A/N : Thanks so much to Danie, for the awesome translation and pace!! And also for pointing out some of my silly mistakes in the plot, and for correcting them, she's really the best :) And you all guys rock, thanks again and again for all the reviews and comments!! Happy New Year everyone :)

Category: Romance/Angst/Action

Pairing : GSR

Raiting : T

Disclaimer : 'CSI' and all its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spoilers : Up to the end of Season 5 (the GSR wasn't canon when I wrote this fic )

SUMMARY : When a new serial killer comes to Vegas, Sara has no choice but to go back to her past… GSR, WIP

Deadly Neglect

Chapter Five

Not even the deafening sound of the sirens could draw Sara from her trance. Her eyes were open wide with fear, but she wasn't really aware of what was happening around her. Rational thought abandoned her at the second stab of the knife, when she felt a warm, gooey liquid squirt on her face. So she wasn't aware of the racket going on outside, barely flinched when the front door burst open in an explosion of split wood, or when several people entered the dark room moments later.

And suddenly, a man flicked on the switch and shed light on the gruesome scene. For the first time in long, long minutes, Sara blinked, blinded by the sudden change in lighting. Once, twice, then three times… Each bat of her eyelids bringing her closer to reality…

The first thing she noticed was the smell. A strong odor of iron and something else that made her stomach queasy. The sound of someone throwing up … she wasn't the only one with a weak stomach. But she doubted the odor alone was responsible for it.

Sara was slowly reconnecting with reality, but much of what was going on was still hazy in her brain. She noticed the dark, red fluid all over the floor. She also made out a massive bulk on the floor no more than three feet from her, almost completely covered in this same fluid; in fact, it seemed to originate from it. Certain details became clearer; things that helped her reconnect and understand that it was her father on the floor. And her mother lying prone next to her husband, also covered in that red fluid. Sara had somewhat disconnected from reality, but her mother seemed completely out of it. She didn't react when a man cuffed her, or when he started to deliver an official-sounding speech, barely making it to the end, his gaze transfixed on the scene.

Those men with the dark suits finally left the room; the younger one whose stomach seemed to have settled followed them. Then more people came in; two of the men were dressed in white. One of them touched her father's body—his arm, his wrist, as though looking for something, but taking in the man's expression, Sara knew he didn't expect to find anything.

The other one looked around and his eyes fell on Sara.

He moved so quickly that in her foggy state, Sara startled when he fell to his knees in front of her. He reached for her and she reflexively flinched, so he stopped dropped his hand and then spoke to her in a slow, gentle voice.

"My name is Matthew; I'm a paramedic and I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

Sara blinked again, taking in what he was saying. She saw the sincerity in his eyes. He was telling her the truth. He wanted to help her.

"Sara," she murmured in a small voice.

"Very well, Sara. As I said, I'm here to help you and for that, I need to know if you're injured. Do you hurt anywhere?"

She slowly shook her head. Her body was numb, how could she tell if anything hurt?

"Are you sure? Sara, can you remove your hand from your neck so I can see?"

Her hand from her neck? She was surprised to realize that her left hand was pressed against the right side of her neck. As she tried to relax her fingers and remove her hand, she suddenly remembered the knife and realized why she was holding her neck. Matthew must have quickly understood that most of the blood soaking her clothes wasn't her own. He said that it wasn't deep and that she wouldn't need stitches, and then he cleaned the wound and bandaged it.

She wouldn't remember leaving the apartment and getting into the ambulance. On the way to the hospital, Matthew cleaned the blood from her face while speaking to her with a gentle voice. He spoke of his family, told her his wife's name, his kids', their cat's…'Pinky'. Sara only half listened to him, but his voice was soothing.

At the hospital, a man and a woman wearing dark uniforms, cops, Sara thought, took over and she didn't see Matthew again. They made her sit down in a waiting room and the female cop explained to her that for the moment, no one could look after her, but that a social worker would come and get her the next morning. She told her to behave and stay there for the time being. She said other things to make Sara feel that she wasn't a burden, but she wasn't really listening anymore. She only nodded and stayed quiet.

An hour, then two, went by. People came and went in a fog. Sara didn't like hospitals. She often came here with her parents. Before. And those visits were never pleasant. "I hit myself… I feel down the stairs…I slipped…" Lies, Lies…

There were many injured people in the waiting room and Sara could smell the same odor of iron she'd smelled at home earlier. She wasn't feeling well; she felt like she was going to throw up, like she did when she rode roller-coasters, or when she ate too much chocolate cake that Pat would bring to their hiding place on Thursdays. But she didn't want to ask the male officer who had stayed with her to bring her to the bathroom. She didn't want to talk to him because if she did, she would empty her stomach in public. So she kept very still in the uncomfortable chair, her hands on her knees, her eyes focused on the floor, ignoring the voices and the sobbing around her; and she focused on her breathing so she wouldn't throw up.

"Sara!"

She heard the familiar voice and looked up. A nurse was in front of her looking surprised and worried. It took her only a few seconds to recognize the woman. It was Lisa MacDouglas, James' mother. She recalled now that she was a nurse and that she worked nights at the hospital. She had seen her before when she and Pat would go over to James' house. Sara would tell her parents that she was going to a girlfriend's to play…

Sara liked James' mother. She'd always been nice to her, and she was brave to bring up a daughter and a son on her own. Once, Mrs. MacDouglas had seen Sara and her parents at the hospital, but Sara had begged with her eyes to not come and talk to them. But tonight was different. She was with a cop instead of her parents and her clothes were covered in blood.

"Sara, are you okay?" she asked as she kneeled in front of her.

"Yes," Sara murmured. It was a lie.

As though understanding that she wouldn't say more, she rose to her feet and asked the cop what was going on. The two walked away so Sara wouldn't hear what they said, but she saw the horror on the Mrs. MacDouglas' face as the cop talked to her. She covered her mouth with her hand and she kept looking back at Sara with wide eyes. She looked upset and it seemed to make the man uncomfortable. After a while, he took his walkie-talkie and spoke to someone and after that he said something to Mrs. MacDouglas and they came back to her.

James' mom kneeled on the floor in front of her again and stroked Sara's cheek. Her eyes were bright with tears. "Listen, sweetie. The police officer told me you had to stay here all night until someone from social services came to get you."

Sara nodded. She already knew that.

"I told him that I know you very well and that you're my son's best friend, and they finally agreed that you could spend the night at my house. Would you like that?"

Sara immediately nodded. Of course, she would rather be with James than spend the night in this awful hospital.

Mrs. MacDouglas smiled a little and stroked her cheek again. "I'll call the house and let Mily and James know that you're coming. The officer will drive you, okay?"

Sara nodded.

Lisa MacDouglas left and Sara continued to stare at the floor. Near her, a baby was screaming in its mother's arms. Sara felt nauseous. James' mom came back a few minutes later to tell her that everything was arranged and then, after hugging her briefly, Sara left with the officer.

She sat in the back seat and almost didn't realize they were already there until the car stopped. She followed the officer up to the MacDouglas' second floor apartment. He rang the bell and the door immediately opened on Emily and James. Sara liked Emily. She was only fifteen but very mature and James adored her. Sara glanced at James but couldn't hold his gaze. Her head was in a fog and there was a hum in her ears. Sometimes, very briefly, the fog would lift and then everything started to spin.

Sara closed her eyes and then felt James' hand in hers; he took her to the kitchen while his sister talked to the officer. When the door banged closed, Sara startled and the fog began to lift again. Suddenly, she saw her hands, her arms, her bloody T-shirt, no longer bright red as it had been earlier, but a deeper, darker color. She could hear the pounding of her heart in her ears, and suddenly, it was as though all her clothes smelled that nauseating iron smell of before, and Sara folded over and threw up all over the tiled floor.

When it was all over, her hiccups turned to sobs. "I—I'm—I'm sorry."

Mily gently pulled her in a hug. "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay…"

Emily helped Sara bathe, removing the dried blood from her body with a soft sponge, careful not to wet the bandage on her neck. Sara remained quiet and tried not to look at the bath water that was slowly turning red with each blood stain that Mily scrubbed from her skin. Quiet tears were running down her cheeks. It was as if her brain was finally waking up to the horror of what had happened, and she wondered what would happen to her now. Foster family. Until she's old enough to live on her own. Would she have to leave San Francisco? Would she still be able to see James and Patrick? And her mother?

No. Not her mother.

Her heart clenched painfully, so did her stomach as she remembered what her mother did to her, to her father, and each new tear running down her face brought with it pain and delusion.

The bath did make her feel a little better, and when she donned one of Emily's old pyjamas, she was glad that it didn't smell like iron, although she knew deep down that the traces of blood would never completely leave her.

She went to bed with James. He hugged her close to him and it made her feel safe. And that's when Sara finally let herself to really cry, openly sob, without barriers.

"What happened, Lya?" James asked softly when she stopped sobbing.

At first, she didn't feel like talking about it, but she soon realized that telling him might make her feel better, so she told him everything.

The next morning, two detectives came to see her. She had to tell her story again, and she didn't like that very much, but she did like that they took her bloody clothes with them when they left.

It would be the last time Sara spoke of that night for twenty-two years.

Once again, Sara awoke with a start. Her skin was clammy and she abruptly sat up in bed. She looked at her hands; they were shaking but blood-free. No blood. A firm, yet gentle grip on her shoulders slowly pulled her back down onto the bed. He held her closely, as he'd done twenty years before, waiting for the tremors that shook her body to subside. In her nightmare, she'd seen her mother's face and the knife. Then the face had changed to Patrick's, the thirteen year old kid of her memories.

Knowing that words would be useless, James didn't say anything, only held her. Conversation had been difficult for both of them since receiving Patrick's message. Sara was focused on keeping her fears under control. Patrick was nuts, a cold-blooded killer who was threatening her even more unequivocally than he was James.

Thinking about Patrick's message brought back the expression on Grissom's face when he had read it. His eyes had filled with…worry? Yes that's what it was, and anger as well. The fact that he had insisted on round the clock protection for her (a cop parked at her door) confirmed how terrified he was for her. She had objected, of course, not wanting to appear weak, and then James had intervened promising Grissom that he would look after her. It was clear to Sara that Grissom had not appreciated the offer, but he couldn't contradict James. He was a FBI agent, more than qualified to handle these situations. And with that settled, Grissom had simply told them they could leave.

Both exhausted, bed had beckoned them, and it had made sense to share hers. They needed to feel safe, Sara especially. But her horrors had still caught up with her in her dreams.

It had taken time, but eventually she managed to go back to sleep.

Grissom opened his eyes and winced. He immediately realized that once again, he wasn't alone in bed.

His bed this time.

God. No. No. No, came a small voice in his head, a head which happened to be pounding painfully. It wasn't one of his regular migraines making him suffer this time. No, this pain was more generalized and pointed to one thing: he was hung over.

His memories started to come together. Yes, he remembered. They had received Patrick's message and Sara left with James. Together. Almost hand in hand. And then Sofia and Catherine had arrived to tell him that they hadn't found any new evidence at the crime scene. Then Catherine had left, and noticing his sullen mood, Sofia suggested they go out for a drink. "Just a friendly drink," she'd insisted with a smile when he hesitated. "I'm not a nymphomaniac, Gil. I'm not going to jump you!" He finally accepted and they'd gone to a bar, which was deserted at that time of the morning.

One drink, then two, then three. What had they talked about? He couldn't remember. What he did remember however was his jealousy, the emotion sharper and more painful with each sip of his drink as the alcohol took control of his thoughts. Images of Sara with her handsome FBI friend, each one more vivid than the last, until in the end, he'd been the one jumping Sofia, not the other way around. Not that she'd resisted, of course.

He could have kicked himself for what happened. Despite Sofia's assurances that this meant nothing to her, did it give him the right to treat her like…like an object? He'd become the kind of man he despised, the male chauvinist who treated women like machines, good for nothing but soothing their libido and doing their laundry.

You'll end up in hot water, Gil, ranted the little voice in his head.

Unable to dwell on it longer, he left the bed, relieved that Sofia wasn't draped all over him the way she'd been the last time. He rushed to the bathroom, showered, got dressed and then went to the kitchen to make coffee. Looking at the kitchen clock, he saw that it was almost four o'clock. The sound of running water in the bathroom alerted him that she was up and his stomach clenched. He abhorred the mornings after, especially with Sofia. In fact, he hated them with any woman; he never knew how to navigate them, which was why he did this so rarely.

"Good morning," he heard her say and he looked up with a friendly smile, at least as friendly as he could manage.

"Good morning," he said, forcing a note of playfulness in his voice for good measure. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

He poured her a mug of coffee, then topped off his own, needing to keep busy. He was focusing on the coffee when he felt her unwavering gaze on him; he finally looked up. She was holding her mug between both hands, watching him with a small smile on her lips.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing… I was just thinking that before today I never would have thought that Gil Grissom could be so…passionate."

Passionate? Me… passionate? He remembered being in the bar with her, vaguely remembered asking her back to his place, but…the alcohol did the rest. But how could he have been passionate…with Sofia? Embarrassed, he brought his cup to his lips again.

"But I realize that your good intentions were not meant for me." Gil raised a brow, throwing her an inquisitive look over the rim of his cup. "Calling out another woman's name during sex is not very tactful."

His coffee went down the wrong way making him cough violently.

"Excuse me?" he finally choked out, daring to look at her again. She was still smiling, seemingly more amused than upset.

"You can stop pretending, Mr. Grissom. I suspect you had too much to drink to remember much, but I think you know precisely what I mean."

He was suddenly horribly uncomfortable and could feel the blood boil in his cheeks. He hoped his beard would cover his embarrassed flush, but suspected it couldn't. Sofia set her mug down and picked up her handbag before heading for the door.

"I'm not complaining. I was more than happy to fill in for her." Grinning, and without waiting for a response, she opened the door and left.

Mouth agape, he stared at the door for a moment, not knowing what to make of her comments. Did he really call out someone else's name? If so, he could guess whose name it was and he wasn't surprised. It was…very strange, but not unpleasantly so. And suddenly, he felt the blood drain from his face as he realized that Sofia also knew now who that someone else was. What he didn't know was what she'd do with the information, and dared not think of the consequences if she spread it around.

He could only pray that Sara would never hear of it.

Sara wasn't feeling much more rested when she arrived at the lab with James the next day. The three hours of sleep she did manage to get were not restful, and far from restorative. And she'd dragged James to the lab two hours earlier than necessary. So her disposition wasn't exactly sunny and became less so when Grissom also arrived early with Sofia at his side.

"Hey!" James said jovially as though sensing Sara's tension and trying to lighten the mood.

Grissom responded with a small smile while Sofia asked if they'd had a good day.

"Not particularly," James answered politely. "And you?"

Sofia grinned and threw Grissom a glance that Sara couldn't miss, and then looked directly at Sara rather than James when she answered, "A most pleasant one, thank you for asking."

Sara felt herself pale at her reply which was so…Sofia! Grissom cleared his throat uncomfortably, and had he met her eyes—which unfortunately he avoided—she doubted he would have survived the daggers they were shooting at him.

"Okay," he finally said. "You're early so let's get a head start. Catherine won't be here for another couple of hours, so I suggest we reexamine the evidence."

So saying, they turned their attention to the little evidence they did have—the bed sheets, a pillow, the victim's clothes… Since he wasn't a CSI, James went back to his file. After a while, Sara heard him sigh heavily and went over to him to see what he was looking at. It was the picture of the symbol, their symbol. She shuddered at the thought that Patrick was using it as a signature on his victims.

"When I think of all that…" James began wearily. "If we'd known how Patrick would use this sign, we would have made more of an effort to get him to drop the idea that day on the roof."

"We couldn't predict this, James. We were kids, barely teenagers, and—" Something snapped into place sending a rush of adrenaline through Sara. Her heart pounded in her chest. "The roof!"

Her reaction drew Grissom's and Sofia's attention.

"The roof?" asked James, perplexed.

Sara nodded enthusiastically. "Think, Jamy! Patrick is constantly making references to the three of us, to our childhood. Our birth dates, the symbol, and he killed all his victims on a Thursday. What did we use to do every Thursday?"

His eyes flashed his comprehension. "We'd meet on the roof."

The discovery had pumped Sara with new life. "This is a lead we can't ignore."

Grissom had already removed his latex gloves. "I agree. We can't dismiss anything. Let's go back to Jessica Lown's apartment building and process the roof. If you're right, Sara, we may find new evidence up there."

He left a message on Catherine voice mailbox to let her know where they'd be, and then they took his Tahoe out to the crime scene.

Four people and three bulky cases in a tiny elevator didn't leave them much breathing room. Sara found herself pressed back against Grissom. Perhaps it was her overactive imagination that was feeling his breath on her neck but nevertheless, it sent a rush of stifling heat through her body. Fortunately, it wasn't a skyscraper, but in such an ambiguous moment—when you can't be sure whether it's pleasurable or uncomfortable—time seemed to stretch eternally.

When the elevator doors opened on the tenth floor, Sara welcomed the extra oxygen. She inhaled deeply though silently, and reminded herself to focus on the investigation.

They climbed the stairs to the roof. Even in this smoldering hot city, the late September night was cool, and Sara was glad that she'd thought to wear her jacket. Unfortunately, as they soon realized, the roof wasn't lit and they had to rely on their maglites for illumination.

"I want to treat this roof as a crime scene," Grissom told them. "Given its size and our limited manpower, we'll be more productive with a parallel search." He looked at James. "That means we'll walk in a straight line in a predetermined area to make sure we don't miss anything. It's faster and more effective."

James gave him an amused smile before replying in his usual mild tone. "Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Grissom. I've had many opportunities to work with the CSIs in LA—which in itself is something—but since my closest friend is Sara Sidle, I think I can manage."

Sara couldn't stop a grin from forming on her lips. It was too dark to see Grissom's reaction to James' response, but at a guess she would have said that it irritated the hell out of him. She could feel it oozing out of his pores.

Sofia was fidgeting. "Shall we get to it?"

Soon, four light beams slid slowly over the roof, moving forward parallel to one another. Occasionally someone would stop, but it was always a false alarm.

Then finally, James exclaimed, "I think I've got something." Sara placed a plastic cone at her feet to mark her spot before stepping carefully over to her friend. She looked closely at what he was illuminating with his light. It was blood; a small pool of it, and some spatter.

"Well, it looks like we have a crime scene after all."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Sara," Grissom replied. He had just joined them, followed closely by Sofia. He opened his kit and retrieved a cotton swab while Sara snapped a couple of pictures.

Meanwhile, Sofia was searching around the blood pool with her maglite. "I've got hairs." She photographed them and then lifted a few strands. "Light brown. Isn't that our victim's hair color?"

"Yes," Grissom said.

Sara had also begun moving away from the blood pool, and stopped when her light picked up something approximately six feet away. Frowning, she walked over to the object and went down on one knee. Underneath a small rock, she found a clear plastic sheet protector containing a sheet of paper.

"Griss, I found a note," she said before lifting her camera and snapping a picture. Grissom quickly joined her and she set the rock aside; carefully, she picked up the sheet protector in her gloved hand before rising to her feet. Grissom, who was behind her, flashed his light over her shoulder and they could clearly see the message, printed in a dark ink that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

"I see that you've finally found my little gift," Sara began reading aloud. "That means I was right about you, Lya, you're a really good CSI. As I write this note, I have yet to send my message to your lab and a young woman is right here with me on this roof…bound. I couldn't have planned this better, could I? The ink I'm using is indeed blood, but it doesn't belong to this whiner. It's from a man I killed earlier today. I left you his fingerprint on the back of this note. (Now you know how useful these amputated fingers are.)

"This is just practice. Soon, James will no longer be a problem; and I can hardly wait to…to…"

Sara couldn't finish the sentence even though the words were clearly and horribly resonating in her skull. '…to feel the blade of my knife slicing smoothly into your skin, Sara.'

The note shook between her fingers and she realized that her hand was trembling. And her teeth were lightly chattering as well, as they would if she were freezing. He had killed again. It was entertaining to him. He enjoyed it!

And he wanted to kill her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, Grissom's, who was still behind her. With his other hand, he reached around her and gently took the letter from her fingers. And this time she really did feel his breath near her ear, but her thoughts were now completely devoid of ulterior motives.

"I won't let this animal near you, Sara," he said so softly that only she would hear him. But despite the gentleness in his voice, she could still hear raw anger underlying his words. "I promise you."

His hand squeezed her shoulder then, and Sara closed her eyes.

TBC