Grissom crossed the dirty parking lot to his car, trailed closely by Catherine and Greg. The three of them were a sight to behold as they stormed towards the vehicle. Behind them, Brass was ordering the other officers into position – each one climbed into their assigned car in silence. The sounds of sirens were loud enough to even affect Grissom. Or maybe that was just because his senses were clear.

And they WERE clear. Determined and angry as he was... as he hadn't felt since he was a child... all pistons were firing at maximum capacity. He felt dangerous; like an unleashed machine fixated on a single target. The analogy seemed to fit well with the hazing crimson color his sight was turning.

"Drive, Catherine," he ordered, steadily.

She appeared surprised – or, at least, as much of her as he could see, out of the corner of his angry eyes – but she didn't hesitate in taking the keys from his outstretched hand as they went.

"Okay, here's the situation!" announced Brass. "Lethal force is authorized, but wait for my signal!"

A flurry of "yes, sir" and "Roger that" reached Grissom's hearing, mixing in seamlessly with the sounds of police mobilization.

Suddenly desperate to drown it out, he wrenched the door of the car open on the passenger's side and slid into the seat quietly. He could vaguely sense Greg staring at him from the back.

"Can I help you?" he asked in monotone.

"What?" questioned Catherine.

"Greg. He keeps staring at me, so I'm assuming," and he looked over his shoulder, "there's something you want to ask?"

Greg shook his head quickly. "No, I'm fine. Just a little–"

"–nervous?" interrupted Grissom. He turned around and began to put on his seat belt. "Oh, no, no, no, Greggo – this is the fun part."

Catherine revved the car awake, and they watched as the police cars began to file out. She kept her hand on the steering wheel, and her foot on the pedal. She looked to Grissom as their place in the line came up.

"Go," was all he said, still not looking anywhere but forward.

Her foot slammed down on the pedal, and with grace (and a bit of luck) she edged right into the center of the lineup.

The whole ride out to the desert, Grissom did his best to meditate on the events. Nick in the desert. The ventilation shaft. Lady Heather's reappearance. Nick being processed, arrested... seen by Sara.

He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Some of the fight was vanishing from him, at the memory of finding her in the locker room.

It was just one of those days where he was sick of it. Sick of what it took to do his job as a CSI. Being lied to by people, being played... Having to discover and solve gruesome, murders. Things that took him and his team... his family... to the depths of what a human being should have to encounter. Facing life in prison for doing the right thing, being accosted whilst visiting old friends, trying to hold it together when one of their own was in a terrible position... He was just sick of it.

"She's going to be okay, Gil," reassured Catherine. "She's fine."

Grissom sighed. If he was honest with himself, there was no one he trusted more to make it out of the situation Lady Heather now found herself in than Lady Heather, herself. He didn't doubt she was alive. Not really... But it was still hard to shake the "what if" scenarios running through his mind.

I'm not perfect, he shouted, and threw his hands up with frustration inside of himself. No matter how... how little they think of me... –he looked to see Greg was chewing on his nails, and staring out the window– ...and my emotions, I just can't help it, sometimes!

He did have to admit, though: it felt like an admission of weakness, even to himself. Which was exactly the reason everyone who knew him thought so little of him in situations like the one Nick was in.

Finally, the desert came – Las Vegas was really too large, and under these circumstances, it tested Grissom's patience more than anything else he could remember during the whole thing. But come, the desert did, and when they finally reached the bridge, Grissom didn't even open the door. He burst through, and his weapon was from its holster to his hand instantly. Behind him, Catherine was the second to draw a gun.

"Alright, spread out! But keep in radio contact!" commanded Brass.

To the edge of the bridge... To the edge of the bridge... That's where Nick had shot the last guy... That's where they said she'd been taken...

A horrible thought occurred to Grissom in the time it took for him and the others to get from the car to railing on the bridge's edge. What if this was all a setup? What if it was cover-up? Giving the killer time to kill Heather somewhere else? But before he had time to hesitate...

...there they were.

"Brass!" shouted Greg.

Grissom did not look away as Brass and his officers stormed over to the railing... to the edge, where Grissom could not make his mouth close.

Lady Heather was there. She was lying, face up, on a large rock. Wrapped around almost her entire torso was duct tape, silver and shining in the setting sun. She looked horrified. It was a look Grissom had never seen on her before. It put a knot in the deepest pit of his stomach. He flinched, but raised his weapon.

"Gil..." came the warning voice of Brass beside him. "We got this." Then her turned... and, at the top of his voice, bellowed out: "LVPD!"

The killer stopped – he spun around and the knife in his hand glinted brighter than the duct tape.

"Greg!" continued Brass. "Put the knife down!"

Grissom's arms inched out, ever so slowly. All thoughts were gone from him.

"Gil!" shouted Catherine.

"Put the knife down, nobody needs to get hurt!"

But it wouldn't make a difference. Grissom knew that, well before they'd left. For all Brass' reasoning, nothing would change the enemy's mind.

Lady Heather's eyes had been closed the whole time they'd been there. The make-up she wore so thickly was trailing down her eyes. She'd been crying...

And when she opened them, they were already staring directly into Grissom's. Grissom's... which widened, and the red hazing around everything he was seeing faded. Faded till it disappeared entirely.

The CEO whipped over, and his whole body extended with the exertion. He was going to get to Lady Heather. He was going to kill her before they could stop him. That was all he cared about, now...

Grissom did not remember commanding his fingers to pull down, least of all the exact same number of times... But they did.

One.

Two.

Three.

In the corner of his eye, Catherine flinched. Greg's head seemed to turn towards him in slow motion. Brass' mouth falling open took more time than it should have.

And Lady Heather screamed.

As the body came falling to rest right down on top of her, she screamed.

Grissom dropped his weapon. He vaulted over the edge of the railing – the quickest way down was to slide in the sand down the slight hill to his left.

"GIL!" he heard Catherine and Brass yelling after him simultaneously.

He kept going... And on the way down, he shed his sunglasses. His hands dug shakily into his vest for his emergency pocketknife.

"G–... G-Grissom," stuttered Lady Heather, as he approached.

He pulled the body away with such strength, it lifted off the ground. For less than a second, he watched it go flinging away from them with a savage pleasure – his lip twitched, maliciously. And then, he was on his knees in the sand, carefully – and more calmly than anyone who'd seen him just a few moments ago could have possibly imagined he could be – slicing through the duct tape bonds.

Within mere seconds more, Lady Heather was free. And they were embracing. Her arms were surely leaving markings on his torso, and he was taking long, slow breaths. Just reveling in the sensation of seeing, hearing, and feeling her, safely in his arms...

"Gil...!" shouted Catherine weakly. She was the first to reach them. "Gil..."

Brass looked a little less sympathetic as he approached. Handcuffs were out, and Grissom already knew what was happening.

"Gilbert Grissom..." sighed Brass, wearily but also angrily, "...you're under... well, arrest. As you know..."

Grissom offered his hands behind his back voluntarily. "I know," he affirmed, as the sounds of the handcuffs clicking in came to him. He looked to Lady Heather. "But I understand, now..." he continued. And then he looked to Catherine. "I couldn't not do it."

Despite the situation, Catherine smiled.

"Yeah... well... let's see if a judge feels the same way," finished Brass. "Goddamn it, Gil..." He grabbed ahold of Grissom's elbow and began leading him back up towards the squad cars. "Goddamn it."

The wind blew across Grissom's face and cheeks and nose as he descended... with some trouble... the sandy hills. He looked back once more at Lady Heather. She was rubbing her arm, and watching after him. He could see her nose turning up in a sniffle once before Catherine and some of the other officers got to her. One of them had a blanket. It was a red blanket, with a plaid pattern in it. It looked good with her.

Grissom's face relaxed finally relaxed itself, with an audible pop that signaled the releasing of tension from his jaw.

As they reached the car, Brass, it seemed, still couldn't help exchanging a grin with him.

"I promise not to run, if you'll just let me stand outside by the car," tried Grissom. "The wind's nice... and who knows when I'll next be able to feel it."

Brass' lip twitched. "I'll roll the windows down. Please, Gil?"

Grissom nodded. He was at peace, oddly... and nothing was going to take that from him.

After Brass had been true to his world, and the doors shut behind him after he slid willingly into the car, Grissom watched them going over the scene.

When Lady Heather walked by, an undetermined amount of time later, she left him one simple kiss on his lips before following with Catherine – who was still all smiles – towards their car. Greg gave him a thumbs up.

Grissom felt compelled to return the gesture with a salute. And so he did. And for once, he did not care about what anybody else would, could, or might already...

...think about it.

Sometime much... MUCH later, Greg looked up and sighed with relief.

Warrick was crossing the sand with a kit in hand. "Hey, guys!" he greeted with a smile. "What'd I miss?"

"Oh... nothing." Catherine also sighed, and got to her feet. She approached Warrick with her weary arms out. They hugged briefly. "Just the boss shooting someone."

Warrick inclined his head upward, once. "That's what I heard. And here, Grissom took me off the case! Put me on Nick's... Good news, on that front, though." He put a hand on Catherine's shoulder, and his tone dropped into a gentler range. "Looks like there's a good possibility he's going to be okay."

Catherine stared for a few seconds. Then she blinked a couple of times, and finally...

...collapsed into tears. Well before she hit the sand, Warrick's arms were back around her. Greg crawled over to them and touched her leg tentatively.

She reached out, and took his with her own, squeezing it. "Oh, God," she sobbed. "Oh, thank God..."

"Yeah..." Warrick comforted her. "That's right. Nicky's going to be okay." He held his other arm out for Greg – who went into them without a moment's thought. "He'll be okay. We all will..." continued Warrick.

Anyone passing by would have seen a group of three weary, worn out, absolutely depleted friends... all their reservations and strength gone... and all in a pile underneath the sunset in the warm sand. With the wind blowing all around them.

More comfortable and at ease than they had been in God only knew how long...

The endless sounds of the phones ringing in the background were NOT anything alone the lines of what Brass wanted to hear when he finally had his own breakdown... back in his office, on his desk. His forehead hit the surface of it with a thunk, and his neck seemed to move automatically to drag it in a back-and-forth shaking motion. Why had Grissom done that...?

"Hey, you're back!"

It was Doc Robbins. Brass looked up, but felt fairly certain he'd left his bottom lip hanging down on the desk. His answering nod was very weak.

"So, did you find her?"

"Oh, yeah," confirmed Brass. "We found her, alright."

Robbins' eyebrows came together. "Did she... did she make it?"

"She sure did," replied Brass. "Gil saw to that..."

Doc sat down in the chair in front of Brass. "Gil did what?"

Brass leaned back in his own seat. "We got to the crime scene... exactly where Nick shot guy number one... and we go to the edge of the bridge. We look over the railing, right? And we see Lady Heather. She's there, and she's in a lot of danger, and the whole nine yards. Now, the guy responded when I called out. He turned." Even in his own voice, he could tell he was trying too hard to convince himself. "But then he took off for her. For Lady Heather, I mean. He goes running, and Gil – Mr. Reputation – he pulls the trigger!"

For a moment, Doc didn't say anything. He fell quiet, and folded his hands on his kneecap.

"Yeah," Brass went on. "Yeah, he pulls the trigger. Shoots the guy deader than a door nail! So, you're gonna have a new victim on the autopsy table, down there, Doc. The Crest CEO!" He held his hands up in mock excitement. "So, tell me..." and he leaned forward, "...does that count as enough of a celebrity to make your scrapbook?"

"Given the kind of things THIS guy was into?" bantered Doc immediately. "Not a chance."

"Oh, good," answered Brass. "Good, glad we got that out of the way." He leaned back and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. "So, then, all we gotta do now... is explain to everybody why not one... but two CSIs are now facing the charges of murder."

"Oh, come on, Jim. You don't really believe it was murder."

Brass exhaled sharply, and returned to his original position of face down on the desk.

"You know Gil did the right thing," pressed Doc, softly. "And Nick... Nick did the same right thing. They saved two lives. And maybe... maybe this will have a good effect on Gil's outlook. Maybe it will help him outside of work."

Brass sat up. "If he doesn't get sentenced to spend that life in prison, then yeah: it could develop into a good outlook." The smile that came to his face was genuine. "That's true. And speaking of Nick... how is he? Does-does he..." Brass looked from side-to-side, as if checking for eavesdroppers. When he spoke, his voice was significantly lower. "Does he know? Does he know he may be out soon? And welcomed like a hero?"

"I didn't tell him," said Doc. "I figure it'll make a better surprise. He was happy when I left the cell, anyway – we discussed Sara."

"Ah..." said Brass knowingly. "Sara... Yes, Nicky and Sara. Young lovers in arms, huh?"

"It certainly appears that way," said Doc.

He looked down, like he was suddenly uncomfortable.

Brass tried to lean down, but look up, as if to see into Doc's ducked eyes.

"You okay, there, Al? Don't tell me you have some kind of... feelings for Sara. Or Nick!" he joked.

Doc laughed. "Oh, God, no!" he managed to get out. "No, no, no! Not at all... Nothing like that. It's just..." He eyed Brass sincerely. "Nick showed me the photo. The one of him and Sara. He said you let him have it."

Brass' stomach loosened up a bit. "I did," he confirmed. "I went and got it for him actually." He relaxed back in his chair. "I take it Nicky enjoyed it?"

"He did," replied Doc. "He did, a lot. I just... wanted to tell you, I'm proud of you for doing that."

Brass shrugged. "Well... hey..." and he again checked for listeners, "...I'm not Gil."

Doc nodded.

"I'm not, exactly... unfamiliar with these types of situations. This is just a fact of life, and I really don't think it's something Grissom ever wrapped his head around. Sometimes, people are just attracted to each other. If I'm honest, well... I think Gil sat on his ass for too long."

Doc's grin was playful. "Are you saying you already knew? About Nick and Sara?"

"I'm saying I suspected," said Brass, non-committal. "I've seen them out and about on their own time before. There's just... a way they are, together. You know?"

"I do."

"Yeah... And I don't think Grissom's cut out for everything Sara needs him to be. And after the two, almost three years since she's been here, he's had plenty of chances." He looked away, distractedly. "Maybe a guy could chalk it up to Nick being closer in age. Younger, more up-to-date, you could say." He shook his head. "But, no... No, I think this was gonna happen. Nicky knew what he was doing. Gil didn't." Then he chuckled, suddenly. "I don't know who to feel sorrier for."

Doc inclined his head to the side, a confused expression all over him.

"Gil or Greg," finished Brass.

Doc laughed again. "Yes. I got a chance to tell Greg that, myself. That I think his quest has always been in vain."

"Uh huh," said Brass, still staring off into space. "They're all good guys and gals."

"They sure are," said Doc. He rose to his feet. "But, the only thing in Nick and Sara's way now is... well, themselves."

At this, Brass' attention returned to the present. "What do you mean?"

Doc stopped in the act of leaving the room and looked back. "Well, now that Grissom and Lady Heather have... well, whatever's going on between them... it's just a matter of getting Nick and Sara to admit it. To themselves, and... well, to each other." He began to make his way out. "Or..." he said over his shoulder, "maybe it's just her. He seems pretty open about it."

Brass put his head down into his hands, arms resting by the elbows on his desk. "Yep. That sounds about right. Natural Nicky, Stubborn Sara."

At this, Doc laughed again. "Well, I need to be down in the morgue. My body will surely arrive, soon. See you later, Jim."

"Bye, Al."

When he was gone, Brass reached into his desk, where there was a bottle of alcohol hidden next to two glass goblets.

I shoulda offered him a drink, he mused for half a second, before pouring himself one glass.