Wherever You are

Author: wobbear

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.

Spoilers?: Yes, folks, it's yet another post-Living Doll fic. Somehow I couldn't resist the idea. I'm spoiler free as regards Season 8.

Author's notes: This is a mostly-written WIP─chapters are on the short side, so I aim to post a couple of times a week to make up for that. I'm avoiding other post-LD fics until this is done, so any similarity is unintentional. Thanks muchly to PhDelicious for beta reading; all oddities that remain are of course mine. Lastly, I'm aware that I've taken some liberties with the Sara/Mustang miniature.

Summary: 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.


Chapter 1

There is freedom within
there is freedom without

It wasn't much of a view; a few rocks, sparsely scattered joshua trees, creosote bushes and sage brush and a whole lot of sandy desert soil. But it was better than staring at the crumpled red metal of the vehicle's roof or at the two precarious props, each a foot away from either side of her head, which—for now, anyway—kept the car from crushing her.

At least her right arm was free. 'Free?' Ha. That's a laugh. Sara forced a feeble giggle. That freedom was relative—it wasn't like the arm was going anywhere without the rest of her.

But it was her other arm that was the real problem. It was numb, nearly drained of blood because her wrist was pulled up, cuffed firmly to the steering wheel. She could feel her shoulder however, and all too well. It was aching acutely, the muscles and tendons stretched tight, fighting dislocation. Though there wasn't enough room for her to sit up and relieve the pressure by changing the angle of her arm, there was just enough play in the chain links that she could turn over. But any movement exacerbated the pain considerably, and risked bumping the props or jogging the car, so she had decided to save position shifts for when she was really, really bored. Or despairing . . .

Enough of that.

Got to be positive.

So, back to the free arm. She edged it out cautiously, concentrating on not moving its tethered companion, to see how far she could reach. Okay . . . a little way beyond the menacing bulk of the vehicle which loomed above her. As the first light of day caught on the pale back of her hand, Sara realized she was lucky—in a perverse sort of way—to be shaded by the looming metal bulk. She wouldn't have lasted long in the full glare of the May rays. Highs often topped 90. It was still early, but no matter that her world was way out of whack, she was sure that the sun would keep on rising. Nothing she could do about that. However, she could scrabble her fingers in the dirt beside the car, so she did that.

She wondered vaguely about the woman who'd put her in this predicament. The big case of the moment was the miniature serial killer—but they were practically always men, weren't they? Who knows, the point of this might be to avenge some perceived injustice to a relative. The woman had addressed her as 'CSI Sidle', but then her name was on her tactical vest. Had Sara been personally singled out, or was it a random thing like with Nick's experience? Searching for motive always played a part in their investigations, but—here, now—what was the point? Whatever her assailant's motivations, Sara was stuck and had to deal with it.

She was really thirsty. She always carried a bottle or two of water in her kit, and a small extra one tucked into her crime scene vest. Her kit was nowhere to be seen, and all her pockets and pouches had been emptied by her captor. Her throat was parched, swallowing painful and her mouth wooly from whatever chemical had been used to knock her out. She longed for a drink.

Before leaving, her abductor had informed her in a detached tone that there was a two-gallon container of drinking water in the trunk of the car and the handcuff key was tied to the handle of the plastic jug. Such amazing attention to detail. Why? All part of the madwoman's plan to make her suffer, Sara supposed. The plan seemed to be working well so far.

Oh, and the props. It looked like the bits of wood had been carefully positioned so that even a small amount of movement risked dislodging them. Hence Sara's ultra-cautious maneuverings of her free arm. Or they might just break under the weight of the vehicle.

Sometimes knowing a lot about physics could be a bitch.

There's a battle ahead

The single desk lamp cast dark shadows and fingers of light, glinting off the curved surfaces of specimen jars and the metal shelving. In the gloom beyond the desk sat Gil Grissom, his chair turned to face the back wall. He appeared to be staring at the mounted tarantula. Certainly his eyes had been pointed in that direction for the past ten minutes.

They were due to have a team meeting shortly, and he was battling to control his swirling emotions. He'd been attempting to do the calming five-minute meditation that Sara had learned from her PEAP counselor. The first try hadn't worked, mostly because he'd found himself picturing Sara when she first taught it to him. So serene, so beautiful, so unexpectedly his, so alive . . .

The second attempt had worked better, he thought, until his silly reaction to Catherine's news.

She had knocked gently on his closed office door, letting herself in when he didn't respond. He'd been vaguely aware of her standing there, had known that he should acknowledge her presence.

Finally she spoke. "Uh, Gil, I called Jim. He said he'd be right over."

Startled out of his silence, suddenly animated, he exclaimed, "Why?! No! I--i--it's not a homicide, it's not! It can't be . . ." Trailing off, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that she was holding up her hands in a defensive pose.

He sagged.

Catherine, understanding, waited him out.

Swiveling his chair around to face her, Grissom took in a deep breath and sighed. "Sorry . . . uh, yeah, calling Jim was a good idea. He's got so many contacts, and a lot of strings he can pull."

"Plus he seems to be the closest thing you've got to a friend." She just managed to stop herself saying, 'Well, except for Sara.'

Grissom looked bleakly up at her. Jittery, she wondered if he was somehow reading her mind.

"You're my friend, aren't you? At least, we used to be friends, didn't we?" He sounded so lost, so confused that Catherine found herself trying to swallow away the big lump which had leapt into her throat.

This was not good, not at all. No, it was bad, very bad. Grissom was verging on an existential crisis when Sara's life, and very possibly his own well being, depended on him pulling himself together and applying his brilliant mind to the case. He would never forgive himself if he didn't do his utmost to rescue Sara.

No matter what differences she had had with Grissom—and Sara—in recent times, there was no way that Catherine could or would let him—them, she hastily amended—struggle through this alone. He had done so much for her over the years; now it was payback time, whether he liked it or not. She knew that the 'boys' would all rally round to help. The weird little family they'd formed around Grissom would not desert him, or Sara, in their time of need.

He would have to get a grip. They would help him.

TBC


A/n: the section headings come from Crowded House's Don't Dream It's Over─a great song by Neil Finn. Make of that choice what you will.