you enjoy the layout of the hallway closet?"

Grissom's knuckles were turning white from the force he was using to keep them in his lap. He was sure that the fury he was feeling was shining through loud and clear in his eyes. The man was baiting him, trying to get him to erupt, and he was doing a damn good job. He stared at the doctor, refusing to react to the attempts.

"I would never have killed her, you know," Doyle mused, pushing the photographs back towards him.

"William," his lawyer snapped.

The doctor chuckled. "Go, Ben, I don't need you here," he said. "They have all the evidence they'll ever need to put me away."

Doyle smiled and redirected his attention to Grissom. "But it isn't enough, is it, Dr. Grissom?" he asked, tapping the table with his fingers. "You want to know why."

He looked past the entomologist and at the two way mirror. "Rather, the enchanting Ms. Sidle wants to know why," he added, nodding his head towards the mirror.

On the other side of the glass, Sara shivered, feeling the man's eyes on her, even though she knew it was impossible for him to see her. She felt Nick's hand rest on her shoulder, offering her his support, and she smiled at him, grateful for his friendship. Turning back to the glass, she studied Doyle, hoping he would explain why he had destroyed so many lives.

"William, I really must insist--" Pierce said, trying to halt his client's actions.

"Leave, Ben," Doyle interrupted, shooting a scathing look at his lawyer. When Pierce still had not risen, he looked at Brass. "I no longer require counsel, Captain. Please remove him from these proceedings."

Brass raised an eyebrow before rising and motioning for the lawyer to follow. "You have to respect his wishes," he stated and opened the door.

"His uncle will hear of this," Pierce said and exited the room.

Brass closed the door and took his seat.

"That's better," Doyle said, nonchalantly flicking something from his jacket. "So, where were we? Ah, yes, Ms. Sidle wants to know why."

He rose from his seat and walked towards the mirror.

On the other side, Sara took an unconscious step backward.

"You are always struggling with the why, aren't you my dear," he mused, searching the glass for a way to see into the room beyond. "You collect and analyze evidence, putting together intricate puzzles that tell what happened and how it happened, but I'm sure the reasoning behind people's actions isn't always clear. Isn't that right, Dr. Grissom?"

He looked back at the CSI and smiled. "Does she ever get particularly wrapped up in a case, putting her heart and soul into finding out what happened, and leaving you wondering when she'll burn out and be unable to handle the job anymore?" he asked, voicing concerns Grissom had felt toward her on more than one occasion.

The CSI didn't respond, looking dispassionately at Doyle, trying to control the fury that wanted release. He wanted to know how this man had come to know so much about Sara.

The veterinarian turned back to the mirror, a devilish smile on his face. "Do you ever look at a victim and see yourself in them, Sara?" he asked. "Are old wounds and scars that you long thought buried brought to life again?"

Sara fought the overwhelming urge to turn away from the glass. The way in which the doctor was able to analyze her thoughts was scaring her.

"Do you think that by helping one more victim of abuse, one more young woman that was raped, that you'll be able to understand the reasoning your mother had to kill your father?" he finished, his fingers grazing the glass.

Sara gasped, her hands wrapping around her torso in a protective manner, staring at him through the mirror. She closed her eyes, hearing the sounds of her coworkers' shock and feeling all of their questioning gazes on her. She felt like throwing up, her body's flight response trying to urge her to flee from the room and away from the pain around her. Opening her eyes, she fixed them on Doyle's, all of her rage and desperation focused on him.

"Sit down!" she heard Grissom growl, and she shifted her attention to him, surprised by the intensity, the fury that was in his voice.

Doyle laughed, his body shaking from the sound. "And he's still trying to be your knight," he said, motioning towards Grissom.

Brass stood, in part to block his friend from doing anything inappropriate, and also to finish this charade. "Dr. William Doyle, you are under arrest for the murders of Christine McGraw and Kimberly Witt," he said, and knocked twice on the door.

A uniformed officer entered. As he continued issuing the Miranda rights, Doyle looked back at the mirror and smiled sadly. "We could have had a beautiful life together, Sara," he said. "Unfortunately, you chose not to accept my advances, as did the others. They died for their insolence. You didn't, but will you ever be the same?"

"Get him out of here," Brass ordered.

"Are you okay?" Catherine asked, interrupting the silence in the room.

Sara closed her eyes, dreading the compassion and hating the pity that was intertwined in the other woman's voice. All of the unwanted attention, the pity, the forced compassion, the uncertainty that those around her expressed, was all coming back. She opened her eyes and took one look at her friends. What she saw in their eyes was what she had tried so hard to overcome. She was no longer Sara Sidle, CSI, to them. She was Sara Sidle, victim. The girl whose father was stabbed to death.

She did what she had done every other time she was confronted with this reality. She ran.