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-Five

'…seven, eight, nine…' Gil Grissom silently counted, his eyes closed as he leaned with his palms flat against the table. He needed to regroup before leaving the room. Thankfully, Brass had been able to remove Doyle from the proceedings before he had lost his temper. He knew the veterinarian had been baiting him, trying to get him to lose control, and bringing Sara into the conversation was the best ammunition.

His eyes flew open and he looked towards the mirror. 'Sara…' he thought and exited the room. Doyle had brought up her past and the others had no doubt heard his comments. There was no telling how she would react to her coworkers finding out about it.

Entering the observation room he knew she had left without an explanation by the looks on their faces. "Where is she?" he asked, hoping they knew which direction she had taken off in.

"Did you know about this, Grissom?" Catherine asked, looking at him with suspicion.

Grissom narrowed his eyes, and repeated his question. "Where is she?"

"She ran towards the back entrance," Greg said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Grissom!" Catherine yelled, demanding his attention.

"I do not have the time, nor do I feel the need to answer your questions right now, Catherine," he snapped and took off down the hallway.

She didn't have her keys or her purse with her, so he kept telling himself that she couldn't have gotten that far. His mind raced with conflicting emotions. There was resentment towards Catherine's demanding nature, disappointment in the others for not running after Sara, worry for Sara and how she had reacted, and a sense of anger that he had never experienced before directed towards Dr. Doyle.

He exited the police department and looked frantically around the back parking lot, hoping to spot a glimpse of her somewhere. Thankfully, he didn't have to look far. He found her leaning against his Denali, looking out at the parking lot. Her current expression reminded him of when he had found her after the lab accident, dazed and confused, not quite as responsive as she should be.

He froze in mid stride, unsure how to talk to her. He had no idea what she needed right now, no idea of how to help her through this. Looking at her dejected form, images of himself at five years old, sitting on the curb of the sidewalk, waiting for his father to finally come home, flashed in front of him. All he had ever wanted was for someone to sit with him. He didn't need anyone to talk to; he didn't want the consoling, empty promise that it would all be okay. All he needed was for someone to hold his hand and show that they were there for him.

He quietly walked forward and leaned against the Denali. Silence was easy for him. Slowly, he took her hand in his and gently began to caress it. They stood there for a few seconds before she looked up at him, finally acknowledging his presence. The door to the department opened and she cringed.

"Come on," he said, tugging her hand and unlocking the SUV.

She offered no resistance and got into the SUV, closing the door and buckling herself in. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Grissom was unsure what the next step should be but had no intention of letting her go through it alone.


Shock, pity, concern, worry, discomfort. They were all words that described the looks on her friends' faces when she had turned around in the observation room. None of their gazes would quite meet her own. Nick's supportive hand on her shoulder had dropped when Doyle had uttered the words she never wanted them to hear. She knew he hadn't meant to do so, that in his state of shock, his arm had withdrawn unconsciously, but it still hurt.

She had grown up with those types of looks. Each time a friend, a foster parent, or one of the kids in the new foster home found out what happened, they had those looks on their faces. The mixture of pity, uncertainty, and discomfort made her want to scream, to punch, to do something to wipe the expression from their faces. But she never could. She was Sara Sidle, and she was determined not to become like her parents; she wouldn't allow herself to act out in rage like they did. She would keep that rage buried deep within herself and show the world that she wasn't like them.

The looks weren't the worse part though. It was the way people treated her after they found out. It was never quite the same relationship as they had before they knew. The only person who hadn't treated her differently had been Grissom. Well, maybe that was wrong, he did treat her differently, but not in the same manner as everyone else had. While others had coddled and pitied her, he had not.

Wrapping her arms tighter around her body, she forced herself to look at him. Even now, he didn't show signs of pity nor was he trying to be understanding; he was just there. As he pulled into his parking space, she wondered what they were going to do.

"Hungry?" he asked. "We should probably order something since I don't think I have anything of sustenance in my fridge. Well, nothing without meat."

She nodded and exited the vehicle with him. As they were walking up the steps to his front door, she heard her cell phone start ringing. Extracting it from her pocket, she looked at it, wondering who could be calling her. It was probably Nick, maybe even Greg, wanting to know what was going on. She was not in the mood to talk to anyone. After the ringing stopped, she opened her phone, changed the setting to silent, and pocketed it.

Looking up, she shifted uncomfortably under Grissom's unwavering gaze. He studied her for a moment before unlocking the door and letting them both in.

She held back a sigh of relief and followed him into his townhouse, smiling wryly at the fact that he had brought her back to his place. 'Though, I suppose my apartment is still considered a crime scene,' she thought, her smile faltering.

As they entered further into the townhouse she instinctively wrapped her arms around her torso, her gaze anywhere but the man in front of her. It was midday, and the house was dark, tiny slivers of light escaping through the blinds. She looked around the room, shaking her head at the stark white of the walls, reminded once again of the similarities it had with the bleakness of the morgue. She wandered deeper into his abode, keeping him in her peripheral vision, unsure if she should head straight for the spare bedroom and close the door or if she should take up residence on the couch in the living room. Instinct wanted her to choose the room; his steadfast gaze on her was making her lean towards the couch.

She turned her attention to the couch, a smile threatening to grace her face as she remembered the last time she had been on it. Casting a quick look at him, the underlying passion in his eyes told her he was also thinking back on it. The shrill ringing of his cell phone cut through the air, and she sat on the couch, focusing her attention on the shards of glass and array of color that were still scattered on the floor. His cell kept ringing and she turned to look at him, surprised when he opened and then quickly shut it.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Her eyes widened, unsure what he meant by the question.

"To eat," he clarified, and she almost laughed in spite of herself.

She shrugged. "I'm not really all that hungry," she said, turning her attention back to the floor.

'Maybe I should have chosen the bedroom.' Her gaze roamed over the carnage, identifying pieces of wings, thoraxes, and abdomens. No matter how much time he put into it, Grissom might never be able to put all of them back together again. They were broken beyond repair. 'Like me.'

Anger and self-hatred filled her, her face contorting, fists clenched until they turned white. She closed her eyes, biting her lip until she tasted blood, desperately trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to erupt. She pulled her knees up to her, trying to effectively create armor around her that would allow her to push all of the emotions back inside of her.

In the back of her mind she felt that the couch had shifted under her, but it wasn't until arms clumsily wrapped around her, pulling her towards his body, that she registered that Grissom was on the couch. She shifted her body, her hands coming to cling to his shirt, burying her face in his chest. Tears rushed from her eyes, heart wrenching sobs breaking free from her mouth. She cried for the loss of her innocence, the secrets she had carried around for so long, and the looks on her friends' faces when they had learned the truth, holding tightly to the only thing that was keeping her grounded at that moment in time.


"I don't understand how she could keep this a secret from us," Catherine huffed, removing a coffee mug from the break room's cabinets.

Nick rolled his eyes, careful to not look at her, as he redialed Sara's cell phone number. He scowled as it rang through again, finally directing him to her voicemail.

"How was she supposed to say anything to you?" Greg asked, glaring at the swing shift supervisor. "It's not like you and her have this deep sisterly love bond going on."

She looked at him, glaring daggers in his direction, her voice icy, "This isn't something trivial. If the defense ever learned about her past, they could use that in court. Say she was biased towards the victim."

"We're all biased towards the victim," Greg retorted.

"The fact that she has had personal involvement in domestic abuse cases--" Catherine started, attempting to sound diplomatic.

"That's bullshit!" Greg yelled, not caring about the wandering eyes being directed towards the room. "As her friends, we shouldn't be in here debating how her past affects her job performance. We should be out there showing her that we care and that we're here for her. But maybe you're so blinded by your new authority that you've forgotten what it means to be a friend." He shook his head angrily and stood. "I'm going to find Sara and show her I care," he vowed, and started towards the door.

"I'm coming with you," Nick stated, pressing redial and following Greg out the door.

Warrick took a long look at Catherine before standing. "You coming?" he asked.

She looked away from him, letting out a long sigh. Turning back, she nodded. "Let's go."


Eventually the sobs stopped and her tears ceased. At some point, Sara had pushed away from him, pulling her legs up to her body and resting her head on her knees as she watched him watch her. She was unsure how long they sat like that, each watching the other, waiting for the other to begin speaking.

"Why did you…" Grissom began, struggling for the right words. "Why did you leave the observation room?"

"I couldn't bear the look on their faces," she sighed. "I hate that look. The pity, the concern, I can't stand it."

It was her turn to struggle with words, stuck with how to coherently explain the reasoning behind it all. Rationally, shouldn't she appreciate those kinds of looks? That's what all the counselors had told her, what other foster kids had said. But she couldn't stand it. Maybe it was the stubborn streak in her, but she hated pity, she hated people worrying about her. It didn't help her; it didn't make the pain any less. All it did was make people uncomfortable.

"I've seen those looks too many times to count," she started, turning her head and focusing on the whiteness of the walls, anything to avoid looking at his blue eyes. "After…" she paused, forcing herself to say the words, "after my father died, I was brought to social services. I remember holding onto the woman's hand, walking out of our house into the bright sunlight and being startled by the looks of the neighbors. I had known these people all my life. I played with their kids, ran through their backyards for my shortcut to school. But the looks on their faces…the horror of something like that happening in their neighborhood."

She looked back at him, her eyes locking with his, desperate for someone to understand her feelings. "My first foster family lived three streets away from my old house. I went to the same school as I had before," she continued. "But nothing was the same. Every time they looked at me…god, Grissom…it was as if they were wondering when I would snap. When would little Sara Sidle go crazy like her mother?"

"Things got better at the next foster home. I didn't go to the same school. But when people learned what had happened, the pity, the exaggerated sympathy…I wanted to yell for them to stop it, to scream at the absurdity of it all. None of it made it any better. It didn't lessen the pain. All it did was make them uncomfortable and make me less and less social," she explained, pulling her knees tighter. "I did yell one time. My foster parents sent me to therapy, afraid of my outburst. Once anyone found out about my past, they've treated me differently, walking on eggshells around me, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, watching for signs…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him, finishing her sentence, her voice barely above a whisper, "that I might be like my mother."

Sara closed her eyes, thankful that her tear ducts seemed to be dried up. She couldn't bear crying in front of him again. At least with Grissom, the uneasiness in social interaction wasn't all due to her. She was able to rationalize away any uncomfortable feeling when around him to the usual awkwardness that was exhibited between them. She didn't expect anything from him, and that was probably why she was startled when she felt a hand run through her hair, drawing strands of it away from her tear streaked face.

Lifting her head, her eyes locked with his and then closed as he used both hands to wipe away hair and tears from her face. She sighed as his lips pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before he pulled her to him. She shifted in his arms, resting her head on his chest, keeping her eyes closed as his hands continued to caress her hair.

A melancholic smile broke out on her face, amazed that the man who had so many social qualms was the one to give her exactly what she needed. She was unsure how long they stayed in that position. Minutes, seconds, hours - time had a funny way of becoming obsolete when she was with him. The only reason they broke apart was because of the shrill ring of the doorbell.

Grissom sighed heavily. "Any wagers on who is at the door?" he asked, trying to smile at his joke, but failing miserly.

Sara smiled at the attempt and leaned back on the couch. "Maybe Nick or Greg," she replied and removed her cell phone from her pocket.

Flipping it open, she cringed at the 19 missed calls displayed on her screen.

"What do you want?" he asked his voice wary.

"I doubt this time your talking about food," she joked, immediately sighing at her lame attempt at humor. "I'm going to have to talk to them eventually. Let them in."

"You sure?" he asked, rising.

She shrugged and watched him walk away. She contemplated making her way to the bathroom to wipe her face but negated the idea quickly. No amount of water was going to wash away the emotional upheaval she had just endured.

"Hey, Sara," Nick said, his voice causing her to look up.

She kept any surprise from being visibly shown as she looked at the group of them standing on the threshold of the living room. Nick and Greg stood close together, Nick looking as though he was trying to decipher her current mood, Greg shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking off into space. Warrick looked at her, sympathy in his eyes, but she had a feeling it was directed more toward her current situation than what happened in her past. Grissom looked uncomfortably at the group. She could tell he was trying to determine where he should be, by her side or with the group.

Looking at Catherine, she felt an overwhelming urge to throw up overcome her. The suspicious gaze in her eyes and tense posture was becoming too much to bear. Sara looked away from them, focusing her attention on the crease that had developed in her shirt from the way she had been sitting.

Silence fell upon the room, encompassing them all in its uncomfortable cloak. She looked intently at the crease, memorizing the dips and turns with her eyes, biting her lips as the uneasiness grew.

"So I guess I'm not the only one with a dysfunctional family," Greg said, breaking the silence.

All eyes looked at him. Grissom had half a mind to throttle him where he stood and Nick looked like he was ready to join in. Both men ceased those thoughts and turned to look at Sara as loud, boisterous laughter erupted from her mouth. Warrick smirked and Catherine fought hard to stifle a grin.

Greg looked at all of them, smiling widely before moving to sit down by Sara. "What? I knew Sara and I had a special bond," he stated, winking lasciviously at her.

She found herself instantly grateful for his innocence. He never seemed to notice the eggshells and tended to plow right through them.

Nick rolled his eyes while Grissom felt a pang of jealousy overcome him. The feeling increased as she playfully punched the younger man. Her stomach took that moment to grumble and it was Warrick's turn to laugh.

"He not feeding you?" he asked, taking a chair from the dining table and turning it to face them before sitting down.

"We were just about to order something," Grissom grumbled, folding his arms in annoyance.

"Chinese," Nick said and took up residence in a seat by Warrick.

"We had that yesterday," Greg groaned before voicing his choice with conviction, "Pizza!"

"We always get pizza," Catherine said, sitting in a leather chair that was off to the side.

"I don't believe I ever invited any of you to eat with us," Grissom said exasperatedly.

"Well we have to order out, I doubt Bugman has anything edible in his fridge," Greg said, his face scrunching in concentration.

Grissom sighed, knowing any opposition he voiced wouldn't be taken seriously. He turned his attention to Sara, who flashed him a brilliant smile. He returned it, knowing he would go to hell and back to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles. Looking around at the group, his old team, he was thankful that they had put aside what ever reservations that they had and were acting normal. It was what she needed, to see that not everyone would treat her the way she was used to. Right now, at that moment, it was enough.