Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: In this chapter I used statistics about Cervical and Uterine cancer. These cancers are easily detected with a simple papsmear. I deliberately did not include mortality rates for Ovarian cancer. They are much higher because the disease is harder to detect. However, if you have been putting off that doctor's visit now is a good time to make an appointment. I love all my readers and would like for them to all be healthy.

Many thanks to my betas - LiT, Cropper and Mingsmommy.

God's Will – Chapter 1

December 3, 2007

For several long moments, Al Robbins stood outside Grissom's door, watching as his friend of many years pretended to work on the file spread out in front of him. Even though all of his patients were of the non-breathing variety, Doc considered himself pretty adept at reading people. And Gil was hurting. The deep creases around his eyes, the pinched mouth and the dejected slump to his shoulders all gave him away. When he thought about it, Doc realized he hadn't seen Gil look like that since Nick's kidnapping.

Giving two sharp raps on the door frame with the tip of his cane, Doc called out, "Hey, Gil. Got a minute?"

"I was beginning to think you were going to stand out there all day." Grissom's lips turned up in a smirk at the surprise on Al's face. He would never understand why people just assumed he was oblivious to those around him.

Seeing the folder the man was carrying, he motioned for him to enter. "Come on in. What've you got? Are those the results from Abernathy?"

With a gait made strong and confident by years of practice, Doc entered the office and settled himself in the chair in front of Grissom's desk. "No. I'm still waiting on the Abernathy results to be typed up. I can tell you about it if you'd like. But this," he held the folder up, "is something else, something I'm not so sure about."

His curiosity piqued, Grissom clasped his hands together on the desk and raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

Force of habit had Doc opening the folder even though he never once looked at the contents. "I had three cases last month of women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, who died from apparent natural causes. All three of them were in-patient at St. Rose Dominican out in Henderson. And all three were there for hysterectomies following a diagnosis of cervical or uterine cancer."

Grissom sat quietly for a moment. "And you are telling me this because…" he let his voice trail off, his confusion evident.

"Well, first of all, three otherwise healthy women just stopped breathing. There's no indication that anesthesia was a factor, seeing as one was more than twenty-four hours post-op, and the other two were more than twelve. There was nothing on any of their tox panels to suggest an overdose. They all tested negative for histamines, so they didn't suffer from anaphylaxis. There was no other evidence of cancer in their bodies during autopsy. From looking at the cross sections, it appears that the disease had not metastasized to the other organs. In other words, there is absolutely no logical reason these women should be dead." Doc's voice was quiet but his eyes flashed with all the conviction of the newly converted.

"Okay. I can accept that these women shouldn't have died. I still don't see why this is a CSI problem, Al. We need a crime to investigate."

"What if I told you that national averages show the mortality rate is less than eight for every one hundred thousand women diagnosed with these types of cancers every year, would that make a difference? And I'm talking about nationally. In the state of Nevada the number is two." Pausing to catch his breath, Al rubbed a hand over his goatee. "I've got three deaths here in one month from a single hospital. I may be wrong, Gil, but something doesn't smell right."

Grissom leaned back in his chair, hands clasped and index fingers resting on his pursed lips. "Even if there is something going on you're going to need more than this."

Leaning forward, Doc slid the file across the desk. "I went back a year. It seems that this hospital is beating the national average by a mile. Ten women have died, with no discernible cause, in the past twelve months. All within the same age range. All Caucasian." When Grissom started to speak, Doc held up a hand. "Just look at the file, Gil."

With a nod, Grissom lifted the folder and slid it into his briefcase. "I'll look over it at home."

Doc nodded. After a moment's pause, he asked, "How's Sara?"

"I'm not sure. She's says she's fine but…" Grissom shrugged.

Pushing to his feet, Doc studied his friend. "Well, tell her that I asked about her." He made his way to the door and then turned back. "If there's anything you need, you know who to call."

"Thanks, Al." Grissom gave the man a tired smile. "I'll get back to you on this."

My feet are silent on the mottled gray floor tiles. I move down the hall, passing offices and labs that are empty at this time of night. I love the silence, the shadows. I'm comfortable here. The absence of prying eyes leaves me free to save those who need my help.

I make my way to the stairwell, passing no one, and climb to the fifth floor, pulling on latex gloves as I go. I slip through the door and ease it closed behind me. I glance toward the nurses' station and, just as I expected, the area is full. Shift changes in just over an hour and final rounds have been made. All the nurses for the hall are gathered at the desk completing their paperwork. I don't tarry for fear that someone may notice me. I have to take care of business and get back to work.

Room 517. I stand outside for a moment, a silent prayer for strength running through my mind. Drawing in a deep breath I push the door open. I pause for a moment, cataloging the room. I see the sink against the wall, the television hanging from the ceiling, the cheap wooden wardrobe. My eyes skim over the window and the chair sitting in front of it, finally coming to rest on the figure in the bed.

I take a few steps forward and close the door soundlessly behind me. My eyes adjust to the soft gray light of dawn through the window. I move quickly now. I feel as if I'm floating – like a phantom, like a seraph. I step over to the bed and look down at the woman. I see the bruises under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. Her hair lies lankly on the hard pillow. She is thin and pale in the semi-darkness. Just looking at her I am filled with a fire, a sense of righteousness that is tempered by only a hint of sadness. It is time.

I reach into my pocket, pull out a syringe and twist off the protective cover. Grabbing the injection port in the IV line, I insert the needle and depress the plunger, pushing 3cc's of viscous fluid into the simple saline solution that is flowing into her veins. I recap the syringe and put it back in my pocket. It only takes a moment. I hear the first wheezing breath and watch as her eyes flutter open in panic.

I bend down and whisper, so that only the two of us can hear. "Don't worry. This is God's will."

Then I am gone. Slipping back the way I came. Gloves tucked into my pocket over the syringe. Feet moving me stealthily back down the stairs, away from the possibility of discovery. When I reach the first floor I make my way to the chapel where I say a prayer for the soul of Emily Brannigan.

Grissom let himself in through the garage door, Hank at his side. Once again, for just a second, he started to call out so that Sara would know he was home. Then he remembered; he remembered that she wasn't there and it was like she'd just left all over again. He remembered, but Hank didn't, and the dog took off on a room by room search for the lady of the house. A few minutes later the canine returned to the kitchen and pressed up against Grissom's leg, his normally sad eyes even more dejected. With a sigh, Grissom reached down and stroked a soothing hand over his side.

"I know, boy. I miss her, too." Grissom's voice was sad and Hank whimpered in response.

With a sigh, Grissom began his after work routine. For the past two weeks the routine was the only thing keeping him sane. He fed Hank and then went to take a shower. After slipping into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he fixed what passed for breakfast at three o'clock in the afternoon. He made sure the coffee pot was set to make coffee at 8:45 and then carried the two pieces of dry toast and cup of tea over to his desk. The only change to his routine; the file Al gave to him. Grissom flipped it open and began to read.

He poured over the autopsy reports and the national, as well as the county-wide statistics that Al had printed out. Before long he felt that familiar tingle along the back of his neck. Something wasn't right. Grissom just wasn't sure it was something they could prove.

Two hours later, his eyelids were so heavy that he could no longer ignore the need for sleep. By rote, he clipped on Hank's leash and took him out into the backyard. Once they were back in the house, Grissom shuffled into the bedroom. After removing his clothes, he crawled between the sheets not even bothering to tell Hank he had to sleep in his own bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He dreamed of Sara. He always dreamed of Sara. Always. In his sleep he felt her soft skin against him, heard her throaty voice in his ear. The vision smiled at him and he was lost in her heat. She was on his tongue, her scent filled his nostrils, her body was under his hands, pressed against him and for those few hours he was truly happy.

However, the happiness was short-lived. The bleat of the alarm dragged him, hard and aching, from his restless slumber at nine o'clock. Lying in bed, hands clasped behind his head, Grissom ruthlessly ignored his state of arousal. Memories of the years before Sara became his lover came rushing back to him. Pushing off the mattress, he stumbled to the bathroom. Face washed, teeth brushed, clothes on, he moved to the kitchen and fixed a cup of coffee. With his cup in one hand and Hank's leash in the other, Grissom set out on a short walk. The sidewalks and streetlights in the neighborhood made being a night dweller easier.

Business taken care of, Grissom loaded everything into the car and headed out to drop Hank at the sitter's. It wasn't until he pulled into the parking lot at the lab that he marked another day off his mental calendar. Eighteen days without Sara. And for what felt like the millionth time he asked himself if this was how she felt when he was in New England.