Disclaimer:  I do not own CSI or its characters, nor do I make any profit from this purely fictitious story.

A/N:  This will be a somewhat involved and long story, but I personally believe it's worth it.  The plot is such:  Sara and Grissom have a one night stand that results in pregnancy.  It gets complicated when Greg becomes involved.  While centering on Sara/Greg, I plan to include crime scenes and side plots.  Please bear with me and, as I faithfully write, I ask you to faithfully review.  Many thanks—your humble author.

My Blessed Mistake

            "Is something wrong?"

            Sara stopped kicking her car and turned to face Grissom who, in yet another of his feats of eccentricity, had managed to creep up on her.  "It's dead.  Which means I have no way to get home.  Sometimes I don't know why I bother coming in!" she added, with an extra kick to the front tire.

            Gil set his briefcase down and motioned for her to pop the hood.  "I get the feeling," he observed, his face next to the radiator, "that this is not entirely about your car.  It wouldn't have anything to do with the Byers case, would it?"

            Why was he always the pinnacle of aplomb?  Would he still be so cool if she gouged his eyes out?  Was she premenstrual?  "How could that jury ignore such crucial evidence?  Do you know how much work I put into piecing those glass shards together?  Hours!"

            "I realize that, but all we can do is find evidence; we don't get to decide guilt or innocence.  The Constitution allows for a jury of twelve peers—it doesn't say anything about those peers being smart.  Look, why don't I give you a ride home?  This car isn't going anywhere without a mechanic."

            She sighed and grabbed her own briefcase.  "Thanks.

            Besides giving directions, they drove in silence.  Sara looked drained.  The Byers case had been difficult to begin with; nine murdered rape victims.  The last one, however, clung to life long enough for Sara to watch her lose it.  She had devoted a lot of time and energy to finding what little evidence existed, only to have the jury acquit.  It was a slap in the face to both the murdered women and the CSI.

            "Third building down," she muttered.

            "Sara, you need to put this into perspective," he addressed her as she stood outside the car, "the jury's decision is not your fault."

            "Yeah, well, tell that to those nine dead women."

            She walked away and Gil sighed.  He admired her dedication but wished every defeat wasn't personal.  They could only get the evidence and present it in court; deciding guilt and innocence was up to twelve lay people.

            Half way down the road he realized Sara's briefcase still sat in his car.  Gil made a U-turn on the deserted street and parked in front of her building.  Grabbing the case, he headed inside and perused the mailbox names.  He'd never been to the apartment before.  Not that he wasn't curious; was she as neat and tidy as she seemed?  What did the furniture and decorations look like?  Spartan, probably.  No time like the present to find out.

            Sara nearly choked on her own spit.  Who was at her door at this hour?  It had better not be a Jehovah's Witness; she was not in the mood.  Drying her teary eyes as best she could, she grabbed the handle and took a deep breath.  They could take their Watchtowers and shove them up their collective—


            "Sara, you left—"

            Of all the people to see her crying!  Why Grissom?

            Gil stopped as soon as he met the red, puffy eyes.  He could take a lot of things, but not a woman crying (at least, not a woman who wasn't involved in a case).  "Are you okay?"

            She laughed sardonically and motioned for him to enter.  "Just stressed.  It's nothing.  Really."

            He walked into her living room and held up the briefcase.  "You left it in my car; I didn't know if you'd need it."


            Silence overwhelmed them until Sara walked into her kitchen and offered Grissom a beer.  He debated his answer mentally.  He knew she liked him.  And he knew he liked her.  And he knew she knew he knew…oh, who cared?  A beer sounded good and it seemed like she could use a talk.  That made sense.  He was in charge and she was a subordinate who needed to de-stress after a hard day.  Beer was noncommittal.  And they were just gonna talk.  Besides, he could really use a beer; it had been a long night for him, too.  "That'd be nice."

            She handed him the bottle and sat down.  As opposed to Grissom's over-analyzing, Sara gave the matter no further thought.  She couldn't.  It made her want to hide in a bathroom and sob like a teenager.  If she denied what she felt—what could be—she was able to get through the day.  Deny, deny!

            "So," he began, "the Byers case…"


            "Yes, I gathered as much."

            Sara sighed rather pitifully.  "It's not that I put so much work into the case.  Don't get me wrong—I did.  I worked my butt off to get what little evidence there was.  It's just…" she paused, trying to put her emotions into words.  A little like trying to describe a roller coaster to someone who's never been on one.  "I'm not angry that my work counted for nothing; I'm angry that I watched Anne Byers die and then watched her rapist and murderer get away with it."

            "That must be frustrating."

            "No, what's frustrating is having you behave like I'm overreacting."  She blushed.  "I'm sorry."

            He took a deep breath.  "No, you're right.  I can't empathize with you, Sara.  I've learned to detach myself from the cases because it's what we do to survive.  But you're entitled to your feelings."

            That brought some semblance of a smile to her face and Grissom grinned like a maniac internally.  He had done that!  He had made her smile!  When she offered another beer, he took it without thinking.  And when she asked if he wanted some eggs and toast, he suggested pizza instead.

            The talking was good for them both.  It cleared the air.  It cleared the mind.  Oddly enough, it even cleared the palate.  So they continued talking over pizza and beer.  For almost two hours they talked about cases and forensics, life and death, until Gil yawned and said it was time to go.  They walked to the door.  They said goodbye.  They stalled.  They stalled a little more.  Then Sara, gathering up all the courage and alcohol she had, leaned forward and kissed Grissom.  She pulled back, blushing furiously and nearly mumbled an apology when Gris gripped her arms and—somewhat awkwardly—returned the affection.  It was as natural as maggots on a rotting corpse.  They stopped stalling.


+ 1


            Mornings after are never pretty.  The truth was, there had been a bit too much beer.  She happened to be especially needy (so was he, not that anyone would admit it).  And he was thinking with an organ that used far too much blood in relation to its usefulness.



            "Go ahead," they encouraged simultaneously.

            She bowed her head and motioned for him to continue.  "Sara, while I'm disinclined to characterize last night as a mistake, I don't think it's something we should repeat.  Not only am I your superior, but I think we both understand a relationship is unfeasible."

            It was not that she hadn't been expecting it.  No, even before they fell asleep earlier, she knew it couldn't last.  But did he have to be so stoic?  So logical?  So big-wordy?  Oh, no.  He was not going to be the mature one.  "Naturally, I couldn't agree more.  Last night was merely the result an emotional day that got out of hand.  Any relationship beyond professional and platonic is unwise.  Would you like some breakfast or do you just want to go?"

            Grissom sighed.  She was angry.  Of course she was angry.  Why had he been so stupid?  "I don't want you to be upset.  But I can't offer you what you're looking for and, more importantly, it's not a good idea to date in the office."

            She gave him a knowing smile and lied to his face just as easily as she'd been lying to herself.  "Grissom, I'm not upset.  I honestly think last night should not be repeated; I might go so far as to say it was a mistake.  Besides, you're right—you're not the kind of guy I should be looking for."  She paused, seemingly shocked and dismayed at her own words.  She was not, in fact, shocked and dismayed, but it looked good.  "I mean, that's not to say you don't have the qualities some woman will want."

            He doubted her honesty.  "You're very…special, Sara.  I hope you're not angry; we work so well together and I don't want that to change."

            "It won't change.  I promise."  He remained a little skeptical, so she added, good-naturedly, "I meant that thing about breakfast.  C'mon, I'll make you some food and you can go home and I can call a mechanic."

            Yeah, he bought the act.

            Work continued normally; they just went on as before, only now, instead of simply denying their feelings existed, they denied giving into those feelings.  The first day back was a little difficult.  The second day was okay.  The third day they didn't actually see each other.  The fourth and fifth days were incrementally better.  The sixth day, however, something happened.  Or, rather, something didn't happen.  Sara didn't start her period.

            For most girls, being a little late is no big deal, especially for a girl on the pill.  But Sara was like the atomic clock of menstration; for seventeen years, her menses came four weeks.  Never a day late, never a day early.

            Could she…?  Was it possible…?  It couldn't be.  It wasn't possible.  She took the pill unfailingly and the only person she'd slept with was Grissom—and that was only once.  It hadn't even been as good as she'd hoped.  Maybe the sinus infection caused it.  Being sick could certainly interfere with her endocrine system.  It would start tomorrow.