Quiet Desperation
Summary: When a young woman goes missing, the case threatens to complicate matters for Grissom and Sara.
A/N: It's done. Yep – it's finished. Caput. Finis. There ain't no more! Thanks to all who've enjoyed this story.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: It's a miserably rainy day, and if I owned the rights to this show, I'd be somewhere tropical.

Chapter 21

Arriving at her apartment, Sara deposited her bag on the desk, running her hands through her hair as she let out a long sigh. That brought the acrid stench of smoke to her attention, and she eyed the bathroom longingly. She'd spent the last part of the shift working with Greg going over the evidence recovered from the burnt remains of Dvorak's house. About all she accomplished was ending up smelling like a chimney.

As Greg noted, things weren't making a lot of sense. They found the box of damning evidence in Jesse Patrick's home, but there was nothing to link him to it. No stray hairs, no fingerprints, no record of him ever buying any of it. Some of it, like the video camera, was common, sold in any department store or pawnshop in the city. But the cryptography reference book wasn't; not even the university bookstores kept in stock, and no shop in the city had ever placed a special order for it. There were online sources, but Patrick never used a credit card, check or bank order to purchase it.

It was possible he had someone else order the book, or he found it in another town or in some sort of second-hand shop, but she was starting to think someone else had set him up. Someone in his family was a likely source; from what they had learned, he wasn't popular after distancing himself from their criminal activities. Combined with his sudden disappearance, she feared he was a scapegoat – one who had literally been sacrificed.

The lack of evidence and leads frustrated her. As much as she wanted to retain her composure, this case was personal. She wanted to find the bastard who orchestrated Rachel's ordeal. Sitting down, she forced herself to calm down, knowing Grissom would be on the lookout for any signs of distress. His ability to emotionally detach himself from cases helped greatly, but it also left him unable to understand how others remained professional even when it affected them personally.

She came out of her reverie when the knock came, and a happy grin formed despite her work annoyances. It grew lopsided as Grissom struggled into her apartment, both arms loaded down with packages.

"Uh, Griss, are you planning on building a chicken coop to get the eggs for breakfast? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that's a violation of my lease," she teased, shaking her head when he declined her offer to help with the bags.

"I wasn't sure what you had," he answered kindly. "I know you don't like to cook."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to bring a kitchen with you." She watched as he started unloading flour, sugar, tea bags, baking soda and various measuring devices. "You know, when you said you were bringing breakfast, I was expecting bagels or something."

"I think this falls in the 'something' category."

Chuckling, she stepped closer to thank him for sending lunch to the lab, but his nose wrinkled as he continued to place items on the counter. Shrugging apologetically, she said, "I reek. I know. There's iced tea in the fridge. I'm going to grab a quick shower."

"Take your time."

"Hey, I don't smell that bad!"

Grissom looked over the top of his glasses with an amused expression. "I'll get breakfast started while you're showering. Do you have any bowls?"

"You didn't bring any?" she asked innocently, grinning openly as he shot her a mock-pout. After showing him where various items were located, she headed off to the bathroom.

When she came out later, a pleasant aroma greeted her. Entering the kitchen, her mouth dropped in astonishment. Various fruits lay in a heap on the counter. A pitcher of fresh orange juice stood next to a bottle of real maple syrup, and Grissom was pouring batter into a brand-new waffle iron.

"You're making waffles. From scratch?" she asked in delight. Going to his side, she kissed his cheek quickly. "And thanks for lunch."

"You're welcome. And you like waffles. They're what you usually order for breakfast," he added when she tilted her head quizzically.

"You pay attention to what I order?"

Glancing her way, he gave her a half-grin. "I'm afraid not to."

Sara dropped her head, finally looking up with a slight blush. "I deserved that. But you didn't have to go to this much expense," she said, waving her hands to indicate the assorted items. He had probably spent more on this one meal than she spent in a week on groceries. "I just get the frozen ones."

"I'm not feeding you something out of a box."

Smiling, she took some of the fruit and headed to the sink to wash it. "You have something against convenience?"

"It depends," he answered seriously. "Food is one of the three essential pleasures of life. Along with sleep and sex, it's necessary for the species to survive. It's enjoyable for a reason; it's meant to be savored, not rushed through with things that taste worse than the boxes they come in."

"Food, sleep and sex," she said, flashing him a toothy grin. "You're a package deal. Bonus."

"At least this is something I can do for you three times a day."

"Well, we don't have time for the other," she answered mischievously. "Unless they were catnaps."

He smiled, but Sara noticed the way he fiddled with the waffle iron. Fighting back a groan, she realized he was serious. She knew the age difference bothered him, but this was silly. Walking back to his side, she placed a hand on his arm.

"You don't really think I want to have sex with you three times a day?" she asked, her disbelief in the forefront.

His eyebrow climbed up his forehead as his eyes swiveled her way.

"That came out so very, very wrong," she said, dropping her chin to his shoulder. He didn't relax, so she wrapped her hands about his, squeezing it affectionately.

"I meant that I'm not a nympho. Don't get me wrong. It's good. I mean really good," she said, pausing for emphasis. "But this," she said, nodding at the feast he had fixed. "No guy has ever made me breakfast before. Forget going to this much trouble."

He bobbed his head in a non-committal manner, and she tightened her grip on his hand. "Griss, I'm serious. You have no idea how special you're making me feel."

He turned slightly, kissing her forehead tenderly. "You are special."

"So are you," she said earnestly before grinning. "Besides, compared to my social life since I came to Vegas, three times a year would be a lot."

"So I've almost reached my annual quota."

She nudged his arm playfully when she saw the hint of a grin. "Hey, I don't expect it three times a day. Doesn't mean I'm going to kick you out of my bed."

He gave her a grateful look before removing the finished waffle, placing it in the oven with a waiting pile and pouring more batter into the iron.

"Uh, just how much do you think I eat?"

"I've never made this recipe before. I didn't know if it could be halved. I put some ice cream in the freezer. We can use the leftovers for dessert at dinner."

"Tell me you didn't buy the stuff to fix it with." She smiled warmly when he shrugged again, swearing that his chest puffed slightly. Stepping away, she returned to preparing the fruit. From time to time, she stopped to observe him, a smile forming automatically whenever she did so. For all the distance he placed around himself, when he let someone in, it was amazing.

So when he finally spoke, he surprised her.

"Did you ever regret moving to Vegas because of me?"

"I think the end result was worth it," she answered vaguely.

Taking the last waffle out, he placed it in the oven with the others and crossed his arms as he stared at her. "Do you always evade questions?"

"I thought that was my line," Sara quipped, but he continued to watch her patiently. Letting out a sigh, she mimicked his position. "You mean besides the very second I accepted your offer?"

His eyes opened in shock. "What?"

"I thought I was insane," she said with a self-deprecating chortle. "There I was, with a good job, independent, making the most out of my life, and I dropped everything. I didn't know if you felt anything for me, but I was willing to change my whole world on the chance you did. It wasn't exactly a logical decision."

"I'm glad you made it," he said, licking his lips nervously, "but what about the other times?"

"You mean when you were acting like an ass?" she asked, ignoring his hurt wince. "I thought that I'd been really stupid. But it wasn't a total loss; I did get a better job."

"You don't have to give it up."

Sara frowned at the conversation's new tangent. "There isn't any other crime lab around here. If you quit, that's it."

"No, it's not. I can get another job. I could teach."

"None of the local universities have forensics programs."

Grissom shook his head. "I'm qualified to teach the undergraduate biology classes. Or evidence collection to the criminal justice majors."

"You could, but there's no challenge in that. Most of the students would be taking the courses because they're required, not because they wanted to learn. You'd get bored," she pointed out softly.

"There's that new lab you told me about in Henderson. I could work there."

"It's a private lab, Grissom. Same tests all the time. No experiments. You'd never get into the field. You'd have to do paperwork all the time. That'd be worse than the university for you."

"Do you want to move from Vegas?" he finally asked half-exasperated.

"No, I don't. I like it here. I have some friends. But I told you, I'm not risking what we have on a long-distance relationship."

"And I'm telling you we don't have to do that," he said softly, crossing the room and resting his hands on her shoulders. His eyes twinkled as he tilted his head. "And as much as I hate to admit it, Greg was right."

"About?" she asked.

"My finances," he answered with a self-conscious throat clearing. "I always knew that there were things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go. I've been saving for that time ever since I started working. Even if I never worked again, I have enough stashed away for us to live on until my retirement starts."

"Oh," she said, startled by his phrasing.

"If you want to stay here, we can. There are always the lectures I'm paid to give. If I get too bored, I can still consult. Or work on some textbooks. If you want to go back to the San Francisco lab, that's fine."

"Uh."

"You don't even have to work if you don't want to. Or you can be an interior decorator or learn to cook," he joked. "We won't be rich, but we'll be comfortable."

"Uh, slow down," she insisted, smiling to show him that she wasn't upset. At least she didn't think she was upset. It didn't seem like he was implying that he intended to support her, more like he was over-anxious to please her. Never seeing him like this before, she decided to stick with the obvious. "You, uhm, you saved that money to follow your dreams."

"Reality is much better."

"Ye-ah." Sara tried to think of a response, stunned by his offer. She loved him, was willing to do whatever it took to be with him, but she was leery of making too drastic of a change too soon. He was angry at the lab, and she didn't want him making any decisions he'd regret later.

He reached out to caress her cheek. "You don't have to say anything now."

"I don't think I know what to say."

"Just know that the option exists." Breaking contact, he nodded over his shoulder. "Ready to eat."

"Yeah." Sara gave her head a shake, still mildly shocked. His eager offer to drop everything didn't help allay her fears about his mental state. Sitting down to breakfast, he asked about the case as he served her, making sure her glass was always full and that she had a sample of everything.

"You don't have to try so hard," she said softly when he offered to make coffee.

The nervous way he pursed his lips almost made her smile, but his underlying tension killed any humor in the scene. After a bit, he slouched back in the chair and let out a long breath. "You make it sound like I have a choice."

"Of course you do."

He didn't answer, at least not verbally, but the openly emotional look he directed her way conveyed his feelings. She recalled his words to Lurie, and she understood that this wasn't a causal relationship for him. He feared it would end badly, and he was doing anything he could think of to keep her happy. It was touching, but it was also unnecessary.

"I'm in this for the long haul," she said reassuringly.

"I take it my waffles were good."

Sara bit down her irritation at how quickly he retreated, and she reminded herself he was new to this. "They were excellent. But I wouldn't care if they sucked. Your making them for me was sweet."

"I guess the waffle iron was a good investment then," he said, letting out a small huff when Sara finally rolled her eyes. He rubbed his hand over his beard for a moment before continuing slowly. "I'm not good with people. I know I mess things up. But I want to do the things I know how to do."

"I appreciate it more than you know. But I want you to be happy, too," she said.

"I am," he answered, fixing her with a steady gaze. "I don't remember being this happy before."

"Same here. If working in another lab is the answer to keeping you happy, then we'll move."

Grissom let out a huff. "But we don't have to."

"And you don't have to give up everything – your job, your plans for the future – for me."

To her surprise, he chuckled as he took their empty plates to the sink. "You know, in order for a compromise to work, someone has to accept the other person's offer."

She started to tell him to practice what he preached, but she held back. For all his attention, he was still hurting. Chatting casually, they quickly cleaned the kitchen. Sara poured them both a glass of iced tea, trying to discreetly judge his mood while she sliced a lemon.

She worried that he was still uncertain, but she didn't know what to say to make him feel more at ease. Physically, she knew what would help, but given their prior conversation, she didn't want to risk embarrassing him by suggesting something he wasn't up to. Taking his glass to where he stood wiping down a counter, she wondered what he did to relax. They still had a lot to learn about each other.

"What do you usually do when you get home?" she asked.

"Feed my bugs. Eat, if I didn't grab something earlier. Maybe watch some television. It depends on what my schedule is… was."

She cringed at his hurt tone, but kept her voice level. "The remote's on the coffee table. I'll finish up in here. Go on," she urged softly, using one hand to gently shove him towards the living room as she picked up an unopened bag with the other.

"Those are paint samples," he said, waving off her hand and ignoring the resulting smirk.

A few minutes later, he held out his hand when she walked over, frowning as she tossed a pillow against his side. Settling against him, she picked up his arm and draped it over her shoulders. She then stretched her legs along the length of the couch and opened the bag of paint chips.

"Did you take one of every sample?" she asked as she took out the thick stack.

"Uh, huh."

"It'd help if you'd tell me what colors you like."

"I really don't care."

She leaned her head back to glare up at him. "You're not narrowing the selection any."

"That's what you're for."

Letting out a dramatic sigh, she started flipping through the chips with a grin. "The things I do for killer waffles."

Brass entered the Interrogation Room impatiently, making a show for the already nervous looking young man sitting there. Physically, he resembled the other members of the Patrick family, but his demeanor was a polar opposite. Then again, he was also considered smart by the family standards.

"So, Jesse, you didn't make a big getaway after all," Brass said with an exaggerated smile. "Not as smart as you think you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters you can tell me all about the box of evidence we found at your place."

"Evidence of what?" he asked, curious but not too worried.

Brass noted the reaction calmly. The Patrick family made it a habit to leave incriminating evidence in the homes of other people, so he had to consider that possibility. He also knew the CSIs thought the box was questionable, but over the years, he'd learned that things didn't always add up neatly. Crooks took extraordinary steps to protect themselves in some ways, but then turned around and did something incredibly stupid.

"The kidnapping of Rachel Mathers and two murders," he said.

"The girl on the news? No way! Like I told the cops, I was with my girlfriend since last Monday in Pahrump on vacation."

"Sure you were."

"Man," he said, letting out a long breath. "Did my cousins do something stupid? This is the type of shit they pull. I don't hang with them, get it?"

Brass gave a sarcastic nod of his head. "Not even your cousin Malcolm or Uncle Trucker?"

"Those losers? No! The only time I ever saw them was when they came around Uncle Vic's shop. They spent a lot of time there this past year. I don't know why. He didn't like…"

"Your Uncle Vic?" he interrupted. "Are you talking about Victor Dvorak?"

"Yeah."

"Now, that's really funny. Victor didn't mention you were his nephew."

"I'm not. Not really. I mean, he and my Aunt Crystal never got married, but they were together forever."

Brass leaned back in his chair, eyeing the younger man closely. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know," Jesse answered, looking embarrassed.

"Why do I think there's a great story involved here?"

"You know Uncle Vic was clean, right? Well, Crys always wanted things, and he couldn't buy it, 'cause it was too pricey. She bitched at him to join in the family, you know, chop cars and stuff."

"And he wouldn't?"

"No. Don't tell him I told you, but Vic is kinda claustrophobic. I think he was afraid of going to prison. And I guess Crys finally got pissed enough to finally leave him, and she wiped out his bank account, hocked everything he had that was worth anything."

"Would anyone in your family know how to find her?" Brass asked urgently. If she knew about Dvorak's guardianship to Tammy, it would be too tempting a target to pass. Especially with forgers in the family.

"I don't know, man. Last I heard, she skipped town, went somewhere in Texas. Don't know why. Vic never reported it."

Brass rubbed his chin as he considered different scenarios. Dvorak never mentioned his relationship to Jesse, so there was some reason he wanted that a secret. The obvious one was that he was under investigation, and he didn't want to be associated with a known criminal gang. Or maybe he was trying to protect the kid, or trying to salvage what was left of his pride. Something was off, though, and that always made him testy.

"Dvorak also never said you were on vacation," he said, hoping to get more information.

"What?" Jesse exclaimed, for the first time clearly upset. "It was his place. He gave me the time off after me and Kari had a fight, said to make it up to her."

Now he knew something was fishy. "Uh, huh. So, your Aunt Crystal takes him to the cleaner. Leaves him busted, and he gives you over week's vacation and tells you to use his place?"

"What are you getting at, man?" he asked shortly. "Ask Vic yourself. He'll tell you."

Brass leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "Well, you know, I'd really, really like to do that. But he's dead."

The young man's reaction was immediate and intense. Brass had seen plenty of suspects over the years, and if this kid was faking it, he deserved an Oscar.

"What? When? I, can I see him? God, why didn't you tell me?"

"Here," he said, passing him a box of tissues. "He was killed when his house caught fire. It was arson."

Jesse blinked several times, giving his head a shake as if he hadn't heard correctly. "What was he doing there?"

"Why wouldn't he be at his own home?" Brass asked in confusion.

"Crys trashed it. Clogged the upstairs tub and flooded the place. The contractor said it'd take weeks to repair it all."

"Where was he staying then?"

"My old place. I've been living with Kari. I moved in with her, and Vic took over my rent. That's why he let us stay at his…"

Brass got out of his chair in a rush, really wishing he had a bottle of Scotch. "Do you have a picture of your aunt? We really need to find her."

"Hey, Sara!" Nick called out as he entered the hallway. She stopped outside the break room and waited until he joined her. "You look beat."

"I am," she admitted grudgingly. "Just got back from the hospital."

"How is Rachel?"

"Not good. The doctors had to amputate her left leg earlier this evening. The right leg isn't doing much better."

"Hey, she's alive. Don't forget that."

"I know," Sara sighed. "I talked to her parents. They paid the reward already."

"What? Didn't they care that it might go to the kidnapper?"

"No, they didn't. All they care about is that Rachel is back. It's, it's like this broke them. They were full of anger before, but now? They're shells. I guess it's shock. I don't know."

"What about Tammy? We haven't found her yet," Nick said angrily, but she held up her hand for him to stop.

"I told them that. They said she was going to some horse camp in Arizona. It's setup for the disabled. Her grandparents told the Kenyons they always wanted to send her there, but they never had the money for it before. Brass has someone looking into it. And we've contacted the bank about blocking the account, but we won't hear anything until morning."

He shook his head, letting out an irritated grunt as he poured them each a cup of coffee. "Are the Kenyons going to drop their complaint against Grissom?"

"I didn't ask."

"Really?" he said, noting the brief glare directed his way. Nick's natural inclination was to offer to help, but he suspected neither of his extraordinarily private colleagues would appreciate it.

He also suspected both of them needed the help, whether they wanted it or not.

"Look, I know it's none of my business, but…"

"Nick," Sara pleaded. "Don't. Please don't go there."

"We don't know the details, but give us some credit," he whispered softly. "It's a building full of investigators. It's not hard to figure out what's going on. And we know it's bogus."

"Look, I don't know what you think you know but, don't start anything."

"Whoa now, I'm on your side, okay? I'm not starting anything."

"Sorry, Nick. This has been rough," she said, downing her coffee quickly. She paused to shake her head as he followed her into the hallway.

"I get it," he said kindly. "How's Grissom doing?"

She looked up when she heard her name called, and gave him a wave before dashing away. "Hey, there's Cath. I have to run."

"Why was Nick asking you about Grissom?" Catherine asked as she approached.

"What's up?"

"Come into my office," she said, raising an eyebrow and making a mental note to talk to her subordinate later for details. Something was going on if the guys were asking Sara for updates on Grissom.

"What's up?" Sara repeated, forcing a smile as she dropped into a chair opposite the desk.

"Some good news for a change."

"Really?"

"I had a little chat this evening with Monique Myers and the sheriff," Catherine purred with pride, smiling when she snapped her head up in sudden interest. "Yeah, seems Myers was lying the entire time about investigating Grissom."

Sara stared dumbfounded for a moment. "You have to be shitting me."

"Nope. Ecklie and I dug up the details. Myers is a family friend of the Kenyons. She helped them when they tried to adopt Rachel, but she said Michael Kenyon's alcohol problems wouldn't be an issue."

"But it was," Sara said. "Something like that is an obvious warning sign."

"Yeah, turns out Myers knows civil rights law inside out, but she wasn't really qualified for adoption advice. The case never made it beyond the first stages."

Sitting there, her head shook slightly as she recalled all the pain, all the anguish Grissom suffered, and her anger rapidly grew. "So all of this shit was because she was trying to make it up to the Kenyons? That bitch! I'm going to…"

Catherine, thankful for her dance experience, darted around the desk and grabbed her arm before she stormed out for room. "You're going to do nothing," she said harshly.

"Are you insane? After what she put Grissom through?"

"Yes, because of what she did to him." Catherine rolled her eyes at the dangerous look directed her way. "Don't you get it? This is going to vanish. Officially, Grissom is on two week's vacation. Nothing is on his record. Nothing will ever come out about this."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes," Catherine insisted. "Think about it. If Myers brings it up, she faces disbarment and a civil suit. A criminal case if you go after her for getting into your personnel files. If the sheriff tries to bring it up, it's another scandal for him, and he can't afford that. Trust me, neither of them are going to ever mention this again."

"And that's it?" she asked hoarsely, feeling more helpless than she had since childhood. "They made his life hell, and we're supposed to pretend it never happened. To let them get away with doing this to him."

"Basically. Besides, what are you going to do? If you complain, Grissom's career is finished. Are you going to quit in protest?" Catherine did a quick double take when Sara shrugged. "Wait a minute – that wasn't a suggestion!"

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

She pulled her back into the office. "Look, I get it. Grissom is upset. He gave everything he had to the lab, and the sheriff dumped on him. It's not fair, but life never is. He loves this job. You know that. I know that. Give him time to calm down."

"Cath, it's not that simple. I don't know if he's going to want to come back."

"Like I said, he's pissed. Has every reason to be. But in a few days, he's going to realize how much he misses it. And the sheriff is going to realize how much Grissom means to the lab. He'll owe him for this."

"Yeah, so much that he's forcing him to take two weeks off," Sara said sarcastically.

"The vacation will do him good," Catherine replied. "And he was still insubordinate. Don't look at me that way. I know he had every reason to be pissed off. But blowing up at the sheriff wasn't the way to express it."

"It's not right."

"No, it's not. But it's all we have. If Grissom decides he'd rather throw his reputation out the window and pursue a case against them, then he'll get all the support he wants. But I really don't think he'd do that to himself or to the lab."

"Probably not," Sara agreed. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Grissom gets to keep his job and his reputation. In the end, isn't that all that really matters?"

"Don't you mean that's what we have to settle for?"

Catherine opened the door to her office. "Come on, I think there's some root beer in the break room. I hid it behind one of Grissom's experiments. Besides, we need him to come back so he can clean out that mess."

They updated each other on the case as they went down the hallway. When they turned the corner, they were surprised to see Dr. Robbins hobbling towards them.

"Hey, Doc! What brings you to the land of the living?" Sara called out in a friendly manner.

"Sara, Catherine," he said in greeting. "Or should I call you Buffy?"

"Only spikes I have are on my shoes. Did you find a vampire?" Catherine asked.

"Wrong species of the undead," Doc said. "I'm thinking a zombie."

"Huh?" the two women said in concert.

"That dead mechanic you brought in earlier? I don't know who's on my slab, but it's not your mechanic. That body had already been embalmed."

Grissom was checking the paint cans skeptically when Sara arrived. He knew immediately that something was wrong. Shift just ended, which meant she left the lab early, something she only did when ordered to go home and rest. Her entire demeanor suggested barely controlled rage.

"What's wrong?" he asked as soon as he closed the door.

"Where do you want me to start?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering how to proceed when she let out a sigh, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

"The bastard got away," she spit out. "It was Dvorak."

"He was dead," Grissom said in confusion.

"It was an embalmed body. We think it was one that was stolen from the hospital a few weeks ago."

"Sit down," he said, leading her to his breakfast bar and opening his fridge. He stared at the bottles of beer and water, finally taking out the water although he suspected she'd prefer the other.

"Dvorak's ex wiped him out. She was a member of the Patrick family." She explained that he'd apparently snapped after years of grief, and that Dvorak's original plan was to frame the members of the family responsible.

He'd taken over the kidnapping plans after Trucker died, using Wilcox's accounting skills to set up additional bank accounts known only to them. They created evidence implicating the Patricks, and it was stored away to plant before he and Wilcox fled the country. The fire and the embalmed body were an attempt to make it look he was dead so no one would think to look for him.

"Brass found a storage unit that Dvorak had rented in his ex's name. I guess he thought we'd eventually figure it out, 'cause he left a note there. 'Rachel was never supposed to get hurt.' Like that makes everything okay," she said, swearing angrily.

Grissom leaned against the counter, resting his hand over hers. "He was the guardian on Tammy Frakes' account. When he realized Rachel was still alive, he convinced Tammy to tell the police that story. Then he transferred most of the reward money to another offshore account we didn't know about. He's a nice guy, though. He left her a hundred thousand dollars from the reward," she said acidly

"You said he got away."

"The guy at the bus station recognized his picture. He bought a ticket to Mexico. You know how good they are about extraditing criminals. He's gone."

"You did your best."

"And it wasn't enough."

"Let it go, Sara. Don't let it consume you," he urged softly.

"That's not all," she said, taking a deep breath. "You're cleared."

"I am?"

Despite his apparent disinterest, she saw the facial tic. She told him everything Catherine had said earlier. His lack of reaction, neither angry nor relieved, made her uneasy.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I hate the way this turned out. It's not fair to you. I want to do something, but I don't know how without your reputation getting trashed in the process."

Grissom started to dismiss her concerns, but he noticed how upset she was. Justice wasn't a vague notion to Sara; it was a defining characteristic for her. She always fought for it, pushed herself to provide it to the victims. Now she had two cases where she felt she'd failed, and he wished he knew how to comfort her.

Lacking the words, he pulled her off the stool and into his arms. Drawing her close, he held her tightly, gently swaying their bodies.

Washing the paint from the brushes, Grissom scanned his townhouse with an appreciative eye. The color combinations Sara chose worked, even if he would never have chosen such rich hues himself. Smiling, he watched as she touched up tiny details with a zeal that bordered on obsession.

She hadn't spoken of either the case or his 'vacation' since the previous morning, but painting did seem to relax her, despite spending the last twenty minutes on a small section of trim. Finally, she seemed satisfied and stepped back to examine the work.

"It looks good," he said, taking the brush from her hand.

"I'm just thorough," she said, smirking as he started washing the brush. When a phone started ringing, she went searching for her purse. One look at the text message, and she went back to the kitchen.

"Uh, Catherine said to tell you to check your voice mail."

"Really?"

"Well, there were some obscenities added in."

"Why would I want to answer my voice mail when I'm on vacation?" he asked innocently.

"Maybe it's something important?" she suggested.

"It's not."

"When did you get all psychic on me?"

Grissom gave her an infectious grin. "It's about the Kavic grant. I had an e-mail earlier from the committee."

Sara stood there, opening her mouth and closing it silently. She knew the lab was applying for the grant, but that it was more a prestige thing than a necessity. She also knew Grissom was the reason the lab was the prime candidate for it.

"You're making the lab sweat it out," she finally said, not quite believing it.

"I am?"

"You are," she decided. "This is your idea of teaching the sheriff a lesson. You know they won't get that grant unless you personally sign off on it."

"That would be conceited of me to believe that."

"Cut the bullshit, Grissom! I'm not falling for it."

He gave her an contrite nod, but he also made no effort to return the lab's calls. Catherine was always telling him he needed to learn to be more politic, and this seemed the perfect way, and he told Sara the same.

"Have you decided if you're going to go back?" she asked delicately.

Grissom rolled his shoulders, focusing his attention on washing the brushes. As much as it bothered him to admit it, he was furious. His angry outburst at the sheriff had been unprofessional, but so was they way he'd been treated. He was ready to leave Vegas, to take Sara and explore the world.

But she wasn't.

She wanted to stay here, and he was determined to make her happy. While he didn't need to work, they both knew he'd probably grow bored if he stayed home all day. Consulting or lecturing were his best bets, but both were part-time and involved being away from Sara. Right now, he didn't want to do that.

Staying at the lab was an easy solution, but he wasn't sure it was the right one. For years, he'd taken the easy way out, isolating himself from potential problems. That hadn't worked well, but he had to admit this wasn't exactly the same type of situation. He believed Sara wanted him to return the lab, even if she'd never came out and said so. If he went back and changed his mind later, it would be simple enough to resign.

"Hey."

His head snapped up as her arms wrapped around his waist. "You still with me?"

"Always," he answered, wiping his hands clean before hugging her. His eyes wandered over her face, memorizing every detail again. He still had trouble believing she was his, that she'd chosen him. As long as she was with him, nothing else seemed that important. "Since I'm on a forced vacation, why don't you take some time off?"

"The lab's already shorthanded," she said softly. "Can't leave poor Greg there all by himself."

"Why not? It's not our fault that Ecklie took half the shift away and didn't replace them. Maybe that'll convince the sheriff to fix things."

"I think you're developing some sort of passive-aggressive thing. Or you're still pissed off."

"Probably," he admitted. "But I still want us to get away."

"If we do that, we can kiss away any chance of keeping this discreet."

"You know, eventually people are going to figure it out."

"Yeah, but until then, I kinda like having our secret," she said.

"Okay."

She watched sadly as he returned to cleaning the brush, wishing she had been able to do more, both for Rachel and Grissom. Going around his living room, she made sure they had closed the cans and gathered all the brushes. Finding everything done, she joined him at the sink to wash the paint from her hands.

"The fans will help everything dry and get the smell down. Why don't we get cleaned up and head back to my place?"

"We can't do that?"

"Why not?" she said, her eyebrow going up as he pulled his t-shirt off.

"I have an annual quota to fill."

The End