Summary: Everyone has his or her own way of coping. Warrick's? Music.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. Please.

The Universal Language

She can always tell when a case has really gotten to him. Those are the mornings when the ride home from work is silent, when his fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and he forgets to stop at the nearly hidden sign at the end of their block. He'll talk to her about what's bothering him eventually, he always does. But he's got another way of letting it out first.

Once in their front door, he'll toss his work things into the nearest empty armchair and disappear into the spare bedroom. Before long, she'll hear music. Usually it's the piano, sometimes the guitar, and more often than not, she recognizes the song he's playing. He's got a soft spot for classic rock hits, but jazz is also high on his list of favorites. Once in a while though, the song is an original, and if she's really lucky, he sings along.

Like any other musician, he writes about life: love and loss, happiness and sorrow. The number of songs he's finished over the years could easily fill an album or two, and she never misses an opportunity to tell him that if he ever grows tired of science and death, he could make a career out of it. He modestly insists that she's biased, but she knows better. He'd likely develop a following the size of Miles Reuben's, if not larger. There isn't a woman in the world that wouldn't melt at the sound of his voice.

Although Sara considers each and every one of his songs a masterpiece, she does have a favorite. And that one, well, it was written for her.