Author's Note: This story has references (not graphic in nature however) to the deliberate and somewhat disturbing harm of a two month old baby girl which is why I'm putting this note in right now before people read any further. If anyone is sensitive to children - especially infants - being hurt or worse, I'd advise not to read. The reason I wrote this story in the first place is because I'd seen a story in a local newspaper about the same situation happening to a two week old child, and then found various other similar things have been happening inother parts of the world. I was so disturbed and saddened about it, and couldn't stop thinking about it,that the only way I could deal with it was to write about it. I'm hoping I won't be flamed for this story...

Big shout out to Sharon and Catherine, and huge shout out to my brand new beta Jess, who's suggestions added more to the story than I ever could.

Evil

"Sometimes you have to believe in absolute evil."

Sara Sidle felt a chill crawl up her back and rest at the nape of her neck at his words. In eight straight hours she'd seen a transformation in him that she'd never seen before. That angry stare in those deep blue eyes of his, the color draining from his cheeks more and more. As the shift had wore on, Grissom had become more and more reproachful of almost everything anyone in the team had done. His orders were stern, and when the team lacked in results, he only grew more frustrated.

Sara stood beside him at the bar, remembering how lively he'd seemed that morning, excited about being invited to give a seminar on forensic entomology in London – he'd been practically glowing. She longed to see that glow now and wondered solemnly if she ever would again.

The arrival of a high profile case had come up just at the start of their shift – bringing Grissom crashing back down to harsh Earth. For five days, the whole of Las Vegas had been aware of the kidnapping case of a two month old baby girl called Aziza – the daughter of an African immigrant and a Las Vegas showgirl. The case had belonged to dayshift, and no real evidence had been found as far as Sara had been able to tell from the case files she'd read.

And then just that night, baby Aziza had been found dead in a park – a dusty and torn trashbag had become her death shroud. Grissom, Sara and Greg had been called to the scene, Catherine was working solo on a murder case, and Warrick and Nick were still out in the field finishing up on another case.

Sara had felt an eerie silence arriving at that scene, to see Baby Aziza lying there on a black refuse bag, looking almost like a doll been having left there by a careless child. Greg sighed something about it being tragic to die before life had barely begun, and Sara had nodded, being unable to find her voice for the lump in her throat.

And then they both turned to Grissom, who was uncannily silent, even for Grissom. He stood there, his kit in hand, looking appalled. Sara couldn't quite recall him ever seeming that shocked by anything before, she'd never seen the blue in his eyes seem quite as misty.

David Phillips hadn't arrived yet to examine the body and determine time of death, but the three of them could examine the surrounding area, take crime scene photos and visually examine the child without touching her.

While Greg combed the area looking for clues, Sara stood by taking photographs, all the while glancing over to Grissom who was kneeling by the body of the baby, his expression pensive, his face seemed stretched, and Sara realized just how tense he was by this case.

She'd always known cases that involved children affected him more than he generally allowed, and when he fell into the kind of melancholy that those cases hebrought he had become irritated, and hostile and wouldn't rest until the case was closed.

The evidence had been easy to find. The whole case reeked of obvious inexperience – it seemed clear that the killer had not premeditated the crime or the dumping of the infant's body in the park. While that fact had certainly left the case easier to solve, it had also left everyone on the scene with a profound sadness at the lack of care of the infant's remain.

As Sara was taking a cast of a footprint, she had watched as David Phillips had – somewhat reluctantly – allowed Grissom to pick up Baby Aziza and take her to the coroners van. Everyone on the scene knew the reasons why Grissom shouldn't have been allowed to touch the child and Sara knew that it wasn't just the repercussions the lab could face that was concerning everyone. .There'd been a moment when Grissom had paused, staring at the lifeless baby, and just as the life had been stolen from the child, the life seemed to drain from Grissom's face completely; his face became a painting, caught in perpetual sadness.

It wasn't until they arrived at the morgue together – she and Grissom while Greg went to hand the evidence in to the appropriate labs – that they found out the extent of baby Aziza's injuries.

She'd been dead nineteen hours, she'd suffered a blow to the back of the head but it hadn't been what had killed her. When Doctor Robbins had stood there and explained that the infant had been repeatedly raped and that her internal injuries had killed her, Sara had stood there watching the last few layers of sanity in Grissom peeling away.

He'd left the morgue without saying anything, and had refused to speak to anyone for the next hour. He'd retired to his office for some much needed brooding.

Grissom's office door was generally open to anyone who wished to wander in, there'd always been something inviting about that. Now, that door was closed, and the office only dimly lit; it was like a warning sign to keep away while he brooded. Not that anyone needed a warning sign – everyone at work seemed to sense when Grissom needed to be alone, and now was one of those times. Even Ecklie – who Sara felt might be the most unsympathetic and tactless man alive – seemed to be respectful enough of Grissom to stay away for that hour.

While passing by, Sara had been able to glance through the glass of his office door. The blinds were open, and she could see him there, lips pursed, brow furrowing, eyes glued to the desk yet not quite seeing it. She could see the anger in his expression, the sadness, and most of all, that he was asking himself over and over again 'why?'.

Seeing him like that killed Sara inside. Perhaps it was that she understood how it felt to be emotionally attached to a victim – to want justice and know that whatever justice was served would never amount to the pain the victim and the victim's family had suffered. Sara hated that about justice.

The next five hours had been spent chasing leads – and managing to trace the evidence to the killer, a fifty-two year old man known as Harold Rossiter. He was on the sex offenders list for molesting a six year old and viewing pornographic material of young children.

He should have never been released from prison; he should have been castrated and left in a dark cell alone to rot, Sara thought as she'd watched Harold Rossiter through the glass from the annex of interview room two.

Grissom and Greg were sitting in there questioning Rossiter. The tone of Grissom's voice had begun to grow harsher, colder, and his line of questioning was persistent and more cruel than was in his usual nature.

Sara felt Grissom's behavior was more than justified. She could almost imagine Grissom reaching over the table, grabbing Rossiter by the throat and throwing him to the floor to smash his head against the cold tiles until blood seeped along the grooves like tiny red rivers. The thought made her shudder but she forced it into the back of her mind – just like she'd been trying to force out of her mind the thought of what Rossiter had done to baby Aziza.

"I've always believed in Evil," Sara confessed, bringing her thoughts back to now, back to the bar where she was sitting beside Gil Grissom. "I just thought I'd seen the extent of it – up until this case."

"How'd you know I was here?" Grissom asked dully, he emptied the dregs from his bottle into his mouth and pushed it aside and ordered another.

Sara picked up a nearby beer mat and studied it absently, many a stain had tainted the once colorful and pristine cardboard. Hours of life having been drank away – evidence of it right here on this mat, she thought miserably.

"I saw you take off from work half an hour early. You never do that, I was worried."

"So you followed me?" he asked, he glanced at her from the corners of his eyes, his posture straightened ever so slightly.

"No," Sara replied coolly. "Catherine mentioned you might be here – since you didn't take your car with you."

"Oh," was his response, his eyes dropped back to the bar again, his shoulders slumped a little more as if he were comfortable enough with that explanation to relax a little.

And then silence fell between them. Sara wasn't sure how to begin to express her extreme concern over him, and it seemed Grissom wasn't sure if he wanted to talk or not so he sat downing his beer with a reckless abandon Sara had never seen before.

Sara gave a sigh and ordered a beer by calling to the bartender. She invited herself to sit on the barstool at Grissom's left side, and let her elbows rest on the dark wooden bar that was etched with a lifetime of scratches and stains.

"I know what you're going to say," Grissom mumbled, finally breaking the silence. He was staring down into his bottle of beer. "It's the same thing I've told you time and time again. You can't get attached to victims – no victim is special."

She turned to Grissom. "No," she replied. "I know what you're feeling. An innocent life was taken, and it's unfair and cruel, and nothing that the criminal justice system can do to Harold Rossiter will ever make up for what happened to that baby."

"You're right, nothing will," Grissom uttered coldly. "You know…sometimes I can understand people who kill other people for reasons like jealousy or revenge…" he admitted. "But I just can't understand people who hurt a child…"

"No one can," Sara said as she watched him finish the beer – it had been the second she'd seen him drain since entering only five minutes ago. She felt mild alarm at this, but had to reassure herself there was nothing wrong with it. His car is at work, he's a grown man, and if he gets too drunk to walk, I'm here, she thought. If I need to, I'll take him home.

Grissom ordered another beer – Sara silently hoped it would be his last. "How can someone see this tiny thing…this tiny person…as a sexual object? How could someone take an innocent child and—"

Sara stopped him by reaching out and touching his arm. "It doesn't matter how hard we try, Grissom, we'll never be capable of understanding. Maybe we're better off trying not to understand it."

Grissom turned and looked at her, then down to her hand which had remained gentle on his forearm. "It doesn't seem to matter how much I can remain emotionally unattached to everything I work with. When kids are involved…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. There was a look of pain on his face.

Sara nodded but couldn't find the words to finish his sentence for him or to console him, so she fell silent, removing her hand from his arm, and placing it back on the bar.

"You once said to me you wished you were like me – you said I don't feel anything." The volume of his voice, the tone of it, seemed to lower, until he was barely speaking under his breath. He drained half of his bottle in one mouthful before continuing. "I do," he sighed. "More than you or anyone else would probably ever know."

It surprised her he remembered her saying that, and it surprised her even more that he was admitting to it.

"And that's why I have to try and close myself off to everything because…if you let yourself feel too much, it consumes you."

Everything else in the bar seemed to fade away, as if they were sitting in a dark room together alone, with nothing but the bar to lean against and their beers to keep them company. Sitting next to Grissom there at that very Sara suddenly had never felt more alone in her life.

"I couldn't close myself off," Grissom then confessed, his eyes darkened, "and I've never wanted to cause so much pain to anyone in my life as much as I did with Rossiter."

"I know," Sara replied.

He frowned. "You do?" he asked, not looking at her.

"I saw it in your eyes…" she sighed.

"I knew before I'd arrived at the crime scene I should have taken myself away from that case…" he grumbled bitterly after another sip from the bottle.

"No…no, not at all…" Sara stated softly, "It doesn't matter if you know it's going to consume you…and it doesn't matter if you know that you'll have problems with the case. You face it, because you know if you don't you'll never be able to forgive yourself."

He gave a slight nod, agreeing solemnly.

"It's as if…the only solace you can receive is from dedicating yourself to the case until you're done. But you don't do it for the solace. You do it because in your heart you know that's what's right."

Grissom turned to her again, and stared her right in the eyes, "I should have known you'd understand," he murmured, his lips momentarily curled in a tiny smile.

She tried to smile too, but couldn't, the effort felt as if she were trying to fill a glass with water only to find there was a hole in the bottom of the glass – pointless. Even smiling would leave her empty.

"It hurts, Sara. It hurts so much. I'm mourning for a child I never knew. And I've seen so many dead children over the years that I should be immune to it by now…"

"Do you wish you were?" Sara asked quietly.

"Maybe," he admitted in an emotional croak. He looked away from her, a guilty expression on his face. It broke her heart to see him like this, it broke her heart that his was breaking.

She felt tears forming in her eyes and she had to close them and take a slow deep breath to force it back. "If you were immune to it, you wouldn't be half the man you are."

He closed his eyes and sighed, "I'm barely half a man now."

At that moment she would have given anything to be able to reach out to him and touch his cheek, or take him in her arms and kiss away all his pain. He was a man she wasn't sure could be comforted by her or anyone else. There'd been a time she'd thought she could reach out to him and that he'd reach back. Now it seemed that if she reached to him, he backed away further and further.

"I don't think I can do this anymore…"

Sara blinked, "Hmm?"

"I don't think I can do this anymore. This. This job," he frowned. "It's like…" he took a quick swig from the bottle, "…pieces of my soul are being stripped away. I know it sounds absurd…"

"No, no it doesn't. I've felt it too. I've been at the point I've thought there's no justice, and that everything is just completely pointless, that everything I do has no meaning. But then I've had to stop and think about all the work I've done that might have brought some peace of mind to some. I can't turn back time and bring back lives but I can find the bastards who took those lives and I can bring them to justice."

They looked at each other at the same moment, eyes meeting, searching through the pain for a kindred soul. Her soul was an open book, and up until now, his had always been hidden. Now, it was like staring through clear glass. She could see it, she just couldn't touch it.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I'm sorry for all the times you've been hurting and helpless over cases and I've come down on you with rules and orders and never took a minute to truly understand," he shook his head at himself, "I never knew how bad it could feel…until now."

Sara nodded.

He put his head in his hands, "I knew always knew there was so much evil in the world – I always knew it was there, on every street, in every supermarket, in every apartment building, there was always some form of it. I used to be able to ignore it."

"And now?"

"Evil touched that baby, Sara, and when I touched that baby the icy fingers of evil touched me too," he whispered, and shuddered slightly, his breath shaky. "I can feel it, clinging to me…" he lowered his hands and looked down, as if he were still holding the baby, as if he could see her in his hands. "I have this hatred for Harold Rossiter burning in every vein in my body, I have this…this physical ache to hurt him… "

Sara could see his hands were shaking, she ached to grab them to stop it from happening.

"In my head I see it. Armed guards leading Harold Rossiter out of court, he's been sentenced to life, but it's not enough, bastard couldn't even get the death penalty. There's a huge gathering of press outside, cameras flashing left and right, reporters crying out for answers to questions. Angry mobs screaming for justice, the DA is there, advising him not to answer any questions. And then a gun goes off…and Rossiter's head explodes in red…"

In her heart she dreaded where Grissom was going with this, but she knew deep down what he was talking about. "And it's you…holding the gun."

"It's an extreme thing to say, I know…" he sighed softly. "Just thinking of it seems to suggest that evil has consumed me completely."

"Not really. Sometimes we have to have elaborate little fantasies in our head to get through the hard times – fantasies of things you wish you'd said or done," she explained. "Fantasies are healthy. You know that."

"I guess."

"Fantasies have gotten me through some pretty hard times," she admitted thoughtfully.

He raised his head. "Such as?"
"Every time Ecklie pisses me off I fantasize that he gets demoted, I get his job, and I make him clean the men's room urinals with his tongue."

He gave a soft chortle, "I may borrow that one myself some time."

She smiled warmly, "There's a sound I haven't heard for years…"

"Hmmm?"

"Your laugh. I miss your laugh."

He nodded, "I miss yours too," he confessed.

"I remember a time we used to laugh together a lot…" she took a drink from her bottle.

Grissom reflected on this for a moment. "Perhaps that was before evil consumed me."

Sara shrugged. "Can't let evil consume you completely, right?" she asked. "That'd mean you'd given in and it won."

He smiled softly. "Yeah…that's right."

"But I know you, and I know you don't give in. That's what I admire about you. So I know even though you should take time off from work that you won't – that you'll be in work tonight, and ready as ever to solve another case and bring some other creep to justice. Because that's who you are."

In defeat, he nodded, "You're right," he finished his beer, put the bottle on the bar, and got up from the stool, his balance ever so slightly off thanks to the alcohol. "You're right."

"I know," Sara said, pretending to be smug. Inside the sadness for Grissom was still eating away at her. Despite the fact that he had perked up a little, she knew he was far from being fine; it would be a long time before he could move on from what had happened to Baby Aziza. Perhaps that anger would never really leave him, it'd just ebb away and flow in again like the tides.

"Miss Sidle, I shall now take my leave," he said in a mock gentlemanly voice.

"Do you need a ride home, Griss?" she asked softly.

"I'll be fine," he assured, never indicating if he intended to walk it off or hail a cab. He paused briefly, and then he did something she never expected of him. He placed a strong hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and brushed his lips against her hair. "Thank you," he murmured, she felt the warmth of his beer breath tickle her ear, and a slight shiver ran up her spine. His hand left her shoulder, denying it the warmth of his fingers through the cotton of her shirt.

A soft breath escaped her lips; she was unsure if it was a gasp or sigh. She closed her eyes and savored it for a moment, and then turned to look at him to see his back as he left the bar. She smiled a little. "See you at work," she whispered, and she knew that night she would.