Author's Notes:

The first half of this was beta read about a month ago by the wonderful, spectacular Emmithar, but sadly she hasn't gotten to beta the other half, so those mistakes are entirely mine.

Those of you who read my other stories, I'm working on them as fast as I can. Grad school is hard and I'm struggling to keep up with assignments, but I think for the next couple of weeks, I can devote more time to writing, so I'm hoping my muse comes back for those in-progress fics. If you're really interested, you can check my profile for updating updates.

Reviews are appreciated! I'm a little rusty in writing, so be nice. lol.

Jenny

Sara tilted the cold glass against her lips, slowly enjoying the burn of the cool liquid as it hit the back of her throat. She shivered as it made its way to her stomach, filling her with the familiar warmth she had longed to feel for so long. She didn't flinch at its bitter taste, nor did she have to force the first swallow down. It was as if the last 2 years had never happened, as if she could still throw them back one by one as she had during the time period she referred to as her "troubled" years.

She finished the double whiskey in one more swig, and she placed the glass back down on the counter, motioning to the bartender that she needed a refill. If she was going to get "totally wasted", this was the place to do it. It was off the strip, so it was rarely riddled with tourists, and it's small, homey feel usually kept any troublemakers away. It also didn't hurt that it was a block from her apartment, so she wouldn't have to tempt fate with driving under the influence.

She had been on the wagon, so to speak, for two long, hard years. She had never been an alcoholic, but she was willing to admit she had been well on her way to becoming one. Drinking wasn't an unfamiliar concept to her; she had grown up surrounded by booze as if it were something everyone overindulged in at least once or twice a week. Her mother drank daily, vacuuming the floors and dusting the furniture in between swigs of rum and coke. Her father would venture home in the evenings and as he lit up a joint, he'd yell at either her or her mother to bring him a beer. One beer would turn into two, and before long twelve had come and gone and he'd be passed out in his recliner. On the off chance that they didn't have enough to drive him to unconsciousness, they knew he would be just drunk enough to beat the hell out of them until someone bought, borrowed, or stole enough to appease him.

She had lived with 5 foster families from the time her father died until the time she went away to college. People had always assumed she was a book nerd, or weird, and no matter what school she had found herself in, she was immediately labeled as trouble, which excluded her from any dose of normal teenage recklessness. Her foster homes were halfway pleasant, although alcohol showed up in each and every one, whether it be a glass of wine with dinner or a beer with the neighbors. As she retreated farther into her studies, she found herself occasionally sipping liquor out of the bottle when no one was home, just to see the appeal of the activities her classmates often bragged about.

It wasn't until college that she realized what she had been missing out on. At Harvard, she couldn't be labeled as "the geek", she was among a society of people just like her. She lived on the 3rd floor of her dorm, where her peppy blonde roommate excitedly rambled about clothes and parties. It was amazing how a 4.0 student in Government studies could come across so ditzy and fake. Nevertheless, after much persuasion, Beth convinced Sara to accompany her to their first college party, the first weekend of classes. Somewhere between her 8th drink and the next morning, she passed out. The next afternoon, she awoke to find herself laying face down on the bathroom floor of her dorm. A tradition had started.

Sitting back against the barstool, Sara swirled her second drink for a few moments before taking a slower, more deliberate sip. She wanted to taste the pungent brown liquor, she wanted to let every sense get involved before letting it enter her body, her bloodstream. The purpose of drinking was rarely to get drunk, it was to enjoy the "drinking experience". When it was only her and the glass, the rest of the world didn't seem to matter. Least of all a certain man named Greg Sanders.

She made a bitter face at the thought of the quirky younger man, and slammed back her entire drink, motioning for the lanky bartender to bring her two for the next round. While most women could only drink four or five drinks, assuming it was hard liquor, she had never been confined by this norm. Aside from that first night, where she couldn't exactly remember how much she had indulged in, she had found she possessed a great tolerance for alcohol.

She had learned in college that she could out drink some men to the point where they had to stumble into the bathroom to vomit before they could resume a drinking contest with her, all the while she could barely feel the effects of the shots she had consumed. Her roommate would blame it on the constant overindulgence the two of them relied upon to survive their freshman year, but Sara was certain it was in her genes. Her parents drank in excess; it was only natural to pick up where they left off.

Occasionally she'd wonder if her mother ever missed the comfort of the cheap, off-brand rum she used to hide behind the washing machine.

She managed to keep her grades up in between drinking binges and hangovers, and by the time she was a Sophomore, the servers at the sleazy off-campus bars knew her and Beth by name and order. She had graduated at the top of her class with a degree in Physics and an ongoing bar tab larger than her student loans.

Her cell phone vibrated, and she glanced at the caller id before hitting the "decline" button. She wasn't in the mood to be helped, to be rescued from her vice, she was in the mood to forget every rotten thing that had ever happened to her. She had never really believed in the victim precipitation theories she had learned about in college, she had a hard time believing people brought on crimes committed against them. The idea that a woman wearing a revealing top meant she was asking to be rape seemed barbaric and disgusting to her, but in light of recent events, she was starting to see the truth in the theory. Maybe subconsciously her mother had done something to anger her father, to make him snap. He certainly did something in return to warrant her decision to kill him. Maybe their victims in some how contributed to their own deaths.

But does that make the victim responsible?

She had preferred the Routine Activities theory. She liked to believe that crime happened because someone was in the wrong place, with the wrong people, at the wrong time. At least, tonight, it would help to ease her mind.

She motioned for another drink as she silenced her phone once more. She wasn't the victim in this tragedy, but she may as well have been. She had stopped believing long ago that bad things couldn't happen to good people, and if there was any inkling of doubt in her mind over the issue, it was now cleared.

Oh, she held him responsible, even though she knew it was wrong to do so. But at this point, there was no one else to blame, and she desperately needed to blame someone. Greg was the right one to blame, at least until she was too drunk to remember his name.

"This isn't the way to handle your problems." A friendly voice spoke from beside her, "Everyone's pretty worried about you."

"I'm fine." Sara slurred, slamming her glass down on the counter and motioning for a refill, "So you drew the short straw? Or are you coming as payback for all the grief I put you through when I first started working here? Come to rub it in that I got what I deserve and fell back on my abused substance of choice?"

"That's crazy, girl, and you know it." Warrick whispered gently, "We're all worked up over this, but drowning your pain won't make it disappear."

"Don't you think I know that?" Sara asked angrily, her voice raising an octave, "This drink won't change a damn thing that happened, but it will get me through the night. Don't I at least deserve that?"

She stared at Warrick, her face set in determination. She had already planned to waste the night away in sorrow and alcohol, and she wasn't going to be pulled away from that by Warrick, of all people.

If it was wrong to blame Greg, she could then definitely blame Warrick.

No, Warrick hadn't interfered with any of the events leading up to tonight, but had been a key player in events proceeding up to this. If anything, he could be seen as an accomplice. He went out and got married, he proved that they could do their jobs with a family. Sure, he ended up divorced, but his wife was a sleaze anyway. The point was, he gave Greg the initiative to go out and get what he wanted.

And what he wanted was Sara.

It had been the perfect relationship, but it was over now. There was no going back, no more laughter, no more intimacy. The Greg she knew and loved didn't exist anymore. And if Warrick hadn't encouraged him to act on his feelings, she wouldn't be sitting here clinging to a bottle for dear life.

She glared at him as he remained silent, knowing that he was probably thinking about how terribly pathetic she was. If she was on the outside, looking in at herself, she'd be inclined to agree. She took a small taste of her whiskey, smiling lightly as she realized she had lost the ability to taste the bitter poison. That was only one of the many steps she planned to take before staggering home.

She gulped down the drink, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath before placing her glass down again. She could feel herself relaxing, the whiskey taking it's hold. Before long, she wouldn't even remember Greg's name. Hopefully before she passed out, she wouldn't be able to remember her own.

"I know you're upset—"

"That doesn't even begin to describe how I'm doing." Sara snapped in response, wanting nothing more than to pull back her fist and cram it into Warrick's jaw. Clenching her fingers loosely together, she decided she wasn't coordinated enough to do that after several drinks. There was always time to release her anger physically in the morning, after the hangover disappeared. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Warrick replied, his voice dripping with concern.

Sara felt her blood begin to boil, and she clamped her mouth shut before she ruined the friendship she held with her coworker. She wasn't the victim here, they shouldn't be fawning over her, they should be focusing there attention where it was needed. Greg. Her phone began to vibrate once more, and she fumbled to turn the contraption off. Grissom, he could be held responsible too. If he hadn't turned her away, she wouldn't have been with Greg, and she wouldn't be so miserable right now.

There was a time when she would have never thought to blame others for her pain. She had grown up listening to her father tell her she was worthless, to her mother criticizing her every move. She was constantly reminded to take responsibility for her actions, good and bad. Even as she matured into her position in the crime lab, she had always held herself accountable for any little mistake that she encountered. It was only recently that she had been able to open her mind enough to accept that sometimes external forces controlled her life. Unfortunately, that realization came right before this horrible event. Now she couldn't stop from trying to place the blame on someone else.

She knew it wasn't her fault, she hadn't been anywhere near the MGM Grand. She had been curled up on her sofa, putting the finishing touches on the music they were going to use for the wedding reception. She usually wasn't one to procrastinate, but she had put the music off to the last minute and time was rapidly running out. She had gotten up and walked to the computer when she noticed the show she had been halfway watching was being interrupted.

She hadn't been in their home since.

She glanced at Warrick, realizing his lips were moving. Great. He was talking to her, and she had no idea what he had just said. That would really prove she was okay and he should leave.

"Go away."

When all else failed, she knew people wouldn't be overly suspicious of her being rude, it wasn't uncommon for her to snap at an overly persistent person.

She motioned for another drink, relieved to see the room start to sway around her. This is where she wanted to be, needed to be. She barely felt as Warrick covered her hand with his, waving off the bartender as he pulled out his wallet.

"We're going home."

"I don't have a home." Sara slurred in response, laughing bitterly. They had shared a home, but without him, it was just a pile of useless bricks. "I don't wanna leave."

"I can't leave you here." Warrick replied firmly, "If you want to go back to my place to crash, I'll indulge you in your quest for alcohol poisoning, but I can't leave you here."

A red flag went up in her mind, it wasn't likely he'd keep supplying her with her liquid poison, but as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. She slid off the stool, immediately falling into Warrick's outstretched arms. Maybe she was a bit more intoxicated than she had originally assessed. At least if she was with Warrick, she'd have a better chance of finding out any new information on Greg's case.

It was the first time she had thought of him as a case, and as the idea began to sink in, she had to swallow back bile that rose in her throat. This was real, this was happening. He was gone. He wouldn't be at work, he wouldn't be at home. They wouldn't have a wedding. As the room began to spin around her, her only coherent thought was of how stunning he had looked in his tuxedo. As darkness closed in on her, his smile was the last thing she remembered.