Title: Bowed Head and Lowered Eyes

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I also don't own Edna Buchanan, The Stranger Beside Me, Memento, or the words of Maya Angelou. Oh, and I borrowed a term used first (I believe) by Ipstenu on the TWOP boards. (www.televisionwithoutpity.com) Consider it a shout-out. You could sue me, but I'm a struggling actress, so all I have is my health.

Random Stuff: Doc Robbins' first name is David, not Al, no matter how the CSI website says otherwise. In fact, disregard the website, as I have. I understand that Rohypnol and GHB were probably not around in the early nineties, but in my little universe, they were, just to make it work. I understand I've probably played fast and loose with the truth in several places for the sake of plotline and drama. Sue me. Or email me, and perhaps I'll continue changing it. This is what happens without a beta reader. If you'd like to volunteer, email me. FYI, I've never read "The Collector," so I make up a plot for it from what I vaguely know. Oh, and this story was begun in March of 2001, just after Too Tough to Die aired.

Spoilers: None, at the moment.

Summary: A dead baby and a man from Sara's past invade her dreams—and then her life. Note: It's a Sara-centric fic, so don't expect to see a lot of Nick, Warrick, or Catherine. Also, there are some not-so-vague references to what I will only refer to as bad stuff' in Sara's past, so if said bad stuff' will creep you out, don't read further. Also, there will probably be some implied UST between Grissom and Sara, so if you don't like it, don't read further.

*Brief flashes. She could only make sense of it in brief flashes, like the horror of it all was just too much to take in all at once. She would see the fluff of lint on the sheet and the metallic distortion of her own reflection on the table. This cold, hard version of her could look at the whole picture without blinking. She couldn't. So she would focus on things like the curl in Maggie Danver's hair, instead of on the woman's face, scrunched into a silent, anguished cry. She'd see the gloved hands of the coroner, instead of the small body under the sheet. That she had to see in pieces-a hand, a foot, a few strands of hair instead of a whole perfect baby. Perfect except for the purplish bloat around the child's mouth, perfect except for the lungs that did not breathe and the heart that did not beat. She would see that heart, so still, in the moments before she woke. As she stared at it, the heart would quiver. She'd blink, thinking the long shifts were playing tricks on her eyes. But then it would quiver again, and then contract, and then the tiny heart would start to beat. She'd scream for someone to help, hoping that perhaps that slight movement of the heart meant something could be done. But she'd scream and call until she was hoarse and still no one would come. So finally she'd force herself to move toward the table, to lift the tiny body in her arms, feeling the child convulse as she watched the heart shudder. Then the small girl-it was a girl, she knew-would cry out, a lonely, anguished cry, and die in her arms. *

Sara Sidle awoke in a cold sweat, tangled in her blankets. The dying baby's cry was actually the phone, calling from its place on the nightstand. She wiped the moisture from her brow, running her fingers through her hair as far as the matted curls would allow. The phone was on its sixth ring as she reached for it. "Gris, it's my day off. What do you want?"

-----

Coffee. Coffee was good. It was eleven a.m. She'd slept for two hours, maybe three. It was more than she usually got. She couldn't remember what time it was that she finally put the book down-"The Corpse Had a Familiar Face," -- pleasure reading, very little Latin. "Sexual Homicide: Patterns and Motives"-- that was serious reading, but even Sara couldn't handle that before bed.

She'd once confided to Catherine that she'd been having dreams. It was a casual conversation in the break room, over Heinekens and Nicorette after a shift. Sara didn't want to go home. Home was an apartment not far from the strip, a studio. It was more space than she needed.

"Do you ever dream?" She'd asked Catherine.

"Everybody dreams."

"About cases. About victims."

"You learn how not to take it to bed with you." Catherine popped another piece of gum. "Read a book before you go to sleep. That should help."

"Thanks," Sara answered, before adding, "Go home to your kid." Catherine did. Sara stopped at a bookstore on her way home. She bought a stack of books, blew most of a week's salary on titles with "Corpse," "Bones," or "Murder" in the title. It didn't matter much-it wasn't like she had anything else to spend her money on. As she settled down to read, it occurred to her that perhaps Catherine had meant a different type of book. Sara brushed the thought away. She wasn't interested in the type of books that had men with rippling muscles on the cover. Not her type in so many ways. She could sometimes enjoy a mystery or two, but after looking at real crime scenes all day, made up ones had ceased to thrill.

She liked "The Corpse Had a Familiar Face" because it was a look at crime from a different perspective, written by a reporter rather than a cop or ME. She'd read it many times before. A habit, re-reading her favorites until they fell apart. An old boyfriend named Marc had teased her about this habit as they lay in bed one night.

"How can you read that again, you've read it a thousand times."

"It's good."

"Isn't the point of reading a book wanting to know what happens next?"

"Don't be a prick. I'm not doing it to annoy you. I enjoy it."

She did enjoy it. There was something safe, something comforting about knowing what words would come next. Her job was unpredictable, her personal life was even worse, but she knew that the first line of "The Corpse Had a Familiar Face" would be the almost comical "My day off was history. So was Harvey St. Jean."

At any rate, reading meant she didn't have to deal with Marc. The book was a wall between them that he wouldn't make the effort to cross. She read the same book-back then it was "The Stranger Beside Me"-night after night and hoped he'd get the hint. It took a while, but one night she came home after her shift to find everything gone-he'd even taken her clothes, leaving a note in the closet explaining "I paid for these." All that was left was the cat and her book, battered and dog-eared, lying on the hardwood floor of the living room.

She bought new clothes and cat food the next day. Sara figured it was a good thing, really. Now she didn't have to throw out that pair of jeans from college that would never fit again. It made moving easier. She moved around a lot the next few years. Her apartment was as uncluttered as her life when rookie Criminalist Holly Gribbs was shot. A cat carrier, a suitcase, and a small carry-on was all she took with her when Grissom called her to Las Vegas later that year.

-----

The books weren't giving her nightmares and she didn't think it was her job. She'd always dealt well with crime scenes, even those involving children. She didn't feel a particular attachment to them; no maternal instinct in her, she guessed.

But recently there had been a new dream, one in which the baby was whole and alive.

*She'd cradled it to her chest, had felt the soft breaths dance across her collarbone. The infant wore only a soft cloth diaper and her shirt was unbuttoned. She could feel soft skin against her own. She'd cried in the dream, quiet tears, and the infant had laughed at her, flashing a gummy smile. She could smell talcum powder and that peculiar baby smell she had once likened to a 'new car' odor. Untainted, pure, clean. She drew the baby closer, holding the child close until it fell asleep.*

When she woke up, Sara didn't know whether to scream or laugh. She settled on laughing. "Well, Freud would have a field day with me," she spoke out loud, knowing that only the cat would hear her.

-----

Sara was on her second cup of coffee when Grissom arrived. He was late. That was a good or a bad sign, depending on your perspective. It was a good thing for Sara, on most days. It meant an interesting case, something that engaged Grissom's mind so thoroughly that he lost track of time. The last time it was an accidental death that looked very much like a homicide. She was grateful they had arrived before the bugs.

Today Gil Grissom's tardiness was an annoyance more than anything. Sara had been looking forward to a day off-some pleasant reading, the scanner emitting its familiar static and codes in the background, the cat at her side

"Deep in thought?" Grissom managed a half-smile as he entered the room.

"You could say that."

"You look troubled."

"I'm tired."

"I'm sorry I woke you. I thought you'd want to see this." He slid a file across the table to her. "Felicity Monroe. Age 24."

Sara flipped through the file. "Broken ribs, numerous facial fractures, several complaints filed against live-in boyfriend Joseph Grant for domestic violence." Her face hardened along with her resolve as she put down her cup of coffee. "Bastard killed her?"

"Not quite." Grissom shook his head. "In fact, not even close. She killed him."

"Score one for the good guys. He had it coming."

"Maybe not. It's your job to find out. Self-defense or homicide." He frowned. "Can you be objective?"

Sara was offended, but didn't show it. "Sure. Follow the evidence, right?"

"Right."

There was a silence that was neither awkward nor charged, despite Grissom's verbal mis-step.

"Well, I should get going." Sara said, gathering her belongings, slipping the file into her bag. "Where are they holding her?"

"She's in the pen."

-----

"I'm sorry, really I am," she sobbed. Felicity Monroe was a slight woman, her dark hair falling in front of her tear-stained face as Sara interviewed her.

"For what?"

"For killing him." She raised her head to look at Sara and Sara was shocked at how pretty she could have been. Her eyes were large, though red-rimmed, and her bruised cheekbones were high. Her face was scarred with too many drunken arguments over late dinners. Sara could tell that Felicity Monroe had once had perfect teeth, before this man or perhaps the one before had knocked one of the lower ones out. Self- consciously, Sara thought of the gap between her own front teeth, another thing Marc had teased about. He'd offered to pay for her to get it fixed, but somehow she knew that-gap or no-she would never measure up to his standards. First the gap between her two front teeth, then he'd be paying for implants. He'd always complained about her slim, almost boyish figure.

The woman opposite her was anything but boyish. She moved with the ease and pseudo-grace of someone used to using her body as her weapon. She noticed Sara looking at her, appraising her, and leaned across the table.

"You like what you see?" She whispered, all thoughts of the man she'd so tearfully confessed to shooting gone from her mind. "You get me out of here, we'll go back to your place." Long eyelashes fluttered over blue eyes. Sara was startled, but hid it well.

"Why not your place?" she asked in a flirtatious tone, batting her own eyelashes. "Because the body of the man you shot and killed is still there?"

Felicity leaned back in her chair. "I really am sorry," she said again, affecting the childlike voice she had used earlier in the conversation. "I didn't mean to."

"Look, lady, my boss sent me here to help you." Sara stood and moved to stand beside Felicity. "I can't do that if you keep trying to manipulate me. So, let's cut to the chase. I believe that Joey probably had it coming." She paused. "And what I believe has nothing to do with your little girl voice or whether or not I want to fuck you." The harsh language surprised Sara herself, but she stayed in character as she bent down, leaning close to the other woman's ear. "Are we clear?"

Felicity turned her head until her eyes were inches from Sara's. "Absolutely."

------

The dreams came again later that day, after her shift was over. The bed sheets wrapped themselves around her body, smothering her, as she fought blindly against their hold for air. In the dream, too, she couldn't breathe.

*A man's hands were on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. The concrete was cold and damp and she shuddered involuntarily. She could feel the hands on her body now, softly following the curve of her waist down her body, fumbling with a button or two along the way. She couldn't move, paralyzed by fear, she thought, or perhaps something he'd slipped into her drink. The chemical breakdowns for Rohypnol and GHB, the two most popular date rape drugs, appeared in her mind, the chemical symbols and numbers swimming around until they made no sense at all. She couldn't see either and realized she was probably injured. 911, she thought, before the numbers joined the symbols and the voices of everyone she'd ever trusted in a murky oblivion.

Strange, to be unconscious in a dream, sleep being a form of unconsciousness itself, she thought. Stranger still to recognize a dream as a dream. Perhaps that was why, by the time he'd managed to unbutton her jeans, she had relaxed. She knew what was coming next.

'What the hell?' a voice cried and for a moment she thought it was her father, who had been dead for many years. The hands left her body abruptly to be replaced by a new set of hands, these ones smooth and small. A man's voice asking her name, asking if she was all right. She moved her mouth, the words stuck in her throat. She blinked a few more times, her vision returning, to see a man hovering over her, his hands under her shoulders, lifting her up. His hands were stronger than they looked, she thought with a clarity far beyond her current state. He gave her his coat, wrapping it around her shoulders, over the torn remnants of her shirt. Again she thought of her father and how he would comfort her when she was a child, wrapping strong arms around her, all the while speaking softly. There was a voice like that now, words bouncing through her ears. She strained to make sense of them.

She wasn't aware of how long they sat there, him coatless in the cold evening air. She only felt as he lifted her first to her feet and then into his arms. She surrendered awareness reluctantly long before they arrived at his apartment.

When she awoke, he was standing over her, a cloth in his hands. 'This will help,' he said, placing the soothing coolness across her forehead. 'I'm Marc Evans. What's your name?' he asked, softly. He had a soft voice that Sara liked and a gentle touch as he smoothed her hair against the pillow.

'Sara.' It is at this point, both in the dream and in the memory, she realizes she is not in her own apartment or the bar she can last remember sitting in. 'Where are we?"

"I brought you back to my apartment." He smiled. "Don't worry, this is the extra room."

'Why?'

He frowned. 'I think someone hit you on the head,' he said finally, sparing her the details he assumed she could not recall. Although she remembered, this would be the last they would speak of it during the course of their two-year relationship. *

-----

Sara awoke, sweat pooling in the curve of her stomach. The hands were no longer hands, but the blanket, wrapped around her. She could move again. It was dark in her apartment, though a quick check of the clock assured her it was only 2 pm. She lay back, staring at the darkened ceiling, and thought, not for the first time, of Marc.

She'd moved in with him later that month. She felt safe with him. Perhaps this boring, boring man had been in the right place to save her for a reason. He was gentle with her, romantically. Not so gentle as to hint at what he saw in the alley that night, but gentle enough to set her at ease. It was one night about six months after they'd moved in together that it happened.

They were making love, a quiet affair, as usual. He enjoyed it and she didn't mind. But then, soon after they began, he put his hands on her shoulders, holding her down with more force that he could have intended.

'Marc,' she'd whispered. He ignored her, pushing harder on her shoulders. 'Stop it,' again, a soft cry, then louder. She began to struggle with him and he smiled at her.

'I knew,' he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against the coolness of the pillow. 'I knew,' he repeated, 'that this was the way you really liked it.'

She'd cried for a long time after that. In the shower, driving to work. She'd cried in the locker room and as she read her chemistry books and she'd cried as she drove home. All the while she smiled at people-the toll collector, the deli clerk she bought her lunch from, the other people in the gym. She smiled and laughed and cried on the inside.

That night he'd apologized, sincerely. He hadn't meant to hurt her. She'd been sending the wrong signals. She said she was sorry and next time she would be clearer. She knew it had nothing to do with signals.

She owed him more than she could stand. So the next time his hands found their way to her shoulders, she didn't resist. Then holding her down wasn't good enough any more and he started to hit her, bruise her where other people couldn't see. She was tough and didn't let herself cry out. He was turning into someone else and she was overwhelmed.

One night in particular she remembered. He had tied her hands above her head with a length of rope. She wasn't crying. She could remember that she was in control of herself and wasn't crying. That night he had threatened her with a knife-it was part of the game, he'd insisted. There was a moment right before the coolness of the blade touched her belly that she knew. In this moment of clarity, she could see where this was going and she realized that she was far from being in control--of herself or of anything else.

During the day, Marc attended to her every need, even doted on her. That daytime Marc wasn't the same man who seemed to only feel pleasure through her pain. She realized she needed to keep the daytime Marc around all the time.

She couldn't refuse sex outright. But she had the strength to fight in other ways.

The next day she bought the book, "The Stranger Beside Me." She decided she would read until Marc would fall asleep. Night after night they continued this way, until he tired of her, leaving her only the book and the cat.

In a way she was ashamed at the way she'd dealt with Marc. The feminist in her, long silent, was more angry than ashamed. That part chided that she should have kicked him out the first time it had happened.

But it was hard, feeling like you owed your life to someone. He'd come into her life at a moment when she was completely vulnerable and she knew that their relationship was built on that--her dependence on him. So when she'd started on her doctorate, started going to all those seminars and hanging out with her classmates afterwards, he was threatened. It got worse when she started spending long periods of time in the lab because she'd gotten an anthropology research position. The long shifts took her away from him and the little money she earned was her own.

That night she'd been happy, thrilled, that she'd gotten published. Sure, there were several names ahead of hers on the thesis, but it was an accomplishment and she was proud. She finally felt like she could succeed on her own. Not that she would have told him that, but he had sensed the accomplishment and even pride in her voice. He knew she was no longer his possession.

The thing she was really ashamed of was that had he simply asked her to quit her job, she would have. She didn't know it then, but she knew now that her job had saved her life.

There were times when she'd be processing a sample or looking over files and her mind would wander and she'd think about how work not only saved her life, but also had become her life.

----

"Sara?"

Sara blinked herself back to reality. Nick looked at her expectantly, but she couldn't remember the question. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked if you still had the Maggie Danvers case file."

"Oh. Yeah. Let me get it." It had been almost three weeks since Maggie Danvers's youngest daughter was brought to the morgue, her skin slowly fading into a cold blue shade from a cyanotic purple. The case had not progressed as Sara would have liked.

"Do you think she did it?" Nick asked. They were sharing a quiet moment in the break room before going on shift. There was another fifteen minutes until anyone else would report. Sara was always early; Nick rarely was.

"I'm not sure." Sara shrugged. "Maybe. There isn't the evidence yet to tell either way."

"I'm betting on poison of some sort. An injection."

"Maybe," she replied, her voice trailing off. "She was a nurse. She'd know what medications could be fatal yet leave no trace."

"You two still going over that case?" They turned to see Warrick standing in the doorway. "It's been weeks. We've all gone over it a hundred times. So," he said, sitting down and helping himself to the file, "what do you expect to find?"

Another shrug from Sara. "I don't know. It's not even about how or who anymore. I just want to know why."

"Whoa. You getting all maternal on us, Sidle?" Nick arched an eyebrow in her direction. "Women," he said to Warrick.

"Maybe," she murmured.

The two men regarded their fellow CSI for a moment, trying to decide if she was serious. She had been behaving strangely since the Maggie Danvers case began, Warrick thought. Freaking out over dead kids was normally Catherine's thing. Sara was more sensitive to cases of spousal abuse or rape. Warrick had a theory about that, but he knew it was none of his business.

Right or wrong, his theory didn't explain why she was so interested in the Maggie Danvers case. Warrick could usually read people pretty well, but he wouldn't have made a bet in a million years that he knew what was going through Sara Sidle's mind as she retrieved the file from him, leafing through it for a moment before stopping on a particularly disturbing autopsy photo.

"Did we rule out smothering?" she asked.

"I'd have to check with Doc Robbins on that one."

"You see this discoloration around her mouth? Fingers, maybe?" Sara rotated the 1:1 photo and tried to place her fingers over the purple markings.

"Maybe." Nick massaged the creases in his forehead. "Christ, Sara, I don't know. You stare at a spot on the wall long enough, it starts to jump around."

"Yeah. You're right." Sara put the contents of the file back into her bag just as Grissom entered the break room.

"Slow day, my young Turks?"

"What?" Nick looked particularly confused.

"Shakespeare, probably," Warrick offered.

"So, Gruesome," Sara began, thinking that this was a game for two. "What have you got for us?"

"Patience, grasshopper." He poured himself a cup of coffee and poked at the remains of the previous shift's donuts with his pen. It had a rubber fly glued to the end of it. A Grissom touch. "It's a slow day," he said, after settling into a chair near the fridge. "Time to catch up on paperwork." He paused and looked at Sara. "Or the ones that got way."

"Don't you miss anything?"

"All the time. But I know you."

Sara marveled at how much intimacy could be expressed in so few words. She struggled to find an appropriate response, settling for, "Want to come to the morgue with me?"

----