AN - After my trip into smutdom, which I enjoyed, I thought a bit of Christmas fluff and angst was in order. I hope you enjoy and reviews are always welcome. Think of it as your present to me this yuletide!

Disclaimer - I would like CSI under my tree this year... but I somehow doubt it. Anthony Zuiker and CBS won't give them up for love or money, so they aren't mine.

Spoilers for the whole of series 7 so far.

Merry Grissmas

Chapter One

Nightshift 11th December 2006

'FedEx package for a Sara Sidle…'

The motorcycle messenger removed his crash helmet and placed it on the reception desk at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He pulled out a brown padded envelope and readied his clip board for action. He took a chewed up pen from behind his ear and held it on top of the receipt slip, waiting to be signed. He sighed. He had better places to be than in this place.

A blonde, confident woman sashayed from the rooms behind reception. She looked way too sassy to be a science nerd.

'Sara Sidle?' he questioned.

'Nah, she's on a case. Catherine Willows, Acting Nightshift Supervisor. Will I do?'

'Can you sign your name?'

The look she gave him could have shattered the Grand Canyon into road granite chips.

'Look, lady, I don't care who the hell y'are… just sign for delivery then I can get back out on the open highway.'

Catherine snatched the pen from him with the clip board. She took a look at the writing implement and mentally memo-ed herself to wash her hands in alcohol before touching anything or anyone else that night. She scrawled her signature on the dotted line and thrust the board and pen back into the guy's hands. He pushed the package into her mid drift, casually responding with,

'Bye baby doll…. Call me…'

Catherine gave his leather jacketed back a death glare as he departed the foyer.

'Asshole.'

Catherine flipped the envelope over in her hands. Now who would be sending Sara Sidle a personal package? She had a good grope of it, feeling for any clues as to its contents. She gave it a little shake. A little prod. Nothing. Would she have time to steam it open with the kettle before Sara arrived? What was she thinking? She had come to realise there was a line, albeit a very fine line in her case, between investigator and nosey bitch. Still intrigued, she took the envelope into the lab and put it in Sara's pigeon hole, awaiting her return.

Across Las Vegas, Sara was up to her eyeballs in decomp, with a very nauseous looking Greg Sanders. He had had too many bad experiences with body soup and on one occasion it even ended up in his mouth. The memory was making him gag. Sara looked up sympathetically at the young CSI.

'Do you need some air?' she inquired. 'You look a little… green around the gills.'

Gills. Just the word made her think of her man, tucked away in some hotel room, alone, researching on the internet and typing up copious notes for his lectures. She missed him. Gil... Her Gil. She felt her pocket for her mobile phone, her subconscious suggesting it was vibrating. No. She was just wanting it to be. It would be another couple of hours before he finished and was ready to call. He knew not to ring when she was on call and she still had a few hours left on the clock.

The sight of Greg's training shoes disappearing out of view and the sound of him dry heaving brought her back to the scene.

'Tough on the kid, huh?' grizzled Captain Jim Brass, the investigating officer.

Sara was pleased. She liked working with the sarcastic, old, bugger. She was just relieved to be working with him at all after his shooting. The whole episode had unnerved her. What if Grissom and Brass had changed places, and Brass was making life or death decisions about him? Not her. Not his partner. No one knew so no one would ask her. She really wasn't ready to say goodbye to Grissom. Too many wasted years had already cast the shadow of regret on their relationship.

'Yeah, decomp is not his favourite area of the job,' smirked Sara.

'Who knew?' quipped Brass, watching Greg's shoulders heave. 'So then, what's new?'

'Not this guy, that's for sure. Been dead about fourteen days… male, Caucasian…' Sara rose and strode around the mess to join Brass, 'looks like a stab wound… David and Robbins will know more about that… hello? What's this?'

Sara moved round the stationery detective and reached a latex gloved hand under the settee.

'Is this a dagger I see before me?' drawled Brass, as he watched Sara place it in an evidence bag.

'Have you been drinking with Grissom again?' Sara grinned up at the diminutive cop. 'That's way too clever for a man of your limited wit to quote without help.'

'How you wound me!' chuckled Brass. 'How is the old dog anyways? Settled in to a life of students, schooling and snow?'

'Why are you asking me?' Sara batted back without a flicker. 'You saw the post card he sent on the break room notice board. You know as much as I do.'

Sara motioned, pointing at the rotting body on the floor. 'I'm done here. Now, you're the detective, go detect…I need to analyse the bloody dagger at the lab. Tell David I said hi.'

With a wink, she was gone.

'Was it something I said?' said Brass, to the rancid bodily fluids of the John Doe, oozing on the floor.

Around the corner, Sara rubbed Greg's back.

'Better?'

'Urrggghhhhh,' was all the reply he could muster.

'Come on, Chucky, the DNA lab calls.'

As she helped Greg straighten up, she felt her phone vibrate. She turned her back and unclipped it from her pocket. A text message. From Grissom. She flipped the mobile open and read the message.

'Well?

G. xxx'

'What?' she verbalised, her brows furrowed in concentration. Grissom was just too cryptic sometimes. 'What does he mean, 'Well?''

'What? Why 'what?'' groaned Greg, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand.

Forgetting the presence of her audience, she snapped the phone closed.

'Nothing. Let's get back to the lab. I'll drive.'

'When do you ever not?' Greg retorted, striding hard to keep up with her pace.

It was a silent drive back. Sara's head was whizzing with questions. What on earth was Grissom talking about? Too much time on his hands, clearly. Had he texted her and she hadn't received it? The question, 'well?' was so out of left field. Sara swung the crime lab vehicle into the car park. A squeal of tyres warned onlookers of her mood.

'It's been special…' a disgruntled Greg muttered as he got out of the car and stomped up to the lab, his evidence bag swinging in his hand. 'And you stink!' he shouted across the car park.

'Great. How to make a girl feel good. Way to go, Greg!' she yelled back.

The spring loaded door had barely had time to close before Catherine made her way over to Sara.

'Whoa! You stink!'

'Yeah. Thanks for reminding me. It was a bit…ripe.'

'Nice. Sooo glad I didn't go out on that one,' grinned Catherine.

'Is there something you want, Catherine? Only I'd like to take a quick shower before I take the evidence to DNA. I smell like I've rolled on a skunk.'

Sara was becoming impatient. And the smell was giving her a rampant headache.

'Eww, has something died in here?' commented Nick Stokes, the lab's friendly, neighbourhood Texan. He couldn't suppress his chuckle as he walked past a seething Sara.

'Next time, Stokes, I want best of three,' she grumbled, as she trudged off towards the shower room.

Nick and Cath were so busy grinning, she almost forgot about the delivery.

'Hey, Sara! Package came for ya while you were out. I put it in your pigeon hole.'

Sara acknowledged her with a wave as she moved away. She changed direction and headed towards the staff room. She went up to the columns of pigeon holes, each individually labelled with the name of the person it was assigned to printed neatly underneath each one. Her eyes flittered over the empty tray belonging to Gil Grissom. She paused there briefly for a moment before her eyes were drawn to the beige A5 sized envelope in her allotted space.

FedEx? She puzzled. She hadn't made any internet purchases recently, so it was nothing to do with her. It must be some sort of mistake. Inquisitively, she prized the seal open and peered inside. She retrieved a folded handwritten note from the bubble wrap and opened it. A big, warm smile permeated from her lips. It was written in a very well known scrawl.

She checked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone as she read.

'Hey Sara,

Happy Christmas. I know it's not the actual festive season just yet, but I wanted to give you your present a little early. If I remember correctly, which I usually do, you are 20 hours due in lieu. Added to the four days you get off the clock, that gives you six days leave this Christmas, beginning on the 23rd December.

I've bought you airline tickets – return, of course… first class. Do you want to join me on the East Coast for Christmas? New England is beautiful this time of year. And it's snowing! I have a wonderful open, log fire in my hotel room and a particularly thick rug in front of it… and a jacuzzi bath if you are interested?

All you need do is book the extra couple of days out.

I miss you, and, as that God awful song says, 'All I Want for Christmas is You.'.

Love,

Griss.'

She needed all of a millisecond to decide. She marched up to the rota board and with a thick, black marker pen, she crossed out the 23rd and 24th of December alongside her name.

Taking out her mobile, Sara returned Grissom's text.

'New England, here I come!

Luv u,

S xxx''

TBC - PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! THEY ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED!