Title: Dreamers on the Rise

Author: Cropper

Pairing: GSR

Rating: Mature for Profanity and Graphic Imagery

Disclaimer: See Prologue

A/N: Thanks to Cheryl for the outstanding beta work on the G/S relationship snippets and holding my hand through some of the more intimate moments.

Summary: "I teach you the overman. Man is something that shall be overcome." Also Sprach Zarathustra Freidrich Nietzsche

Chapter One


I Saw A Man Pursuing The Horizon

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;

Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this,

I accosted the man.

"It is futile," I said,

"You can never - "

"You lie," he cried,

And ran on.

Stephen Crane

"Jesus said, 'Blessed is the lion which becomes man when consumed by man; and cursed is the man whom the lion consumes, and the lion becomes man.' "

The Gospel of Thomas (7)


I have risen. I emerge from the barren wilderness on scab-encrusted knees. A child must crawl before learning to walk. Forty days have I fasted, forty days have I waited, forty days have I battled, forty days have I vanquished. I have seen the blackness, lived and loved the frightening horror of nothingness. I embraced the abyss and fell willingly to my death. I am reborn, renewed. I live again.

The Last Man and his burdensome camels shall die. They pollute the earth, poison the mind. They dilute the soul until it trickles forth to spill in tepid puddles upon the parched soil. Such waste cannot nourish even the smallest seed. Death to those who rape the spirit. Death to those who corrupt all virtue. Death to those who glorify the herd and its thoughtless meandering.

I am the Artist. I am the Creator. The world is my canvas; mine to annihilate, mine to reform. I am your Master. I am your God. The god you knew is dead. I have slain him and his useless liturgy of emptiness. I embrace neither your pity nor your suffering. I tolerate not your festering, petty ways. I am the Judge. I am the Jury. I am your Executioner. This is my song.

I am newborn. I hunger; I thirst. My appetites, of the spirit and of the flesh, are ravenous. I stalk all who defy me, grind them into pulpy marrow in my blood-smeared maw. Their worthless existence shall drip ceaselessly from my finely honed fangs.

Red Lion has come.

Fear me.


Judge Alethea Simmons was missing, vanished without a trace. One minute she was standing in the Clark County Municipal Courthouse parking lot with a host of other evacuees, sweltering in her officious back judicial robes, the next she had seemingly vaporized into the shimmering waves of heat rising relentlessly from the sticky blacktop. Star Trek transporters aside, people simply do not dissolve into nothingness; it is a molecular impossibility. However improbable, the fantastically impossible had occurred and Judge Simmons was nowhere to be found.

Sara processed the scene, pausing to readjust her dark blue ball cap and futilely swipe at the sweat trickling down the back of her neck as she watched Brass, Greg and some new uniformed police officer she had never seen before canvass the hordes of seemingly blind witnesses and hapless onlookers. She painstakingly photographed the spot where the Judge had last been seen, searching in vain for anything out of place on the steamy, gooey asphalt. Nothing, there was nothing. There were some filthy cigarette butts, an empty coffee cup, and a flattened and forlorn wad of gum which once had been pink but had accumulated so much dirt from tire treads and foot traffic that it now appeared a grimy, nondescript gray.

The only thing of interest was the sizable rock that had been purposefully placed on the trunk of the Judge's bright red Pontiac Solstice. Sara dusted it for prints but came up empty; maybe she would have been better luck with other methods back at the lab. She knew this strange clue was important, but did not know how it fit into the puzzle. What the hell did a big, brownish-orange rock the size of a basketball have to do with a highly respected judge and why was it sitting on her car? And, why did whoever put it there place it on a towel as if they were afraid of scratching or marring the winking, sparkling paint?

Sara worked the scene by rote, her movements mechanical and well-rehearsed as she let her mind freely wander to where it was so often want to roam: Grissom. Eight months had passed since the horrible accident that had very nearly stolen him away; eight months full of pain and joy, heartache and understanding. Eight short months where dreams had soared and changed their lives forever.

Once we were dreamers on the rise
We were the sun, where the sun never shines
And we were gold, where the night bird only flies
Ah, that's a long time you know, for that kind of wind to blow
Long time ago, we were dreamers on the rise

There had never been any grand discussion with regard to cohabitation. Sara had simply transferred all of her worldly possessions from her tiny apartment to Grissom's townhouse while he lay recovering in the hospital. Both knew that Sara was the one who would be caring for him during his continued at-home convalescence and the modified living arrangements just made sense. They had shared a bed on the very night Grissom had been discharged from the hospital and every night thereafter. Again, nothing had been said and neither was opposed. For Grissom, his last secret and carefully guarded dream had come true – he had finally found someone who loved him for who he was, flaws and all, someone who truly cared about him and who would hold him tightly for no reason at all. The comfort of lying in Sara's arms was exquisite. For Sara, she really had not known that she so desperately needed so much cuddling until it had become an integral part of her daily life. Having Grissom's strong, undemanding arms wrapped around her was like nestling snuggly within the comforting folds of prized heirloom quilt that had been carefully pieced and stitched together with love, patience and pride.

Grissom's physical injuries from the accident had been devastating and, for awhile, it looked as if his career as a criminalist was in severe jeopardy. He had suffered a deep laceration on his left temple, a broken wrist and dislocated shoulder, also on the left side, and both legs had been mangled. The left had borne the bulk of the damage and it was only through sheer force of will and countless long hours of therapy and daily exercises that Grissom had managed to walk without a cane or perceptible limp. The other injuries, those hidden from sight, were the ones that had nearly killed him.

His torso had been crushed by the steering wheel when the faulty airbag in the little rental car had failed to deploy and the seatbelt had snapped. Several ribs had been broken, his right lung had collapsed and he suffered massive internal bleeding. It was ironic, really. While he remained trapped in the car, the steering wheel had maintained pressure on his wounds and had helped to stem the bleeding. However, once Grissom had been freed from the terrible wreckage, he had very nearly drowned in his own fluids. His blood pressure had bottomed out and his heart had stopped beating five times. The emergency personnel who had attended to him said that it was a miracle he had survived, that he must be a very stubborn man with a lot to live for. He did have a lot to live for, he had everything to live for. He had Sara.

Once he had regained enough strength in his knee to walk without a cane, Grissom had been cleared to return to fieldwork. He had bargained for, and received, an incredible amount of autonomy. The sheriff was so pleased to have him back that he was willing to concede to Grissom's demands. He was still technically the night shift supervisor but no longer had to deal with the mountainous stacks of detested paperwork. That responsibility, along with the yearly personnel reviews, had been passed along to Catherine. Grissom now had the freedom to pick and choose his own cases, conduct whatever experiments he chose, accept whatever lecture offers crossed his desk and to go off and consult on any case that caught his fancy. He had more or less been elevated to Supervisor Emeritus status – all of the privileges with none of the hassles. He could pretty much do as he damn well pleased, and the Vegas lab retained his expertise and name on the letterhead, so to speak. It was a win-win situation for all concerned.

Most importantly, and what Grissom had pushed the hardest for, was that his relationship with Sara was strictly off-limits. Nothing was ever said about him being involved with an "underling" and no word would ever be mentioned. Grissom had made it crystal clear to both the Sheriff and to Ecklie that his private life and the fact that he was fortunate enough to share it with Sara was sacred. If he detected so much as a hint of trouble brewing from on high as far as Sara was concerned, he was gone. He would take his considerable assets and talents, including Sara, elsewhere, and Vegas would lose its lofty standing as the number two lab in the country…Grissom would make certain of that. For a man with little or no interest in understanding petty work place politics, he had learned to play hardball with the best of them.

Sara's thoughts were interrupted when Brass sidled close to mutter, "Looks to me like you're gathering wool instead of evidence."

She had the good grace to blush. Brass had busted her fair and square.

"When will he be back?"

"Not sure. Why?"

"The Sheriff wants him on this."

Sara just raised an inquisitive eyebrow and Brass shrugged.

"The case has gotten too high profile and the Sheriff thinks the media will back off a little if they know Gil is involved."

What Brass failed to mention was the fact that the Sheriff simply did not have the confidence in Catherine to solve this. They really needed Grissom and his mysterious, quirky mind. If anyone could make sense out of this mess, it was Grissom.

"You get anything from the witnesses?" she asked, knowing the chances that anyone had seen anything were slim to none.

"Oh, let's see," he began, sarcasm tinting every word. "Lot's of people remember seeing her talking to a police officer, or wait...maybe it was a bailiff. Could have been a security guard. How about a letter carrier? It was somebody in some sort of uniform and no one seems to agree on what type of uniform it was. Some say it was brown, some dark green, even blue or black. All I can really get a consensus on is that Judge Simmons was last seen talking to a male in a dark-colored uniform. Nobody paid enough attention to come up with a description of the guy."

"Great," huffed Sara. "This is just like the other two."

"Yeah, pretty much. Just a whole lot of nothing."

Sara remembered something. "What about Catherine? She was testifying in the case Judge Simmons was presiding over this morning. Did she see anything?"

Brass simply shook his head. "She was on the phone with Lindsey when it happened."

Before Sara could respond, Catherine strode up and it did not take a CSI III to figure out that her tail was tied into a very tight knot. She leveled both with a piercing glare before launching into a tirade.

"I hate to interrupt Gossip Hour, but we have work to do here. Tell me something I don't already know."

Brass exchanged a dark, knowing look with Sara before providing Catherine with the scant details he had been able to pull together thus far.

"The victim is Judge Alethea Simmons. Oh, you already knew that. Sorry," he snarked with a mirthless smile. He knew Catherine was under a considerable amount of pressure from within the law enforcement arena, but he was less than pleased with her attitude. He continued with the dry recitation of facts. "She is fifty-seven-years-old, married and has two children, both boys. The husband, Jacob, is a big wig with the public utilities. The oldest son, Jarred, is twenty-one and studying pre-law at Stanford. The other, Collin, is nineteen and a poly sci major at Berkeley." He paused a moment to look at Catherine. "Judge Simmons was fairly progressive and favored reform over capital punishment. She was high profile and it's no secret that she had, has, political aspirations. And that's it so far. We're going to pull the husband in for questioning, but with no witnesses, we have nothing to go on at this point"

Catherine's nostrils flared a bit at Brass' barb before she shifted her focus to Sara who merely shrugged. "Other than the big ugly rock and the towel it was sitting on? Nothing, yet. There might be something more when I get back to the lab and process the odd bits of garbage I found."

"Well, as your lover is so fond of saying," Catherine replied acidly, venom dripping from her sneering lips, "there's always a clue. Why don't you quit gabbing and go find it."

Sara's eyes hardened, glittering dangerously like chips of polished onyx, as Catherine whirled and stomped off. She released a harsh breath, muttered an unflattering obscenity in Catherine's wake, and forced herself to relax. She knew that the older woman was simply lashing out at any available victim, but she was tired of being Catherine's personal punching bag.

Brass patted her shoulder in sympathy. "Ignore her. She's just..."

"Hey," Sara said, hastily changing the subject. "Who's your new sidekick?"

Brass glanced at the new officer before answering. "Oh, that's J.J. Cephas. He's some supposed hot shot who transferred in from L.A. about couple of months ago. Said that he was needed more in Sin City than in the City of the Angels, whatever that means."

"Sounds like he thinks pretty highly of himself," she remarked. "Is he really all that and a bag of chips?"

"Ah, who knows. You have to have an ego to be a cop. He just seems to have more of one than most."

Sara smirked as she gave J.J. a very thorough visual appraisal. "I'll bet the ladies love him. He's pretty hot."

Brass just rolled his eyes. Cephas was a nice looking man, a fact that had not escaped the trained eyes of any of the female law enforcement personnel. He was a prime specimen, six-foot, four-inches of tanned, muscular maleness. His dirty blond hair was buzzed in razor sharp crew-cut any gung-ho Marine would envy and his piercing green eyes were constantly scanning, continually searching.

Brass cleared his throat. "While the cat's away the mouse will play?"

Sara shot him a harmless glare. "Nope," she replied saucily. "Just enjoying the scenery."

To Be Continued...