Hey guys, thank you so much for the reviews! I was hoping for a couple, so to get nearly 20 blew me away! I hope you continue to enjoy it! (Although your bad influences are causing far more procrastinating...I have an exam this afternoon...aaargh!)

Sara turned, unable to look at the woman; she was sitting on the toilet as though she were about to get up and wash her hands, the only sign something was awry being the bloody hole through her head. She moved over to the sinks and placed her hands supportively on a basin in order to keep her balance. The stained porcelain felt cool and smooth to her skin. It was as though all her senses had heightened. She could hear the sound of a dripping tap somewhere and she could smell a horrible mixture of bleach, blood and urine. All of a sudden she felt her stomach heave and she threw up all over the sink. Coughing, she attempted to spit out the bitter taste from her mouth. Catherine approached her from behind and placed a hand supportively on her back, rubbing gently in circles. "Hey, hey, it's alright," she murmured.

Sara was suddenly aware that her breathing was short and sharp. She had not seen her mother for more than twenty years. Now she was faced with the emotions of seeing her again and the reality of her death, all in one go. "I have to get out of here," she blurted, her voice a weak croak from her dry throat. "I'm contaminating evidence."

She heard Catherine laugh softly. "Don't worry about that," she replied. "But I think you're right. Let's get you out of here."

I.I.I.I.I

In the end Catherine did not stay to process the crime scene. She made excuses for Sara as she escorted her from the shopping mall - she had come over nauseous, maybe it was a stomach bug or something. She drove Sara back to the lab, making a brief call to Grissom on the way. He had asked what was wrong. "I think you better speak to Sara in person," she had replied.

"What am I going to say?" Sara had mused quietly when Catherine had ended the call.

"That the victim was your mother?" Catherine suggested without taking her eyes off the road. The silence that followed had made her wonder whether she had been a little blunt. She was just about to apologise when Sara began to speak again.

"I never even spoke to her when she got out of prison," she muttered. Her voice was outwardly calm, stating facts, but Catherine was not oblivious to the mix of emotions in her voice: regret, anger, pain. Catherine did not know how to reply but as it turned out Sara continued speaking before she had the chance. "I always thought- I thought I would see her again. But- not like this." Sara stopped talking bluntly; her words making Catherine's chest tighten with shared emotion

Catherine glanced briefly at her friend and colleague, taking her eyes off the road for a moment. Sara's eyes were moist and there was a noticeable lump in her throat. As she continued to drive, Catherine became aware of the sound of choked sobs, barely stifled by Sara's futile attempts to do so. She signalled right and pulled into the side of the road. Cautiously she reached out a hand to Sara's, clasped together in her lap. When Sara did not pull away, she squeezed her friend's hand and held on to it until she had cried all the tears she had left inside her.

I.I.I.I.I

Grissom was walking along a corridor when he saw Catherine and Sara approach him. He closed the file he had been studying as he moved and quickened his pace. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his question directed at Sara, sounding both confused and concerned. "I heard you had a stomach bug. You should go home."

Sara, who had previously been staring at the floor, looked up and Grissom saw her eyes were red and swollen; she had been crying. He suddenly also became aware of Catherine's supportive hand placed on her back. "What's going on?" he questioned.

Sara opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Catherine provided her voice instead. "I think Sara needs a cup of coffee or something stronger. And somewhere to sit down."

At this, Sara suddenly found her own voice. Shaking her head vehemently, she protested, "No, I just need to talk to you, Grissom. Preferably not in this corridor." She was aware of passing eyes boring into her. She must look a mess, she thought. She had been crying, and she probably smelt of vomit. How attractive.

"Sure," Grissom replied, signalling for the two women to follow him. Once they had reached Grissom's office, Sara turned to Catherine. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Catherine asked, knowing it was a stupid question; Sara would say she was 'fine' whether she was or not.

"Honestly." Sara smiled weakly and nodded gratefully at her friend and colleague. "I appreciate what you've done."

"Hey, you got me an hour off proper work." Catherine returned the smile before turning and making her way back down the corridor. Sara turned round to face Grissom and took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy.

I.I.I.I.I

"What do you mean the dead woman is your mother?" Grissom did not sugar-coat his shocked response, just as Sara had not sugar-coated her short explanation.

"Just what I said. The woman in the shopping mall is my Mum." Sara was beyond tears now. She could feel her body hardening to the events of the last hour or so; her body's usual reaction to emotional trauma – shut it out.

"I thought your Mum moved to Canada?" Grissom queried. For a brief moment the circumstances surrounding their conversation escaped Sara's mind and she was warmed and touched by the fact that Grissom remembered the few details she had disclosed to him about her life. The feeling did not last long.

"Not my foster Mum. My real mother."

Grissom looked shocked. "I thought she-" He cut off, unsure how to continue.

"Murdered my Dad?" The ease with which Sara could talk about her past shocked even herself. "She did but she only got manslaughter; she was a battered wife, Grissom, and that usually gains a woman some sympathy. She was out of jail within five years."

"You haven't been in contact with her?"

"I last saw her on my fourteenth birthday on a visit to her jail. She had forgotten what day it was. I didn't even get a card. That was it. I told my foster Mum I wasn't going back. And I didn't. I was a stubborn teenager."

Grissom smiled for a moment. "You still are stubborn, Sara," he commented. She looked up at him and their gazes met. For a moment he saw all the hurt in her eyes; the pain she was trying to lock away. It upset him, and he looked away. "You should be at home."

"Why?"

"Emotional leave; you've suffered a bereavement."

"Before today I hadn't seen that woman for more than twenty years, Grissom. I didn't know her."

"You and I both know that's not the point. She was your mother, Sara."

"My mother moved to Canada, like you said. She still sends me Christmas and birthday cards and we speak on the phone every now and then. The woman who is dead in the Boulevard Shopping Mall is a stranger to me."

"Then why aren't you there, processing the crime scene?" Grissom asked.

Sara was silent for a moment. "It was a shock, that's all. I'll go back now, if you like."

"What did I say? Stubborn."

"It wasn't just the fact that it was her," Sara protested. "It was just a horrible way to die. It never ceases to amaze me…" Her voice faded.

"'Man's inhumanity to man,'" Grissom quoted.

"Robert Burns," Sara returned.

Grissom smiled. "Go home, Sara."

I.I.I.I.I

Unlocking the door to her apartment, Sara was aware of the deathly stillness inside. There was still a bitter taste in her mouth from when she had been sick. She opened a kitchen cupboard. Inside was a full bottle of whisky. She pulled out a glass and poured herself a generous amount of the thick drink. In one swift movement she swallowed the entire contents of the glass, screwing up her face at the strength of the alcohol. In a moment, however, she felt the warmth of it running through her bloodstream, making her feel instantly more relaxed. This was a dangerous path, she knew. The whisky had been in the cupboard for more than two years. The last time she had opened a bottle it had not lasted the evening. She had bought another one because somehow knowing it was in the cupboard gave her the power to resist; she was in control. But not tonight; now there was no turning back.

Pouring herself another generous glass, she made her way through to her bedroom. She placed the glass on top of her bedside cabinet and got down onto her knees in order to reach under her bed. She pulled out a wooden box. Opening it she found the collection of letters she knew were contained within. Carefully rooting through them, she eventually found what she was looking for: a photograph. It was faded and curled at the edges but the image was still clear. Sara, aged about seven, with a toothless grin on her face. Behind her was her mother, her shining brown hair hanging around her shoulders, her perfect smile and her shining eyes gazing devotedly upon her young daughter. How things changed, Sara thought.

She stood up again, the photograph in her hand, and reached out for the glass of whisky. She could still feel the effects of the last glass but it did not stop her drinking this one equally as swiftly. She walked through to the kitchen and caught sight of a calendar hanging on the wall. The irony of the date suddenly hit her. Picking up the whisky bottle she then settled in an armchair. Gazing at the photo, she took a swig of the whisky, the taste no longer having an effect on her. "Happy Birthday, Mum," she muttered.