Author's Note: Some of you were mightily displeased with our dear Grissom at the end of chapter four. Fear no more, ladies and the occasional gent--he redeems himself in the following. Or does he? Enjoy! (By the way, the chapter title is a play on words; 'many happy returns' is a variation on the 'happy birthday' blessing, to my understanding. In this case, several things or people return in this chapter, to less than stellar results.)

Chapter Five: Many Unhappy Returns

The crimson light stained her skin, the walls, the floor. Her blood was dark splotches in it, no color, only black liquid on grey concrete. She was lying face up on the surface, her body crisscrossed with the angry red mouths of open wounds. Across the room he stood, manacled to the wall still, looking down on her limp, twisted body with only the faintest hint of sadness in his beautiful blue eyes. Graceful leather-clad fingers trailed down his body, still clothed entirely in black, and slid between his legs to cup him intimately. Now expression crossed his face, that of ecstasy, as his violent and beautiful mistress pleasured him before her prisoner's broken and bleeding body. Lady Heather strode over and ran her black leathered palm over Sara's stomach, covering the slick surface of her glove in blood, and held her hand up to his lips. His tongue snaked out and licked her blood from the dominatrix's hand, his eyes never leaving Sara's face.

Sara moaned softly, in pain and violation, but the two hardly seemed to notice her except as an exotic living toy for their sadistic sexual game. They fucked passionately in front of her, sounds of slick skin against leather, occasionally trailing a finger or boot or whip through her blood and using the smell, the feel, the taste of her death to heighten their pleasure. She was helpless to crawl away, to even speak to plead with them to kill her. She could only watch, and bleed, and fight for breath—or the ability to stop breathing…

Sara woke up screaming for the second time that night, her body twisted in the blanket, her hands clutching the sheets so hard that she heard them rip as she returned swiftly and horribly to consciousness.

"Sara." Grissom's voice was beside her, in her room, and for a moment she could not place where she was or who she was or why he was speaking to her so pleasantly when he was killing her and tasting her blood on that bitch's lips—

"No!" she screamed, wrenching away from the sound of his voice, her hands flailing out. One fist caught him squarely in the stomach, and he doubled over. She flew from the bed, the handful of martial arts classes she had taken in college kicking in haphazardly, and shoved him to the floor, straddling his hips. She began to pummel her fists against his chest wildly. "You can't do this to me!"

"Sara!" His voice was filled with desperation and fear. It cut through her confusion and madness, and she flung her body off his, rolling to the floor beside him. She twisted her head away and promptly vomited again, nothing but bile and hot cocoa wrenching free of her tortured digestive system. Tears streamed down her face from the violence of her illness and from her horror, and she shoved her blanket over the damp spot staining her carpet and stumbled to her feet, running for her bathroom, nearly blinded by tears and sweaty hair. Without a second thought, she tore off her second pair of pajamas for the evening and staggered into the shower, tugging the curtain shut behind her and yanking on the faucet. Boiling water struck her skin and she cried out, but did not turn down the temperature. Her skin began to turn bright red under the stream.

"Sara!" Grissom had followed her into the bathroom, and she could see his fingers close around the curtain, about to pull it aside. She reached for a towel she had tossed up over the shower rod some previous evening and pulled it in front of her naked body just as the force of his pull tore the curtain from its rings. She stared at him, face white and drawn, eyes red-rimmed, plush whiteness hiding everything important but not the fact that the burning-hot water was about to raise blisters on her freckled skin. He was breathing hard, disheveled and wild-eyed, but his scientist's eyes noted immediately the plumes of steam rising and the lobster-like effect it was having on her body. He bent over and turned the cold water up.

They stood there, staring at one another, breathing hard. Sara wondered if he would turn around and leave, if he would scream at her, if he might even hit her. After all, she had attacked him. She could not figure out why he was back in her apartment—she had watched him leave. Her shoulders quaked and her chest heaved with every panicked and painful breath.

And then he stepped into the tub, fully dressed, the water quickly soaking through his tee shirt and jeans. His feet were bare—he must have taken off his sandals and jacket when he had returned, probably while she slept. He reached out and pulled her to him, damp and naked behind the towel, and held her tightly.

"What happened?"

She could not move, so certain was she that she had slipped from one dream into another. She let her hands tentatively move around him, settling on his lower back, feeling the scratch of his beard against her temple. Her voice was a ragged whisper when she finally spoke. "I'm so sorry."

"Another nightmare?"

"Yes."

"The same?"

"No."

"What did she do to you?"

"Almost nothing."

"And I?"

She did not hold back. "You licked my blood from her hand. You fucked her while I bled to death in front of you. You orgasmed while you watched me die."

She was startled by the sound tearing out of his throat then, a pain-filled hybrid of a groan and a sob. "My god, Sara."

She carefully disengaged herself to wrap the towel more securely around her body before looking at him. Wet black cotton clung to his upper body, and beads of water dripped from his hair and face.

"Sara." He sounded desperate, and his hand came out to tilt up her chin, to force her to look into his eyes. "I don't know why you're dreaming these things, but—I would never—"

"I know," she replied, stepping forward into the spray and letting it rinse the salt of her tears and the sour taste of vomit away. She smoothed her soaking hair away from her face and turned around again, to let the hot water beat down on her back. "They're just dreams."

"You attacked me because of them."

"I was confused!" she protested. "You weren't supposed to be here. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was worried about you. I slipped back in when I thought you had fallen back to sleep. You never locked your door."

"You should have stayed away," she said coldly. "I might have really hurt you."

He laughed, a bitter sound. "You think the fact that some part of your subconscious believes I'm capable of these things you're dreaming about doesn't hurt me? Christ, Sara, do you think I want to harm you? Kill you?"

"No." She closed her eyes. "I think you don't want me to be in love with you."

"You're not in love with me." The denial was quick and thick in his voice.

"No? Don't tell me how I feel, Grissom."

"So is this because I wouldn't have dinner with you? Because I was with someone else? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything!"

"You're turning me into a villain."

"It's a nightmare!" she screamed, and he flinched. "I can't stop it, I can't change it, I can't do anything about it. You think I'm enjoying this? It's bad enough when you're not here. It's worse when you are. Just leave me alone!"

"Planning to never sleep again?"

"I quit," she said in a low voice, and his eyes widened. "I am done with you, I am done with Vegas, and I am done with death and blood and everything else that makes me crazy and makes me drink and dream of rape and murder and you. I don't hear Kaye Shelton's screams anymore, or see Donna Mark's dying eyes. I hear my own. I see my own. You're killing me, Grissom, and that's what the dreams mean, and there's your analysis and your understanding and your fucking meaning." She gasped for air, breathless in her own rage. "I don't understand you, but whose fault is that? It sure as hell isn't mine. I have tried everything I know, and you would rather sleep with a dominatrix you barely know than have dinner with me. And that is just fine, because I never want to see you again, dreaming or awake." She wrenched off the water and stepped out of the shower, striding to her bedroom and curling up in a ball on her bed.

Her front door slammed shut, heralding Grissom's departure, and no tears came to her eyes. She lay in bed, staring at the wall, eyes wide and dry, soaking her clean green sheets.

TBC...

(Have faith, my dears. I would never leave you in despair. ~Bella)