A/N: And we FINALLY reach San Francisco. It's pretty exciting. Not much to say about this chapter. Usual disclaimer applies. Please read and review!

Chapter 7

"Try and put aside
Your history and pride
Maybe for one moment in time
We'll all be on your side"

By the time Greg finally got to San Francisco a full ten hours after leaving Vegas (the trip would normally have only taken nine hours, but thanks to traffic, it had taken him an hour loner), all Greg wanted to do was curl up on a bed and go to sleep. Or possibly shower. Ten hours in a car had not made him smell particularly appealing, and he did not want to deter Sara from returning with him simply based on his stench.

Still, he had made it this far, and he also didn't want to be sidetracked from his mission. He wanted to see Sara as soon as possible, and therefore drove straight through San Francisco until he reached the Seal Rock Inn. He parked inconspicuously between two cars and took his time surveying the parking lot.

There was no sign of Sara's car, but that didn't mean much. After all, Matt had said that he hadn't been able to track her car, so she very easily could've ditched it somewhere so that she couldn't be followed. Greg almost smiled as he realized how much it sounded like he was thinking of Sara as a suspect in a crime. Sara would be proud that he remembered all of his training.

Leaning back in his seat, Greg ran a hand through his hair, thinking. Sara could've ditched her car, it was true, and he wouldn't put it past her; the CSIs joked that they could hide a body without it being found, but Greg didn't doubt it. Still, just because Matt couldn't find the car didn't mean anything. It's not like he ordered an official BOLO or anything like that. At least, Greg didn't think he had.

Greg sighed and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He was not thinking clearly, and, worse, his butt had fallen asleep. He could sit in here and debate with himself for hours over whether or not Sara had ditched her car somewhere, or he could do a bit more active investigating.

His stiff legs and numb rear pleaded for the latter, so he got out of his car, slipping his aviator sunglasses on and hoping he didn't stand out too much. As he walked over to the lobby of the motel, he couldn't help thinking that if his mission wasn't so important, this might actually be fun. The eternal child in him reveled in the idea of being a secret agent, which is what he felt like, having tracked Sara across state lines and now coming to her motel.

Luckily, once Greg got into the lobby, the euphoria of pretense wore off, and Greg's senses seemed heightened as he gazed around. There was an older gentleman sitting in a chair reading the newspaper, and then the only other person in the room was the bored-looking receptionist behind the front desk. Greg sidled over to the desk, trying to look casual. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, in his best Nick-Stokes-Gentleman impression. He even flashed her a megawatt smile. "My name is Greg Sanders, and I'm looking for someone. I was hoping you could help me."

The receptionist just looked up at him, her expression unchanged. "Mr. Sanders, our customers' privacy is most important to our establishment, and I'm afraid I can't reveal anyone's occupancy without express permission from said occupant."

The woman rattled this off like she had memorized it word-for-word from the employee handbook, which, come to think about it, she probably had. Greg's smile didn't falter, though his eyes became a bit harder. "Yes, ma'am, I understand that. But, see, I already know someone is staying here, I just need to confirm the room number."

Rolling her eyes, the receptionist responded in a monotone voice, "I'm sorry, sir, but I am not allowed to give this information out."

Greg seethed silently to himself, at a dead end. Nick's infallible charm had, somehow, failed, and he was drawing a blank. Think, he commanded himself. What would a secret agent do?

Then it hit him, and he had to hide a smile as he reached into his back pocket. "Alright, ma'am, I thank you for doing your job, but now I have to ask you to let me do mine." He held his crime lab I.D. up for her to see, making sure that she saw the LVPD seal printed on it.

Though this didn't quite shock her out of her stupor, she lost the monotone edge to her voice. "I'm really not supposed to," she said in a hushed voice, "not without a warrant, anyway." Pausing, she looked up at him. "But I suppose I could make an exception, just this once. What room where you checking on?"

"112," he answered immediately, feeling completely relieved as he tucked his I.D. back into his pocket.

She typed quickly into the computer, then nodded. "Ah, yes. Room 112. Rented to party name of Sidle. One guest, one bed." Pausing, she looked up at Greg again. "Now, I really shouldn't be saying this," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper again, "but there was something strange about her. I was working when she came in and got a room."

"Strange?" asked Greg quickly, his brow knitting in worry. "Strange how?"

"Well, she paid in cash, for one thing. Four nights up front, all in cash. Very odd. Our rooms aren't cheap, you know," she told him. "And then there was something about her manner. She was…calm, I guess would be the best way to describe it. But, too calm, you know? And she had tearstains down her face, where her mascara had run." The lady shook her head. "Just something about it made me suspicious. I don't know…I mean, we get our fair share of suicides here—not a whole lot, not like other parts of town—and something in her seemed to remind me of that, like she wasn't even living."

Greg's eyebrows were drawn close over his eyes, and for a moment, he looked furious. He felt furious. Grissom had done this to Sara, there was no doubt about it. And Greg was outraged that Grissom would do that to her. Then his brow smoothed and with practiced effort, he forced his face into a relaxed smile. "Thank you for all the information," he said graciously.

She smiled at him. "Not a problem." Then, after a pause, she bit her lip and leaned forward. "It's not my place to ask, of course, but I just want to know—is she a suspect in a murder investigation?"

Greg almost laughed. "No, ma'am, nothing like that," he assured her. "If this were a murder investigation, there'd be a lot more officers with me."

With that said, he turned and left, heading straight to Sara's room. He quickened his pace, almost jogging past the doors. 100…101…102…109…110…111…and there it was, waiting, so unremarkable. Greg felt his heart pounding in his chest, and with a trembling hand, he reached out and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

Greg didn't know if he felt saddened or relieved. All he knew is that it looked like he was going to be waiting a little longer to see Sara. He didn't know if his heart could take it. He felt like he had just had a heart attack, and he was pretty positive that if he kept this up, he probably would.

He trudged back to his car, figuring it was as good a place as any to wait for Sara's return. It's not like he had anyplace better to be. He settled into the front seat, leaning it back so that he was practically lying down. With his sunglasses still on, he closed his eyes, figuring he would take a nap for an hour or two.

Those hopes were dashed when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the display. It was Nick. Surprised, Greg flipped his phone open. "Sanders," he said, business-like.

"Hey, Greggo, it's me." Nick's voice was falsely cheerful; Greg could tell that even a state away. "What's up, man?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Not much," he said calmly. "I'm taking a few days off, you know, to recuperate and what have you. What about you?"

"Oh not much," echoed Nick, nonchalantly. "You know, it's my night off, too, and I was thinking maybe we could hang out."

Ah, there it was. Greg closed his eyes, sighing out loud. "Well, then I'm sure you're well aware that I'm not at my place right now," he said, still calm. "And I should probably tell you that I won't be back tonight."

There was a pause, then Nick said quietly, "Yeah, I figured as much." He paused again, then asked, his tone soft, "When do you think you'll be back?"

"I don't know," answered Greg, his voice equally soft. "I'm going to be gone as long as it takes."

Nick didn't ask what the "it" was that Greg referred to; when Greg thought about it, he realized that it was probably because Nick already knew. They all knew that Greg was still pining for Sara, and chances were that all had suspected that he would do something like that. Still, Nick said none of this, only saying casually, "Alright, well, I'll see you when you get back, then. Take care of yourself."

"Bye, Nicky," said Greg, hanging up and leaning back in his seat. So Nick had been worried about him. Well, there was nothing he could do about that here. Yawning widely, he shifted to make himself more comfortable, struggling to keep his eyes open. Just an hour, he promised himself, even as he drifted off. Just…an…hour…

A sharp rap on his car window jerked him out of sleep, and he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and staring. There, at his car window, was Sara, and she looked furious.