Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. Please don't sue me.
A/N: This is a GSR story, but not a happy GSR. I'm not going to be very nice to our favorite geeks, consider yourself warned. So no flaming about me being mean to them.
Little Bird
She brought it on herself. It was her fault he had to do it this way. He would make sure she knew it too, and tell her every day how it was all her own doing.
It all started one evening before assignments. Nick and Warrick were teasing her about her new boyfriend. Apparently she had spent the weekend with him at some secluded "romantic" inn and Sara came back with a partially glazed over look in her eye and a smile they couldn't smack off her face if they tried to. And boy, did he want to try.
The team, with the exception of their mighty leader, all seemed to be really happy for her. Catherine would notice her staring off into space and grinning like a fool while she drank her coffee, and Greg seemed really pleased with himself for introducing the two of them at some party he hosted a couple of months ago. Maybe if he had attended (or even really been invited to tell the truth, but Greg didn't think he would have come anyway) he could have stopped her from meeting this guy in the first place. But no, she had to go and mess everything up.
Now, Grissom is a man that likes everything to be in its place at all times. The absolute certainty of an insect's life cycle to the day, to the moment, was what initially drew him to entomology in the first place. The idea of a living thing so fixed in its actions by nature, with no free will of their own. Hatch, eat, mate, eat, die. He liked knowing that things would be exactly where things should be. Her dating someone definitely changed all of that. Now instead of sitting at home waiting for him to summon her, she was actually out enjoying herself. Or, in his mind, totally screwing with the order of the universe.
Her main role in life was to serve him, in his opinion. He snaps, she jumps. He calls, she drops her entire life and comes running. He had spent the last six years making sure it stayed that way; giving just enough of himself to keep her tied to him, while not enough to make her comfortable. That is how it is supposed to be. That's how it's always been. It wasn't supposed to change. But it did. Everything was suddenly off kilter.
He sulked for about a week, the knowledge of her not waiting for him to beckon her to his side slowly eating a hole inside of him. He was short with her, and he knew that she noticed, and so did the rest of them. While he walked through the hallways of the lab, he could hear conversations halting when he came near a door, all the eyes in the room looking straight at him when he came in. He didn't have to use many of his deducting skills to figure out what they were all talking about.
Night after night he sat in his office staring at the ever growing pile of paperwork that needed his attention. He hadn't even gone out to a scene in days, and they all noticed that the pile wasn't shrinking, and if anything it was growing. Finally, a few weeks after she came back from her little rendezvous, he realized what had to be done.
The next week was spent in making preparations and plans. His mood improved with the knowledge that he was going to correct the situation. He made sure he was pleasant with everyone, and made a point of telling her (where everyone could see and hear) that he was happy she found someone, he was happy that she was happy. It seemed to work: the whispering stopped, and conversations continued when he entered rooms. Things went back to normal as far as the lab was concerned.
He knew his plan was going to take time to execute properly. This kind of thing isn't the sort you rush; rushing causes mistakes and he couldn't afford any. He treasured his pain; keeping it close to him, studying it and polishing it, turning it from something hard and ugly into a beautiful piece of art. He made it his own.
A few months later, when he saw the sparkling diamond on her hand and Greg strutting around the break room like a proud father (he was taking complete responsibility for Sara's newfound happiness, since he did introduce them and all) he knew it was time to put things into motion.
Obtaining access to her bank accounts was a lot easier than he suspected it would be. He used the lab's computers, so in case anyone tried to trace the transactions it would be entirely plausible that she had done it herself. As her supervisor he had access to her login information, which made it a lot easier. He made sure to set up some accounts elsewhere in her name, namely in the Cayman Islands, to funnel her funds to when it was time. And it was time.
He put the necessary materials in the back of his car, and went over the plan in his head. Years of watching how other people did it had given him the background to really make it work. He knocked on the door, and stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look as sheepish as possible for when she looked through the peephole. He knew she would be alone; "Sweetie" was away on a business trip and wouldn't be back for two more days. He had heard her tell Greg about the trip and knew that this was the perfect opportunity.
As soon as she opened the door with a questioning look on her face, he quickly pulled his hands from his pockets and clamped the handkerchief soaked in ether over her face before she could even ask why he was there. It didn't take long for her to stop struggling and go limp as he walked them both into her living room. He placed her still form on a wooden kitchen chair as he grabbed his bag from the hallway of her apartment building. Using soft rubber tubing, much like the kind they tie on your arm before taking a blood sample, he expertly and securely bound her hands to the chair by tightly wrapping and winding the tubing around her arm and the rungs on the back of the chair and tying it in an intricate knot between her shoulder blades before using the same method on her legs. Next he fastened a simple ball gag you could buy at any fetish shop over her mouth.
Then he went over to her computer, logged on, and transferred all of her banking information to the new accounts he had set up for her. He went through her other accounts, canceling her credit cards, turning off her phone service and other utilities, calling a charity to come pick up her car as a tax-free donation, typing up a resignation letter, even hiring a moving company to come to pack and ship her belongings to a warehouse paid for by a direct debit to the new accounts. He packed her toiletries, a few changes of clothes, and all the other things a woman never leaves home without for an extended amount of time in a small overnight bag. Then he wrote the necessary "Dear John" letter, explaining in the simplest terms that she didn't feel she was able to give him the kind of life he deserved, would never be a good mother, was freaking out over the prospect of commitment, blah, blah, blah and all that good stuff. He printed it, made out an envelope, and waited for her to wake up.
It took a little longer than he expected for her to wake up, but that just gave him a chance to make sure there was absolutely no trace of him in the apartment whatsoever. He polished all the surfaces, vacuumed the floor and threw out the bag, even taking the time to clean out her refrigerator of all perishables like a normal person who was running as quickly as possible from her future husband would. He took all of it to the trash chute down the hall, confident in his knowledge that trash was collected the next day.
By the time he got back she had started to come to. Not completely, just enough to get her to do what he wanted. He released one arm and convinced her to sign the letters and seal the envelope by holding his gun to her forehead. Not the kindest form of persuasion by far, but definitely the most efficient in the current situation. He could see the fear in her eyes; she knew him well enough to know that when he put his mind to something, it would be done perfectly.
He was hit with a stroke of genius before taking her out to the car and taped her hands together just like that case years before. There had been a kidnapping, and she was trying to show him that a person in the front seat of the car wouldn't have been able to let her arms rest on the back of the seat, and had him tape her up. A little irony never hurt anyone.
The drive back to his place was quiet, mainly because his only passenger was currently bound and gagged in the back underneath a couple of blankets. He hit the button on his visor to make the garage door slide up and pulled in, hitting the button again to close the door on prying eyes.
He helped her out of the car and into his townhouse before opening a door off the side of the kitchen. He led her down the stairs to the basement, never saying a word. The basement was large, the same size as the first and second floors of his home, and usually held only the washer and dryer. Now there was one of those large kennels set up in the center of the room with reinforced seams and very heavy fencing. Inside of the kennel was a small air mattress and a camp toilet, the kind that uses a pneumatic pump for flushing. There was a large eyebolt in the ceiling with a heavy chain attached to it that pooled on the floor inside the kennel. Fastened to the end of the chain was a heavy leather collar that closed securely with a large padlock. Soundproofing foam covered all of the walls and the ceiling.
Outside the kennel a red velvet Victorian loveseat sat between a mahogany bookcase and end table. A floor lamp reached over the loveseat providing it with ample lighting, as there was only a bare bulb hanging over the washer and dryer for illumination. There was a television tucked into a corner behind the kennel with a remote control sitting on top of it. Next to the television was a neatly folded stack of his old dress shirts. He had always imagined how lovely she would be walking around his home in the morning wearing nothing more than that, plus it would keep him from having to remove the collar for her to change clothes.
Sara took all of this in quietly, she was probably still in shock,wondering what he was going to do to her. Would she be tortured or abused or did he have some perverse sexual games planned? She would have asked, but she was still prohibited from speaking due to the gag. He took her to the center of the kennel and fastened the collar around her neck. Next he took a small penknife and cut one strap of her tank top and sliced down the side before removing the gag and leaving the kennel, locking it behind him. He threw one of his shirts into the cage through the slats and climbed back up the stairs, turning off the lights behind him before closing the door.
He waited by the door for a few moments, listening to see if his soundproofing worked, and could only hear soft muffled screaming coming from below. It wasn't enough to be heard inside the house without listening for it, so no neighbors would be alerted. Satisfied, he smiled to himself before heading to the bathroom to shower in preparation for work that evening.
