Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I own nothing.

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

A/N: I do apologize for the delay. It is difficult to write when the standards of our society have been twisted to provide warped rationalizations, and innocent people are dying due to a lack of motivation on the part of our government. But wallowing in self-pity does not solve anything, so I've accepted to do what I can, and to return to writing, as in a way – I provide a service to you folks out there. Like Sara and her singing, reading fanfic is a temporary distraction from the harshness of reality. So is writing it.

First and last lines of the YTDAW Improv challenge were provided, and are italicized. Microsoft Word says 1,877 words.

The resonating thud of the gavel was felt more than heard, and the air of satisfaction, of justice being served, echoed after it. But for Warrick, the resolution of yet another senseless death didn't matter right now. His mind was a million miles away; so lost in its thoughts that even his conscious self couldn't fathom what he was pondering.

Brass's elbow prodded into Warrick's ribcage, jarring him back into reality. "Psst, 'Rick. Wake up. Case closed."

"I'm awake."

Jim Brass clapped a friendly hand on Warrick's back. "You did good with this case. Good work."

"Yeah, thanks," Warrick said, trying to sound sincere but his words came out flat, dead-sounding.

Brass stiffened at his tone and Warrick sighed in frustration. "Sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind right now." The older man studied him, and his expression softened as the imaginary light bulb blinked on above his head. "Sara," Brass murmured. The two shared a silent understanding for a moment, until the crowd exiting the courtroom drove it away. They each went their separate ways once outside, but the moment was not forgotten by either of them.

Warrick's call into court was in the early afternoon, and now, four hours later, Warrick found himself again on another Thursday night with nothing to do. He headed towards home but changed his mind midway and stopped at a small sports bar on the east side of the Strip. He parked around back and removed his sport coat and tie, placing them carefully on the back seat.

When he walked inside, he found his buddy Pete engrossed in a game of pool off on the far right. With a nod to his friend, Warrick settled himself at the bar, and Ryan, the bartender, dropped off a bottle of Heineken in front of him without a backwards glance. Warrick smiled wryly to himself. They all knew him too well here.

As he scowled and sipped at his beer, his mind continued on the path it had started three days ago at breakfast with the rest of the gang. Sara. Grissom. Sara and Grissom together. Warrick felt lost, and extremely confused. Imagining Sara with Grissom made him very, very angry. The real question was 'Why?' Did he see himself with Sara? Was he jealous? He couldn't say, and his lack of understanding himself was frustrating the hell out of him.

Was he in love with Sara? Was that it? Part of him cried 'Yes!' but when he pictured them as a couple, holding hands or even kissing her, a strange sense of unease came over him. Yeah, so she was attractive. He wasn't oblivious to that. Yeah, her voice dripped sensuality when she was on stage. But that wasn't it. This wasn't about sex. This was about something more, and damned if he couldn't put his finger on it.

"So, my man, what's with the threads?"

Warrick jumped slightly, startled by his friend's arrival. Prodigal Pete - who walks on little cat feet. The guy should have been a burglar, not a disc jockey.

"Came from court. Anderson murder."

"Did the judge throw the book at 'em?" Pete asked eagerly. The Anderson murder was high profile in the black community, as Rupert Anderson had been attacked outside of his home by a group of white teenagers. Rupert Anderson was seventy-four years old, and the punks had kicked and beaten the poor black man when he wouldn't hand over his wallet. Warrick had processed the scene and found the discarded wallet in the hedge along Mr. Anderson's property. Smudged with blood on the outside, it held fifteen dollars in cash, an expired drivers license, an expired Sears card, and a photograph of him and his deceased wife on their wedding day. The poor guy didn't have a penny, and these prejudiced white trash punks had killed him over fifteen bucks that they didn't even take. It was the partial fingerprint in blood on the back of the wallet that had brought in one of the kids, and he had squealed like a pig about his cohorts.

"For the most part," Warrick replied. "They've all been found guilty. First-degree. It's what the prosecution was going for."

"I hope they fuckin' fry."

"Won't know until a month from now, at sentencing."

"So, you celebrating?" Pete asked. "Doesn't look it."

Warrick shrugged and took another scowl-forming sip from his beer. Damn shit is always so bitter.

Pete plopped himself on the bar stool next to Warrick. "This is about our songbird, isn't it," he said, his eyes dark with seriousness. Warrick didn't respond.

"You said she was coming back next week. What, that change?"

"No… I don't know." Another sip, another scowl.

"You piss her off or something?"

Warrick sniffed in bemused humor. "Haven't heard from her."

Pete's eyes went wide. "Holy fuck, you're not hot on her or something, are ya?"

This produced deep frown lines across Warrick's brow, and a dark expression on his face. He took a much larger swig of Heineken before answering, "Dunno."

"What about the blonde?"

Warrick sighed, thinking of Catherine. He did care for her. He longed for her. She was so wild and vivid and he just knew she'd be hell in the sack. And she was smart. And she was grounded. She knew Vegas like he did. She wasn't one of those brain-busting scientists like Grissom and Sara. She was like him, and she was just…

"Yoo-hoo," Pete sang, waving his hand in front of Warrick's face, "Anybody home?" Warrick snatched it with a fierce grip, and Pete's comical expression went to one of mild fear. He jerked his hand out of Warrick's grasp and stared at him harshly in defense.

As quickly as the tension between them developed, it passed. Warrick started idly picking at the label on the bottle, periodically drinking from the second that Ryan, the Stealth Bartender, had placed in front of him.

"So what is it," Pete asked flatly. "You're here, not home. So talk."

"My boss left town. Word is he's chasing after Sara."

"For what? Skipping work?"

"No," Warrick spat. "Because he wants her."

There was a pause before Pete said knowingly, "Like you want the blonde."

"Yeah."

"You all need to get out more," Pete chuckled to himself before studying Warrick again. "So, why the big deal if he does?"

"Dammit, it makes me want to pound his damned bearded face into a pulp. He called her a whore at work – because of her singing with us. Said she was nothing more than a two-bit whore."

Pete's knuckles grew pale as he gripped his Corona. "Don't think I like this guy much either."

"The thought of them together… man, it just sets me off." And with that, Warrick slammed the empty bottle against the wooden counter of the bar. Ryan gave him a questioning look, and Pete's face voiced his surprise. Warrick let out a massive sigh and stared off into the corner, not wanting to face the gazes of his friends.

"So what?" Pete said after a few moments passed. "It should. I'm not too happy to hear about this dickwad rippin' on our girl and then boffing her two minutes later, either. She deserves better than that."

"Of course she does," Warrick replied earnestly. "But it ain't my business what she does with her life like that." Bitterness coated his voice. "She ain't my lady. What right do I have to give a shit, you know?"

"Because man, she's your friend. You, like, want what's best for her and all that crap. Love her like a sister and all. You know," Pete was waving his hand haphazardly in his attempt to make his point, "emotional shit like that. Caring about her."

Was that it? Was she like a sister, a sibling? Like family? Warrick didn't know much about brothers and sisters; he'd grown up alone. And his grandma didn't take no bullcrap from nobody, so there weren't a lot of huggy-kissy moments from her in his childhood.

Warrick's expression must have changed, because Pete was staring at him curiously. "What?" Pete asked. "You never have a girl friend? Like, a girl that was just a friend?"

Warrick gave a half-shrug in moderate admission. It was true; he'd never really known a girl as only a friend.

Pete was staring at him, rather goggle-eyed. "You dog! All those bitches we've partied with. You weren't just friends with any of them? You nailed them all?"

Warrick's wide grin was his only reply.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The following night, Warrick walked into the lab with a light heart and a spring in his step. His world made sense to him again. The thought of Sara and Grissom together still didn't sit well with him, but at least he understood the reason why. Sister. She is my friend – like a sister. And he loved her. Somehow realizing the emotion for what it was set Warrick's mind at peace. This explained why he missed her, why he growled at the mere thought of Grissom, and why he didn't want her hurt. Nick's over-protectiveness of Sara in the past now made a lot more sense. We're her family. Family.

Labels were useful. Sara was a friend. Catherine was more than that. He caught her muttering darkly to herself in Grissom's office as he walked by, and he strode confidently through the doorway and stood nearby, glancing at the papers in front of her.

"He left you with a load of bullshit paperwork again, didn't he?"

Catherine sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, and understanding his handwriting and figuring out what he wants to do with all of this shit is making my head spin."

Warrick rested his hands along her shoulders, noticing the coolness of her skin against his. She tensed slightly at his touch, but then began to relax as he moved his thumbs against her neck. A soft moan came from her throat as he massaged her neck and shoulders.

"This okay?" he asked softly.

"Mmmm… fine…" she purred.

He leaned in close to her ear, the light scent of her shampoo filling his mind as he continued his ministrations. "How 'bout this? I'm here to serve; feel free to tell me how you like it."

... continued next chapter ->

A/N: So that was very Warrick-centric. I missed him – and really, this fic is as much about him and Sara as it is about GSR. And a little Yo!Bling is always nice.