Disclaimer: They're not mine

Rating: T or PG-13 for language and violence

Summary: It's 2am. The doorbell rings. A baby is crying. What are you going to do? W/S with GCR moments and a major case

Excellent stuff, reviews. Thank you to icklebitodd, Solaris Sun 2122 (did you ask for that because you dislike her?), dawn2323 (no, I got the hint), Kelly, twinferal, Megara1, Review1234 and cherishedcrush. Feedback is wonderful.

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Wake The Hope. Chapter Two. At This Time Of Night

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Las Vegas looks the way you'd imagine heaven must look at night.

CHUCK PALAHNUICK

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"So what do we know?" Grissom starts off, looking around the table at the team that surrounds it: Catherine on his right side, Greg on his left and Nick, Sara and Warrick opposite.

"Nothing." Greg mutters. Grissom looks at him, a look of horror on his face.

"As long as we have two dead bodies on our hands, we do not know nothing," Grissom answers firmly.

"Sorry," Greg mumbles, kicking Nick under the table for sniggering.

"Well we know both Katie Taylor and Marcia Keating were killed at around 2am on the two separate nights," Catherine begins. "But there was no forced entry or any other ways into the apartments so both women must have let their killers in."

"How do you know the killer wasn't already in the house?" Nick suggests.

"Both lived alone." Warrick points out.

"Could have been a friend sleeping on the couch." Greg offers.

"But if the killer had been staying for a while, there would surely be more prints and more evidence around the house. You can't sleep the night at someone's place without leaving some trace behind," Catherine shakes her head.

"And surfaces were wiped of prints only around the entrance itself – all the rest in the apartment were belonging to the victim; killer didn't go in much more than a few feet," Nick adds.

"Prints on the doorbell?"

"Wiped clean."

"So – the killer rings the doorbell at the early hours of the morning and the vic just lets him in?" Greg frowns.

"Why would you answer the door at 2am?" Catherine wonders out loud.

"Pizza." Nick answers automatically but falls quickly silent when both Catherine and Sara shoot him identical withering looks.

"Because of the crying," Grissom interjects suddenly. "Killer plays a recording of a crying baby and rings the doorbell. Maternal instincts kick in for the victims who go outside, believing a baby has been dumped on their doorstep – they get attacked."

"Which is why he goes for these professional single women in their late-twenties, early-thirties and living alone." Catherine concludes softly.

A silence falls on the room.

Someone coughs.

"Well that description strikes just a little too close to home," Sara speaks up finally, having stayed quiet throughout the debate. She smiles grimly and raises her eyebrows as the rest of the team look round at her. "And the last victim lived two blocks away from my place."

"Do you want to drop the case?" Catherine asks gently.

"What? No, no – no way," Sara shakes her head vehemently. "I was just – I was just saying, that's all."

"Well good," Grissom replies. "We all need to pull together on this one."

-

"You okay?" Warrick sits down beside Sara on the bench in the Locker Room. Sara jumps; she'd been staring at the front of her locker door for ages in the silence and didn't hear him and Nick coming in.

"Huh? Yeah – yeah I'm fine," she runs a hand through her hair and smiles. "I don't know why I said that back there. It really is no big deal."

"We all get cases like that now and then," he tells her reassuringly. "Ones where you think that could've been me. It's okay."

"All the same, Sar – take your automatic back with you tonight," Nick advises as he tugs on his jacket. She nods, holding open one side of her jacket to show her pistol in its holster.

"One step ahead of you there, Nick," she says with a grin. Warrick chuckles and gets up, one supportive hand on her shoulder.

"See? No problem, you've got this sorted Sara. We'll solve this soon enough," he says brightly and opens up his locker.

"Yeah," she answers and then again more assertively: "Yeah, I know. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

As she leaves, a pair of green eyes subconsciously watch her go.

-

It's still dark. Sara opens one eye first and then the other. Turning her head to her nightstand, she feels blearily for her digital watch. 01:20. She groans – why is she awake? And then she sits up suddenly. Her senses slowly get used to being awake and, with sickening realisation, she hears the nearby wail of a baby.

The doorbell rings. Oh crap, there's someone at the door. The baby is still screaming. Sara freezes. She's now fully awake and, stepping hesitantly out of her bed, heart pounding in her throat, she quietly grabs her gun from the holster of her belt on the floor.

Now standing barefoot, back against the wall and gun held in front of her, in her living room she pauses for a moment. She almost thinks of going back, going back to bed and calling Brass or someone. The baby goes on crying; it makes her feel sick to her stomach. Sara stands motionless in personal debate. But what if the guy gets away? What if he just gives up on her and goes for someone else tomorrow night? She shakes herself. Why is she even thinking like this? She's got him, right here, right outside – and she can take him.

Her heart still thumps in her mouth as she edges closer to the front door, hearing the scream of the baby echoing in her ears and growing louder.

She takes a breath or two – trying to steady her nerves.

Just think straight, think rationally, Sara. This is your chance – you can put him away. You're at an advantage; you know what the guy is planning. You know his tactics: it's knife against gun. No chance. She smiles dourly.

The baby's cries are now muffled by the roaring of blood in her ears as she tentatively opens her apartment door.

There is no-one outside.

Sara blinks. She takes another breath. The sound of the baby still fills the hall outside. Perhaps the guy wants her to come out a little more.

Okay.

Right.

Bring it on.

She inches forwards and then, forcing all nervous impulses down, steps out into the hall with more confidence than she feels – and turns, gun pointed, fingers poised.

"Oh my God."

The crying stops.

The hall is silent.

The gun drops with a thud from Sara's trembling white hands onto the floor.

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