Shattered

Sara Sidle never liked the quiet nights. The filing, the shelving, the monotonous tasks that made her eyelids droop and her legs numb. She'd glance at her pager every few minutes, hoping - as guilty as it made her feel - that someone somewhere would commit a crime soon.

On one such night, all the paperwork had been submitted, all the work areas straightened. She flipped through a few cold cases that she'd basically memorized by this point, and sighed heavily. Slow nights were the worst. Usually, Grissom would be able to find something interesting for the two of them to do, like whip up a fresh batch of Red Creeper. But for the first time in her memory, he was out sick.

As for her other coworkers, Greg was occupied with a comic book on the couch, while Sofia dug into a large salad at the breakroom table. Earlier in the shift, Greg had blasted an Ashlee Simpson CD until Hodges had sniped at him that some people were actually trying to get some work done. Greg retaliated by putting on Men At Work, and Hodges had spent the last hour trying to get "Land Down Under" out of his head while Greg smirked into his comic book.

"Hey, Sara, you have time to take a ride with me?" She looked up to see Brass standing in the doorway, looking uncomfortable.

"Oh, thank god," she grinned. "I'll get my kit. Greg, want to tag along?"

"No," Brass said quickly. "No, I just need you."

She paused. "Yeah, but two heads are better than one, and it's really slow here tonight-"

"Oh, I think I heard that there was a robbery over on the strip," he replied, his eyes darting away from her gaze. "Greg and Sofia will need to tend to that. This just requires one person."

Sara furrowed her brows, wondering what Brass was hiding. "Okay," she murmured finally. "I'll meet you outside."

The drive was silent for several minutes, until she spoke. "So what've we got?"

He shook his head distractedly. "Sorry, what?"

"What's the case?"

"Oh, uh... disturbing the peace."

She didn't bother telling him that CSI's don't go along on such calls. She didn't inform him that homicide captains had no place there either. He knew very well, and the set of his jaw was telling her not to ask questions.

"Okay," she said genially, looking out the window at the strip.

The roads became more and more suburban, until she realized they'd turned onto Grissom's street.

"He's disturbing the peace?"

"Apparently so," Brass replied uneasily. "I got a call from dispatch an hour ago. Normally they'd just send a cruiser over, but since he's a colleague they extended a professional courtesy and called me instead."

"Who called in the complaint?"

"A neighbor. Says she's been hearing what sounds like breaking glass in there for a couple of hours now." He glanced at her as they pulled into the parking lot. "I needed some help on this one... figured you were the best one for the job."

Sara regarded him shrewdly. "You needed help? So you're coming in too?"

"Uh..." he squirmed. "Listen, kiddo. Gil and I... we drink scotch and sometimes we shoot pool. We don't talk about what drives us to break glass for several hours. I think this is your area of expertise, not mine."

"So you're leaving me here."

"I owe you," he managed, and she rolled her eyes as she opened the car door.

"Yeah. You do."

The lights were off in Grissom's townhouse, and as Brass pulled away, she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then a loud noise from inside the house startled her. The neighbor had been right. That was definitely the sound of shattering glass.

Two quick raps on the door, and a gruff voice shouted that no one was home.

"I've heard that one," she replied, smirking at the closed door. "Grissom, it's Sara. Open up."

At first, she didn't think he would. There was just silence, and she wondered how exactly she would get back to the lab, now that Brass had abandoned her. But then she heard the crunch of footsteps on glass shards, and the door was pulled open.

He looked like hell. Bloodshot eyes, dirty hair, and a cut on his palm that was bleeding heavily. "What?" he asked dully.

Any annoyance she'd felt went out the window. "Grissom, you're hurt."

A blank stare was her only response, so she shoved past him into the house, flipping on the light.

"Jesus..." she gasped. "What did you do?"

The floor was littered with broken glass and butterflies, empty frames tossed haphazardly.

"What did you do?" she repeated. "Griss, you spent decades collecting those. Some of them were one-of-a-kind specimens."

He shut the front door and shrugged numbly.

"Look, let's..." she cleared her throat. "Let's take care of that cut on your hand." She located his first aid kit after a short search and set to work, swabbing it gently with an antiseptic wipe. "This doesn't look good... you probably need stitches. I could take you to the hospital if you'd like."

"I wonder if Desert Palms specializes in these sorts of injuries," he mused, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe that's where the 'Palms' comes from."

Sara looked up. "Have you been drinking?"

"I wish." He finally seemed to notice her there. "What are you doing here?"

"Your neighbor called the cops."

He nodded seriously. "She's such a bitch."

"You sure you haven't been drinking?" She glanced around the room, trying to figure out what was out of place... besides the dozens of dead butterflies scattered around the room. Finally it hit her. "Grissom, where's your terrarium?"

"You're good," he said, smiling mirthlessly. "You should be an investigator or something."

"What happened to your tarantula?"

"Died yesterday."

She didn't say anything, just applied some butterfly bandages. It was a struggle not to make a joke about them, but the dead butterflies on the floor added a tension to the room. Finally, when she finished dressing his wound, she sat back on her heels.

"So. I didn't realize you were so attached to the tarantula."

"Saywood."

She blinked. "Wood." "No, Saywood. It was my tarantula's name."

"Oh," she replied, feeling oddly moved. "Were you... close?"

He glared at her half-heartedly, then sighed. "He was the only living thing in my apartment."

"Other than you."

"That's debatable."

Sara stared at the mess on the floor. "So you got angry at the butterflies because they aren't alive?"

"You know why they're not alive, Sara? Because I paid to have them killed and mounted. So that they'll never fly again, never be free again. And I can't even let myself enjoy them like that... instead I freeze them and stick them up at a wall to stare at." He rubbed his face, exhausted. "So no one else can enjoy them, can see them in their natural state."

She took his uninjured hand gently, stroking it. "I'm not a butterfly, Grissom."

"No, but you might as well be," he snapped. "I tell you you're beautiful, but I won't touch you. And god forbid someone else touch you. I just freeze you in time, until your life has drained away."

"I'm still here," she whispered.

He turned his red-rimmed gaze to the floor, wincing slightly at the sight of a torn specimen.

"Did they fly?"

"What?" "When you threw the frames," she said, squeezing his hand. "Did the butterflies fly?"

Grissom nodded.

"Well," she mused. "That's something."

They sat side by side, holding hands. After a while, he squeezed back.

Sara Sidle never liked the quiet nights. But that night, the silence fluttered.