A/N: Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews! I really never expected such uplifting comments, and they are greatly appreciated! I must admit that chapter 4 was sort of the original idea and the inspiration for the whole story, so I had a lot of fun writing it. And I'm in a really good mood now that Nick and Sara are back, and all is right in the CSI: world. Rock on, GSR! :) Sorry about the length – this chapter goes forever, but I couldn't think of a better stopping point!

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. And, unfortunately for me, no amount of wishin' will make it so. :)

Chapter 5: Boiling Point

Jim Brass had always prided himself on his ability to treat everyone fairly. He felt equal sympathy for the victims and equal outrage for the criminals. He truly believed in the system, always had. He believed that it worked, that it protected the innocent and punished the guilty, that it was just. He knew his role in the whole process and always played his part with consistency.

But this was different. One of their own had been threatened, and he couldn't just take it all in stride. This was personal. How could he be expected to remain objective in this situation? He worked with Sara on an almost daily basis and thought of her as something of a surrogate daughter. This... animal... had taken some of her spirit and replaced it with fear, and she would never be the same again. Brass knew that, and he felt the fury building in the pit of his stomach. I can't think like this, he told himself. She'll be fine. We'll catch this guy and move on. But he wasn't sure he believed it.

He pulled up in front of the Ellis residence once again, glad to see a second squad car and Warrick's SUV parked out front. Glancing at Sara's Denali as he got out of his car, he patted his pants to make sure he still had the keys he'd gotten from her earlier. He'd get it back to the lab later.

Ducking under the crime scene tape, he looked around, glad to see the gaggle of onlookers had finally dispersed. He knew people were naturally curious, but the types who hung around crime scenes gave him the creeps. Especially at a murder scene. He had never understood the attraction of otherwise normal people to blood and gore. Maybe it was because he'd seen too much of it himself, and it all just struck him as morbid and depressing. Too much senseless loss of life. Geez, Jim, don't go getting all philosophical, he chided himself with a quiet chuckle.

Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he took the front porch steps two at a time, coming to a stop before Hawkins. Jerking his thumb toward the second squad car, he questioned the younger man. "Who'd they send ya?"

"Rayford and Monroe," came the burly cop's reply.

"Ah," Brass smiled knowingly. Celia Rayford was a third-year officer who had earned a reputation as much for her tough-as-nails demeanor as for her drop-dead gorgeous looks, a lethal combination in a female cop. "I know Jenkins is happy."

"Aren't we all?" the veteran smirked.

Looking pointedly at the ring on the officer's fleshy left hand, Brass retorted. "Uh oh, you'd better look out. What would Linda think?"

"Hey, cap, I'm married. I ain't dead." The heavy-set officer flashed a toothy grin, earning a quick head-shake and a wry smile from the detective as he moved into the house. It was all bluster. Hawkins was well-known on the force for his devotion to his wife and their four kids.

Closing the door behind him, Brass looked around for his colleagues. Venturing his best guess as to their whereabouts, he headed for the master bedroom. Entering the darkened room, he discovered Catherine waving the ALS across the bed. Nodding to the police officer leaning against the doorframe, he grunted a greeting. "Monroe."

"Hey, cap," the gray-haired man responded easily, a hint of a Southern accent evident in his voice.

"Isn't it past time for you to be off? Must be a lot of demand when Wonder Woman's your partner," Brass teased, his eyes crinkling with mischief.

Not missing a beat, the lanky cop looked at the detective in mock surprise. "What? You mean, all this time that everybody's been requesting us for backup, they were really just wanting Rayford? I thought they were asking for me and my veteran skills!"

Turning off the fluorescent light, Catherine responded from the general direction of the bed. "I'm always happy to have your veteran skills around, Chuck." In the dim lighting, they couldn't make out her expression, but the smile in her voice was unmistakable.

"Well, thank you, Catherine. At least someone around here appreciates me," Monroe replied, with a pointed look at Brass.

Chuckling, the detective couldn't help but respond. "I think Cath appreciates anyone with veteran skills." Though not overtly sexual, the way he said it gave the comment decidedly suggestive undertones.

"Hey!" Catherine retorted in feigned indignation, but the remark elicited a laugh from all three.

Returning to seriousness, Brass turned to Monroe. "Why don't you and Rayford take off? No sense in all of us having to work overtime."

"You don't have to tell me twice," the older man drawled. "The little woman will be shocked to see me home this early. Take care, Catherine."

"See ya, Chuck. And tell Sylvia I said hey."

"Will do." With a quick wave, he ducked out the door in search of his elusive partner.

Flipping on the light switch, Brass walked towards Catherine, who was replacing the bedspread. "Find anything?" he asked.

"Nothing with the ALS. Sheets had just been changed. Guess she was getting ready for the second honeymoon," the blonde replied. "I did find a short brown hair underneath the body. Vic's hair was long and a little darker. Husband has short brown hair, doesn't he?"

The question was innocent enough, but Brass felt himself starting to bristle at her seemingly single-minded efforts to make John Ellis into the perp. Despite the downright rage he felt towards this criminal, he still believed Ellis was just another victim and, try as he might, he felt himself getting defensive. With effort, he forced himself to keep his voice even as he replied. "Yeah."

Trying to gauge his reaction, she probed a little deeper. "Just wondering where he is. I thought it might be nice if we could question him, maybe get a hair sample for comparison."

"He's next door. Spent the night at the neighbor's. They were hoping he could get some sleep there."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "He stayed at the neighbor's?" she repeated, raising her voice slightly. "I hope he didn't decide to skip out on us." Her tone was more than a little accusing.

The defensiveness was on him full-force now. She's accusing me of not doing my job? I don't believe this! Not bothering to keep the anger out of his voice at this point, he responded. "I had no reason to detain him, Catherine. He wasn't a suspect, and he has the same civil rights as you or I do. Even more so, in my book, since he's a victim just as much as his wife is," he spat.

"Or maybe he's her killer," the blonde retorted, her face reddening with her own hot temper. "In which case he's not entitled to any rights."

"You have no evidence to say that! You've got the body of a woman without an obvious cause of death, you've got a note written by somebody – we don't know who, and you've got a short brown hair that, let's face it, is not exactly unique. Oh, and before I forget, you've got this apparent vendetta against men that makes us all out to be adulterers and murderers! Eddie was a class A-1 jerk, Cath. But don't paint us all with that same brush!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

Her face had changed from red to an apoplectic purple. Brass immediately held up his hands in apology. A furious Catherine was not something he wanted to deal with – now or ever. She was a formidable woman on her best days. He certainly didn't want to be on her bad side. But, more than that, he'd been hurtful to a friend, and that was what bothered him the most. "Cath, I am so sorry. That was completely uncalled for. I was way out of line. Guess I'm pretty good at being a class A-1 jerk myself." His voice was quiet, his expression pleading.

The sincerity of his apology erased most of her anger, and she really looked at him then. The weariness and worry of the case had pooled around his eyes, causing them to sag in fatigue, deepening the lines in his forehead and cheeks and making him appear older than he really was. She sighed, realizing for the first time how much this case was getting to him, was getting to her. They were all worried, even though they showed it in different ways. And she heard the bits of truth in his words. Though it was most definitely not true that she looked at all men through an Eddie- tainted viewpoint, she had to admit that the bias was sometimes there, especially when she hadn't met someone personally. It was always easier to stereotype a man when you didn't know him as an individual.

Realizing she still hadn't responded to Brass' apology, she refocused her attention on him and gave him a smile. "You're forgiven... this time. Just don't let it happen again," she said, mock-menacingly, reaching down to pick up a pile of evidence bags.

He grinned slightly. "Yeah, I think I've learned my lesson." He grabbed up the remaining bags and turned towards the door, ready to leave this place behind.

"Hey, Jim," she said when he was only a few steps away. When he turned to her inquisitively, she told him, "I'm sorry, too," before striding past him towards the front door. He smiled as he followed.

Warrick met them at the front steps, with Jenkins trailing just behind. "Hey, I was just coming to find you two. You ready to go?" asked the veteran CSI.

"Yeah," nodded Catherine. "You find anything out here?"

"Nah," he replied. "Looked through every flower bed and mud puddle in the back yard and the front. Not even a toe print." He shook his head briefly, frustration evident on his handsome face. He had wanted so badly to find something – anything – that might shed some light on this case for Sara. Heck, for all of them.

Looking past him toward Sara's abandoned vehicle, Catherine glanced back at Brass. "We forgot about that. How do we get her truck back to CSI?"

"Hey, speak for yourself. I didn't forget," the cop replied with a grin, holding up the keys. "Can you get me back to headquarters if I drive the truck down there?"

She nodded. "Good, 'cause I'm gonna go ask Mr. Ellis if he can come in this morning for questioning. OK with you?" he asked her.

At her nod, he turned to the rookie cop. "Jenkins, take my car back, would ya? Just be sure it gets back in one piece. Oh, and leave my keys with whoever's manning the front desk," he added as an afterthought, fishing them from his pocket and handing them to the young man.

"Sure, cap," Jenkins replied. And, with that, each of them climbed into a vehicle, patiently waiting their turns to leave. Brass shook his head and grinned as Catherine tore out in the general direction of the lab, leaving only the distinctive smell of burned rubber and the strident sound of screeching tires in her wake.

XXXXXXXXX

Upon her arrival, Catherine made a quick stop in Greg's lab to drop off the hair sample she'd found and the dishes Sara had bagged. She could tell from his probing questions that the spiky-haired tech wanted information on their scene, but she didn't have the patience to deal with him this morning. She'd spent enough time around Grissom to know that the body could usually tell you more about your case than any other single piece of evidence, and she was anxious to get to the morgue to hear what it had to say. Or maybe she'd just spent enough time around Grissom to be irritated by Greg and his childish antics. She hoped the latter wasn't the case.

Pushing open the stainless steel door to the morgue cautiously, she thought at first that Doc Robbins had stepped away for a moment. The place was usually quiet, but this was downright ridiculous, and she had the fleeting thought that even the dead might protest the utter stillness. Then, as her eyes swept over the room, she saw him in the far corner, carefully studying the leg of a body on his table.

He glanced up as her movement towards him caught his eye, and he waved her over absently, his gaze still fixed on the offending limb. "Hey, Catherine. Got your victim here, but I'm just getting started."

"What do you know so far?" she asked, eager for any new crumb of information he might throw her way.

Carefully replacing the extremity on the table, he gave her his undivided attention. "Not much. I sent samples of her blood to tox since David told me this was a potential poisoning. I've been looking for possible injection sites." Gesturing with his head towards the victim's upper body, he said, "Check out her arms."

Doing as she was told, the blonde looked carefully at the elbows, but there was no evidence of a needle stick in either arm. "I don't see anything," she told the pathologist.

"Exactly," he replied. "Not even a vein. She'd be a tough stick. Even her hands don't have good veins to speak of," he said, picking up the right hand and turning it towards Catherine to illustrate his point.

"So... what? The poison was ingested? Or inhaled?"

"Getting ahead of yourself, Cath. We don't even know if it was poison yet," he smiled. "But it is interesting that she has a small puncture wound and a contusion behind her knee that would be consistent with a needle. The bruising would indicate that it occurred perimortem."

"Behind the knee?" she echoed in confusion. "Who injects somebody behind the knee?"

"Popliteal vein," he replied. "In the middle part of the leg just behind the knee. It's a big vessel. And superficial enough to provide easy IV access, but your average person doesn't even know it's there."

"OK," she replied, her mind racing with the possibilities this new information presented. "Anything else?"

"Just curious for myself as to why she's got blown veins in her upper extremities. I didn't see any track marks, but does she have a history of drug abuse?"

"I don't think so. Middle-aged housewife married to a bank exec. She doesn't really seem like the type, but you never know."

"True," Doc replied sadly. "Well, I guess she could have done it through repeated blood transfusions or any variety of medical treatments that required multiple IV sticks."

"Hmmm," Catherine mulled over what he had told her. "So whoever did this would have to have some knowledge of anatomy. And the victim had pantyhose tied around her hands when we found her, but they weren't tight enough to really restrain her. How do you inject somebody behind the knee without restraining them?"

"I don't know," the medical examiner shrugged. "That's why I'm in here, and you're out there." He winked at her with a lopsided grin.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Page me when you've got something else." Turning towards the door, she tossed over her shoulder sarcastically, "Oh, and thanks, Doc. You've been a really big help."

"I do my best!" he called out cheerfully as the door closed behind her.

XXXXXXXXX

Warrick felt the ache of fatigue as he strode purposefully through the halls of CSI, but he intentionally ignored it. Don't have time to be tired, he thought. Even greater than his body's exhaustion was his need to do something productive on this case.

Turning into one of the labs, he found the person he was looking for. "Hey," he said to Jacqui.

"Hey yourself," she responded, suspiciously eyeing the bag of fingerprint tapes under his left arm. "Looks like you've been busy."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Need your advice on something."

Curious, the tech raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Shoot."

Dropping the offending prints onto the counter in front of her and the remaining evidence he was carrying on the floor, he pulled the plastic-encased note from inside his field kit and placed it nonchalantly in front of her. "I need both you and Ronnie to have a crack at this. Who should get it first?"

She leaned forward to read without actually picking up the bag, and the CSI watched as her eyes widened in shock. After composing herself, she raised her gaze to his, and he was impressed when she responded to his question without demanding further explanation. Jacqui was nothing if not a consummate professional, and she never asked for more than what she needed to know. "As important as this is, you need to get it to Ronnie first. I can't get anything from it without destroying what he needs. Just tell him he needs to keep it inside the plastic as much as possible. If he has to take it out, he obviously needs to wear gloves, and he should return it to the plastic absolutely as soon as he can. When he's done, bring it to me, and I'll see what I can get from it."

Handing the bag back to him, she glanced down at the other samples. "These from the same case?" she asked, raising her eyes to meet his even gaze. He nodded. "I'll be working on these while Ronnie's got that," she said, gesturing toward the note in his hand.

"OK," Warrick replied, already heading out the door.

"Hey," she called. When he turned toward her, she softly told him, "Looks like we'll all be working lots of overtime on this one." He nodded, but she had already focused her gaze onto the first of the fingerprints in front of her.

It only took him a few seconds to locate Ronnie. The heavy-set handwriting expert was bent over the tattered remains of a torn contract, looking intently through a magnifying glass at the signature on the top line. He looked up when the taller man entered the room. "Hey," he smiled.

"Hey," Warrick greeted. Holding out the note, he said, "Got something I want you to take a look at."

As the tech's eyes skimmed the contents of the paper, he quickly glanced at Warrick, an unspoken question on his face. The black man simply pressed his lips together and nodded tightly in reply. "Jacqui needs it after you. She said for you to keep it in the plastic as much as possible and to be sure you handle it with gloves if you have to take it out for any reason."

"Of course," Ronnie replied. "I'll see what I can get from it." Glancing at the clock, he saw that their shift was almost over. "It might take me a couple of hours. What do you want me to do with it if she's not here when I'm done?"

Remembering the fingerprint tech's comment, he replied, "She'll probably be here, but page me when you're finished, no matter what. I'll get it to Jacqui or whoever else might need it."

"OK," Ronnie agreed, but he wasn't at all surprised to find himself speaking to the CSI's retreating back.

Warrick walked with purpose toward the layout room, only breaking stride when he heard a familiar voice call out to him from the break room. "War!"

Nick grinned at him when he poked his head into the room. "Why are you here so late? And where's the fire?"

Raising his hands slightly to indicate the evidence he was carrying, he responded, "Big case. Some of us have jobs to do."

"I guess some of us actually close our cases," the Texan replied. "Finished up the Bellagio heist, even with Catherine bailing on me," he smirked. "Brought in the hotel manager, and he caved as soon as we got him under the bright lights. O'Reilly's booking him now. One night," he gloated gleefully. "Some of us are just good like that."

Any other time, Warrick could have tolerated his playful boasting and even thrown it back at Nick. But, today, he wasn't in the mood, and this was just wasting his time. He glared at the other man and responded without holding anything back. "Nick. The case I'm working involves a note with a threat directed at Sara."

"What?!" Nick replied with genuine shock. "Is... she OK?" he stammered. Worry clouded his features and, for a moment, Warrick felt a twinge of remorse at his direct approach.

Softening his tone considerably, he clapped a hand across his friend's shoulder, propelling him gently towards the layout room. "Brass took her to stay at Grissom's. In the meantime, we've gotta catch this guy, man." Reaching the table, he dropped his armload into semi-organized piles for processing.

Straightening his shoulders, Nick glanced at Warrick. "Two sets of hands are better than one. What can I do to help?"

Meeting his friend's brave gaze, Warrick smiled. This was the Nick he knew and loved – steady, helpful, determined. Eyeing the evidence in front of him, he pushed his and Sara's digital cameras toward the other man. "You've got video." Looking around at the remaining piles, he indicated one item with a nod of his head and said, "I'm taking the vacuum bag. When we're both done, we can look at this over breakfast." At that statement, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Nick.

Perusing the familiar handwriting quickly, Nick looked at him in surprise. "Where'd you get this?"

"Copied it down before I gave it to Ronnie. He needs the note itself, but he doesn't have exclusive rights to the contents." Looking up at his friend, he observed him questioningly. "'Two heads are better than one,' right? Maybe we can figure out who this guy is."

Handing the paper back to Warrick, Nick patted him on his shoulder as he headed out of the room. "Page me if you finish before me." Smiling, Warrick nodded as he turned to watch his friend leave without a backwards glance.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom was rudely jerked from his blissful sleep by a strangled sob next to his ear. Opening his eyes, it only took a second for him to remember where he was and who was lying next to him. Turning to her quickly, he was alarmed to see her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her beautiful features contorted into a grimace. Instinctively, he tightened his right arm around her back, desperately trying to soothe her nightmare away by reaching up with his free hand to wipe away the strands of hair that had matted to her sweaty forehead.

It was the wrong move for him to make, but he didn't realize that until a tightly clenched fist connected directly with his exposed rib cage. Sara might have been slender, but she was quick and deceptively powerful. He winced at the blow that stole his breath for a moment and, at the last second, brought his arm up to stop her fist from landing a second time.

His fingers interlinked with hers, trying to soothe her panic, but his efforts only seemed to further enrage her, and she struggled violently against him. Freeing herself at last, she drew back to flail at him once again, and he brought his arm up protectively. This time, though, instead of his catching her hand, she seized his wrist in a vise-like grip, her fingernails digging painfully into his flesh and her thumb applying so much pressure to the back of his arm that there was no doubt there would be bruising. Out of options, he surrendered to her grasp and was surprised to feel her finally relax against him.

His shock only increased when he felt her index and middle fingers move deftly against the pulse in his wrist, her thumb releasing its pressure on his arm, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he heard her erratic breathing began to mimic his own rapid heartbeat. He forced himself to breathe deliberately, causing his pulse to slow, and he was amazed when he heard Sara's breathing subside in response.

When he could hold his arm up no longer, he moved it quickly, catching her hand in his. He heard her sharp intake of breath and worried for a moment that she would fight him. Not knowing what else to do, he placed her hand onto his bare chest and covered it with his own, directly over his pounding heart. He exhaled gratefully when she pressed her palm lightly against his chest before relaxing next to him and settling back into sleep.

Not daring to move, barely venturing to breathe, he stared at the ceiling, trying to will sleep to return to him. When it didn't come, he allowed himself to think about the events of the day. The myriad of emotions he had felt – futility, confusion, panic, fear, worry, despair – threatened to engulf him. Trying to make sense of the swirling feelings, he forced himself to think in scientific terms, distilling everything down to its lowest common denominator. He came up with two overwhelming emotions that seemed to define his life: loneliness and love.

He'd dealt with loneliness for a long time. It was like an old friend who was a little annoying. Sure, it wasn't much fun to have around, but it was familiar, and there was always something comforting in the familiar. And loneliness was not oppressive. Or, at least, it wasn't before.

Not until he met love. That particular emotion had come upon him so gradually he hardly realized it but, one day, he awoke, and it was there beside him. He loved Sara, and he knew it. Knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue, as surely as he knew the earth was round. It was a fact of life. Before he met her, he didn't mind the loneliness because he didn't know what he was missing. He didn't know love.

But now he did, and he was constantly reminded of the fact that he was missing the one thing – the one person – he wanted more than anything. But the fact that he wanted her didn't change the reasons he couldn't have her. It never had.

He forced himself to shut down the part of his brain that thought. Yet another thing I never did before I met Sara, he thought grimly. But, for now, all he wanted was to feel. And feel he did. He felt the gentle weight of her head resting against his shoulder, the softness of her hair brushing his arm, the tickle of her breath as she exhaled against his chest, the light pressure of her palm over his heart. And he wasn't surprised when sleep wrapped its arms around him and tugged him down into its depths.

TBC...