Disclaimer: Again, CSI is not mine. The lines aren't mine. Everything in between them is. Like the word 'the'. You know what else I use a lot? Ellipses. You know, these things - (…). I've decided I own them now, too. Feel free to use them and 'the' whenever you like. I'm generous like that.

Rating, Beta Props, etc. – See Chapter 1.

A/N: This one was a little harder. Boy I'm having fun, though. First and last lines of the YTDAW Improv challenge were provided, and are italicized. Microsoft Word says 1,967 words.

Sara frowned as water ran down the wall. "This is not good," she mumbled.

Catherine stood beside her, staring at the small river running from the wall to the back door of the house. "Haven't we done this before?"

"Yes," Sara replied, "and it wasn't pretty."

"Let's just hope history isn't repeating itself on this one."

Both women stepped over the river and into the living room, where a distraught woman was snuffling while speaking with O'Reilly.

A uniform directed them up the narrow stairs, and they walked down the hallway to the bathroom. Luckily, this DB was lying on the bathroom floor, and not in the tub. The wife downstairs had found him this way when she returned home from grocery shopping. It appeared he'd been shaving, when someone had come along and whacked him on the head, killing him instantly. The water from one of the two sinks in the vanity had overflowed, running into the heating duct near the far wall.

"Wife did it," Catherine said plaintively. "Without a doubt." She sloshed her way to the sink and pointed toward the doorway. "He saw his attacker, and wasn't alarmed. There are no defensive wounds. How much do you want to bet he was having an affair and she found out, like oh, a couple of hours ago?"

Sara gave a non-committal shrug. "We need a weapon." Both women nodded slightly at each other in agreement, and began to search the bathroom, and master bedroom.

"So," Catherine said with her back turned, rooting through the linen closet, "I heard you and Warrick have a new hobby."

Sara stiffened, but continued her search of the cabinets under the expansive vanity. She'd heard from Brass about his and Grissom's unexpected visit to the Black Velvet. The thought of having Grissom hear her made her nauseous and dizzy and furious all at once. And she suspected that word would get around – most likely from Brass. Catherine's knowledge confirmed that for her. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Are you two involved?"

"No."

Catherine closed the linen closet before continuing, her voice neutral. "If you are, it's okay by me. I'm happy for both of you."

"Catherine," Sara replied seriously, "we aren't involved. We're just friends."

"Oh." Catherine left the bathroom through the master bedroom doorway, scanning for any evidence of a person leaving the bathroom. "So," she called, "he plays piano while you sing, right?"

"Yes. On Thursday nights. Although this Thursday might be our last time if we can't get Grissom to approve our nights off together again."

"I can't believe he agreed at all." Catherine had done a quick search of the bedroom, finding nothing of interest. "Bedroom's clean."

Sara frowned a little. "Warrick handled it. I'm not sure how. But I suspect that whatever he did before, it won't work a second time. Aha…!"

Catherine stood behind Sara as she pulled a rather heavy straightening iron out from behind a set of towels. Close inspection showed a rather nice dent in the plastic casing surrounding one of the irons.

"Our weapon," Sara stated.

"Lovely. Let's head down and display this to wifey-poo. Death by flatiron; it's always something with this job."

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Warrick was stressed, and for him, stress was uncommon. Ever since he accepted he had a real addiction to gambling, and had sworn himself off that racket, his life had been simple, uneventful. He worked, he came home. He ate, he slept, and on really dull days, he plinked idly on his grandmother's piano. And there was the occasional outing with Nick or his friend Pete to the local bars, cruising for hotties. It was pretty much routine, and it was boring as hell.

Then he'd heard Sara singing in the shower. Loudly enough to echo through the women's shower area, and into the common locker room. Why she was singing that day was a mystery, but he'd heard her singing softly to herself before, and that day clinched it. Warrick knew Vegas, and he knew music. The flicker of an idea became a flame, and now here they were, performing for a packed house every Thursday, making more money that Warrick thought imaginable. And the one man Warrick respected most was about to take that all away from him.

Warrick stood outside Grissom's doorway, holding the same paperwork he'd had in his hands 8 weeks ago. The 'distract and nag' technique he pulled last time was not going to work again. But he had to try. He kept telling himself it was for Sara's sake, but really, it was for his own. He loved playing. He loved how his 'voice' complemented Sara's. They had talked about original pieces, and his friend Pete, who was now their drummer, had some ideas. Losing this would be a crushing blow to them all. Warrick wasn't about to let that happen.

"Got a minute, boss?" Warrick asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. He'd heard about his unexpected visit to the club from Sara. It was typical of Brass not to speak with him; they'd never gotten along very well. At least Sara was Jim's surrogate daughter, or whatever it was between them. Irregardless, he knew Jim would never let anything bad happen to Sara if he could help it.

Warrick watched as Grissom's eyes went from a mild, milky blue to dark steel. Wow, he's pissed.

"Yes? May I help you?"

Holy shit. Grissom wasn't even holding back on this. The sarcasm flowed off his words like a raging river.

"Grissom, you know Sara and I are performing on Thursday nights at a local club. You know why I'm here. I need for you to approve for us to have Thursday nights as our night off again."

Grissom lowered his glasses slowly, shooting Warrick one of the most venomous glares he had ever seen on Grissom's face. He pushed them gently back into place and focused his attention back on the paperwork on his desk.

"No. You're dismissed."

"Grissom, don't be like this."

"I said no. You're dismissed."

Warrick growled softly to himself. Grissom was a pig-headed old fool, and Warrick knew this was personal with him. Anything that involved Sara was personal with Grissom.

Warrick straightened himself, preparing for battle. "I need a reason. A logical reason why this was acceptable before, but it is unacceptable now."

Again with the glasses-lowering and the glare. "It wasn't acceptable before; you sneaked it by me without my conscious knowledge. Which is commendable, and I'm glad you and she had fun together. But fun-time is over; this lab can't function when it is short two CSIs."

"Grissom, that's bullshit. It functioned just fine and Greg is already close to passing his Level 1 exams."

"Greg isn't ready for the field. And my decision is final. Dismissed." And Grissom waved at him distractedly, like Warrick was a pesky fly buzzing around his oh-so-superior head.

Something in Warrick snapped. Grissom needed to be taken down a peg. "You're making this personal. You can't control her, you know." Warrick suspected that would get a reaction from Grissom. It did. If the anger coming off Grissom was bad before, it was nothing compared to the almost-tangible rage Warrick sensed now. The air in the office was thick with it.

"You are both under my supervision. I can, and will, decide whether or not I need one or both of you on a given evening, based on the caseload at any given time. Having the two of you unavailable is unacceptable."

"Give me a break. There was only one night, one night that the caseload was heavy. And our last set ends around one in the morning. If you needed us, we both could have come in. You just don't want her to have a life beyond this lab, beyond where you can control her." Damn, he was pushing it. Warrick knew it. He'd never been so brazen or disrespectful with Grissom before. But Warrick's newfound love of the stage, of the crowd, of the pride within himself, it overrode his respect for the man in front of him. "This means everything to her. And she deserves to be happy."

Silence hovered in the air. "I suppose you feel you're the best man for that job," Grissom murmured, his voice tense.

"I could be," Warrick said smugly, baiting him. Grissom's feelings rarely showed themselves, and Warrick had already accepted he would have to go to the sheriff for the approval. However, this was a golden opportunity to get a glimpse into the inner-Grissom, and maybe get a clue how he really felt for Sara. The temptation was overwhelming.

Grissom looked stricken. Something was at war within him; Warrick could see the tension lining his face. Grissom looked down as he spoke, his words heavy with resentment and disgust. "Then have her. She's yours. I wish you both well. Go sing. Or play. Or whatever it is you do. Get married and breed and buy a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. Knock yourselves out." And Grissom reached out his hand for the forms.

Warrick was stunned. He just stood there, his mouth slightly agape, speechless.

"The forms?" Grissom asked with no small amount of ire.

Warrick handed them to him, still in mild shock at this unexpected outcome. Grissom signed them quickly, pressing hard against the paper with his pen. He handed them back without a word.

"Thank you," Warrick managed.

Grissom had returned to his paperwork, acting as if Warrick wasn't even in the room. Warrick stood, wanting to tell Grissom that he and Sara were not involved, and that the odds of them 'breeding' were about a zillion to nothing. Warrick smirked to himself, imagining Sara kicking his ass if he'd tried to put the moves on her.

"Glad to have made your day," Grissom replied, noticing the smirk, and mistaking its cause.

"You have," Warrick replied evilly, heading for the door. That was wrong. I shouldn't toy with him like that.

As Warrick was leaving, he heard Grissom behind him mumble softly, "Take care of her."

Warrick was floored by the echo of utter defeat in Grissom's voice. Guilt flooded him. God, why'd I have to be such a jerk? I just broke his asinine stubborn old-fool heart. Dammit!

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At the end of the shift, Catherine knocked softly on Grissom's doorway. He was packing up his briefcase, just as he had done every night since he'd started working in this lab. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, it felt like he was packing away all that he had left of his life, of his soul. As he stuffed papers and files and pens into their various pockets, he treated them with care. They were all he had now.

"Bad shift, huh?" she asked softly. She could always read him, even when he tried to hide himself from her.

"Just tired," he said softly.

"Oh boy," she said. "I heard you signed off on their paperwork. So they'll have Thursdays off again."

"I did."

"Why? You know we're short-handed when they're both not here."

"They asked."

"Bullshit. That's not the reason. So why'd you do it?"

"It's Monday," Grissom said with a shrug.

… continued next chapter ->