Banner by Kitty

East of the Sun, West of the Moon
By Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: CSI and associated characters do not belong to me.

Author's Note: Poems and lyrics belong to artists so listed. Title and first sentence of the summary are borrowed from a Norwegian fairytale named 'East of the Sun and West of the Moon'. The story will also visit Norway itself. Bring warm clothing. Grissom/Sara and Catherine/Warrick pairings, so you're hereby warned.

Eternal gratitude and much Norwegian chocolate for Allison for beta duties.

Prologue

*****

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes
- Lord Byron, She Walks in Beauty

*****

She walks in beauty, like the night.

Grissom did not always consider death beautiful. It was bloody and sometimes reeking, often gruesome. But sometimes, it was beautiful, like a frozen snapshot of human emotion for all to see, a ray of soul across a face.

Sometimes, death walked softly. She looked sleeping, peaceful and face devoid of troubles, blonde hair cascading down her arms. Her lashes were dark against her pale skin and she seemed a Cinderella begging for a kiss. But no kiss could return her to life. And no mild shake would awake her, for all the stewardess had tried.

Anna Caroline Jensen was not to ever see Las Vegas or the father she had come to find. When the plane had landed in Las Vegas, she was already dead.

"She looks almost beautiful," Sara said behind him and he became aware of the world around him again.

"Yes," he replied, looking up at her and Greg, both standing respectfully some feet away. "The stewardess thought her only sleeping."

"Are we sure it's even a murder?" Greg asked. Sara gave him a slight shrug.

Grissom did not answer. He could not explain it, but he could almost sense that it was. It was as if something had clung to the victim, a sense of being wronged. It was not evidence, nothing he could triumphantly hold to the light. But it still felt true. She had died by another's hand.

"We treat it like a crime scene until we know otherwise," he said instead. Sara nodded and slipped on gloves, the snap of plastic loud in the room. Death wore silence. Sounds felt intruding.

The plane had been emptied of passengers before the body had been discovered, though the traces of them were still there. A crumpled cup on the floor, a seat not quite straight. And a body, not yet stiff, but cool, as if winter had touched her, but not frozen her.

"She's not a local," Sara said, leaning over him and carefully freeing the Las Vegas guide book from the seat holster. It gleamed freshly, pages still crisp, never to be bent in use.

"She's Norwegian," Grissom replied, making Greg look up. "Anna Caroline Jensen. Told the stewardess she is here to meet her father."

"Do we know who?" Greg asked. He looked almost excited. But then, he did that quite often. Excitement and interest and a sense of justice, if young still. If he could channel it, he would be a very good CSI.

If. So many ifs and not enough whens. Not like an entomology timeline, crisp and clear and predictable. Not like a murder, laid out like a puzzle before him, pieces still hidden. He would not even know what the puzzle would show him until the pieces became unearthed.

"Not yet," he replied belatedly, realising both Sara and Greg looked at him expectedly.

"Coroner's on his way to pick up the body," she said idly, calm around him, as if he had never seen a glimpse of her soul and her abyss. Perhaps she wanted him to forget her percieved weakness. Perhaps she had at last decided to let him be emotionally unavailable all by himself.

He hoped she was happy. He knew she wasn't. Sara, compassion in her eyes as she looked at the victim, one step away from him.

Always a step away. Always a step too close.

He dared a glance at her, so close he could feel heat radiating from her body as sun on a bright morning. He dared not look at her for too long or she would surely burn him.

She walks in beauty, like death he thought and looked away.



Chapter One

*****

They’re bringing out the dead, now
It’s easy just to look away
They are bringing out the dead, now
It’s been a strange, strange day
- Nick Cave, Messiah Ward

*****

The Vegas sun was relentless, bright and burning, paling even the blueness of sky to an almost-white. The clouds had fled, leaving only the tiniest visps of smoke-like cotton in the sky. Summer had come, embracing all and weaving heat into the wind. Walking outside was to be kissed by flames and many sought the shadows and shade.

Catherine Willows was late and did not have the time. Another argument with Lindsey. Another piece of her life she wanted to scream at. And deep down, a deep fatigue seemed to have settled in her. Too much death. Too much life. Not enough rest.

The doors hissed quietly as she went intside, the cool of air conditioning a blessing against her skin. She smiled at a few familiar faces in passing, but didn't slow down. Not until she saw Grissom, hunched over a table of light, his face a mask of concentration. The light and blue coat made him look almost like a ghost, a haunt rather than a human among the rest. She watched him for the briefest moment, taking in the grey in his hair and the lines on his face.

'We're aging,' she thought and then shoved the thought as far as she could into the shadows of her mind with all the others she didn't feel like facing. They would come out again. They always did.

And sometimes they came back as words in another's mouth, spoken as truth.

"Hey," she said lightly. "Heard you had a dead passanger fly in yesterday."

It felt like a stupid statement the moment she uttered it. It was hard not to hear about the case after all, the way the news had blazed all over it. For a moment, she could almost feel an urge to want the case herself. Maybe even with Gil. For all his little quirks and different ways of solving cases, she did miss his presence nearby. It made unsolved cases feel more like mysteries and less like failures.

Maybe she even missed working with Sara.

Maybe.

Grissom didn't look up, peering intently at a small bottle that seemed empty. "Yes. Body's with the good doc."

"Where's your better half?" she asked casually, but unable to keep a slight edge out of it. It didn't feel like jealousy, but something she did not quite know what was. Perhaps a sense of ownership for all their years working together. Perhaps envy. Perhaps a hint of something territorial. Perhaps a little of everything, she wasn't sure.

"Greg is looking through our victim's luggage," Grissom quipped calmly back. She rolled her eyes, but didn't press him further. Grissom had his own paces. But one of these days he had to realise that largo might be too slow for the dance he and Sara engaged in.

Or perhaps he would not and would grow to be old and remember the one he let get away. She had a sense of what Grissom feared and Sara embodied it all, for good and bad.

Sometimes, she wondered if her own fear of letting the right one go had led her into the arms of too many wrongs. She couldn’t remember anymore if Eddie had ever felt right. Some many others later. And Grissom... No, not Grissom. Grissom was neither right nor wrong for her. He was just was what he was. She had known him so long now he felt tied to her regardless and sometimes she forgot he wasn't hers.

She slipped away without further comment. Grissom wasn't her knot to untangle. She tried not to think too hard about her own knot before the desire to tangle it even more came over her.

'Now who's afraid,' a little voice whispered in her mind, but she ignored it.

She found Warrick with Nick, both clearly waiting for her. She gave an apologetic smile, which both returned. Even so she sensed tension, which made her wonder just what they had discussed before she had entered. These days it felt a strain not to be paranoid.

"CODIS gave us something on the prints from the gun used at the hold-up," Nick said calmly. He leaned back in his chair with a slight air of triumph. "John Allen. Previous offender. Got six years for armed robbery. Got out a few months ago."

"We'll take him in and get his footprints," Warrick continued. His eyes seemed even darker against the blue of his t-shirt as he looked up at her. "But I'm thinking this is our guy."

"We'll make sure before we hand it over to the DA," she commented, though she hardly needed to remind them. "Any progress on the rape case?"

Nick shook his head slightly, Warrick just calmly regarded her. She knew he had seen her slight discomfort with the case. She always tried to steel herself, but when the victim was so young... Sometimes, death felt easier. At least then the victims were not living dead, shadows of their former self still haunting. Some rape victims managed to stack a resemblance of a life back together. Some seem to walk hand in hand with their tragedy until old age and death did them part.

She slipped down onto a chair, feeling the weight of all the cases descend on her with the sounds of the lab all around. She hadn’t realised that supervising would make her feel the cases so much more as her own responsibility. And when cases could not be solved it felt like her failures, her wrongs. Grissom coped in his way with the strains, but she was not Grissom.

She shook the thoughts away as they all chatted briefly about various possible approaches to John Allen and any evidence that might have been missed in the rape case. Catherine had a strong feeling there wouldn’t be. Another unsolved case to be stacked with the others in a quiet little cabinet somewhere, with perhaps a note on a board somewhere where everyone would look away. Easier that way. Not forgotten, but not looked at.

The cell phone shrilly interrupted and she sighed as she answered, hoping it wasn't another Lindsey disaster. She wasn't sure could take another. Some days, it felt more like battlefield commanding than parenting.

But the voice was Brass's and she instantly knew from the graveness of his voice that it could only be another murder. The sun could not chase murders away, or offer a vacation from humans being humans in the worst ways they could. Another murder in the summer of Las Vegas.

"We got a DB," she announced as she hung up. "Vega will meet us there. Kensbook Street 9, Winchester."

"So much for using the day for tanning," Nick replied, standing up.

"You look just fine in paler shades," she assured him, giving his shoulder a pat as she got up. It felt almost like a flirt and almost like a betrayal, but Warrick merely smiled good-naturedly and got up as well.

"So do you," he whispered when he passed her, his breath warm as it brushed her skin. And for a moment she forgot death and work and tangles and closed her eyes to the heat.

It was summer.

****

The scene of death felt strangely like winter. Shades hid the sun, a fan twirled the cool air, the sheets were white. Fresh flowers on the bedside table were hanging their heads. The overhead light was subdued. And the victim was pale, winter pale. It felt like another season, walls and roof shielding summer and life away.

"Boyfriend found her," Vega said, hovering at the doorframe like a shadow. "Next of kin is George James, her father. We're tracking him down."

"Mother?" she asked.

"Dead. The neighbour didn't know of any other family."

She nodded, her gaze returning to the bed and to Nick, kneeling by it.

"She was beautiful to her killer," he remarked, looking up. Catherine felt herself nodding, for all she wanted not to. Fear should not be beautiful to anyone. Death should not be beautiful to anyone. Yet it was.

The blood had been lovingly wiped away, it seemed, for only the wound itself spoke of violence. The eyes had been closed on the victim - before death in fear of what was to come or after by the killer was hard to say. The hair flowed freely across the pillow, a cascade of yellow. She had been young, but not too young. Perhaps in her thirties, Catherine reflected.

It felt like a stage, like it was an image painted with death. The victim was dressed in silver silk clinging to her curves, hair arranged and untangled, almost hiding the shot to the temple. An image of old movie stars it seemed to stir. A beautiful death for Georgina James. It almost spoke of love. Twisted love, but love nevertheless.

And above all there was something familiar with the scene and it sent a cold chill down her spine.

"No sign of forced entry," Warrick said, entering behind them. "Tyre tracks outside, but could be normal traffic."

"Could be," she agreed and hoped it was not. They were here to find closure for victims, for relatives, for the public. Closure. But something had been odd with the picture ever since she entered, a faint sense of deja vu. Hadn't Grissom's victim been blonde too? Perhaps that was the source of her discomfort. Similarities in victims happened. Coincidences of life.

It didn't quite chase the chill away nor the feeling of unease. She looked at the victim again and felt a shudder go through her.

She didn't sense closure. She sensed a beginning.

And outside the summer waited, burning ever and the clouds no shade at all.



Chapter Two

*****
You will never get over me
I'll never got under you
Whenever our voices speak
It's never our minds that meet - A-ha, You'll Never Get Over Me
*****

A wind stirred and died; the sun tore across the sky in the ever illusion that it was the sun that moved and the Earth stood still and watched. Sara was a scientist, she knew it was the opposite. But sometimes, even scientists needed illusions. Sometimes, illusions were all between you and the abyss.

She stood still in Grissom's doorway, watching the emptiness. Strange, but it seemed almost like the office had a stronger presence of Grissom when he was not there. Perhaps he had left so much of himself here that there was less and less of him left in the shell of his body. Or perhaps it had always been so and she had only now started to notice.

It was a morbid thought, but she could not quite shake it. Grissom felt more distant now than when she had been in San Francisco and he here. For every step she had fought herself into his life he seemed to slip away from it himself. It was as if he stalked the peripheries of his own life and now he was grimmer, older, almost darker. Certainly not more emotional available than when she first came. So what good had anything done? She could have stayed by the sea and lived in the illusion that near him, they could have built a life together. Here, the illusion died a little every day.

And yet, she still felt something. She still desired him, still felt that which she dared not name. For all he had stood still and never welcomed her advances, she still wanted to push them on him, still wanted to chase him.

It wasn't that she desired him to save her or sweep her off her feet and make her life a fairytale. It was merely that she wanted to make each night a little less dark sleeping near him. And each day of life a little more alive from his smile.

Grissom had once told her she needed a diversion. And she had quitely thought he could be hers and they could ride roller coasters together.

Sighing, she continued her search, giving Nick a nod as she passed him in the hallway. He looked grim too, but he was still the bright, sunny boy. Summer to Grissom's winter. And she herself was autumn, sometimes as warm as summer and sometimes a wind away from winter. She wondered sometimes if she was becoming Grissom, if that was why he staying away, as if afraid to pull her deeper into his own season.

He would walk on the edge of the human abyss and not fall. She was not sure she could.

'Or perhaps I fell in the abyss long ago,' she thought and felt the chill of memories knocking at the door in her mind she kept them trapped behind. One day they would break through, the logical part of her knew, but it drowned in the fear. One day would not be today, forever not today if she could just stay strong and alive.

She finally found Grissom among the dead, in the quiet of the morgue with the victim. His face was so gentle her heart nearly jumped, and she watched him leaning over their victim with a sense of longing. Sometimes, she almost envied the dead for all the care Grissom showed them. She could almost imagine herself there, pale and cold and naked on steel and his eyes brushing her face lovingly.

She could almost want it.

Belatedly, she noticed Doc Robbins looking up at her, and she slipped out of the doorway and into the room, resisting the urge to step too close to Grissom.

"She died from a fatal dose of lithium carbonate," Robbins announced, more to her than to Grissom, who did not even look up. Clearly, he had already heard. She wondered what he was silently communicating to the victim - his promise to find the killer? Or his sympathy? His understanding?

"That's used in treatment of some mental disorders, isn't it?" she asked, looking at Anna's still face. No sign of despair or a troubled mind. But the harsh light of the morgue chased away any illusions of sleeping. And yet she was still beautiful, even in death.

'Cinderella,' Sara thought and felt a chill.

"Bipolar disorder, among others. I also found traces of Histamine," Robbins went on, and now Grissom did look up, eyes light and a shield of his mind. She never could feel what he was thinking, not even when he looked at her and she felt as if her thoughts and heart lay bare before him that surely he had to see.

"For travel sickness?" he asked, his voice nothing, merely even.

"Yes. My guess is the fatal dose was digested. I found no needle marks on her body," Robbins explained, looking down on the victim. "Gil, this woman has been dying for days. The dose was administered before she got on that plane. There is extensive damage to the liver and the soft tissue. Even if she had sought medical assistance, it may have been too late. "

"That makes our crime scene an ocean away," Grissom said softly, turning to her. For a moment, she thought she might drown in his gaze. Then his attention slipped away, as it always did. "Thanks, doc."

She followed him out, the light of the hallway seeming harsh after the subdued light of the morgue. Brighter still waited the sun outside, a fire of summer. She found herself wondering if she could pull Grissom with her and find somewhere green to sit and be burned together. But she fought back the urge to ask. It was a fantasy, an illusion, a trick of light.

But his hair would still feel soft to braid her fingers through in the heat of summer.

"Our crime scene?" she asked instead. "From what doc Robbins say, she was killed in Norway. That makes it a matter for the Norwegian authorities."

"But her body is here," he replied calmly, but his voice still held what she had come to recognise as Grissom steel. "That makes it a matter for me."

She nodded, more to herself than him. She had known what he would say. It was after all why she had felt drawn to him even across a lecture hall. This was not just a career to him, but a calling. As it had been to her, for a whole different reason.

But justice for Anna, for Kaye, for all the murders they had solved would still not bring justice for a terrified child with a murdered father and a murderer for mother. No silence for the demons. And the memories seemed more than mere recollections. It was refeeling, reseeing, reliving. And the outcome remained the same.

She let out a slow breath and was herself again, adult and safe and devoid of blood. Grissom was looking at her, head titled, as if regarding just another puzzle. Perhaps that was all humans were to him, for all his gentleness.

Perhaps that was unkind. He was 'concerned' for her, and what he had confessed to Dr. Lurie still echoed in her mind at the still of night sometimes. It had not been quite a declaration and not intended for her. But perhaps what he had felt had not been quite love, either.

"So..." she offered, "ehm... I've scanned the various prints we've recovered from the plane, but if it not our crime scene, there may not be much in it."

"Mmm," he said non-committedly, snapping the gloves off as they walked along. He looked almost excited, and she had a feeling something was going on just beyond what she could see. Maybe she could sit on Greg until he told her. Provided Greg did know. Perhaps she should just go for the source and sit on Grissom.

She couldn't avoid smiling slightly at the mental image and Grissom raised an eyebrow slightly before mirroring her smile. For a moment, it felt almost like an echo of a happier past, when she and Grissom still danced lightly on the edges of flirting.

Almost.

The past didn't come erased. Blood didn't come undone. She knew that well enough.

"Brass is looking at the passenger manifest," he said, ripping the mood. "Still no word on the father's identity."

"If there is a father."

"Why else would she come all the way to Las Vegas?"

"See the sights? Gambling? Boyfriend?" she suggested. He made a slight grimace, his footsteps hardly any sound at all as he walked beside her. He seemed to walk awkwardly sometimes and she wondered if he was so lost walking in his mind he did not think much about walking the world.

"This far for a boyfriend?"

"People travel far for the possibility of love."

'I did,' she thought, unable to keep the thought away. Perhaps the same thought occurred to Grissom, for something almost like guilt seemed to flash across his face. A second later it was gone and perhaps she had merely imagined it just as she had imagined a million other expressions, looks, touches, words... An imagined life.

"She must have been brave to come that far for a possible fairytale," he said after a moment, and she looked up sharply. But his face was even and he was looking ahead, not at her.

"Yeah," she replied and felt almost foolish. The victim. But for a moment, it had almost seemed he was speaking of her. If his voice had been unusually soft, it could be for many reasons.

She gave him a sideway glance. You never did know with Grissom. He lived in puzzles and mysteries and made his life puzzles and mysteries. Every time she thought she had found the final piece, she realised another was hidden. She might not ever really know him. Some pieces had to be given, not found, and Grissom was not the sharing kind.

"You need a holiday," he said suddenly, as calmly as bringing up the time line of rigor mortis.

"What?" she asked, halting. Grissom walked on and she stared after him, considering which blunt object to cause massive head trauma with if he dared tell her she needed a life, a diversion or time off.

"I hear Norway is lovely this time of year!" he called after her and smiled, eyes twinkling. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Only Grissom would consider solving a murder a holiday.

Maybe she wouldn't have to sit on him after all, she decided as she chased after him and the Earth moved on, always in the illusion that it didn't. Perhaps the illusion didn't matter and it merely mattered that there was movement.

And smiling lightly at her hurry, he halted. Waiting for her.

Maybe the illusion did matter after all.



Chapter Three

*****
I don't claim to understand
The troubles that you've had
But the dogs you say they fed you to
Lay their muzzles in your lap
And the lions that they led you to
Lie down and take a nap
The ones you fear are wind and air
And I love you without measure
- Nick Cave, Sweetheart Come
*****

Las Vegas lit up, opened up, sounded up, the siren song of dice and cards and roulette wheels quietly humming in the warm summer air. It was time to gamble all you could afford to lose and all you could not. Sometimes, Warrick felt the hum as a wire in his blood, always painful, always promising absolution.

But sometimes, he considered, life was a greater gamble than all the casinos in Las Vegas together. The stakes were your own immortality through your children. And when life's gamble sometimes failed, the loss seemed to stack higher than the horizon and blind all light. A child gone and lost was all the immortality of generations to come.

And the wire in the blood died and was replaced by another pain. Sympathy. Compassion. Understanding. And absolution came in justice. Justice for the dead. Justice for Holly. Justice for Anna.

George James looked an old man, clutched in the chair of his cool, silent house. His hair was still dark and his skin held no wrinkles, but the eyes were ancient and spoke of grief beyond comprehension. The only ones who could understand were those who shared it and that was too high a price to pay for understanding.

"We're sorry for your loss, sir," Catherine said softly, but with a hint of detachment. He didn't blame her. It was the only way to survive in this job and still it went forgotten too often. The balance between needed compassion and burnout was a knife's edge.

George James merely nodded, clutching his knees, eyes clear and frozen. Perhaps there were no more tears left.

"We understand you're the only living relative," Catherine went on. Her fingers burrowed into her palm for a moment, leaving white marks to fade slowly. He fought an urge to caress her palm until marks and pains were all gone.

"Yes," George croaked, then cleared his throat, swallowing several times. "Her mother died in childbirth. That's why I gave her my name. There were only us two left in the world. She was... Who... Who could have done this to her? Why?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Warrick cut in as gently as he could. "When did you last see your daughter?"

"Um... two days ago. I was... We were planning a weekend away and... I, I..."

"Did you know if she had planned to see anyone today?" Vega asked, leaning against the wall, his face a mask. Perhaps he was already sizing up the father as a suspect. Not even grief meant you were innocent. Killers could grieve as surely as humans.

"A friend, a... Michelle. They work together. I... I don't have her number," George James replied, breath heaving and dying, heaving and dying.

"That's all right, sir," Catherine reassured him, placing a hand on his. Detachment fell from her and for a moment, she seemed to absorb his grief through her skin. "I'm sorry."

"She wasn't meant to die," he said brokenly and then there were more tears after all.

Warrick looked away, unable to look at such naked grief. Murder was an invasion, sweeping away all privacy. And it was his job to shift through the debris, watch the ruins until all was ash.

'Ashes to ashes, earth to earth, death to death,' he thought and felt the soft hiss of the air conditioning against his skin, drying tears, but not grief. Only time dried grief, but left the scars.

Catherine shifted slightly next to him, and he met her gaze, seeing his own discomfort mirrored, perhaps even magnified. Catherine had a child to lose. For a moment, he could almost see her in place of George James, tear-streaked pale face as she stared into the nothingness of her own heart, bereft of the last of her family. Bereft of Lindsey as she had been of Eddie.

Her eyes widened and he knew she saw it too.

He closed his eyes and burned the image away, hiding the embers as deep in his mind as he could. The air hissed and he felt a chill, suddenly longing for the heat and summer outside. The sounds died away, as if muted, and he could barely hear the door open and close, probably Vega leaving.

"Warrick..." Catherine said softly, making him open his eyes again. She made a slight gesture towards the door with her head and he nodded. There was nothing they could do here now, in George James's quiet, quiet house. Nothing to do but feel the grief.

"We’ll contact you later, Mr. James," she said, slipping away. The man only nodded helplessly, burrowing his nails painfully into his forehead, perhaps to distract pain with pain. Warrick watched him a moment longer, a part of his mind that he needed, that he resented, already trying to judge if a killer could grieve so for his victim.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," he offered, knowing how weak the words were. But it was all he could give. He could only hope he would also eventually bring a sort of justice.

But justice was for the dead. The living only got answers.

The air was hot as he stepped out, summer living on unperturbed by the dead. A few sprinklers were on in the neighbourhood, hissing as water glittered and caught the light. Little rainbows of light broken.

Vega was still by the driveway and greeted him with a nod. "I'll have an officer stay with him for a while."

"Yeah, good. Thanks," he replied, his eyes already seeking Catherine's form. He found her leaning against the car, eyes on the sky, a look of distance on her face. The sun was falling, but still blinded him as he walked over.

"Hey," he said softly. "You look lost."

She laughed, but without humour. "Maybe I am. This case... I feel it. There's only me and Lindsey in the world, you know?"

"I know."

"I always feared this job would take me from her, maybe one day for good, but to lose her..." She shook her head, staring into something he could not see. He could only see the echoes of it on her face. Nightmares of the future, haunts of the past.

"Go home early today. See Lindsey," he suggested. She groaned slightly and bit her lip, a flash of pain across her features blinding him.

"I swear it was only yesterday I sung her lullabies," she said softly, longingly and closed her eyes. Her lashes were dark against her slightly tanned skin and she was beautiful in her longing for times of innocence - perhaps for herself as much as Lindsey. "I'm growing old."

He leaned against the hood next to her, watching her fingers claw at the paint. There were many things he could have said, but they all seemed like lies and cheap comfort, so he kept silent. She didn't need his words. She needed his presence.

Vega gave a wave before driving away in a cough of smoke and trail of tyre tracks. In the distance, another car honked. But for all the sounds, it felt like only them there in the world. Warrick and Catherine and the dying sun.

"I almost miss Eddie sometimes," she said, eyes still closed. "Not for anything he did, the asshole. But we were young together. And maybe if he was around, Lindsey would have someone else to turn to."

"Or someone else to rebel against," he pointed out. "Come on, Cath. You remember what you did at that age?"

"I made out with handsome guys like you in cars," she said softly. For a moment, all he could hear was his heartbeats, drums vibrating in his blood.

"I wasn't handsome back then," he said lightly. Beat. Beat.

"You are now."

He looked at her dark lashes, her hair falling in the fading sun and her breath curling from her lips. All life was a gamble and he could throw the dice. But the first lesson of Las Vegas was a harsh one - never gamble what you could not afford to lose. And he could ill afford to lose her. She was a friend, a colleague, a confidante and that tease of something more, that hint in her eyes...

But sometimes, even gamblers could win. And the prize... Her and Lindsey and Sunday breakfast, he the cook. A future. A family. A relationship.

She turned her head sideways and looked at him, the last rays of the sun caressing her lips and the faint colour in her cheeks. Her breath smelled of coffee and summer heat and he wondered if he could kiss the scars of age from her features. Her expression softened as she looked at him, fear and pain still haunting her face, but her eyes so bright, bright, bright...

'One day, I'll help you fade the haunts,' he thought and it echoed like a vow in his heart.

She placed a hand on his chest and he was sure she would feel his heartbeats against her palm, beating in sync with hers. And somewhere deep in his heart he knew he had thrown the dice long ago.

Nothing to do but see the bet through.

Her phone was shrill and loud and tore her gaze and hand away. Muttering a foul word under her breath that almost made him smile, she reached for the phone and fumbled it out of her bag.

"Willows. Hey. Yeah. Yeah. What? No, we're..." she hesitated for a breath, biting her lip ever so slightly. "We're heading for the lab. Yeah, see you there."

"Nick?"

"Nick," she confirmed. "Coroner's prelim is in. No DNA under her nails. No bruises on her."

"No sign of struggle," he interpreted.

"Yeah. She may have been drugged. Doc Robbins will probably give us more on that."

"We better get back to the lab."

"Yeah," she breathed and looked up at him for a brief moment, fire in her eyes. "We better."

As they drove away, he caught a glimpse of George James in his window, a rank shadow in the dying sun. The father no more, now that his daughter was dead. Only memories left and memories were mist. Nothing to cling to, yet the strongest haunt of all. No one to fade his haunts.

'What would George James. with nothing left to lose, be willing to gamble?' Warrick thought and wondered.

And around all, the siren song of Las Vegas hummed on. Ever on. Ever promising absolution.



Chapter Four

*****
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh
- William Blake
*****

Gil Grissom dreamt.

She was in his dream, beckoning, teasing, haunting. Radiant and dark at once, a dark star in his sky. He was drawn to her and in her embrace he did burn, but the pain was pleasure and he kissed the flames from her lips. In her presence, his defences turned to ashes. Her skin was velvet and marble and shadows played across it, dancing softly to a hidden tune. Her fingers were touches of lace, binding him to her, promising rest. Rest in her, her offered warmth. The sun on a blazing summer day and the shade too. Sara. Sara, Sara, Sara.

'Sara,' he thought and awoke panting, for a moment missing the touch of her skin as if she had really been there, a ghost of his dream made tangible.

Another dream, only.

He untangled himself from the sheets and the slow wind of the air conditioning was for a moment cold, lightly brushing his skin. The floor was cool under his feet, but he stood still for a time, merely breathing. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Each breath one breath further away from the dream and nearer the closed borders of his life until he was safely within. Secure. Safe. Protected.

‘The illusions we do cling to,’ the analytical part of his mind thought dryly and he knew it to be true.

The bathroom was bright as he entered, an onslaught of light against his eyelashes. The mirror was a window and he looked into himself, eyes dark with sleep still. His hair was tinged with grey and his skin felt like leather when he touched it. He let water flow through his fingers and washed it over his face, softening his skin. The grey of his hair he could not hide so easily and his eyes betrayed it all.

He was growing older.

He breathed, feeling his lungs contract and expand, a wonder of biology as always, even old.

He had not dreamt of her for a while. Perhaps he had thought this time the dreams would be gone for good, chased away by life and the resolve of his mind. But the mind was treacherous. It resolved on one thing and desired another. And in the dream, the scientist could not hide from the evidence.

The air conditioning seemed to breathe with him, humming in the quiet. His silent home. His silent life. And Sara, the roar in his blood.

Why had the dream returned now?

"People travel far for the possibility of love," she’d said and he could feel it echo in his mind still. She had travelled to Las Vegas for him. But he... He couldn't even take the few steps into her embrace. He’d made himself unable to, making all the logical reasons not to echo in his mind over and over. They worked together. He was her supervisor. She was younger. He was older. She had issues she needed to resolve. He was detached. She could hurt him. He could hurt her.

She could leave him.

Easier not to act. Easier to stand still and watch her, easier to be the bastard. At least then it would always be his, this attraction never acted on and thus never killed.

The sun could warm him. He didn’t need her flame.

’Liar,’ his treacherous mind whispered, a voice of seduction to echo hers.

He shivered and turned the water off, listening to it gurgle and sweep away. After his surgery, he had spent days merely listening to everything, making himself familiar with a world he’d thought he might lose. He'd listened to the wind in the trees, the hum of heat, the scream of cars, the language of dogs. And he'd listened to her, her world of sounds. And now they haunted his dreams. Her soft sighs, just audible and still loud in his mind. Her slow inhale when thinking, her fast exhales when excited. The tiniest moan when she ate well and the frustrated groans when she saw a piece of evidence didn’t pan out.

He let out a slow breath and padded into the living room, watching the light filter through the blinds. On the table, pictures of Anna Jensen were arranged carefully, just as he had left them before going to sleep. He tilted his head as he regarded them, letting Anna chase Sara from his mind.

In Norway waited a killer, he was sure of it. And he intended to help catch that nameless shadow.

Anna had probably not known who or what had killed her. She must have felt sick; she had taken the Histamine. But she might never have realised she was dying; perhaps not even at the very end when she must have known not all was as it should. Perhaps it was better that way, to go without knowing someone would desire death upon you. And murderer unseen, she would still be able to help him catch her killer. There would be traces in her life, evidence in her death. She still spoke to him.

All he had to do was figure out the words.

And perhaps that would bring some closure to her family and help them keep the haunts away. If anything ever could. Sometimes the presence of the dead was stronger than of the living.

Anna would make a beautiful haunt. Young, pretty, sleeping in her death. The younger the victim, the stronger the haunt, it seemed most of the time. The young always seemed so immortal, so untouched by death. Their life was still all in tomorrows.

Tomorrows became todays became yesterdays and he felt old and cold as Anna smiled up at him from a visa photo.

'I'm sorry you didn't find what you sought,' he thought and realised he wasn't even sure who he thought it of. Sara? Anna? Himself?

Sara had not been what he sought. But she had become what he desired, an allure even in his mind. Desires were dangerous. Desires could kill.

He wondered what had killed Anna. A mistake? A desire? A danger of discovery? Was it perhaps linked to the mysterious father, whom they had found no traces of? Did he even exist?

The evidence would tell. If it could be found and laid bare. Not all evidence could yet be found, even with all the technologies at hand. But every case was a new learning experience. Every case made it easier to solve the next.

At least so he told himself. The convenient illusion. And like the best illusions, always with a hint of truth. He did learn. He did evolve.

But humans also forgot. Sometimes they learned anew. Sometimes... He let the thought die, futile as it was.

He smiled as he lightly touched the book Greg had given him. "The Fellowship of Ghosts: A Journey through the Mountains of Norway" by Paul Watkins. Greg had seemed quite enthralled with the rumours of heading to Norway. Perhaps he was looking forward to being the teacher, knowing things that Grissom didn’t. A chance to shine.

Greg would learn soon enough that you shone all the more when you didn’t try.

And Sara… It would be good for Sara to get away. Perhaps it would return some of that comfortable working relationship between them, which he did desire having back. And yet he feared it. The more comfortable he was around her, the more his heart whispered her name and the mind felt treacherous.

The refrigerator hissed as he opened it, the light blinking on so fast it seemed it had always been on. But Grissom knew it hadn’t. When he was young, it had been one of his first experiments. He had wondered and then planned and finally proved that the light in the fridge did turn off when the door closed.

He still remembered the euphoria of discovery even then.

The puzzles had changed. His methods had sophisticated. But the beautiful simplicities of the solutions were the same and they still thrilled him. And so, here he still was. Another murder, another solution.

The water tasted slightly metallic as he sipped it, sleep still on his tongue. His body was slowly awakening; he could feel the hairs on his arms stand up in the cool air, protesting his rise from the warm bed. Outside, it would be hot, but humans built shelters and set their own temperatures and seasons within.

’The illusions of nests,’ he thought and watched the silence of his house. A nest of solitude he had built.

Or perhaps it was merely a nesting spot, with him trying to attract a mate to it as a human double-crested cormorant, flashing his wings.

’Now who watches too much Discovery,’ he thought wryly and allowed himself a smile. The mating behaviours of birds were easy enough. Humans flashed their wings and made their mating calls too, but they never did follow the same predictable patterns or seasons.

Or perhaps he merely didn’t see it. Patterns could be invisible even as you lived them.

His exhale felt loud, his heartbeats silent. Sometimes, he wondered if he was his own greatest puzzle still unsolved. His patterns sometimes felt unfamiliar to even him. His mind was never merely a tool of biology as a lung. Always, it had a voice not quite of his will.

And he still dreamt of that which he’d resolved not to seek.

The fridge door slipped shut, turning the light off even if unseen. He left the bottle of water on the counter and instead headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Another shift of work beckoned. Another puzzle, another murder, another solution.

Perhaps even Sara beckoned, dark and fair and bright.

But he hid that thought with the memory of the dream where they would be safe, secure, untouched. Forever.

Until the mind whispered.



Chapter Five

****
The forensic requiems ...
For the brutally deceased
Surgical exequies
Dead will never rest in peace
- Heamorrage, The Forensic Requiems
*****

Always it lingered, the silent song for the dead.

The morgue lights hummed slightly, mingling with the sounds of refrigeration units in a hushed requiem for all those whose lullaby was forever. Even with the sounds, there was always a feeling of silence. Eerie silence, as if the dead themselves were hushing, demanding a rest in peace.

Albert Robbins was used to the feeling of the morgue and found it almost peaceful. Where the dead dwelled, the rage of life seemed all the more precious. For all the gruesome scars of life he saw here, there was still peace. The dead suffered no more. The living limped on with their scars and echoes of pain and prosthetics every day.

He hadn’t imagined this the place he would be working when he was young and brash and full of ideas of saving lives and doctor’s heroism. He had stumbled into it and found his feet. For the dead deserved their dignity and the living the answers he could sometimes provide. And thus he had come to find he liked the work, for all its silence and crimes uncovered.

And always, he came home to life he felt all the more privileged to have when working with death every day.

"Hey, Doc," a light voice called from the door, and Catherine slipped in, hair almost white under the harsh lights, a subdued look on her face. She wasn't happy with her current case, he could tell already.

"Catherine," he greeted her with. "Without your younger colleagues today?"

She gave a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Seems so. What do you have on our murdered girl?"

She followed him as he pulled Georgina James out of her cool temporary grave, pale and dead on her bed of steel. He’d shaved the hair partly off, showing the bullet’s ripping journey through her head. It robbed her of some of her beauty, but violent death was pretty only to those lost in it.

But flesh was flesh and he could look upon it coolly, but always, he still felt a moment of stillness before he did. It was flesh that had once lived. He hoped he never forgot.

"Bullet fragmented upon entry," he explained, touching the skin through his latex glove. Catherine leaned forward, looking intently. "I’ve sent the fragments I found to trace, you should check with them. Now, the entry wound... Notice the stippling?"

"Unburned gunpowder. She was shot up close and personal," Catherine remarked, voice so even he could feel the emotion locked in. For all the CSIs tried, they could never quite be beyond human.

Neither could he, he reflected and felt the winter of death touch even through his gloves.

"Yes," he replied, continuing his trek of the body's particular. "She had some light bruising on the knee, but the colour indicates it happened days before. A light fall or a simple bump into a chair, perhaps. Her wrist bone has a healed fracture, years old most likely. Generally, she was in good health when she died."

"Sexual abuse?"

He shook his head, for once glad to answer in the negative. “Nothing I could see.”

"Hmmm," Catherine said distantly mind already on possibilities, theories, theses. "Anything else?"

"I found Valium in her system," he replied, straightening and feeling his back protest and reminding him he was old, "not a lethal dose, but enough to knock her out. She had it close to death, it's only been partially digested."

"Explaining no defensive wounds," she said, looking thoughtful as she let her gaze travel across Georgina’s features, a caress of sorts. “Maybe she knew her attacker. Maybe she just had an offered glass of juice and never got to fight back.”

"You’re the ones who make sense of it all," he replied, pushing Georgina back to her silence and cold and sleep. Until it was time for another grave of silence, one that would claim her flesh.

"Sometimes there’s no sense," Catherine commented and grief passed over her face like a shadow, darkening her face. He knew her well enough not to say nothing, letting her vulnerable moment pass silently. He had seen CSIs come and go and pass into shadow. When too many expressions as those crossed their faces, he worried and waited and all too often the burn-out came and another took their place. And another.

'Humans are all too human,' he thought and watched her regain her calm.

"Thanks Doc," she said steadily. He tilted his head and watched her purposely walk out, being greeted by Warrick in the bright hallway. Al could not see what they said to each other, but he could see how brightness became her more than the morgue shade and how she leaned against Warrick for just a moment, as if taking solace in the younger man's nearness.

'The temptations that rests in one who understands,' Al thought and remembered dark eyes smiling at a younger him; knowing him, loving him, understanding him. His wife. Still understanding. Still knowing. Still temptation.

Catherine and Warrick walked away into light and life, and Robbins returned to his silent work. There was never a shortage of bodies to work on. Not all were murders. Sometimes, humans died on their own, bodies giving up, accidents happening, diseases striking. But the years in his work had taught him never to take anything for granted. Each body had a story to tell and sometimes, just sometimes, it was one of a wrong committed.

Every sometimes was one time too often and that thought paved the way to burnout and exhaustion. Easier to focus merely on the biology and let bodies be flesh and the years pass, the dead changing and remaining the same. Easier to grow older when the dead haunted less.

He had long since felt old age crawl up on him. He knew the body, he knew the signs. When he had been young, the years had seemed like eternity, but life taught you all too soon how treacherously fast the years passed. Easy to lose your life somewhere in between.

Unless you had someone to ground you to the moments, kissing you to morning with the taste of coffee on her lips.

'Jennifer,' he thought and smiled, feeling the lingering taste of coffee on his lips still.

He was finishing his notes on Anna Caroline Jensen when he became aware of Grissom's presence, though he hadn't heard the CSI enter. Sometimes, no one could walk in silence like Grissom, wearing the quiet like a shadow.

"Notes on our victim?" Grissom asked, though it was more a statement than a question.

"The family have requested her body to be returned to Norway. I’m just finishing things on my end."

Grissom nodded, folding his arms and looking unusually thoughtful and almost distant. Robbins wondered if he had come to the morgue to talk or just get away from all the sounds. Of all the CSIs, Grissom merged with the morgue the easiest and at times seemed almost more comfortable in the shades of the morgue than engaged in the world outside.

"I hear you’re heading that way yourself."

"Who told you?"

"Young Mr. Sanders."

"Ah," Grissom replied, smiling slightly. "Young Mr. Sanders could be right."

"Something bothering about this case, Grissom?"

"Yes."

Robbins didn't ask for an elaboration. Grissom told what he wanted when he wanted and answered questions with riddles. Easier to let the man pace out his thoughts himself and reveal something every decade or so.

"Why on the plane?" Grissom asked the silence and the dead, eyes in shadow. "The killer could have risked her realising something was wrong and get medical help. Why give her an overdose as she was about to cross an ocean?"

"Assuming it was a murder and assuming the killer knew she was coming here," Robbins pointed out. "Lithium carbonate is an unreliable drug if the intension is to kill. There are better choices. Maybe she did it herself."

"I don't know," Grissom said slowly, shaking his head. "There's no sign of intension of suicide. Why did she leave her country if she wanted to kill herself? And where'd she get the drug? Her doctor in Norway faxed over her medical records. No prescribed lithium carbonate."

"Accident? Mixed-up medicines?"

"No. It doesn't feel right."

"Feel right, Grissom?" Robbins asked, giving him a penetrating glance. "What does the evidence tell you?"

"That I should go to Norway," Grissom replied after a heartbeat, straightening. "Shall I bring you anything?"

"Norwegian coffee?"

"Anything for you, Doc," Grissom gave a slight wink and disappeared as quietly as he had come, leaving Robbins to wonder. Grissom seemed as surely a part of the lab as the walls themselves, as the bodies of the morgue, but at the same time he was never quite there. Like a thought, present but not substantial. Only sometimes, in the gentleness of his eyes as he looked at Sara, did Grissom sometimes seem to take stronger shape.

Temptation.

To seek life when death bordered the days. Few could resist. Grissom had. So far, at least.

'There's always a so far to every part of life. Until you give in,' Al thought and let the silence of the morgue hum to him as he finished his notes, categorising the dead, detecting the wrongs, resting the dead.

Always it lingered, the silent song for the dead. But eventually, he left it to hum and went home to his wife and life's temptation.



Chapter Six

*****
I made this bed
I choose to lie in it
And live with my regrets
I sleep with what I said
Could this be the end
Am I standing on the edge
Of everything I wanted now
- Good Charlotte, Walk Away
*****

Rita Williams seemed almost sleeping, hair of gold in the sun that streamed across her bed. Fresh flowers on the bed stand reached with their petals for the sun, but they too would die soon. White sheets underneath, white silk gown and the victim’s eyes closed to the sun. Blood wiped away, hair covering the proof of violence where the bullet had struck, leaving the illusion of beautiful Cinderella sleeping.

All too familiar a scene.

'Not this, not now,' Catherine thought and felt so very, very cold. Not the start of a signature killer. Not on her watch.

"Sorry I’m late," Warrick announced, entering with muted footsteps. She merely nodded without looking up, snapping shots of death that sounded loud in her ears.

"Déjà vu," Warrick muttered. She could almost hear him shake his head.

"Yeah," she replied, lowering her camera. Beautiful death all over again and in her blood, she could feel it heralding more to come.

"Same MO by the looks of it," Warrick commented, bending down next to her. "Perhaps Grissom could..."

"No!" she snapped, but regretted it almost immediately as Warrick stiffened slightly next to her. "Sorry. He's got his own case. We're on top of this."

He gave her a sideways glance she couldn’t read and wasn’t quite sure she wanted to, either. She wanted to scream at him and have him hold her both and she fought back both desires. It was just another case. It didn’t matter that she was tired. She could deal.

But her body suddenly felt like it was weighed down, as if her blood had turned to lead and all she wanted was to close her eyes and sink to the bottom. Something hurt in her bones and for a moment, it was all she could do to remain still as the world seemed to drift away.

"Hey..." she heard Warrick's voice and the world came into focus again with a painful jerk.

"Yeah," she replied hurriedly and breathed. "I thought Nick would be with you."

"He got caught up with the John Allen case," Warrick said, opening his field kit case. "I'm all you've got."

"I'm sure I can make do with you," she said lightly, knowing it was flirty and inappropriate, but just not caring. It was a little bit of warmth and she wanted to shake the chill of death and ageing and weariness.

Sometimes, she thought she sought men just to remind herself she was still alive. A different kind of gamble to the kind Warrick had been addicted to, but she wondered if it was why he still seemed to understand her better than anyone. Even Grissom, who had been there for much of her life and did know her, didn't understand her to the marrow of her bones and the abysses of her mind.

They worked in silence, she inspecting the body before it was quietly taken away to scalpels and morgue rest, Warrick covering the other rooms and the perimeter. The house felt silent even with cops buzzing outside. It was a world away. Outside, life. Inside, death and its claw marks. And she, always tip-toeing with the beast.

The bed stand held a few fingerprints, but she didn't get her hopes up. Could be the victim's, could be a visiting boyfriend who had since left. With the body taken away, she worked the room as slowly as she had the strength to, picking up a few fibres out of place. Perhaps of significance, perhaps not. When she was younger, every detection of fingerprints and fibres had excited her, but she had soon learned that life left evidence just as well as crimes. A CSI's job was to sort through it all and sometimes recapture the life to see the crime clearer.

And always, the temptation to lose yourself in the victim's life, to be possessed. She had seen it in Grissom at least once, with the murder of Sara's lookalike. Catherine had watched Grissom's reactions and wondered. Was it his attraction to Sara that had driven it, or his fear of being like the killer himself? She hadn't asked and Grissom hadn't told, if he indeed knew himself.

'Sometimes love and possession walks on blurred lines,' she thought and remembered Eddie. Killers too, often sought a possession, but often beyond what any human could give willingly. And so they took it instead, stole it with a death.

What did this one take from Georgina and Rita? Beauty? Innocence? Somehow, it didn't feel to be about sex. The way the victims were arranged and the strange purity and cleaned scenes felt almost like sanctity. But both victims were beautiful, not too young and blonde. It had to mean something.

Provided it was all one case and she wasn't running ahead of the evidence, too tired to go slow.

"I found some shoe prints outside, near the window," Warrick announced, not quite entering and hovering in the doorway instead, his shadow falling over her. "Could be just a gardener. You?"

"Fibres, prints, some unknown substance from under her nails," she replied.

"Any idea what?"

"Smelled like chocolate. From a cake, maybe?" She shrugged. "No signs of struggle. Drugged, possibly. Certainly posed in death."

"Yeah," he said slowly. "What I don't figure... Signature killers often take weeks, months, even years between their kills. Why these two so close together if he's just starting out?"

"Maybe he isn't."

"I was afraid you'd say that. Maybe we should check with the Feds."

"Yeah." The word felt bitter in her mouth and she briefly wondered why. Territorialism? Anger? Fear? "Maybe we just have a killer stopping by in Las Vegas to gamble and deal death."

"Another day in the city of sins," Warrick remarked, shaking his head.

'Yes, another day with sinners and liars and murders to tango with' she thought, and closed her eyes to the shadows and lights.

It was going to be a long, long day.

*****

The long day hurtled along with the sun, evidence being catalogued and examined, a life now gone starting to be pieced together. Rita Williams had a mother and father in Santa Fe and a brother in New York. No links to the first victim at first look, but Catherine took nothing for granted. Perhaps the two victims merely shared hair colour and being beautiful. Perhaps not. Even killers could get lazy and seek a new victim close to the previous one.

It was late when she spotted Nick bouncing through the hallways and she knew what he would say even before he opened his mouth. Satisfaction was radiating from him and for a brief moment, she remembered why she liked this job.

The solutions. Always the solutions and the high they gave you.

"John Allen copped to it," he beamed, looking so bright and cheerful for a moment she almost wished she could wear his skin.

"Good work, Nick," she said lightly. "Good timing, too. I'll need you on this case."

"I heard," he said, and the sun faded somewhat from his face. "Do we have anything?"

"Unknown prints. A shoe print, possibly. The PD will look for any witnesses. I'm heading home."

He nodded. "I'm heading out myself before Grissom asks me to watch his spiders while he's gone."

"You can run, but you can't hide from Grissom!" she called after him and he gave her an amused look as he vanished down the hallway. She walked on, noticing Grissom's office was lit and its inhabitant was there, reading and appearing seemingly lost to the world.

"Shouldn't you be packing?" she asked lightly and leaned against the door frame. "I hear you're leaving us a while."

He merely turned a page, keeping his eyes on the book. "I've discovered that the less I say, the more rumors I start. Bobby Clarke, in case you wondered."

"I've discovered the more you quote, the more right I am. Catherine Willows, in case you wondered."

He finally looked up, a slight twinkle in his eyes and a smile haunting his lips. "Ecklie could barely contain his sadness at me leaving him a while. I'm taking Sara and Greg. The Sheriff thinks it's a high profile case and we should help our Norwegian friends."

"Have fun!" she said brightly. "Send us a postcard?"

"With a lovely fjord pictured," he assured her and dipped back into his book. She watched him a moment longer, wondering if Warrick was right and she should ask Grissom's help on the murders. But her head felt like concrete and the words felt lost to her, locked in a tangle of emotions and buried under fatigue.

It was time to go home.

She found Warrick in the locker room, clearly with the same idea as her, buttoning up a new shirt. The blue became him and she let the sight ease into her mind, driving away fingerprint searches and future phone calls to the FBI. Time to be human a while.

"Long day?" he asked, slamming his locker shut.

"Yeah," she breathed and opened her own locker. "I could kill for a long, hot bath right about now."

She could hear his chuckle and imagine his smile even with her back turned. "Many would kill to share that."

"Mmm," she said slowly and let out a sigh. She didn't realise Warrick had noticed until she felt his gaze on her back, hot and lingering.

"You all right?"

She felt a twinge of anger at his constant concern - though mostly at him for sensing it or mostly at herself for feeling this case more than she should, she wasn't sure.

"You're not my keeper, Warrick," she replied tensely and turned, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the silence seemed deafening.

His eyes were dark as he looked at her. "I don't know what I am of yours, Catherine. "

'You're just you!' she thought and wanted to scream at him.

"I know what this is," he went on and cupped a cheek, a thumb gently stroking. Her skin burned as he touched and for a moment, she felt as a moth hurling into the sun.

"Attraction," she breathed. "I don't know if that's enough."

"Tell me when you figure it out," he replied and withdrew. She was left standing looking after him as he walked away, fading into the shadows and away from her. Beautiful, tall, dark Warrick. Sometimes, she thought he could make her feel more alive than anyone. Sometimes, she thought that was enough.

Sometimes.

She closed her locker and left for Lindsey and home, day dying, dead sleeping and Las Vegas ever living.



Chapter Seven

*****
I don't want to lie in a bed of ashes
I don't want to burn in a midnight sun
I don't want to know if the system crashes
I don't want to go if it's just begun
I don't want to lie in a bed of ashes
I don't want to burn in the midnight sun
in the midnight sun
- July for Kings, Bed of Ashes
*****

It was the sun that first caught her eye. It was late as their plane landed, yet a pale sun hung in the sky. It didn't burn quite like the Nevada sun and she could look at it without shades. The air felt warm, but not hot, as if it was a different shade of summer here. It reminded her slightly of San Francisco, the same smell and presence of the sea lingering over the land. She had forgotten how much she missed the sea.

She had forgotten a lot of things.

Sometimes, she wondered if she'd forgotten how to be happy. Sometimes, she wondered if she had ever truly known it in the first place.

Greg seemed happy, explaining to her how the real, twenty-four hour midnight sun only really occurred above the Arctic circle, but how the sun linger late in the southern parts of Norway as well. She listened to his tone more than his words and borrowed his happiness.

Grissom felt distant, but he smiled at her more than once and she wondered. She could not help but notice the sun became him, the light gentler than the burning of daytime Las Vegas.

The casket housing Anna's body was transported away to be prepared for rest in Norwegian soil. Or perhaps cremation, Sara had forgotten to ask. She felt a twinge of guilt at that, but knew it was irrational. She could not always live the victim's death, for all she wanted.

They were greeted by representatives of 'Ny Kripos', what seemed to be the national murder investigation unit. Greg's stuttered Norwegian broke the ice soon enough, but she felt slightly detached from it all herself. Jet lag, perhaps. A part of her still felt sleeping in Las Vegas. She only half listened to the polite greetings and exchanges of 'honoured to work with you'. A blond officer gave her a bright, bright smile and she returned it, feeling Grissom's eyes on her as she did.

She felt a strange joy at that all the drive into Oslo. Green trees and wooden houses rolled past her, all bathed in the strange midnight sun that seemed almost alien. Greg would sometimes point something out to her and she would nod. Grissom would sometimes look at her and she would close her eyes to the stillness and the heat.

At some point, she leaned against the cool of the car window and the light became dark. A moment later, she felt Grissom's hand on her shoulder and she realised she had fallen asleep.

"We're here," he said gently and she smelt mint of his breath. Groggily, she followed him and Greg into a cool hotel lobby. The hairs on her arm rose in protest to the sudden bereft of warmth and she shivered her feet seemed to move her along without thought. She vaguely felt Grissom's arm around her waist, leading her along. She must have been shown a room, for the next she remembered was bed sheets against her skin and the sun through the almost white curtains.

She closed her eyes and slept in light.

*****

She awoke to a light knock on the door. She could not remember having dreamt and her body still felt heavy, her mind slightly foggy. Stumbling to answer, she opened the door to Grissom.

"Sara, we're..." he paused and she realised she was in white pyjamas. For a moment, he seemed to drink her in and she felt a strange joy at that, too. "We're... Eh, breakfast?"

"I'm coming," she assured him and remembered his look as she dressed. Somewhere in her mind, a devil was stirring and making plans for seduction. She had not heard the devil in months and she wondered what it meant.

Greg was still beaming as she joined them for breakfast and she almost cursed him his energy. But perhaps she would have shared it if it had been her home she had returned to. Of course, she had never truly had a home. She had been born into a war zone and then... Foster home were merely places to stay. She had created a home of sorts in San Francisco, but she had left that.

Norway wasn't Greg's home either, but she wondered if it still felt like it in his blood, the blood of his mothers and fathers far back. The call of the blood was hard to drown out. Her own blood whispered of murder sometimes and she tried to freeze it away.

"Mrs Jensen has asked to see us," Grissom told her as she sipped cool orange juice and listened to his knife scratch against a piece of toast.

"I thought the mother was dead."

"This is the grandmother," Greg said perkily. "Mother never married and kept her maiden name, as did Anna. Very common here in Norway."

"Thank you, Greg," Grissom said dryly. He handed her the buttered toast and her mood seemed to brighten as the day did. She always loved Grissom the most for his little gestures. A smile at a discovery. A light touch of elbow to keep her from a car. His hand taking hers in the darkest hour. The simple things.

'He's seducing me all over again in the quiet moments,' she thought and the toast was warm in her mouth.

"Our vic's apartment will be accessible for us later," Greg went on, smiling at her. She gave him a raised eyebrow and he winked.

"Are you always this cheerful in the morning?" Grissom asked. She bit back a smile.

"No, this is just for your pleasure," Greg shot back and for a moment, they were all smiles and the morning was bright, bright and the smell of coffee filled her senses. For a moment, it was almost happiness. Almost family.

They ate up and left the hotel, giving her the first real glimpse of Oslo awake and not sleepwalking. The streets were smaller, the houses not as tall and a few obviously old buildings gave it a sense of history. She could see doves and ducks and sea gulls and it smelled of sea and trees and heat. The sun was warmer now, but still seemed gentler.

Caroline Jensen, Anna's grandmother, turned out to live in a great house of 'Holmenkollen', a hill area over the city, crowned by what Greg told her was a ski jump. She tried to imagine it in winter, cold and frozen and quiet, but it was hard in the stillness of summer. It seemed a higher class neighbourhood, though she reminded herself that Norwegian living standards differed some from Americans.

It was Caroline Jensen herself who opened the door. Sara knew right away, without words spoken. Grief seemed to radiate from the older woman, even if she held herself proudly and the eyes were dry. Vegard Bjørnvik, their liaison, introduced them, but Mrs Jensen only waved him off impatiently and led them inside.

A clock was ticking somewhere inside, a strangely soothing sound. It felt an old house, with all the black and white photographs on walls and smell of dust on the furniture.

"How did my granddaughter die?" Mrs Jensen asked abruptly as soon as they had been seated, words slow and drawn out and accented. She fixed her glance on Grissom and even Sara could feel the edges in it.

Grissom seemed to choose his words carefully. "We believe she ingested a lethal dose of a drug, Mrs. Jensen, but we don't know how yet. We're very sorry for your loss."

"They all say so. Words are easy, Mr. Grissom. You are here to give me more than words, yes?"

"I hope to. Could you tell us why your granddaughter was going to Las Vegas?"

"Yes. You have to understand, her mother was very... I raised Anna. Cecilie was not a mother. I loved my daughter, but I also knew my daughter."

She halted, lines of suffering drawn on her face. They all waited until she was composed again, sorrow locked behind determination.

"Cecilie had an affair with an American visiting. She did not tell me who. And from the moment I saw Anna, I did not care. She was innocent and I loved her. I raised her. Of course, as she grew, she asked about her father. I used to tell her she would find her father east of the sun, west of the moon. From the fairytale, you understand. I used to read those to her before bed. That was her favourite. The princess who met the prince in the shape of a bear. He would turn human at night, but he told her she could not look, for then she would doom him. Yet she did look. She made the mistake and he had to leave her. But for love... She sought the winds and they helped her find him again, east of the sun, west of the moon. Anna - Anna believed."

"And she thought she had found her father in Las Vegas?" Grissom asked.

"She had. Perhaps Cecilie told her something before passing away last year. I do not know, but a letter came for her. From her father."

"Did you see it?" Sara asked gently.

"No. She would not show me. She only told me so I would understand why she went," Mrs Jensen said quietly and looked out the window at the burning sun. "You want to see her room, yes?"

"Yeah," Grissom confirmed, standing up. "We did not find any letter among your granddaughter's packed belongings. Perhaps she left it here."

Mrs. Jensen merely nodded and led them up wooden stairs to a dark hallway, and finally, a pale blue room, still bearing the marks of someone living there. Some clothes were casually thrown about.

"She had her own flat, but she liked to stay here at weekends," Mrs. Jensen explained to the unasked question.

"Thank you. Could you stay with... Mr. Bjørnvik..." Grissom tripped slightly over the name, but managed to remain composed, "downstairs while we look around?"

"Yes." The older woman gave the room a look, touching the blue wall with a look of intense longing. "Det vi gjør av kjærlighet..."

"I'm sorry?" Grissom leaned forward, brow slightly furrowed.

"Nothing." And with that she slowly walked away, the Norwegian police officer following her. Sara felt the shadow of grief walk with her and felt bile in her throat.

"What did she say, Greg?" Grissom asked and they both looked at Greg, who fidgeted slightly.

"I think... 'What we do out of love'... I could be wrong."

"What we do out of love..." Grissom said thoughtfully and for a moment, Sara felt his gaze burn into her and reduce her to ashes. Then he looked away, his attention on the room and work.

'What we do out of love...' she thought, her heart still burning. Grissom rarely initiated physical contact, but his gaze could be more intimate than any touch of skin on skin and leave her more breathless. Her demon whispered of touches and gazes and kisses under midnight sun, but she pushed it away. Time to work now.

Outside, the eastern wind lifted as a summer breeze and sang to the land and her blood.



Chapter Eight

Author's Note: The conversation remembered and quoted from are from "Random Acts of Violence", season three.

*****
From these wounds I claim redemption
From these wounds I am redeemed
- All That Remains, From These Wounds
*****

He had not known doom could be a child's voice.

He had been sleeping; the dream had been flimsy and unsubstantial and almost faded, like a memory of dream replayed rather than a dream itself. There had been sun and laughing and childhood recollections remade and he had enjoyed the feel of it, even as faint as it had been. At first, he had thought the shrill of phone merely a part, though unwelcome and loud. It had persisted and the dream had died, leaving a tired mind and a fumbled attempt to find the phone. He had already decided on how to murder Greg if it had been him calling from Norway when he answered, but the voice had not been Greg's.

"Warrick? It's... It's Lindsey."

He had not known doom could be a child's voice, tinged with fear.

"Lindsey?" he breathed, suddenly very awake and tossing off the bed covers. "Is something wrong?"

"Mom didn't come home."

He stood up and felt the world fall on him, crushing into his bones, filling his marrow. He couldn't think for a second, merely stood and breathed, listening to Lindsey's breath on the other end.

"Warrick?"

"I'm here. Did she call and say she'd be late, or...?" He trailed off, sucking in a deep breath.

"She called and said she'd be right home and I waited and I tried to call and she didn't answer and I'm alone and..." Lindsey rambled, sounding more a child than ever, yet there was a ghost of Catherine in her voice.

"I'm gonna be right over, okay Lindsey?"

"Okay."

She hung up and he closed his eyes for a brief, brief second, summoning strength and cool. It was probably nothing. Maybe Catherine had come across an accident or something similar. There could be a thousand logical reasons why she was incommunicado. A thousand simple explanations to getting sidetracked.

'Then why are you so worried?' a little voice whispered and he felt a chill down his spin. Even if Lindsey was storming into her teenage years, Catherine wouldn't just leave her child like that.

He tried Catherine's number himself, and every ring was seconds of eternity. No answer.

He didn't remember dressing, but soon he found himself charging out and finding his car. He clutched the phone so hard his hands started hurting, but it took some of his mind away from another pain that was tearing through. Already, an image of Catherine as Holly was haunting his mind. He hadn't been there and Holly had died. He hadn't been there and Catherine was gone. So many ways to die in this town... A thousand simple explanations paled in comparison to that and his heartbeats felt so very, very loud.

Lindsey was standing at the steps as he peeled his car in, a white ghost in his car's headlights more than a girl. No sign of Catherine's car. The neighbourhood was mostly dark and silent, but the lights of Las Vegas glimmered, outshining the moon.

Lindsey didn't approach him, merely stood as a statue of marble as he knelt down and met her gaze. "Lindsey?"

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"We don't know that," he replied, and even thought it was a truth, it tasted bitterly of lie on his tongue. "Come on, let's go inside, you'll freeze."

The house felt quiet and dark, as if it too missed Catherine's presence. He knew it was an illusion of his mind, but that didn't make the feeling any less real. Only a few lights were on in the living room, where a TV still flickered its bright visions.

"I was waiting," Lindsey said in ways of explanation, sounding slight defensive, probably for watching TV so late. He merely nodded.

"Did your mom say anything that might indicate where she was when you spoke to her?"

"She said she'd be home soon and that she'd get some pizza for us."

"Is there anywhere she usually gets them from?"

She paused at his question, brow frowned. "There's a place a few blocks down - I don't remember the name."

"Cool. Hey listen, you stay here a while, I'm gonna make some calls, all right?"

She nodded and he could feel her gaze on his as he retreated to the hallway and dialled Nick's number. An answering machine greeted him and he left a short message, outlining the basic events. Brass, on the other hand, replied with a more than a little annoyance in his voice.

"Brass, hey."

"Rick, this is way too late to be calling unless it's important."

"It is," Warrick replied quietly and quickly explained the situation. Brass listened, grumpiness visibly fading from his voice as the tale progressed and he promised to put the word out there to keep an eye out for Catherine's car, unofficially for now, given it hadn't been twenty-four hours and they had no real sign of a crime.

"I'm sure she's okay, Warrick," Brass said after a moment, but Warrick could hear the lie there too. A comforting lie, but still a lie.

"Yeah. I'll call you later."

He hung up and made one more call, after which he returned to the living room, Lindsey watching his return with dark eyes. Some many comforting lies he could give her, but she would know them for what they were.

"You know Archie from the lab, right? He's gonna come over and stay with you. I'm gonna head for that pizza place and see if your mom was there. You'll be okay meanwhile?"

"I'm a grown girl," she snapped and for a moment, there was fire in her eyes. He almost smiled, knowing that fire very well.

"You are. I'm glad you called me. I'll find her," he promised and made it to be a truth for all the empty lie it usually was. He would.

She nodded solemnly, another gesture that reminded him so of Catherine a thousand memories flashes across his eyes. He squeezed her shoulder gently and left, only now feeling the chilly air outside and realising he hadn't brought a jacket. But in the east, the horizon promised the sun's warmth soon enough.

He found the pizza place easily enough, but no one there could confirm having seen Catherine. She could have called in and been by so quick no one had noticed, but still, he felt tension crawl up his neck. He plotted out the most likely route she would have taken from the CSI lab to there and drove it back and forth, to no avail. Next, he started circling out from the pizza place, paying attention to any parked cars.

Nothing.

Nick returned his call and agreed to start a search on his end, too, voice sounding as worried as Warrick felt. He couldn't lose her, couldn't let Lindsey lose her.

And ever, a conversation between him and Grissom replayed itself in his mind.

"I blew it."

"Yeah. But you're not the one who's paying for it."

A piece in the mosaic of his life. A pattern.

He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly found himself driving to Georgina James's crime scene. His tired mind just seemed to run on autopilot and there was where he ended up. It was still taped off, though not under watch, and he wondered. Could Catherine have followed a hunch on her way home or just have wanted to see the scene again?

The crime scene tape had been cut, but the house was empty and silent. Catherine could have been there, but so could others. But still, if she had been there, where could she have driven next? Or had she met someone there and been incapacitated and brought somewhere else? In her car, maybe?

He started circling outwards, driving until the road seemed endless and forever and it hurt to be still awake, but he couldn't imagine sleeping. This was a nightmare as surely dark alive as a dreamt one, anyway.

Light pink had torched the clouds when he finally spotted it, parked in front of a garage at a lone house and for a second, he believed it an illusion from looking too long. But it was still there on second look, the front licence plate visible in the pale light.

"Brass. I found her car!" he barked into the phone the moment it answered and gave the best address estimate he could and hung up without further ado.

The car screeched as he pulled violently over and he jumped out, glad he'd had enough sense to pick up the gun. It felt a comforting weight as he clutched it, looking into the driver's seat and finding it empty. No sign of blood, to his relief. The garage was unlocked and he pushed the garage door up and found another car there, filling up the space. Probably why Catherine's car was outside, though why it hadn't been dumped was a good question. Lack of time, belief she wouldn't be missing yet, lack of opportunity?

Boxes were tossed around, as well as what he assumed was Catherine's field kit. As he slipped carefully further in, he finally saw her, her body dropped on the ground. He hurriedly knelt down next to her, taking in her closed eyes and bruises across her arms. He felt relief so strong it was pain to see her chest rise and fall. She was alive. It was quickly replaced by anger as he took in her bruises and he couldn't help but brush a hand across her cheek. She didn't stir.

He felt the cold of metal against the back of his neck and froze. He knew the feel of a barrel against skin and he supposed he should have expected it.

"You shouldn't be here," a male voice said, sounding almost familiar.

"Neither should she," Warrick replied calmly, not moving a muscle.

"Oh, but she should. She's gonna help me answer some questions."

"Hey, I'm with the crime lab too. Maybe I can answer them."

"Tell me why my daughter is dead," the voice said, shaking and filled with such grief it hurt to listen to.

"Your daughter?" Warrick asked, edging his head slightly away, keeping his eyes on Catherine's face. She made no sign of awareness of her surroundings, but it was a comfort to simply see her breathe.

"My daughter," the voice confirmed, bitter sorrow in it. "I need to know. I need to..."

He trailed off, but Warrick could feel the unspoken words and sentiment.

Redemption. Redemption from the dead, redemption for being alive.

"Who's your daughter?" he asked casually, but only silence answered. Brass would get some officers there pretty soon, surely. Only a matter of time. "Hey man, let's talk."

The gun withdrew for a moment. Then it came crashing down against his head and he fell.

The garage light was bright on his face, but the light seemed to be brighter still inside his head, like pain had become a colour. Darkness seeped into him as he felt Catherine next to him and his last thought was irrational and comforting all the same, a strange thought of redemption.

'At least I'm here.'



Chapter Nine

Author's Note: If you are interested in reading an English version of the fairytale, you can find one online. The address is three times w dot mythfolklore dot net slash adrewland slash 323 dot htm. However, I have translated it myself for the quotes used in this story and words might therefore differ.

*****
Oh, love that lives its life with laughter
Or love that lives its life with tears
Can die -- but love that is never spoken
Goes like a ghost through the winding years. . . .
- Sarah Teasdale, The Ghost
*****

Summer lingered over Norway, sun shining, the land crashing into the sea.

It was a strange country, Grissom reflected, having been shaped by the glaciers and the Atlantic into mountains meeting fjords. Oslo meeting the Oslo fjord below him, the sea brushing up against the city. A still sea now, an inviting blanket of glimmering blue rather than a rage of waves. Boats and sails dotted on it, a larger cruise boat was lying at the harbour. Ever present, the sea, much like the Nevada desert in Las Vegas. Even out of sight you could still sense it.

Here Anna Jensen had grown up. He could almost see her, sitting at the bench he used, watching the city from the heights. Closing her eyes to the sun or perhaps reading as he had been. Perhaps even reading the same story, though probably in Norwegian rather than English.

Young, reading Anna, about to seek the winds to find her father. A father still unknown. No evidence of him brought to life, yet his shadow loomed over Anna's life and death as the mountains over the land.

Grissom let out a sigh. He was starting to obsess over this mysterious father rather than on finding the evidence. Perhaps because in this case the evidence had so far been slight, the death and the murder separated by time and an ocean.

"You know, we did come here to work," an amused voice said and he looked up at Sara Sidle slipping her shades off and looking at him. "Our good Norwegian officer told me you had headed here."

"I am working. I'm thinking," he answered and stood up. She seemed to beam with the summer, light blue cotton of her top matching the sky, her smile more radiant than the sun.

"Thinking? While Greg and I worked the apartment?"

"Find anything?"

"Maybe." Her face clouded slightly. "The Norwegian police had been pretty thorough, but we did find some Histamine, which might confirm that was hers at least. It's being tested to confirm it is what it says it is. Greg headed to the Kripos lab. I think he's pretty excited to see it, actually."

Grissom chuckled slightly.

"What's the book?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to attempt to read the title.

"I'm reading the fairytale Mrs. Jensen mentioned. East of the sun and west of the moon it was, that she knew, 'and there you arrive late or never.' Interesting story."

"I guess in Anna's case it was never."

He nodded, watching a myriad of expressions flicker across her face. Did she think of her own family, her own father, now lost to her?

"Nothing haunts like loving a ghost," she said and he knew she had been. "You do love your parents, even when they are beyond your reach."

"Yes," he agreed and thought of his own father, a fleeting thought before he locked it away again where it should be. "And even beyond reach, we still try to find the impossible."

"East of the sun, west of the moon," she echoed and looked thoughtful.

"Yes," he replied, feeling a slight breeze cool his skin. It smelled slightly of sea and he wondered how far it had travelled. Perhaps it had come all the way across the Atlantic, bringing sea salt with it as it went.

"So why are you reading Norwegian fairytales on the top of a hill?" she asked, looking out over the city sprawled below. "The view?"

"No, the Corkscrew."

"What?" She looked confused and he smiled, unable to keep some amusement from his voice.

"The Corkscrew," he repeated, indicating the area around them. "This downhill is called 'the Corkscrew'. It's a popular destination in winter, I understand. Our vic came here often. She liked to slide down it when it was covered by snow."

Sara gave him an incredulous look. "And you came here to soak in its spirit to better understand the case?"

"Something like that."

"Sometimes Grissom, you're weird even for you."

He smiled at her. "Good."

She shook her head at him, but a smile did haunt her lips and suddenly, he felt strangely happy. The sun was warm, the air smelled of trees and flowers and grass and Sara was smiling at him. And he didn't feel quite like Gil Grissom, as if he had left that skin behind and wore another for the Norwegian sky. Another skin that looked at Sara Sidle in light, not in shadows.

And in light, she was beautiful.

Perhaps that was why his resolve died.

Perhaps that was why he took her hands and watched her lips being caressed by the sun.

Perhaps that was why he caught a strand of her hair and felt it be silky under his fingertips.

Perhaps that was why he kissed her.

She seemed to expect it, for her lips were warm and soft in greeting, if a little hesitant. He didn’t blame her. He felt like a fumbling teenager himself, as if this was his first kiss and innocence had returned.

'New skin,' he thought and she parted her lips and he tasted ice cream mingled with her. Innocence and ice cream and summer, Gil and Sara, a first kiss.

She leaned against him, but he dared not put his arms around her, dared nothing but stand still and gently kiss her. Anything more and he might be lost, as he had always feared he would be in her embrace. Lose yourself in someone and you risked hurt, risked being know, risked life.

It was she who finally broke away, eyes searching his face. He dared touch her cheek then, feeling her skin aflame under his palm. He knew there was a lot she'd want to ask, want to know, perhaps even had a right to.

What did that mean? How do you feel about me? What do you want?

But she didn't ask, she merely watched his face and breathed and he found himself strangely wondering just when she'd had the ice cream and if Greg had shared it. Bright, cheerful Greg, Greg who would probably be better for her, yet...

"I don't get you sometimes, Grissom," she said quietly.

'I don't get myself sometimes,' he thought, but dared not say it. Too close to a glimpse into his mind and he felt vulnerable already.

"I know," he said instead. Reluctantly, he stepped away from her, feeling an urge to shove his hands into his pockets. She was still looking at him, but he couldn't read her eyes. So much he could say, but he didn't and he just stood there helplessly.

He didn't realise he'd dropped his book until she reached down and picked it up, brushing grass off it.

"Anna's fairytale," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. He watched her eyes slip across the words and some of them echoed in his mind.

"Can you tell me the road, so I can look for you; that I may be allowed to?" said she.

Yes, he could; but there was no road there, it lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and there she would never find.

'Yet she did find it in the end,' he thought, 'and took her love home with her.'

"Can I borrow it?"

"Yeah," he replied and burned the sight of her into his mind, to live forever in his memories. Sara Sidle in blue and sunlight, lips dark from his kiss, western wind in her hair. Whatever else he might never do, he would at least know now what it was like kissing her under the sky.

And as much as he could feel a dark fear in his mind scream at him that it was a mistake, he found he didn't regret it. Not this Gil Grissom, watching the sun on the sea glimmering at him, water breaking light. The other Gil Grissom, who would be waiting in Las Vegas, he might.

Humans did sometimes do odd things when abroad and he had been feeling different ever since landing. Jet-lag, the scientist in him considered dryly. Perhaps a part of him merely slept at day and woke at night, still unfamiliar with the patterns of this country.

And when he woke, then what?

They headed downhill in silence and spoke lightly about the case on the way back to the hotel. It was a safe topic for discussion and he suspected she felt at much emotionally cast adrift after the kiss as he did, judging by her slight glances at him.

Traffic in Oslo had increased as they came into the city heart, but even that felt more leisurely than traffic in Las Vegas. Perhaps merely a deception from being smaller, but the feeling was still true.

"Mr. Grissom, you were asked to call Captain Brass as soon as possible," the receptionist called out as they passed into the lobby and out of the sun.

"Thanks," he called back and quickly calculated time difference. It had to be morning in Las Vegas now, another hot day in the Nevada desert starting. A good time to call.

"Maybe he got a break in Las Vegas," Sara said as they walked up. He shrugged. Perhaps it was the elusive father at last. It was odd that the father had not identified himself if he had been expecting his daughter and she hadn't turned up. But perhaps she had been meaning to surprise him and he had simply not heard the news. There could be many reasons, but it still bothered Grissom.

He went into his room and reached for the phone, Sara remaining in the doorway. It took two tries to get all the numbers in the right line, but finally, Las Vegas crackled into his ear.

"Brass."

"You rang?" Grissom replied, watching Sara flicker through his book and lean against the doorway. She gave him a quick smile, but even as he felt his lips curve up to return it, Brass's voice slammed into him and left him cold and breathless.

"Gil, we have a situation here..."



Chapter Ten

*****
Faith has been broken,
Tears must be cried,
Let’s do some living,
After we die

Wild horses,
Couldn’t drag me away,
Wild, wild horses,
We'll ride them someday
- Rolling Stones, Wild Horses
*****

The cradle rocked her gently and she drifted in and out of sleep. No, not a cradle. Not rocking. Moving, the hum of an engine a lullaby. Warmth. Pain. Hurt. Heartbeats and breaths. A song request announced on the radio. One voice muttering - no, two? And slowly, vision returning.

'Not home,' she thought and a blinding series of flashes pounded through her head. Heading home. Stopping for pizza. The sudden thought of perhaps Georgina James being drugged by food delivered to her door. The drive to the crime scene. And then, the sickening smell of chloroform. A shape looming over her. Darkness.

She closed her eyes and tried to summon her mind from its foggy prison. All right, so she'd been knocked out by someone. Her hands felt to have been tied together in front of her, rope gnawing into her skin. And there was something else, something warm against her back.

Her muscles protested wildly as she turned, but that was nothing against the pained recognition in her mind.

"Oh, Warrick," she whispered. His eyes were closed and he had a nasty bruise on the side of his face she flinched at. His hands were tied as well, but she clutched a hand in hers as well she could anyway. What the hell was he doing here?

For that matter, what was she? And where was here?

She closed her eyes again and the darkness turned quiet. It took her a moment to realise she had drifted off again and that the darkness persisted even with eyes open. The movement had stopped, too. But the pressure around her wrists were gone and instead warm hands were rubbing them, easing the ache.

"Warrick?" she asked, half dreading, half hoping she had merely dreamed his presence.

"Catherine!" He sounded relieved and she could vaguely make out the shape of him in the dark. "I managed to get your hands untied, think you can give me a hand?"

"Of course," she muttered, but her hands felt clumsy and it seemed to take forever even with the help of her teeth. And she felt his blood on her hands when she finally tore the last knot and felt the pain of it as surely as it had been her own. "Sorry."

He didn't even acknowledge it, taking her head in his hands and holding her so hard it almost hurt. "Cath, you scared the living hell out of me."

"Didn't mean to," she breathed and felt selfishly glad he was there, for all she would wish him to always be safe and not in danger with her.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, still holding her, as if letting go would mean she slipped away. She didn't fault him that.

She explained as best she could what had happened, getting his tale in return. It didn't surprise her Lindsey had picked Warrick to call, but she wondered if she had any right to feel glad for it. Perhaps a thought better suited for later when she had time to see what it might mean.

She didn't tell him her suspicions their kidnapper was also their serial killer, but if she knew Warrick as well as she thought, he was considering it as well. Why else had the guy been lurking near Georgina James's place of death? Mere coincidence? Possible, but she didn't much believe in coincidences.

"Where are we?" she asked, trying to make out anything in the darkness. It almost felt like a tomb around her and she shuddered. Not her tomb. Not Warrick's. She refused to let it be.

"I don't know. I woke up in the dark, in more ways than one. Cath, did this guy mention anything to you? About his daughter?"

"I never saw him," she replied and winced when Warrick touched her forehead. "Ow."

"Sorry," he said, voice warm in the dark. "I heard a car leave earlier. Maybe he's dumping it or something. Or maybe he's just left us here. I think we're alone for now. How about we find a way of getting out of here?"

"That's getting my vote," she said dryly and stood, trying not to wince at the pain. The black had become darker grey now and she could see there was actually a little light coming from up a corner. "Trapdoor?"

"Yeah. There's something on it, I tried pushing against it earlier."

"Let's just see what we got here," she said speculatively and tried not trip over the stairs up. Some light did stream from a crack in the wood, but the trapdoor didn't budge against her pressing weight. But she could tell the floorboards were also wooden, which gave her an idea.

"Anything in here we can use as a lever?"

"There's a wooden crate with potatoes," he answered from the dark.

"Grab me a piece, will you? Wood, not potato."

"Certainly," came his slightly amused reply and she heard wood creak. He came over with a broken board and she traced the floorboards with her hands to find a good spots. The beams made it trickier, but she finally managed to wedge the piece in.

"All right," she breathed. "Ready?"

"I was born ready."

The floorboard gave a hard fight, but eventually, it gave a mourning creak as it gave in. Warrick's weight soon brought another down and he helped her push through. The wood scraped against her skin like claws, but the light was a blessing and she blinked against it as she helped Warrick pull up. She heard him groan and blood spots dotted his t-shirt. She could see he had more than one bruise as well now and she felt a moment of white-hot anger.

There would be reckoning for this.

"Let's grab what we can use and get the hell out of her," she suggested and he nodded.

It was a small, mostly stripped cabin they were in, only a few rooms and no sign of a phone. No electricity either. The inside yielded little to a hurried search, but some water and crackers and a blanket got tossed in a backpack Warrick carried. Outside, the sun burned over empty dust. No car, but faint tracks of a SUV (she assumed), presumably what they had arrived in. No road. And the desert stretching on and on. No signs of the comforting lights of Las Vegas.

They headed southwards (as best she could guess from the sun) mainly because it offered rocks and thus walking without tracks in case the guy did return and went searching. The landscape was uneven and her shoes hadn't been chosen for walking far the night before. The sun was burning in the sky, but she knew it would sink down soon enough and leave the desert cold and her skin longing for its heat.

She thought she heard a faint car once, but the sound died away or perhaps she had even imagined it. No signs of other humans, as if it was only her and Warrick left in a barren world, trudging ever on and on towards night.

'I'm coming home, Lindsey,' she thought and tried to make it a promise.

Sunlight had lost its brilliance by the time they reached a rocky cliff formation and started to climb. Her body had long since given up protesting loudly and settled for numb. She watched the sunset as they climbed, trying not to think too hard as twilight started filling in.

She stumbled up the last bit to the top, only to see grey desert stretch ahead. She almost wanted to scream. Warrick gave her a look and she could see exhaustion on his face, too.

"Let's rest a while here," he suggested. "We've got a good view behind these rocks and we'll be out of sight."

She nodded and sank down, her feet aching. Warrick sat down next to her, putting the backpack down and she leaned against him, for the shared heat as much as the comfort. He slipped his arms and the blanket around her and she rested her head slightly against his chest.

"When we get back to Las Vegas, I'm demanding a raise," he murmured in her ear. She laughed weakly, not having the energy for much more. Against her will, she found herself wondering if they would return to Las Vegas and Lindsey. And all her life didn't seem long enough and she wanted more, wanted...

She let her fingers trace the dark skin of Warrick's arm, making patterns she didn't know quite what were.

"Catherine?" he asked quietly, voice tentative. She felt a flame fan at the small of her back at his words and his breath was hot against her neck.

"Mmm?"

She turned slightly to face him and suddenly his lips were on hers, kissing her roughly, possessively, almost desperately. She could taste the dust and the dry of the Nevada desert and it was hardly the most romantic kiss she'd ever had. But she didn't care. His skin was warm against hers, his hands cupping her breasts through the tank top and she shivered. The desire burned away her exhaustion and pain and left flames within her skin.

His skin was still warm from the sun that had fallen into the horizon and she pressed herself against him, feeling his heat even through layers of cloth. If she survived this, she vowed, she would tie him to a bed and explore him for days. But all she could feel was need and greed and impatience. She didn't want to have died without knowing how he felt inside her. She didn't want to die without feeling alive one more time.

His jeans felt rough under her hands and she tugged impatiently. Too many clothes. Not enough of him.

'You're rain on the desert,' she thought, 'and I'm still alive.'

She let her head fall back as he moved to press burning kisses against her neck, feeling his teeth scrape against her skin. The sky was dark above, the stars only faint lights in the vastness. Little life in all the death. Little suns in the night. Little warmth in the great cold.

And she closed her eyes and let herself be warm and alive in his touches while the night wrapped itself around the Nevada desert in a quiet embrace.



Chapter Eleven

*****
I’m looking for someone to cling to, yeah...
So what you think about that?
This time, well it all comes down
To loss and strain and butterflies,
And then it comes right down to me.
- Matchbox 20, Loss, Strain And Butterflies
*****

Missing.

Sara felt the word fill her, beat against her heart, drown out her thoughts. Missing. Catherine and Warrick, missing. Her and Catherine had clashed often enough, but Catherine was still a colleague, a part of the lab, a part of her life. And Warrick... Warrick who she'd gotten off on all the wrong feet with and still ended up standing.

Missing. Maybe dead, but she dared not think that. Warrick and Catherine couldn't be dead. She wouldn't allow it.

"Do we know anything?" Greg asked again. His face was drawn and he seemed suddenly very young.

'This too is a CSI's life,' she thought and wanted to cry. 'Sometimes we lose one.'

"Their cars were found near the place Georgina James were found murdered. Catherine's car appeared to have been searched. Warrick apparently spotted it and no one's seen Warrick since," she said dully, repeating Grissom's words as she remembered them. "Brass and Nick are running a search operation."

"Nick'll find them," Greg said confidently, but she wondered if he truly felt it or merely said it to comfort her as much as himself.

"Yeah," she agreed anyway and wondered how Nick was coping. At least he could do something. She was trapped here on the other side of the Atlantic, nothing to do but wait and hope.

And just a while ago it had been a warm, sunny day, sunlight and Grissom kissing her. A little illusion of all she wanted and now she paid for it. She always paid for it.

Greg placed a hand on hers and she let him, a simple little gesture that warmed her, even if it was another hand she suddenly longed for.

'Oh, dad,' she thought distantly, even if the thought felt like a betrayal to her mother. Even if it felt like a betrayal to herself. She shouldn't miss her father's hand, shouldn't miss the lies of innocence he'd never told her. Shouldn't miss a childhood she'd never had, or at least never could remember without the blood anymore. Blood-tinted childhood, blood-tinted life.

She wondered if she would have to see Warrick and Catherine's blood too and the thought tore into her flesh like a bullet. And no father there to lie and tell her pain ended and it would be all fine some day.

"Are we heading back to Las Vegas?" Greg asked and she turned her attention to him again. "I can pack in five minutes."

"No, not right away. By the time we get back, it may all be over, anyway."

'On way or another,' she added in her mind and it sounded like the slam of a coffin's lid being nailed shut. It was hard to keep the morbid thoughts at bay and she sternly reminded herself Catherine and Warrick were capable and after all, Catherine had managed the Logan case very well. They would be all right. If she kept thinking it, kept willing it, maybe, maybe...

Willing it away hadn't made her father's blood go away. Willing it hadn't made Grissom take that risk and be with her.

"Where's Grissom?"

"Making calls," she replied, pressing her nails into her palm. The pain seemed to clear her head of memories. "What did you discover at the lab?"

"Huh?"

"Take our minds off something we can do nothing about for a little while?" she offered and smiled weakly.

"Oh. They're still processing stuff. They're as backlogged and understaffed as we are."

"Seems an universal thing."

"I looked through the interviews with our vic's friends. According to them, she did set off for the US very suddenly."

"Corresponding with what the grandmother said," Sara commented, trying to focus on her words and beat everything else into the abyss of her mind. "She seems distraught."

"She could still have done it."

She met his gaze and saw in it something that was far from young, far from innocent, something she felt in her own mind and that every case strengthened.

'This job makes old cynics of us all,' she thought and there was loss and strength in the thought both.

"She could still have done it," she agreed and remembered her own mother's tears after murdering. It was sometimes easy to forget that not all killers came as demons. Some were just normal human beings that in one moment became something other than themselves, something darker, risen from the abyss of the mind. One moment. A lifetime of guilt and grief to cling to your soul. A grandmother could kill her granddaughter and mourn still.

A daughter could see her mother kill and love her still.

"Nothing ever turns out the why you imagine, does it?" Greg asked suddenly, eyes very open and clear as he looked at her. "I used to to think about what it would be like to be in the field and it was all that, but it wasn't only that. In the lab, DNA is just DNA. Out here, it's a life. Now it might be Catherine and Warrick's lives."

"Nothing ever does," she agreed and leaned blindly against him.

They sat together for what felt ages of silence, but she had no idea of the time. There was still sunlight outside, but it had to be late, for the light was softer, almost faded. Dreamlike. Perhaps this was a bad nightmare after all. Perhaps she would wake to another day in Norway and lure Grissom to the roller-coaster she had researched and found to be nearby. And then she could call Warrick and tell him his suggestion had worked and he would chuckle softly. She could almost hear it.

That was the dream. Sitting here in the faded light and feel her own pained heartbeats and hear Greg's ragged breath, that was reality.

"I will go and see what Grissom's up to," she said softly after a moment and stood up. "Get some sleep, Greg."

"Who can sleep?" he asked miserably and let out a slow breath.

'The dead,' she thought and felt a chill. She gave him another weak smile and walked away, her footsteps on the hard floor like door slamming in her mind. Slam. Warrick. Slam. Catherine. Slam. Dad. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Grissom's door was closed, but she could hear low conversation and slipped in without knocking. Grissom was on the phone, clutching it so hard she could see the white on his knuckles. He looked up briefly as she closed the door, not quite meeting her glance. She found himself wondering what he was thinking. Catherine was one of his oldest friends and Warrick...

Once, she had envied Warrick for his standing with Grissom, trying to carve her own and finding it hard. But she had soon realised what she wanted was not really Warrick's position. It wasn't enough. She wanted Grissom's heart, still wanted it.

He hung up and she knew it wasn't good news from the hanging of his head and she braced herself.

"That was Brass again."

She nodded.

"No news," he went on. "Sam Braun is apparently willing to offer a reward, but it doesn't seem to be about money."

"Do we know..." she swallowed, not wanting to say the word for fear of making it true, "do we know if they're dead?"

Grissom shook his head. His eyes seemed slightly glazed over and the look on his face tore into her heart and added another pain. She sank down to sit on the bed next to him, for a moment feeling dead herself.

Grissom was staring at his clasped hands and she slowly placed her own hand on his. His skin was warm and she stroked a thumb along his knuckles, feeling lines of years passed.

"They’ll be all right, Gil," she said, and his first name felt oddly intimate on her lips. His eyes were dark as he lifted his head and looked up at her; for once he seemed bare before her. She was looking at Gil Grissom and for a moment, she couldn’t even feel her breath.

Hurt and fear and strain, all Grissom's, all hers to see and share.

Then his breath was on hers and he kissed her, lips warm and demanding and comforting too. And somewhere deep down she knew he was seeking solace and perhaps she was too. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he sought it in her.

He braided his fingers into her hair, his fingertips warm against her scalp. His beard scratched her skin, but that too felt like pleasure.

"Sara," he whispered into their kiss, voice raw and needy and warming her to her spine. All seemed white and she could feel the night sun on her face even through closed eyes. She felt strangely beside herself, as if it wasn’t her rested palm against his heartbeats, as if it wasn’t her skin that tingled, as if she was merely watching Gil Grissom push Sara Sidle down on the bed.

"Say stop," he murmured, hand warm on her stomach, pushing up her shirt.

"Don't stop."

She thought she might kill him if he did stop, but he merely kissed her again, pressing her against cool sheets and the weight of him on her like a shield against the world. An illusion of protection. Sometimes, illusions were all between you and the abyss, where all the losses howled and the strain tied you down.

She arched against his touch as his palm cupped her breast, arched against the sunlight and warmth and let herself forget. It was an illusion and she would pay for it, she knew. But that was tomorrow and the sun hadn't set yet, still burning in the eternity of sky.

'Just another illusion that tomorrow never comes,' she thought briefly, feeling Grissom's skin against hers as the midnight sun blazed its agreement at her.

Tomorrow would come.



Chapter Twelve

*****
It may sound absurd, but don't be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed, but won't you conceed
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
- Five For Fighting, Superman
*****

There was calm in the centre of the storm. Around him raged and roared fear, stress, clues, but Nick found that somewhere in his mind, everything was as clear and cold as ice. Catherine and Warrick were missing. He had to find them. Everything else was just noise the rest of his mind had gone deaf from listening to.

So much roar. Everyone in the lab buzzing about possibilities, Brass with calm on his face and anger in his voice, worried calls from Greg, from Sara, from Grissom, from the Sheriff... All roar, all silence, whipping around him, touching him and yet not. He could feel the despair and worry and anger, but it was almost as if it didn't belong to him, didn't belong to the part of Nick Stokes that currently was in control.

The dawning sun was colouring the sky and for a moment he watched it, leaning against Brass's car and letting himself feel tired. Over a day they had been missing now. No sign of a ransom note, no sign of bodies. No good news, no bad. A limbo, a calm.

They did have a few things to go on. Hundreds of prints from a house rented out to short-time tenants, a few matches in CODIS that the PD were following up on. Could be nothing, could be what broke the case. The owner, John Keyes, had apparently taken a holiday to Florida and was incommunicado. A possible suspect still. They didn't have that many others yet. Catherine's car had still been in front of the house when the PD had arrived, but had yielded only Catherine's prints and Catherine's blood.

Not enough blood to signify a lethal injury, Nick kept telling himself. But beyond the calm, the blood still seemed to cling to him. She had been injured. Possibly Warrick too, whose car was still missing and had yet to be found.

They had found another set of tyre tracks as well, coming from a Ford Escape Hybrid, a fairly new SUV. Many owners in Las Vegas and each a possible suspect, though it could just as well come from outside the city, maybe even outside the state.

"Mr Coulter does not know how Mr Keyes may be reached," Brass said and Nick looked up to see Brass had finished talking to the gardner. "Not even in the case of a gardening emercency."

The tone was light and slightly sarcastic, but underneath swirled anger and frustration. Nick found himself wondering just how many colleagues Brass had lost during his long career. Too many. But then, even one was too many.

Holly. Lockwood. Catherine. Warrick.

'No,' he thought firmly. They were not lost until he saw their bodies and even then he wouldn't let go.

"John Keyes goes incommunicado the day his house becomes a crime scene," Brass went on, shaking his head slightly. "I don't trust conincidences that work against us."

"Neither do I."

The phone was shrill and for a moment, tore through even the calm and the ice. Brass answered it without hesitation, but the seconds felt like grains of eternity.

'Pleaseletitnotbetheirbodiesfoundpleaseplease,' he thought and the shattered calm tore at his flesh.

"We'll be right there," Brass almost barked and hung up. "Warrick's car. Highway patrol found it off highway 93. Get your kit."

"They're not...?"

"No sign of them."

Not bad news. Still the limbo, still the hope. And more evidence to be found, traces that could help find them.

The drive was silent. Sounds would be speculation would be distracting roar. Neither said how the Nevada desert stretched out from highway 93 nor how it was the perfect place to bury bodies that were intended to be found late or never. The fact still loomed in the air unspoken, dark as the clouds heralding a storm.

The silence filled him and he watched houses slide past his window, little grains of life at display.

Once, long, long ago, he had become a CSI and he'd been young and full of passion and steering and ideas of speaking for the victims, easing the troubled waters for the victim's family and friends. Bringing justice, bringing closure. He knew others saw in him brightness. The sunny Texas boy, smiles and ease and tease. He still knew darkness. Buried in his mind was the memories of a boy abused who hadn't dared speak for himself and with no one else to. And in silence the boy had become a man and set out to speak for those with no voice.

But even the man couldn't save all, solve all, undo the pains. Once you were touched by darkness and trauma, it clung to you. Like blood, you could hide it, cover it, but it was still always there.

Catherine knew. He'd told her that one time, made her understand. He'd felt her pity and even if they had never spoken of it again, he sometimes felt understanding in her gaze. And Warrick... Warrick was his friend, despite disagreements, despite rivalries. And he could lose them both.

The sun played against the window, finally risen fully to flame down on Las Vegas. A beautiful morning, still not too hot, but the cold of the desert night faded, almost as if it had never been. The sky went from pale blue to deep blue and it was so bright he had to avert his eyes.

He wondered if this was how the families of the murdered felt - this desire to look away from beauty and be angry the world could move on.

Las Vegas had pushed itself against the horizon when they arrived at the scene, cop cars framing the bright yellow of crime tape. It was a dusty side road, but the roar of the highway could be heard, if not seen. And there was Warrick's car, carelessly parked to the side, reflecting the sun at him.

The kit felt heavy in his hand and the gloves seemed to snap on very loud. But the calm inside him was already thinking of all the things he had to look for and listing the best order to do it in.

It took him a moment to realise it was Grissom's voice echoing in his head. Grissom, who wasn't here. Grissom, who would expect him to manage.

"You with me, Nicky?" Brass asked, a touch of understanding beneath the strain and anger in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do this thing."

The car was empty, as he knew it would be, but it still felt like a relief. No bodies. The relief lasted only until he found the blood. Whose Mia would have to tell him, but he still felt the ice in his stomach turn spiked and cut through him.

Hairs, fingerprints, dust and a few strange fibres. Something to work with. Something to keep him occupied, keep him feeling like he was doing something.

Brass walked over some time later, the sun making the dark circles under his eyes seem even darker.

"Find anything?"

"Maybe. They could both have been transported in this vehicle."

Brass nodded. "The area is being searched."

"There are plenty of tyre tracks going to and fro here. Maybe the perp changed cars."

"Maybe. The highway patrol only found the car this morning, it could have been abandoned yesterday."

"And our guy has a headstart," Nick said absentmindedly and watched the desert. Where would a kidnapper - he dared not think murderer - go from here? Somewhere deserted? Somewhere actually in the desert, trying to avoid being found? Either the guy was fleeing and more concerned where he was going - or he was heading somewhere and had a place in mind.

Had it been planned? Or merely an act of impulse and if so, why? Was it connected to Catherine and Warrick's case at all? After all, Warrick's last lifesign had been the phonecall near Georgina James's place. Too many seemingly coincidences.

"Brass, did anyone connected to Georgina James own land outside of Vegas? Maybe somewhere near highway 93?"

A speculative glint appeared in Brass's eye as he pulled up his phone. "Let's find out."

Nick nodded, but his mind was still racing. The tyre tracks they had found at the first scene indicated a ØFord Escape Hybrid had been there, yet he had not found any of those here. They could be unrelated to this alltogether, but was it possible there were two perps? One who dumped the car perhaps and one driver of a Hybrid taking Warrick and Catherine somewhere? Where and why? Was it about Catherine in particular or CSI in general?

So many questions, but his calm told him the answers might be somewhere in the evidence he had collected. Only way to find out was to do his job as he would any other case. Calm, professional, Grissom.

A part of him hated the calm inside and raged on, more burning than the sun. Ice and fire within him, roar and silence around. Dust, blood and two friends missing. Life and death in the desert.

"The boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and the other begins?" Grissom had once quoted to him. Poe. Nick had once wondered just why Grissom had quoted it. He didn't anymore.

The dead haunted in life and the living were touched by death. And Catherine and Warrick were missing, lost somewhere in that shadow between life and death. And if they were truly lost, they'd all die a little. Him, Sara, Grissom, Greg, Brass...

'I will find them,' he vowed quietly and the wind rose, lifting dust against the blue, blue sky and he watched it rise, rise, rise... Fall.

It was going to be a beautiful day.



Chapter Thirteen

*****
failure is always the best way to learn
retracing your steps 'til you know
have no fear your wounds will heal

I wish I could travel overground
to where all you hear is water sounds
lush as the wind upon a tree
I wish I could travel overground
to where all you hear is water sounds
to capture and keep inside of me
- Kings of Convenience, Failure
*****

If there was one truth to a cop's life, it was that loss was inevitable. It had to happen, much like a summer would always faded to winter. And Jim had certainly felt winter's cold touch. Lockwood. Holly. A marriage. Ellie, his daughter in all but blood. Jacobs. And Mark, whose blood he still sometimes could smell. For his work, he'd suffered it all. He wasn't sure if he was still here because he still believed all the illusions that had drawn him to the job in the first place or simply because he didn't know how to do anything else anymore.

Perhaps it didn't even matter. History could not be undone. You took your scrapes, learned your lessons and moved on. Or tried to. Sometimes you moved back. He certainly had. Back to homicide, back to the front lines. Back to the losses.

The sun burned in his eyes