A/N: I'm baaacckkk! Did you miss me:-) No, I didn't abandon this story, and I'm offering apologies galore for the prolonged delay. Real life has been a real pain, and the words were just not flowing. Sigh…

Spoilers: "Butterflied," "Play with Fire," "Sex, Lies, and Larvae"

Disclaimer: I don't own Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Well, actually, it's in the public domain so, in a way, I guess I do. Hmm, maybe CBS should do that with CSI:. What do you think? Just dole out little pieces to everybody? I've got dibs on Grissom:-)

It had been an active night in the DNA lab. Not oppressively so, but steady. And that was just the way Greg liked it. Too busy meant stress and headaches and dipping heavily into his Blue Hawaiian. Too slow meant boredom and drowsiness and dipping heavily into his Blue Hawaiian. Either way, he too quickly depleted his stash of prized java and, at forty dollars a pound, that wasn't an option he relished.

He'd arrived a few hours early to take over for a sick colleague from swing, and his productivity thus far had been impressive. He'd finished Morales' half-completed Southern blot before moving on to some extractions from the case he'd helped to process in the desert. As expected, there was nothing probative, and he'd been documenting the last of the results when Nick had entered.

"Suicide," the Texan had drawled, punctuating the blunt statement with a nod when Greg's jaw dropped. "Yeah, can you believe it? I guess she got off on being strangled during sex, so he choked her with his necktie. They must have gone a little farther than they meant to, though, because she passed out. And he freaked and shot himself with the gun she kept in her purse. Too bad he didn't think to check her pulse before he offed himself."

Nick's final remark had been a casual offering tossed over his shoulder as he headed out to complete paperwork, but his younger counterpart had spent the last hour pondering life and death and the nearly transparent line separating the two.

What a waste. Nimble fingers carefully spooning agarose into a weigh boat, he shook his head sadly. Two lives screwed up.

He wondered how long these kinds of cases would bother him and what shape his eventual immunity would take. Would he develop a macabre sense of humor like Brass, a macho exterior like Nick, a deep-seated withdrawal from the world like Grissom? He sighed, uncertain which of those – if any – he'd prefer.

He was pouring buffer solution into a flask when Catherine spoke from the doorway. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Painting the Sistine Chapel," he deadpanned. At her exaggerated eye roll, he grinned and glanced pointedly at the reagents scattered across the bench. "Hey, ask a silly question…"

She cut him off. "How long will it take you to finish?" At any other time, Greg's antics might have been amusing. Today she really wasn't in the mood.

His countenance fell at her brusque tone, the wide smile rapidly disappearing. "Uhhh… maybe… fifteen more minutes?"

"Good. Meet us in the breakroom when you're done. You seen Nick?"

Greg shook his head as he swirled the flask and laid it carefully on the burner. "Not lately. Last time I saw him, he was going to file the paperwork for our case."

"Thanks," she replied absently, already moving down the hall. The usual bustle of harried officers and overworked scientists was comforting in its normality, and she momentarily pondered the lab as a metaphor for life. It was a microcosm of society as a whole with its own system of justice, its own set of warring factions, its own class hierarchy. But, like any society, it also had its own heroes.

She could only hope that title would belong to the graveyard shift today. For Sara's sake. And for Gil's.

XXXXXXXXX

Nick glanced up from a pile of paperwork when the solitary figure walked into the breakroom. "'Sup?"

Shoulders slumped, Warrick mumbled a barely coherent response and made a beeline for the coffee maker. After filling a mug with the lukewarm brew, he dropped heavily into a chair and closed his eyes.

His friend watched him curiously. "Wow, you look like you've been rode hard and put up wet."

Warrick snorted. "Man, I don't even know what that means."

Any reply was preempted by Catherine's abrupt entrance. With little ceremony, she dropped a stack of case files onto the breakroom table. "Good, you're both here…" Her words trailed off when she noticed Warrick's haggard appearance. "You look like hell."

He grinned tiredly as he peered up at her through bloodshot eyes. "Y'all really know how to make a brother feel the love around here."

She smiled, but it faded quickly as she watched him lean his head back again. "How long has it been since you slept?"

"Mmm…" He rolled his head to the side to glance at his watch. "…about 36 hours."

"What!"

His colleagues' indignant bellow was simultaneous, and Warrick chuckled. "In stereo. Nice."

Catherine shot him a stern glare that was quickly forgotten as Greg skidded into the room, nearly colliding with the doorframe in his haste. With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, the young scientist dragged the nearest chair away from the table and clumsily seated himself. His grin was sheepish when he looked up to find three pairs of eyes fixed on him. "Sorry I'm late."

The blonde shook her head. "Let's just get down to business, shall we? It's only the four of us tonight."

Greg's expression immediately registered his surprise, and Catherine sighed. "Greg, let me fill you in. Gil and Sara are in protective custody, and they'll have to stay there until we've solved this case."

"What happened?" The lab tech's eyes were huge, and Catherine couldn't decide whether she'd rather hug or scold him.

She sighed as she took the seat beside him, hoping the maneuver would downplay her supervisor status and put them on more equal footing. "Greg, they're safe. But we need to solve this case, and we're all going to have to do our part. Can you handle that?"

He swallowed hard, and Catherine smiled when he nodded. "Good." She pulled the top file from the stack in front of her. "OK, guys, this is how we're running things. Nicky, you were on the Shea case from the beginning, so you stick with that one. Warrick, you keep Marilyn Ellis, and I'm primary on the Hutchins case."

She pushed the case files toward each CSI as she spoke, and they each nodded in turn. A solitary file remained, and she fingered one corner as she studied her youngest colleague. Unable to stand the continued scrutiny, Greg finally spoke. "What about me?"

"You get this one." She slid the slim folder over to him. "Javier Lopez, age 56. He was an executioner at the Clark County Pen until his untimely demise from a lethal injection of potassium into the femoral vein in November of 2003."

Greg looked vaguely horrified, and Catherine added gently, "Sara just remembered the similarities between this case and the others yesterday. It was originally her case, and nobody else has looked at it. Now it's yours, and you can't leave any stone unturned. Got it?"

"Yeah," he responded, and she smiled grimly at the determination in his voice.

"Alright, I have an autopsy to get to. Grab a quiet spot somewhere, and look over your cases. We'll meet back here and compare notes in a few hours."

She watched as they each shuffled out and grabbed Warrick's arm as he passed. "Not you. You need sleep first and foremost."

He started to protest, but she stopped him with one professionally manicured finger. "No, Warrick! We need you to be able to function, and you're dead on your feet."

"I'm fine. And evidence is time-sensitive, Cath."

"I know you didn't just quote Gil Grissom to the woman who's spent the last ten years ignoring most of what he says."

He chuckled. "Listen…"

She shook her head. "No, you listen because I've got a Catherine Willows quote for you. The evidence is only as good as the people collecting it and, right now, you're no good to any of us. Either take a nap on that couch, or go home and come back tomorrow night. It's up to you."

He glared at her, but she returned the look mildly. Finally, he sighed in concession. "Wake me up in an hour."

"I'll be back in two," she chirped, and her smirk grew as she listened to the annoyed protests emanating from behind the door as she closed it.

XXXXXXXXX

He'd had this dream before. More times than he could count. He knew where it started and how it ended and all points in between. Only this time…

This time, it was different.

Oh, it was still the same familiar crime scene he'd been called to on that blustery January night. He could still feel the plush thickness of expensive carpeting under his feet. He could still hear the din of sepulchral stillness that blanketed the house in an oppressive presence. He could even see the same irregular images cast on the ground by alternating patterns of shadow and light.

But this time, when he reached the master bath, Sara wasn't there. Or, more accurately, she wasn't lying on the checkered floor in an ever-darkening pool of her own blood. And he wasn't kneeling beside her, staring at the knife in his hand and her blood on his fingers.

What he found instead was a smiling and very much alive Sara standing in the middle of the bathroom, hair bound into a ponytail that made her look impossibly young. She beckoned, and he took one cautious step forward.

"What is it that you want, Grissom?"

Confused, he shook his head, but she persisted. "Just tell me what it is you want, Gil. Tell me what you feel."

Perhaps it was the way his heart skipped a beat when she spoke his first name. Maybe he was caught off-guard by her unexpected bluntness. Or perhaps it simply gushed out of some deeply buried wellspring of honesty.

"You, Sara. I want you. I love you."

Somewhere between his first word and his last one, her smile grew until it lit her entire face, and he found himself responding in kind. She reached up to trail a hand slowly down his cheek and, when her fingers brushed over his lips, he captured her hand in his.

It wasn't until his fingers touched hers that he noticed the gloved hand gripping her throat. Try as he might, he could not make out the face of her captor, but the voice was unmistakable. Accusing. Piercing.

"You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late."

Prophetic.

The fatal blow was delivered so quickly he didn't have time to react, but her body crumpled toward the ground with absurd slowness, blood pooling in jagged puddles around her head. Grissom fought to maintain his grip on her hand, but her icy fingers slipped from his even as he tightened his hold.

The shadowy assailant retreated into darkened recesses at the edge of the dream, leaving a lone slip of paper to flutter down in his wake. Grissom watched as it came to rest on the patterned floor, and he read its message with a sense of foreboding. Good night, Agent Sidle. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

He looked back at Sara just in time to see the last vestiges of life fade from her eyes, and he felt her fingers slide completely from his grip. And, even as he reached for her, he knew she was gone. Forever. Too late.

It was that thought that pushed him up, gasping, a hoarse cry of anguish on his lips. "No! Sara!"

"Grissom? What is it?"

He stared at her, blinking, reality crashing down around him in heavy, pounding waves. His lungs burned with each breath, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that she was there, beside him, alive.

Sara watched him with no small amount of concern. She'd been awake for nearly an hour but had remained true to her promise, maintaining her firm grip on his hand and occupying her mind with listening to the simple music of his breathing. Indeed, so intent had she become on memorizing that gentle rhythm that its gradual descent into irregularity had been her first clue that something was wrong.

She'd pulled her hand away from him then, hoping it would waken him and loosen the grip of his subconscious. But the act had merely served to agitate him further, and she could only watch helplessly as, moments later, he had finally emerged from the nightmare.

His eyes were unfocused and wild, his expression distant, and he heaved in great, gulping breaths. She saw the twitch in his jaw and the way he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But it was the one bead of perspiration that rolled down his cheek that captivated her attention.

In her lifetime, Sara Sidle had witnessed events of monumental significance. The peace treaty signed by Begin and Sadat. The fall of the Berlin wall. The protests in Tiananmen Square. The terrorist bombings of September 2001.

She'd always found it curious that, while such major events had shaped her world, it was the smallest of details that changed her worldview. The lingering smell of copper that shattered her innocence. The forced smile in a childhood photograph that jumpstarted her on the road to adult responsibility. And the tiny drop of sweat that finally made her Gil Grissom's equal.

She'd spent the last decade looking up to him – as a mentor, as a supervisor, even as the man she loved. He was incredibly intelligent. Brilliant, even. Impeccably articulate, invariably logical. In her eyes, he was perfection. But perfection is frustrating for mere mortals, and desperation had made her a caged animal straining against bonds of human inadequacy.

She remembered telling him once about her nightmares and the cold sweats that accompanied them. Her tone was condescending, the explanation relayed in accusatory response to some callous remark he'd made about her empathy for a victim.

She'd never considered that Grissom might also have nightmares. That he, too, might be a victim of his own subconscious. It had never occurred to her that he might also awake shivering in a cold sweat. Funny how seeing it firsthand made all the difference.

Grissom was human.

Reverently, she reached up to trace the path made by a lone drop of perspiration, and he immediately recoiled from her touch, eyes snapping open and boring into hers with alarming intensity. Embarrassed, she stood quickly, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were OK."

"I'm fine," he stated curtly, and she flinched at his harsh tone.

She felt the blush creeping up her face and turned away quickly. Her eyes fell on her suitcase, and she grabbed it, thankful for the distraction. Shirt, jeans, underwear, shampoo… She mentally recounted each item even as she shoved the pain down, down, down, burying it deep alongside all the others.

Grissom sighed as he watched her sift through her belongings, cursing himself silently for hurting her. Again.

But her hand on his cheek was too much, too soon, the nightmare still too fresh, his heart still beating too rapidly, and he closed his eyes against the vivid memory of her pooling blood.

Sara moved toward the bathroom without looking at him, and she had almost reached her destination when his voice stopped her.

Keep going. He said her name so softly that she barely heard it, and it would have been so easy to pretend she hadn't. Just a few more steps…

But there was something in his voice, a lost timbre she hadn't heard before, and she slowly turned to face him.

"Thank you," he breathed, and she wasn't sure if it was for acknowledging his call or for something else. He opened his mouth to say more, but the words seemed to get caught somewhere in the process.

She watched his eyes, the near pleading she saw there and, finally, she sighed. Forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she thumbed a hand toward the bathroom. "I'll be right in here if you need me."

And then he was alone again, more empty than alive. The click of a lock, the quiet gurgle of running water, an indecipherable cadence of ordinary routine, and all he could feel was want. The words fell from his lips without him consciously giving them voice. "I love you."

It was the first time in forty years he'd said those words aloud. Forty years had never felt so much like eternity.

XXXXXXXXX

At this point, coffee had become as essential as breathing, and Jim Brass was desperately hoping to find a decent cup in the breakroom. It was this singleminded lust for caffeine that he would later blame for the dullness of his normally keen powers of observation. He might otherwise have noticed two simple but highly unusual facts: The door was closed, and the lights were off.

As it was, he simply shoved the door open, his irritation causing him to use a little more force than necessary. He flipped the light switch, and fluorescent illumination blazed forth as he made a beeline for the coffee maker. What he found was far from a gourmet blend and really couldn't even qualify as fresh. But it was drinkable, and for that he was thankful.

He had just finished pouring when a noise from behind prompted him to whirl around, and he narrowly avoided scalding his own hand with the coffee that sloshed over the side of the styrofoam cup. The curse word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. When he spotted the amused green eyes of the sound's source, he snapped, "You scared the crap out of me."

Warrick's attempt to hide his grin was halfhearted. "Sorry."

Brass sighed as he reached for a handful of paper towels and crouched down to clean up his spill. With an upwards glance, he asked, "What, are you sleeping on the job?"

"Not by choice." The younger man's retort was accompanied by a frown. He stretched his arms over his head before getting to his feet.

The cop smirked. "Catherine?"

"The one and only." Warrick turned a chair around to straddle it. Draping one arm on the table, he rested his chin on the back of his hand and reached for the Ellis case file.

Brass studied him quietly as he dropped the pile of paper towels in the trash. He could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off the younger man. Or maybe he just felt his own. Either way…

The criminalist glanced up in surprise when a steaming cup appeared in front of him. "Hey, thanks."

"You look like you could use it."

"I'm gonna take that as being concern rather than some backhanded comment on the way I look."

The detective grinned. "You do that."

Sipping his coffee, Warrick eyed the cop appraisingly. "You're lookin' kinda glazed yourself. What've you been up to?"

"Surveillance."

The younger man nodded. It didn't take a genius to guess the subjects. "How are they?"

"They're safe. For now," he replied, pushing away from the counter to toss his cup in the garbage. "I'm headed over to Sara's apartment complex, just do a little look-see. If this creep has been stalking her, maybe somebody's seen him."

He sighed. Life was short. Too short, and Brass knew that well. Each workday brought him face to face with the mangled bodies and shattered lives that drove the point home emphatically. Over the years, he'd learned to maintain his professional distance, perfecting a gruff exterior and biting sense of humor that kept both victims and colleagues at arms' length. It was a defense more vital than any body armor.

It was only now that he realized the only person fooled by his façade had been himself. His coworkers were his family, and no amount of sarcasm could change that.

He dropped a beefy hand on the younger man's shoulder as he passed. "Find this guy, 'Rick, and I'll be more than happy to put him away."

"I'm on it."

Jim wasn't quite sure whether he was more convinced by the determined tone or the confident nod from his young colleague, but he was grateful nonetheless.

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine latched Grissom's office door behind her and headed straight for his chair, stopping just long enough to drop her evidence on the desk. A quiet moan escaped her as she leaned back and allowed herself the simple pleasure of momentary relaxation. The chair was pure Grissom – no frills, and utilitarian at best – but, at the moment, there was not a place on earth she'd rather be.

Five minutes was all she could spare for her own comfort and, though it wasn't nearly long enough, she cherished it. When time was up, she groaned but dutifully raised her head and pushed aside just enough clutter from the desk to clear space for her legal pad.

The final report from Tania Hutchins' autopsy was not yet complete, but she'd witnessed it firsthand. Knowing its priority status, Doc Robbins had bumped the case to the top of his list and had promised to get her an official copy of the report before the end of the night.

Not that it mattered. She'd seen enough posts to be able to pick up on the significant findings. She just needed to get them down on paper before she forgot anything of value.

She flipped to a clean page and began jotting notes. "Cause of death: air embolus"… "venipuncture to left antecubital vein"… "recent surgical reconstruction of the anterior cruciate ligament of the left knee"… "no ligature marks"… "time of death: approximately 24 – 36 hours ago"…

Catherine glanced at her watch. "Sometime between 5:00 Wednesday night and 5:00 Thursday morning, a cop dies in her own apartment, tied up in restraints so loose they don't even leave a mark and, apparently, no one nearby hears a thing," she muttered. "How does that happen?"

She picked up the plastic bag containing the neoprene restraints and stared at it without really seeing it. This girl was strong, bad knee or not. How did somebody inject her with air without restraining her?

She sighed as she dropped the bag onto the desk. Figure that out, genius, and you solve the case.

"Enough of this," she grumbled as she reached for her cell phone. She'd never been too proud to ask for help when she needed it.

"H-hello?"

She certainly recognized his voice, but the faltering inflection threw her. "Gil?"

"Catherine."

She didn't analyze why it made her feel better when his voice returned to its normal, rock-steady cadence, and she didn't bother with routine conversation starters. Grissom had never been one for small talk. "Thought I'd fill you in on where we are."

The details took only a few minutes to relay, but voicing them always seemed to help the thought process. When she finished her presentation, his response was straightforward. "How did he inject air into her arm without more forcibly restraining her?"

She scoffed. "I was hoping you could shed some light on that for me."

He closed his eyes in thought. "So we have Allison Shea killed by lethal injection of sodium chloride. The next victim… what was his name?"

"Javier Lopez."

"Yes, Lopez. Lethal injection of potassium, right?"

She hummed her agreement, and he continued. "Then Marilyn Ellis, injection of household bleach. And, finally, this girl. Death by air embolus."

There was something there, he knew. He could feel it, but he couldn't elucidate it. Those were the most frustrating moments of his investigative career. He'd just never had any idea how much that frustration could be compounded by the fact that this case involved Sara.

He listened to the background noise of water meeting tile, and it was both a comfort and an annoyance. Sara was still there, alive and well. He just didn't know how long she'd stay that way, and the threat to her life was a constant terrorizing presence.

If Catherine was hoping for some grand enlightenment, she was sorely disappointed. When his silence stretched on toward a minute, she sighed. "So how are you two holding up?"

"Fine. We're… fine." He swallowed hard, hoping his answer would satisfy her. Catherine was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and her powers of perception in the social arena were indisputable. Her question had been an innocent one, but with implications that went far beyond what she was asking. And if anyone could pick up on those deeper implications, it would be her. But he had no desire to discuss Sara with her. Not now, not ever.

"Gil…"

He grimaced at the tone of her voice that somehow managed to be simultaneously pitying and curious, and he searched frantically for a distraction. "Hey, I never thanked you for taking care of the reservations here. You and Jim came up with a good plan to keep Sara safe, and I really appreciate it."

She smiled at his desperate attempt to change the subject and decided to let him off the hook. For now. "You're welcome. Just don't go overboard with the incidentals."

His eyes narrowed. "Catherine…"

She mentally kicked herself. Three, two, one…

"A private donor seems to be funding our stay. You wouldn't happen to know the identity of said donor, would you?"

Zero. Good to know his deductive reasoning is still intact. "If I told you that, they wouldn't be 'private,' now, would they?"

"I see," he replied, and the seconds ticked away as he searched through a massive vocabulary for the right words to express his gratitude. It shamed him that his final choice was, "Well, just… tell her I said thank you."

She smiled but refused to verbally acknowledge the accuracy of his statement. "I'm sure that person was happy to do it."

Grissom heard the shower turn off, and he pressed a finger firmly against the center of his forehead to stave off the headache that was threatening to form. But the thought that sprang to the forefront of his mind pushed him to his feet. "Cath, where did the potassium come from?"

"Huh?"

He ignored her as he paced across the room in time with his own racing train of thought. "Bleach is easy enough, and he could have made up a salt water solution for Allison Shea. And, of course, air is readily available. But potassium… where'd he get that?"

Catherine caught on. "I'll check into it."

The line went dead and, with more hope than he'd felt in days, Grissom reached into his pocket for the twin pages that were the only evidence he could get his hands on at the moment.

TBC…