Getting caught in the rain while processing a scene was one of the worst experiences one could have as a CSI that didn't involve personal peril. Not only did it ruin any trace that could potentially be recovered, it got your clothes wet, and sent a bit of a chill down your spine. Although Vegas was warm and balmy most of the time, anyone walking around in wet clothes was at risk of a cold.

Add to that cold wetness the potential to be up for two days straight chasing clues, and it was a recipe for calling in sick.

The sound of an alarm beeping dragged Sara out of the safe confines of restful sleep, her eyes blinking blearily at the flashing red numbers on her analog alarm clock. Immediately she sneezed several times, groaning at the sore throat that resulted from the sneezing fit. Throwing out a hand, she fumbled for the clock to stop it's incessant beeping, but only managed to knock it and the glass of water off the bedside table. Both hit the ground, shattering the glass and smashing the clock that immediately fell silent, its red numbers fading and eventually disappearing. She didn't have the energy to even care, and pulled her hand back under the blankets, chills running through her body at the change in temperature even though the layers of comforter and wool on top of her felt like it weighed a ton. Her body could have been made entirely of ice and she wouldn't have known the difference, as shivers continues to shake her curled up limbs. Every muscle ached with the chills, and she couldn't think clearly enough to do anything about it.

She burrowed her hands under the blankets, between herself and the mattress, seeking to find the warmth that she felt she desperately needed, not realizing that the truth was that she was burning up. Nausea rumbled in her throat, and she swallowed hard, wincing at the pain that stabbed into her tonsils. She curled into the fetal position beneath her covers, shaking, whimpering pitifully at the aching in her bones, unable to stop the rebelling of her body against itself. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and she flung a hand out to grab it, missing and sending it crashing to the floor to. Frustrated tears squeezed from her eyes and she pulled her hand back into the never warming burrito she had made, every movement like sandpaper on her sensitive skin.

Drifting into a troubled sleep, she did not awake for another hour, her eyes sticky as she tried to open them again, spit drooling down the corner of her dry, cracked lips. The blanket now felt like steel wool against her sensitive skin, but she craved its warmth as well, as a new round of chills attacked her already aching muscles. "Must have slept somehow," she muttered, her voice sounding distant and faint even to her own ears. "Don't know - what day - or night - everythin' hurts..."

The curtains blocked most of the light, but even the tiny gaps of fading sunlight were too much for her aching head and she pulled her head under the blankets as well, coughing harshly. The force of the cough sent stabs of pain through her head, and she shuddered. The coughing would not abate, her dry throat adding to the burning. Whimpering with self pity and pain, she shoved aside her cover and swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering anew with the change in temperature. Struggling to open her eyes, she tried to focus on the room around her. The shadows and furniture swam before her, weaving in and out of her vision as if she were on a boat. Her eyeballs ached with the effort and she felt as if someone was trying to pry them out of their sockets.

She tried to focus on the reason she had put in the effort to sit up, unable to remember.

"Where was I going? What - what was I doing?" She swallowed hard again, the gritty dryness of her throat sending her into another bout of coughing and she thought water might help, having forgotten that was her mission already. She stumbled out of bed, her aching legs barely supporting her, pain flickering in the pads of her feet, but she ignored it, adding it mentally to the long list of things that hurt at the moment.

Her vision was blurred and that didn't help matters as she stumbled toward the kitchen, where she tried to find a glass for water. Her addled brain could not remember where the cups were, so she pulled open the dishwasher and grabbed a mug from the top drawer. The only link to reality that she could feel was crushing, cramping pain, her skin felt as if it were on fire. The fingers that held the mug were so weak that it hurt to try to grip the handle of the mug and once again, it slipped from her hand, smashing on the floor, the sound painfully like a gunshot in her head. She winced, stepping back from the broken shards, and whimpered again, leaning over the sink to turn on the faucet and cup water into her hand, drinking greedily, the cold liquid searing against her tortured throat. Her skin still burned with fever, but she couldn't understand that, and she wandered away from the faucet, unintentionally leaving it on, wandering into the living room, where the couch called to her to lay down. Her legs felt as if they were being ripped from her body, and the room spun again. Betrayed by her weakness, the muscles gave out and she fell jarringly to her knees.

"Help," she murmured, without the strength to give an actually useful call. The room spun again, and she couldn't tell if she was walking on the ceiling, the floor, the wall...everything was moving and it was so hot.

Why was it hot? A fire? "Great," she murmured, brushing a hand across her face. "Don't - want - to - die - fire -bad." She tried to sniff the air in case there was smoke, but her congested nose offered no help and it only resulted in her inhaling snot into her lungs and spending another few minutes coughing again, trying to catch her breath between coughs, stars flooding her vision at the forced lack of oxygen.

"Try again - tomorrow -" she rasped, crawling on hands and knees in what she hoped was the direction of her bedroom. "Fire can't wait...need water..to put out fire." She could hear water running somewhere, and her brain imagined that firefighters were arriving, fighting the fire for her. Water pouring all over the room, trickling, splashing, all over her, chilling cold and wet. She shivered again. But the temperature of the air against her chilled skin grew impossibly hotter, and every crawling step on her aching hands and knees send stabs of pain into her hips and shoulders. Her feet were stinging too, and she tried to crawl faster to escape the flames that surely were catching up to her. A pain the would not end, a room that would not stop spinning out of control, a cough that would not relent. Nausea leapt to her throat again and she gagged, congestion cutting off her airway, resulting in more coughing. Tears trickled down her face from the effort and the pitiful cries for help that came between each cough were faint and comically small.

But no one heard, the firemen did not come, and the blaze burned on.

Her eyes ached with trying to see through the haze of fever, and she futilely kept trying to crawl to her room, but nothing looked as it should. The room weaved in and out of her vision and she could not tell how far she had come. Exhaustion took over, as she collapsed on the floor with a faint cry of "Gil...please..." Once again, she fell unconscious, exhaustion pulling her back into darkness.

An intense knocking at the door startled her out of unconsciousness in what could have been minutes after she passed out or hours, she wasn't sure. It had actually been about an hour since her phone had first begun ringing, but she had already forgotten about that. Each knock against the door reverberated loudly in her aching head, as if a nail were being driven into her skull. The dull roaring in her ears muffled the sounds as oblivion begged her to return to it's shadowy embrace. She imagined that if the fire was still burning that the firemen had finally arrived. Water continued to splash somewhere and her entire body continued to burn and chill at the same time, the cold tile floor she had somehow discovered lay beneath her, stinging against her sensitive skin, colliding with the chills that still shook her thin frame.

Gil Grissom has come to check on Sarah after repeated calls to her house had gone unanswered. Night shift had started an hour ago, and it was unlike Sara to not show up for work. Thankfully, no crimes had occurred to keep him at the lab, so he had driven out to her house, with quickly made promises to Catherine, Nick, and Warrick to let them know if she was okay.

He knew the way to her house by heart, having driven it many times since their relationship began, although it hadn't been that long ago. No one else knew they were a 'thing' yet, and they had been careful to hide it from prying eyes and ears. He had been able to keep a level voice and calm demeanor until he shut his car door and started the engine, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to insert the key into the ignition. It was unusual for her to not answer him, and even more unusual for her to not answer any pages and calls from the entire team. This was more than an accidentally missed call. His gut told him something was terribly wrong. The many cases he had worked in the CSI world filtered all kinds of horrors through his head as he drove well over the speed limit to get to her.

He parked across the street from her house, noting that all of the lights were off. He comforted himself with the thought that maybe she had simply overslept. She was known to stay up for days at a time, especially when on a case, and he hoped that perhaps her body had simply caught up to what it needed.

He knew that still didn't account for all of the calls not being answered, as she wasn't a heavy sleeper, but he hoped for the best as he made his way up the walk to her front door. Raising a broad hand, he knocked, and waited, then knocked again. The illuminated doorbell button caught his eye and he hit that a few times for good measure. The thought crossed his mind that maybe he had missed her and she was on her way to work. That would be quite funny, him standing here banging on her door while she was walking into the lab greeting everyone and asking where he was at. Ships in the night.

He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, thumbing through scattered assorted ones on the ring until he came to a smooth, shiny, new key, a small smile quirking up the corners of his lips. He remembered the day she had handed it to him, with a non-committal "Since we are, you know, seeing each other, I might have you come to my house for dinner sometime instead of always at your place."

He inserted the key, turning it carefully in both the doorknob and deadbolt, face twitching as he had to apply more pressure than typically needed. New keys were always a bit stubborn. The door pushed in a few inches once released from its locks, and he pocketed the key, pushing the door open and poking his head around the corner. "Sara?"

The foyer was empty, and he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and flicking the deadbolt into the locked position.

"Sara? It's Grissom. Just came to check on you. Didn't answer your phone."

He did not want to startle her and risk getting punched or shot, so he walked toward the kitchen with exaggeratedly heavy steps. "Sara, dear?"

He could hear water running somewhere, and imagined she would be in the kitchen washing dishes or some kind of routine task, but he was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes.

The water was still running in the kitchen sink, the dishwasher door was open, the top drawer pulled out, with shards of white pottery scattered across the white linoleum floor. Crimson streaks tracked across the floor, away from the sink, and his heart plummeted, his hand reaching automatically for his flashlight, resting the other hand on his gun. The room beyond was dark, the curtains still closed, and he moved cautiously, unsure what he was dealing with. He followed the smears toward the hardwood floor of her bedroom, his narrowed eyes flitting across the mess of shattered glass, discarded phone, and smashed alarm clock. He noted the blood smears started there, and he winced at the shards of scattered glass. Why would Sarah walk on glass?

A fit of heavily congested coughing erupted in the adjoining bathroom and he swept his flashlight that direction, noting the smears went that way too. His other hand tightened on his gun, and he stepped quickly around the corner of the bathroom door, illuminating a sight he would never forget.

Sarah was curled in the fetal position on the floor, hair matted and sticking to her face, shaking violently, teeth chattering, whimpering and coughing at the same time. "Sara, darling?" He flashed the light across her, looking for the source of the blood and found it on the soles of her feet, some glittering bits of glass embedded there. His face furrowed in concern, as he pocketed his light and flipped on the bathroom light. Immediately she reacted, hiding her head between her arms, sobbing softly, "Too bright, too bright."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he soothed, kneeling and putting a hand on her head. "Sara, you are burning up!" His voice was urgent, and gentle, and he picked her up bridal style, shifting her onto his chest, her head rolling weakly against him. He could feel the heat emanating from her skin, and she whined in protest.

"Hurts."

"I know, I know," he comforted, carefully laying her on the bed. "Stay right here, okay?"

He left her coughing on the bed, while he hurried to the kitchen, flipping open his phone and hitting speed dial for Catherine.

"Catherine."

"Hey, Cath, I need you to come over to Sara's. She's running a high fever and is really sick." He turned off the faucet, wincing at the bloody smears beneath his shoes.

"What kind of sick?"

"I'm thinking flu." He returned to the bedroom as Sara was sitting up, and he immediately, carefully, pushed her back down, ignoring her weak protects.

"Yeah, it's going around right now. But Gil, Nick and I are on a double homicide, and Brass and Warrick are on a domestic dispute turned murder. It could be a while before I get over there, maybe not for hours."

"Sara, stay there, alright, don't move." A thousand thoughts flitted through his head, and he sighed heavily through his nose. "Okay, Catherine, when you are done, come over, okay? Top priority."

Catherine chuckled slightly. "Ever taken care of a sick person before, Gil?"

"Y-yes," Grissom replied, slightly insulted but also nervous, and angry at the way his voice cracked and betrayed all of those feelings. This was Sara. It wasn't only himself, just trudging through some random yearly illness, sleeping for hours and taking Motrin around the clock until his body fought it off. This was someone he - dare he say it - cared about? Did he even understand what 'cared about' really meant? He had mistaken Sara's 'caring' for empathy once before, and he had since learned those are not the same thing. Besides, her fever was extremely high, and he didn't have that same reaction, typically.

"You sound so convincing," Catherine replied dryly. "Look, keep her temperature down, give her Motrin and Tylenol, not at once, alternate them every four hours. Try to keep her comfortable. I will come as soon as I can."

Gil nodded his acceptance of the direction and returned to the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet. He found a thermometer, liquid Motrin, and half a bottle of Tylenol tablets. That would have to do for now.

He carried all of the items to Sara's bedside, the opposite from the smashed mess she had made, and he tossed them and his phone onto the table, sitting on the side of the bed next to Sara, who was still restless and tossing her head from side to side.

"Hey, darling," he soothed softly, cupping a hand around her cheek and turning her head toward him. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

"Hurts," she muttered, and he nodded sympathetically.

"Okay, tell me, my dear, what hurts?"

"Touch," she whispered, her eyes falling shut again. He moved his hand as if she had burned him, understanding that she meant her skin hurt.

Definitely the flu.

"Can you stay awake for me, Sara?" he called softly, wincing as he had to touch her arm to shake her gently. "I need you to wake up for me, sweetheart, you need medicine."

Her head rolled like a rag doll, and he grunted in annoyance at the illness. She was out again.

He carefully poked the thermometer between her lips, his thumb balanced under her chin, to keep it in. As he waited for the beep that would tell him how bad things were, he surveyed her for a moment. Her normally pale skin was nearly porcelain, her long lashes lay gently upon flushed cheeks, a contrast to her paler skin. Her teeth still chattered faintly from the chills, a slight whine escaping her lips every so often. She was beautiful, to him, as always, but right now his heart was beating faster than it ever had, mentally begging the thermometer to just go ahead and register already.

He was in over his head and he knew it, but there was no one who could help him. He leaned forward and kissed her burning forehead.

"Just you and me Sara," he murmured against her hair. "Just you and me."