Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: Yes, this is a House and CSI crossover. I hope that hasn't driven you away for any reason;) If you're still here, let me assure you that this story is already completed thanks to the amazing encouragement, support and beta skills of my incredible friend Lisa a.k.a. Mingsmommy. No WIP, I promise!
This was probably the hardest story I've written in a long time, maybe ever. If you're at all familiar with the House timeline (which I hope you are), I had to take a smidge of liberty with it considering what was going on in that universe at the time of CSI's season seven finale. But I do bring it back to canon, so hang with me;)
I'm more nervous posting this than anything I've done in awhile, so I hope you enjoy it. More will be coming very soon. Thank you for stopping by!
A House is Not a Home
by Kristen Elizabeth
May 18th, 2007
"What the hell is this?"
With a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth, Chase winced at the sound of his boss's voice. "This would be the one day he comes in early," he muttered.
"What the hell does it look like?" Foreman grabbed a handful of popcorn, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
"In five seconds, it better look like Passions." With angry, jerky steps, House limped into the room, heading for the television.
"Don't. Please." The tone of Cameron's voice had him stopping in his tracks. "We're watching the news."
House shot her his best withering look as he readjusted the patient chart that was tucked under his arm. "Let me guess. Kitten caught in a storm drain? Puppy pulls family from burning building?" When she didn't wither, he glanced at the TV for a moment. "Are there any patients dying while you three are in here? I can't wait to tell their families that you figured something happening in Nevada was more important than keeping their loved ones alive."
"Maybe it's not soap opera-level drama," Foreman shot back. "But I would think even you'd stop to listen to a story about a cop getting kidnapped by a crazy serial killer and dumped in the desert to die."
"Did he die?" House asked, feigning interest.
"She," Cameron replied. "And no. They found her about an hour ago."
"So they all lived happily ever after, end of story." With the tip of his cane, House hit the channel button several times. Each new screen displayed different footage of the same breaking news story. His forehead wrinkled in mounting frustration.
Chase tried to bite back his smirk, but he didn't quite manage it. "Preempted. That has to suck."
"Oh, I can think of something worse." House threw the patient chart at the younger doctor. "Explosive diarrhea in the clinic. Make sure you take plenty of samples straight from the source. Foreman likes it fresh when he runs his tests."
Foreman sighed. "You'd be giving this to one of us even if we'd had Passions on, wouldn't you?"
House shrugged as innocently as possible. "Well, I guess you'll never know now."
"What punishment have you designed for me?" Cameron wondered after the men very reluctantly dragged themselves out of the office. "Do I get to diaper the patient when they're done?"
After popping a Vicodin, House dropped into Chase's empty seat. "You get to tell me what's so gosh-darn fascinating about a kidnapped cop from Vegas that we don't get to watch our soaps here in Jersey." He reached for the popcorn. "She better have a really great rack."
Cameron rolled her eyes to keep from smiling.
One month later
Pain had become part of Sara's life. How to hide her pain from Grissom was now a battle she waged every minute of every day.
It wasn't easy. Her boyfriend had become her protector. Her boss had become her jailer. No more solitary mornings with a book and a glass of wine, waiting for him to come home from the lab; he now clocked out as soon as she did. No more solo crime scenes; she was constantly assigned a partner now, Nick or Warrick usually. He didn't even trust her safety to Greg.
But Sara was clever and determined. Grissom would never know that she lived with a constant cramp in her lower belly. He would never find out that she was frequently tired, often ran a low-grade fever, and woke up sweating in the middle of the night. Let him think that her reluctance to make love was psychological rather than physical. Grissom wasn't calling the shots anymore.
And if he didn't like it, he was free to spend the night at Lady Heather's house.
"Sara?"
She snapped to attention at the sound of Nick's voice. "I'm here. Sorry." She hid a quick cough behind her hand. "You were saying?"
He eyed her warily as he repeated his last observation. "These two shoe prints are obviously not a match. But from the overall pattern of tracks they made in the dirt…it doesn't seem like they came from two different people either."
She dropped her good hand to her aching belly. "What if the killer…" Sara coughed again, louder this time. "Tickle in my throat," she explained. "Let's say the killer wore two different…" Again she was cut off by the pressing need to cough.
"Sara, are you okay?" Nick frowned, concerned. "Do you need some water?"
"I'm…fine," she choked out. "It's just…." A coughing fit seized her. "Yeah, okay. Water's…good."
Nick nodded, but before he could start out of the room, Sara began coughing again. Each spasm of her torso made her belly burn. She grabbed the edge of the lighted table, bracing herself against the pain. She couldn't stop coughing.
"All right, this isn't sounding like a tickle," Nick said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, mindful of her sling. "Can you breathe, Sara?"
At the touch of his hand, Sara's jerked violently away from him. "Don't touch me!" Nick took a step back, his eyes wide. "Who are you?" She looked around wildly. "Where am I? Where the hell am I?!" Just as suddenly as everything had become confusing, her head cleared. "Nick? Nick…something's wrong with…" The coughing overtook her again.
Through the sound of her own coughs, she heard Nick yell down the hall, "Grissom! Get in here!!"
"Sara?!" The next thing she heard was her lover's voice. When she glanced up, she saw him standing in the layout room door, a horrified look on his face.
It was only when she wiped her mouth a second later that she noticed the blood on her chin.
Their eyes met again, briefly, before the whole world spun into darkness.
Grissom had a favorite spot at Desert Palm. It was little more than a shaded corner of the open-air courtyard at the heart of the building, but it was far away from the sights, sounds and smells of the hospital. He'd discovered it while Sara was in surgery to reset her fractured arm after her ordeal in the desert, and he'd spent many hours there as she recovered, sitting on a cold, stone bench watching the various species of insect that called the garden home. Although he'd hated to be away from Sara, his overworked mind had needed the solitude to rejuvenate.
Only Brass knew about the spot, so when Grissom glanced up from the grass at his feet and saw Doc Robbins heading straight for him, he frowned slightly. Once he saw Sara's chart in the older man's free hand, his annoyance at the disclosure of his sanctuary melted. He shot to his feet.
"You've found something?" he asked without greeting. "What's wrong with her?"
"Gil, first of all, like I told you earlier, my medical opinion is no better than the team of doctors she's got in there." Leaning on his walking cane, Doc Robbins flipped her chart open. "That being said, I did look over their notes, just in case they missed something."
"And did they?" Grissom demanded.
The older man sighed. "Not that I can see."
Looking away, Grissom forced himself to ask, "What about the…you know?"
Doc Robbins shook his head. "No. Any complications from that would present a different set of symptoms."
"So, you're basically telling me what all those other doctors are…that she's coughing up blood for absolutely no reason."
"I don't know what to tell you, Gil. They've run all the standard tests. Her chest films are clear. Her blood cultures are normal. Upper and lower GI revealed no gastronomical bleeding." He shook his head. "It's possible that a particularly violent cough could burst some capillaries in her throat, causing her to bleed."
"Would that explain her confusion? Nick said she didn't know where she was for a minute."
A second passed. "No, it wouldn't. But Gil, I looked at the slides. There's no sign of any infection that could be causing any of that. And her brain scans are normal, too."
"She is sick. Don't tell me that you're agreeing with them." Grissom pointed up in the general direction of the hospital room where Sara had been living for three days. "They want to send her home with some cough medicine and a referral for a shrink who specializes in post traumatic stress disorder."
"She did just go through hell," Doc Robbins reminded him. "It's not unheard of for psychological problems to manifest physiological symptoms."
Grissom stared at him. "I know her, Al. Sara is sick, not crazy." He ran his hand down the length of his beard in a futile attempt to calm himself. "What can I do? How I am supposed to take care of her if I can't get someone to acknowledge that she needs help?"
"You could try another hospital," the ME suggested. "Take her to L.A. Cedars-Sinai has…"
"Hand Sara over to the same incompetent doctors who misdiagnosed my mother and let her drown in her own phlegm? Not a chance," Grissom swore.
The chirp of cicadas filled the silence between them. Usually it was a sound in which Grissom took comfort, but right then, it was only helping bring on a migraine faster.
"I read an article awhile back about the diagnostic department at a hospital in New Jersey," Doc Robbins eventually said. "The head of the department has a…reputation, but his team's mortality rate is one of the lowest in the entire country."
Grissom rubbed his aching temple. "What kind of reputation?"
The older man side-stepped the question. "By all accounts, he's brilliant. Just unorthodox." He paused. "Of course, some people say the same of you." A few seconds passed. "I have a friend whose son is on the hospital's board. It wouldn't take a lot of string-pulling to get Sara an appointment."
It was going to be one hell of a migraine; already, every word that came out of the doctor's mouth sounded like it was being shouted directly into his ear. Grissom winced, but managed to nod. "Okay. I'll…talk to her about it."
"I'll call my friend." Doc Robbins turned to go, but glanced back a second later. "Take something now, Gil, before you can't function. Don't suffer if you don't have to."
Alone again, Grissom sank back down onto the stone bench. If there was such a thing as karma, the torture of a migraine couldn't even begin to balance out his sins.
To Be Continued
