A/N: This one is really dark, so I apologize. It's just how I write XD This is a Cath/Sara oneshot that takes place after Catherine calls Sara to process the hotel room in Built To Kill. I hope you guys enjoy it :)
"Where is she?"
She stopped lifting prints and flipped around at the sound of the booming male voice. Instinctively she moved her hand toward her holster on her hip but she found she was already staring down the barrel of a nine-millimeter pistol pointed in her direction.
"I said where is she, bitch?" he hissed, taking a step toward her. She studied every single detail about his appearance-- he had a strong build, he looked as though he had been in the army at some point. He was wearing boots and baggy pants, and a white t-shirt that was too tight and showed off all the bulges of muscles along his chest and abdomen. He had bright green eyes, and she noted the long bloody scratch just under his cheekbone.
"I don't know what you're talking about." That was a lie, she knew it and he knew it, but she felt no need to cooperate anytime soon, or at all for that matter.
Catherine had called her to the hotel about two hours before. She had been processing a scene with Greg and Grissom when she got the phone call. She had expected a simple "Who left the evidence vault open again?" or that she had called the wrong number again. After all, Catherine never just called her to say hi. She always needed something. But that didn't surprise her.
After all, this was Catherine Willows, and she was Sara Sidle. No one ever just called Sara Sidle to say hello.
But then she had discovered that Catherine had thought that she had been raped and a whole new side of Sara was uncovered. A side she had been sure she had locked away long ago. A side she never wanted anyone to ever see-- the side of her the shrinks and specialists qualified as "reckless" or, as Conrad so kindly liked to put it, her "loose cannon" side.
She had told Catherine she would figure out what had happened, and she would.
"Do you not see the goddamn gun I'm holding on you right now you stupid bitch?" the man spat to the side of him-- chewing tobacco, Sara deducted-- and continued to glare at her in resentment.
"I would think it's a little hard to miss," Sara pointed out. That was when he fired, just above her head. She barely flinched. For the first time in her life, Sara found she was not scared. She didn't know why-- a man that could obviously overpower her very easily was pointing a gun at her and she had no back-up. She was cornered in a small hotel room in the bad part of town. She couldn't get her gun without the risk of being shot.
But she had something driving her this time, and that drive took the fear away. She had promised Catherine she would figure out what had happened, and she would. She wasn't going to let this guy get what he wanted.
"So since you're so observant," he sneered, "Where is she?"
"Long gone," Sara explained. "And if you try and track her down you'll be sorry. Soon you'll have the entire Las Vegas Police Department aganist you."
"But you're one of them, right?" he asked, a grin seeping its way around the corners of his mouth. "You're a cop."
"I'm not a cop," Sara told him, "But I have a gun, and I have no problem with using it."
She knew she was in love with her about two years ago. The thought had always been there, trying to seep its way further into her brain from the back of her mind but she kept it hidden there until one day something happened that sent her psychological walls crumbling down. It had been shortly after Nick's abduction on Saturday morning. She had been losing quite a bit of sleep over it, and even more from the events of what had happened at the mental institution with Adam Trent.
But that didn't matter, because she was Sara Sidle. She was a tough woman. She could take care of herself. At least that was what everyone else thought... right?
No one called her to check up on her-- Sara wasn't sure they even knew anything had happened. Grissom had offered her administrative leave, time to herself. That was just like him. But no one had called, no one stopped by, no one asked her if she was alright in the lab. But she didn't expect them to. Those things just didn't happen to her.
That Saturday morning she awoke with an obvious hangover to someone knocking on her door. She was hesitant but opened the door and there she was, Catherine Willows in all her glory. She expected her to be upset with her drinking- she wasn't. She was actually concerned. That was a major step-up from her infatuation with Mr. Tin-Man-With-No-Heart. She was concerned, and she had stopped by with soda and movies and told her she was going to stay.
When she had broke down in sobs, Catherine had held her on the couch and murmured meaningless but soothing phrases into her hair, like "It's okay" and "I'm here". That last one had confused her. Catherine was there, but for how long? Even though she left the next morning before she woke up without even a goodbye, she knew she was in love.
The man in front of her cackled harshly and waved his gun teasingly. "You don't have the guts."
"Oh yeah?" Sara wasn't amused. Without skipping a beat she had grabbed her gun out of its holster and was pointing her own at his matching nine mil. "Try me."
Time skipped. A car driving up distracted him for fear it may be the police and she lunged at him, grabbing the hand that was holding his gun and twisting it back painfully in a way it would not bend. He responsed with cursing and punching her in the head with his free hand until she finally had to let go for fear that her consciousness was slipping. When he found his gun was knocked from his hand he was infuriated.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her against the wall next to the bathroom. She responded with a quick shove of her knee into his groin, granting her the upper edge temporarily. While he was stunned she head-butted him, something her weaponless defense training had taught her to do right without hurting herself further, and dashed for the gun that had been laying next to the door.
She forgot she had dropped her own gun by the bathroom.
That was her only warning before three shots rang out. She jumped behind the king-sized bed for cover, thankful that his aim had been off from the concussion she had given him. She heard footsteps and knew he was coming. She looked around for a weapon but could not find one, and did the only thing she could think of in order to get to the gun. She slid her body under the mattress of the bed where she was thin enough to fit just as he rounded the corner. In anger he started shooting at the mattress, and just as she was rolling out on the other side she felt a bullet nick her arm.
But the pain was good, the blood was good-- it helped her focus. She mentally counted how many shots he had fired-- her clip had six. He had fired three at her when he got her gun and three into the mattress, one of which nicked her arm. He was out of bullets.
Using this to her advantage she tackled his midsection sending them both sprawling to the floor. While he was down she crawled toward his gun laying in the corner but he caught her, grabbing her ankle and dragging her away.
He punched her several times in the face as he sat on top of her (she lost count when things began to get fuzzy). When he found she just wouldn't submit he got to his feet and began kicking her in the ribs in earnest, satisfied when he heard her wheezing for air from the strain of her several cracked ribs. When he thought she was losing consciousness he dragged her to the bed and threw her down, starting to work at his belt buckle.
She brought her leg up and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could and he howled in pain, doubling over onto the floor. She scrambled to get to her feet as best she could despite the pain coursing through her body. She had promised Catherine she would figure out what had happened, and now she had. She just had to make sure he didn't get away.
She fell just short of the front door of the hotel room, her hand inches from the gun. She tried to use her remaining bursts of strength to crawl toward it, but he stomped down hard on her back before she could and she cried out in pain. He grabbed the gun and rolled her over onto her back, staring down at her bloody face, her matted-down hair, her split lip. He didn't understand why she hadn't given in. The blonde hadn't been this hard; she had stirred a little in the middle of it, but it was nothing more drugs wouldn't handle.
This one still had a lot of fight left in her.
He whacked her upside the head with the butt of the gun and she groaned, spitting out a mouthful of blood beside her. Why was she still conscious? He didn't understand.
"Why won't you submit?" he growled in frustration.
Sara laughed, she laughed until tears sprung to her eyes. She laughed even as he pointed the barrel of the gun at her. "Go fuck yourself."
It was the last thing she ever said before the bullet hit her square in the chest and she stopped breathing. It was the last thing she said when the cops came and the shooter was shot down. It was the last thing she said when Catherine came running into the room and broke down in sobs over her blood-covered body.
She had told Catherine she would do it, and she had.