A/N: Thanks to everyone that has read so far and liked it. Quick word of caution, there is some stronger language at the end of the chapter, if you're a sheltered child, look away. Microsoft Word is my beta. THANKS SO MUCH MICROSOFT.

Also, I realized I haven't put disclaimers up. I do not own CSI, nor any of its characters, if I did I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.

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Gil Grissom had never been the one to show much emotion, he saved that for when it was absolutely necessary. Being a man of science emotion was one of those trivial things that could be avoided if willed enough. His science had never let him down, nor had his work, but now his wall of protection seemed to come tumbling down like a crushing wave on top of him. Locking away feeling always works, or so it seemed to Gil, but one must always be careful not to overfill the mind. Luckily, since he was a man of science it did not take him long at all to figure out what was going on; unluckily for him, it was his tendency to bottle away emotion that made his blood boil. In one sixty second phone call his life had been basically turned upside-down, inside-out. Grissom never thought that a piece of news or evidence could shake him up so much, but he was deathly wrong.

Dark brows furrowed as he walked like a man on a mission down the corridors of the crime lab. Gil spoke to no one and made it absolutely clear on his face that he did not want to be spoken to. As Nick passed in the hallway he wisely rethought his first question that popped into his head when he saw Grissom. He had been out with Greg right? Nick smirked thinking that the newest CSI had something to do with his bosses' mood.

"Greg what'd you do to him?" Stokes chuckled as he patted the shorter one on the shoulder. Silence shocked him since Greg Sanders was everything but silent; his smirk left his face as he looked at Greg's, knowing something was definitely not right. "What's wrong? Something happen?"

Swing-shift supervisor Catherine Willows was enjoying her office, mulling over old paperwork, and taking in the peace and quiet as her old supervisor swung open the door with a startling force. Catherine put down her papers to look Grissom directly in the face, a mix of anger and shock on her face. She wanted to be angry, she wanted to be furious, but all she could do was sit there with her mouth hung open like a trap. The staring match when on between the two supervisors not much longer before Catherine had enough. "What the hell, Gil! Where do you get off barging in here like that?"

"You need to give all your cases to day shift."

"You mind telling me why you're giving me the instructions?"

"…It's happening again, Catherine."

Catherine put her paper down slowly; she didn't know exactly what Gil was talking about, but she knew that it was a serious issue. It's happening again? What? After knowing Grissom for as long as she did, she knew that he couldn't say what 'it' was or else he already would've. Either 'it' was against him to say or was too painful for him to say, the latter of which seemed highly unlikely. A thin, extremely light red brow arched as she slowly shook her head at him, I don't know what you're trying to tell me, Grissom…Catherine knew that whatever it was it could not wait, but she also knew she had to figure it out, he couldn't tell her. Finally, her vision focused on Nick, Greg, and Warrick all running up a few feet behind Grissom, the epitome of horror on all of their faces. There was something different about Nick's, though, his told something else, something that no words could ever or would ever express. Warrick. Greg…Nick. Sophia has the week vacation…Sara.

"Gil…Where is Sara?" That was it. Nick's face, Gil's face, it all came together. Like a true CSI Catherine put all the partial prints together to make a whole. Something was wrong with Sara. Grissom only looked down with a face full of nothing but guilt.

"It was all a set up, Catherine."

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Ugh. Son of a bitch…What happened? Sara reached behind her head to the crown of her skull; upon the slight touch of her finger to her head she winced in pain. After several seconds of patting at the sore she finally could trace enough around it to realize that there was a nice sized lump developing. Her sight was not clear – fuzzy at best – she couldn't see two feet ahead of her without feeling ill. She had seen too many autopsies to not know what that was, someone had hit her unconscious with the hilt of a gun; obviously not enough for a fatal facture, but enough where it hurt like hell. All she could remember was this voice and that wasn't too clear.

Brown eyes lifted and took a deep look at their surroundings once the brain they were connected to focused. Nothing. Bare walls, concrete floor, one door, no windows…just…nothingness. Sara pushed herself up with much difficulty; her body told itself that it weighed ten times its size. Her back leaned heavily against the cold wall behind her before willing herself forward to the door. As she approached her foot caught something sitting just in front of the bottom crack of the door. She reached down as best as she could to pick it up, the 'it' being a standard parcel envelope. Carefully she removed the contents: one piece of paper and a photograph. Sara's eyes came to a horrific sight of a young woman, bloody and broken, in the photo. As best as she could get, she was still alive when the picture was taken, but judging from the injuries sustained it wouldn't be that case for much longer. Her attention was turned to the paper quite quickly…it was a letter, to her.

Hello, Ms. Sidle, I hope you are enjoying your stay with us so far. You'll find that you'll be staying with us much longer. We're very sorry that we missed you when you awoke; it's just that there are pressing matters to attend to. We have to let your friends know you're alright, I'm sure they're worried sick about you. We also have to give them their instructions for your safe and secure return.

Already this 'letter' was making her sick. It oozed of cynicism to the core, even a complete moron could figure that part out.

You'll find that leaving this room is quite impossible. You will do what we want, when we want it, and how we want it if you want to live. These next few days will be hard on you, Sara, but you're a tough woman, you'll make it through. Or is that tough façade you put on merely an act? Are you scared right now, Sara? You should be. This is only the beginning. We know you. We know everything about you, and the rest of your team. We very much hoped that it would be you to come – you seemed like the one to have the most fun with. Don't let us down, Sara. Cry, scream, yell, be angry, be vengeful. Know that we are watching every move you make. Let that knowledge fill you with fear. Get comfortable, Ms. Sidle, you're in for a long trip.

Sara could fill her eyes welling up with tears with each line she read. Her hand went up to wipe them away, knowing that it was exactly what they wanted her to do. Trembling everywhere, she crumpled up the paper tightly and threw it at the door with a high pitched shout.

"You want me to be scared! Too fucking bad, assholes! I'm not scared of people too weak to show their faces to me! I'm not going to play your sick game! Go to hell!" Sara knew it was already too late, she was already playing right into their hands. Quickly, she made a grab for the door handle and pulled roughly. Her knuckles turned white as she kept trying to get her way out; her palms turned hard and slick at the same time, her heart was jumping out of her chest, everything was racing within her.

Finally she gave up at the door and stalked to a corner of the ridiculously-too-bright room. Sara slunk down in the corner with her knees drawn to her chest. She wouldn't let them see her face; she wouldn't let them see her cry. She knew that it would give them too much satisfaction, as per the letter. In her deepest hopes she wanted to hide all of the emotion she was feeling right at the second, in the hour, and in the day. She wanted to be like she knew she could be and not let her heart get the best of her. In her line of work it was important to be calm and collected, but everything seemed to change when she was put in the victim's seat.

"Grissom. Help me," Sara uttered out so softly even she wasn't sure if she had said it aloud. Strangely, she wondered why her mind went automatically to him. He wasn't the only person that could get her out of this, probably far from it. Sara wanted to know if he knew, if any of them knew, and what they were all thinking – especially Nick. Was this how he felt? Was it worse? She isn't six feet under ground, but quite honestly, it felt like it. She could barely breathe, her chest hurt so much from her heart thumping against it.

"Just help me. Someone."