Passion's Inferno, a csi fanfic

TITLE: Passion's Inferno
AUTHOR: Anansay
SUMMARY: Is it too late?
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks go to Marlou for her beta services.
And I also need to offer a great big thank you for the reviews for my other stories. I know I don't do it often enough and for that I apologize. Thank you! They are very much appreciated and saved—every one of them. Even ones for those stories that I had to remove.

Passion's Inferno

By Anansay
July 4, 2004

It wasn't everyday you came upon a man in the throes of a passionate fit. It would always shock and disturb those whose misfortune it was to be present during such an event. And yet to pull oneself away and allow for a modicum of privacy was akin to pulling teeth while sober—impossible.

It struck a nerve deep in the darker, lesser traveled, recesses of the psyche to gape upon the toils of another. It offered an alternative perspective to one's life.

Grissom's fists pounded the air, his face squeezed tight against reality. Blubberings and mutterings squeezed forth from taut lips in between loud screeches and wails.

The coil of his being was drawn so tight, his body shook with the tension. In a moment, a very short one indeed, it might let loose, spiraling out of control and rebounding all the energy back upon him in a fiery backlash of unspoken dimensions.

It wasn't something anyone wanted to be witness to, and yet they stared. Like movie-goers too scared to see but too curious to look away, instead of fingers splayed in front of their faces, they squinted in sympathetic pain.

And still Grissom continued his tirade, unmindful of the small crowd behind him.

The sun beat down in relentless waves of sweltering heat. No shelter could be gotten from the shrubs around them. It wasn't a crime scene. No bodies lay hidden. It was an escape; a frenzied foray to the boundaries, far away from peeping eyes. But not of those of his friends, who'd followed in hot pursuit worried themselves about this sudden twist in their lives.

Beads of sweat matted Grissom's hair and poured down his face. His shirt stuck to him. Beside him, the Denali bore the absolute brunt of his rage with dents of various sizes marring its usually glossy surface.

It wasn't enough. It was just metal. But still he kicked and screamed and pounded. Until exhaustion made him stop, lean against the vehicle, his head cradled in his arms. In the deadening silence, tiny muffled sobs could be heard. They grew in intensity until his entire body shook with them and then he slid down the truck, fingers clawing, not wanting to give in. He slumped to the ground—a broken man.

Warrick held Catherine. Brass and Nick stood on either side. No one came near Grissom. Catherine had wanted to but Warrick wouldn't let her. He'd never seen Grissom so out of control. It was a truly scary sight.

Brass bit his lip, his hands flexing at his side. His face bore the result of a previous attempt—a quickly darkening bruise around his eye. While Catherine struggled against Warrick's hold, Brass crept forward, his hands outstretched should any limbs come flying at him. None came. Grissom sat motionless on the ground, his chest jerking with each breath.

Brass crouched down a few feet from Grissom. "Gil?" No response. He called his name again, and again no response. None, not so much as a blink of an eye.

Brass looked over his shoulder and Nick met his eyes, nodded and pulled out his cell phone. Brass turned back to his old friend. Grissom's eye were open, unblinking. His hands lay limply in his lap. If it weren't for the vehicle, he'd be flat on his back. Unresponsive.

Brass touched him on the shoulder. The muscles were lax, soft. Like post rigor mortis.

"Gil!" he called again.

A sound, a moan, and a slow blink of the eyes.

"Hey, come on now. You're scaring us."

Another low sound. His lips were open, a ball of saliva beginning to peek its way at the side of his mouth.

"Gil, come on back now. Don't do this. Not now. Sara needs you, you hear? We have to go to the hospital now. Come on, get up." He continued speaking in this way, offering short little bits of encouragement.

Slowly Grissom's head rose from his chest and his eyes blinked once, twice, then cleared and focused on Brass. Behind him he heard a huge sigh from Catherine.

"Sara?" Grissom said.

"Yes, Sara. She's at the hospital. We have to go now."

"Alive?"

Brass sighed. "Yes, she's alive. We have to go, now."

Grissom merely continued staring at Brass, his eyes pale and glossy. He didn't move. Feeling the sudden urgency of the situation, Brass hooked a hand under Grissom's arms and pulled. It was like pulling up a rag doll filled with soft sand—pliable and heavy.

"Grissom, move! C'mon, help me here!"

And slowly Grissom came back and pushed himself off the pavement. He stood on wobbly legs, blinking and swaying. Brass patted him down, tugged his clothes into place and smiled at him.

"That'a boy! Let's go see Sara now, okay?"

"Yes," Grissom said, his voice soft and low, toneless. "Sara."

"That's right, now get in the car, I'll drive."

"You drive."

"Yeah, 'cause you certainly ain't!"

---

Catherine watched as Brass drove off, Warrick's arm still around her. Nick had closed his cell phone when Grissom began responding. Catherine hooked a hand around Warrick's arm and held him to her, thankful for his strength. She'd known Grissom for a long time, long enough to say that she thought she knew him. He'd always been so strong and quiet, taking in everything and offering some mild quoted platitude.

Where were those long-dead poets now, to soothe her panicked heart? Gone with the near-catatonic man to see a woman who'd almost died.

---

The blast had been horrifying. Not just because it had rocked everyone back and blew several cars upside down, but more for its sound and the fact that it didn't seem to want to stop. Rumble after rumble of screeching atoms stole through their hearts as they watched the house suddenly become a massive ball of erupting fire. A rift in their tenderly guarded lives.

And Grissom had stood stock-still, eyes peeled to the destruction, his mouth open in a silent scream. Or maybe not so silent and merely sucked up by the inferno raging before him.

In a fit he'd taken off running, pants and jacket flapping around him as though he might actually take off flying at any moment. Brass had grabbed him and fought with him. It took three other burly officers to keep Grissom down, keep him out of the house and alive. They stayed on his struggling form until someone passed by them carrying a large bundle wrapped in blankets. Grissom's movements ceased as his eyes followed and when they placed the bundle on a waiting gurney, Brass let go and Grissom jumped up.

Lying on the gurney was a badly burned and unconscious Sara Sidle. Grissom's hands had fluttered above her face, and tiny hitching sounds sputtered from his quivering lips.

Then they shoved him out of the way and her body was hid from sight as they worked on her, trying valiantly to keep her alive. Screams for this and that were heard and hands worked faster, bodies bumping together and curses flying in between the EMT's.

Grissom stood transfixed as he watched his strong and beloved Sara be manhandled like some plastic doll at a dollar store. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. And before he knew it she was gone, whisked away into the brightly lit interior of the van and then the doors were closed and the sirens faded in the distance. He'd barely recognized her with the burns and the tubes and wires surrounding her.

That's when Brass grabbed his arm and Grissom spun around swinging.

---

Waiting must have been an invention of Lucifer himself. The interminable torture of nerves slowly fraying and sending skewered messages to an already frazzled brain. Yes, absolute torture. And not for the meek of mind either.

Within the waiting—and not knowing, another added stress—there was the 'other world' so to speak. That other place the mind went to try and ignore the ticking of the clock on the wall, slowly signaling the dragging of time. Of course, there was the TV on a screwed-in shelf in the corner with some inane show meant to distract from the slowing of time but it only served to accentuate the morbidity of it all. As if some half-ass funny sitcom could take away from the wrenching of a soul in agony.

Grissom had been sitting for three hours, hands clasped and hanging between his knees, head hanging to his chest. At times he seemed not be breathing at all and then he'd take this monumental shaking breath and then let it out in a sigh—and then nothing. Not a sound.

The others had come by, stayed a bit and then left. One of their own was in surgery but the world continued to turn and life went on. Only Grissom stayed and nothing any of them said or did made any difference. He'd only stare at them with flat eyes until they shut up, bowed their heads and let it rest. He wasn't leaving and that was it.

Back to heavy sighs.

When the doctor finally showed his haggard face in the room of haggard faces it wasn't with mirth that he greeted the lone occupant. Grissom raised his head and stared before rising to his feet, his knees popping painfully. He didn't grimace.

Sara was out of surgery. She would live and be fine but for now it was delicate. She was still unconscious.

Grissom listened to the man's words with a steady gaze, nodded at the right times and then shook his hand—he might have held it a bit too tight—and left to find Sara.

The covers were barely tented over Sara's prone form. Bandages masked much of her face and what could be seen was scarcely recognizable as alive, let alone human. Ugly dark red, bordering on black asphalt-like scabs, marred her otherwise beautiful skin. One eye hid behind a puffed up lid and a deep welt had sliced through her cheek. Her once beautifully expressive lips looked more like a boxer's after a good fight: swollen and discoloured. She'd been at the far end of the house, away from the main blast. It had been shocking and the heat almost searing but the flame-retardant clothing had protected most of her body as the flames had leaped and licked around her. Only her face, hands, arms and ankles had endured the inferno's rage.

Grissom sat by her bedside, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His eyes never left her, taking in every single tiny morsel of information and storing it away.

From the small rectangular window in the door it was a framed portrait: Man in Hell. Inside the room, hell had taken over. It even had the distinct smell of charred flesh. Intermixed were the unmistakable antiseptic odors of a hospital.

Hell in a hospital.

The nurses would come in every half hour, check the vitals and bandages and change them if need be, shift the sheets around even though Sara never moved and Grissom never touched them. They'd look at him, their eyes sad but shielded. Too many sights of worried and weeping husbands had passed by them, this one was no different. There was nothing they could do or say, so they said nothing. A few placed their hand on his shoulder as they left. He never felt them.

What Grissom wanted to feel was Sara, her hand in his but he daren't touch her. It was risky enough him being in the room with her. His face and body were hidden behind the obligatory mask and green robes. His hands wore gloves and no matter how much he sweated in them, he never took them off. Taking them off would mean leaving and he wasn't leaving. The gloves stayed on.

For three days he sat in the barely padded chair parked by the bedside, moved only when the nurses came in for the hourly care. When the doctors came for their daily assessment of the patient, Grissom would stand by the wall and stare intently, asking questions until the heavy sigh told him they had to go now, other patients you see, they'd be back later if you have any more questions, bye now. Another hand on the arm and he was left alone with Sara.

---

When Sara woke up, the room was silent and cold. There were no glaring lights to shock her into instant awareness. Instead she rose from the gloom, a swimmer rising to the surface, and into another kind of gloom. Darkness, but not blackness. She looked around and slowly reacquainted herself with her body.

It hurt.

More than hurt, it burned and itched and pulled. She swallowed and that hurt. She tried to move her hand and that hurt too. Her toes even hurt.

There was a fog in her brain and behind her eyes and it clouded everything. She blinked and it was still there. Thoughts came half formed and then were gone. Colours coalesced into images and then dispersed just as quickly. Like being caught in one of those toys she used to play with as a kid when you turned the tube and the little bits of coloured plastic would fall against each other creating mosaic patters at the bottom of a tunnel: a kaleidoscope forever moving.

And then slowly the edges of her mind began to splinter and an urge rose in her chest.

This wasn't her room. It didn't smell the same, or look the same. It didn't feel the same. It was foreign, different and wrong. Her eyes roamed around, seeking anything of familiarity and there was nothing, nothing at all. It was all just so wrong.

A small noise, just something tiny, erupted from her lips. A cry, just something to say she was still alive.

And then another, louder this time.

A shadow moved beside her and she struggled to turn her head. It moved again and grew in size, coming up beside her—no looming—beside her, over her.

"Sara?"

That voice, yet so different.

Another cry, this one a question.

"Sara…"

The shadow extended and then there was light. Bright sudden light that blinded. Sara shut her eyes and moaned.

An apology and the light disappeared. A smaller one took its place and she opened her eyes again.

Grissom's face was a dual personality—a bright lit side of wrinkled, anguish torment and dry, tear-stained eyes. And a hidden, more darker side. He stared at her from his perch on her bed, stared intently his one eye blazing in the dim light from the small lamp on the night table.

Sara tried to say his name but it came out more as a croak than anything else. Immediately a glass of water was offered and he helped her drink it. His name came out better this time, but not perfectly.

"What happened? Where am I?" The questions poured out before Grissom had a chance to answer the previous one and he smiled, a small wan smile.

With patience due one heavy on pain medication, he explained to her in meek details of the explosion and the operation. She seemed to take it in stride, listening intently and interrupting only a few times. And then she turned away and stared ahead. It was then Grissom saw the lone tear break free and run down her cheek.

"Sara, honey, what is it? I'm sorry…"

She turned back to him, smiled and turned away again. "A fire," she began, her voice far away, her words slurred. "An explosion and… surgery… I can't move my face, I can't even feel it. And my body, it hurts so much and yet it doesn't. I… I don't want to know."

Grissom listened to her speak, watched her lips try to form the words and his heart broke. Again.

"Honey," he said, "it's okay. It's alright. Everything's going to be alright…"

Sara turned to him again. "Is it? I was burned. I can't even—I can't even speak properly. I just… I don't know what I look like now…"

"You look fine, Sara."

Sara said nothing for a while, just stared at Grissom. "Do I? How do you know? I'm covered in bandages."

They covered most of her face, except for one eye, a cheek and her lips. Her neck was mildly burned. Her arms and hands had sustained the majority of the damage, having shielded her face from the blast.

Grissom smiled. "Because I can still see your eyes and they're beautiful Sara, like always."

Another tear traced its way down her face on the clear cheek and she sniffled, an odd sound behind the bandages. Beneath the sheet her hand moved and she grimaced, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she gasped. "I… I can't even wipe my own tears Grissom," she whispered through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry Sara, I'm so sorry…" He dabbed at the tear with a tissue and then leaned over and touched the damp skin with his lips in a soft kiss.

"Don't…I'll just cry some more Grissom." She tried to smile but her lips wouldn't stretch that far. "And… why are you here anyway?"

Grissom took a deep breath and let it out slowly before seeking out her eyes again. "I…" he began. "I… was scared… that you…"

"What?"

Another breath and he bit his lip. "… were gone."

More silence and then, "I think the nurses gave me too much drugs. I must be hallucinating or something."

"Why?"

"Because I got the distinct impression that you were worried that I… might have died."

"Sara," his hand reached for hers, stopped at the last moment and settled on her relatively uninjured shoulder. He stared at it. "Sara… I was so scared," his voice began breaking, "when that house exploded. It was the most god-awfullest moment in my entire life. I… I thought I'd lost you." His voice finally cracked as his bottom lip began trembling and two tears of their own escaped his closed eyes. His hand clenched on her shoulder.

"Grissom," Sara whispered, "it's not too late."

He looked up and at her through watery red-rimmed eyes, and blinked. "What?"

"I told you once that by the time you figure it out, it might be too late. It's not too late now. I'm… not dead."

A breath he never knew he was holding in came out in a huff and a sob.

"Please don't cry Grissom. I can't hold you right now…" Sara tried to speak, tried to talk to him but nothing worked and she was left there to watch as Grissom tried in vain not to fall apart.

His hand drifted to her hair and he stroked it softly, mindful of any burns to her head. His other hand still squeezed her shoulder and his head rested on the bed, as close to nuzzling her neck as he could get without hurting her. He kept repeating one thing over and over again. "You're alive… you're alive… you're alive…" like a mantra to his own survival.

"Grissom," Sara spoke sharply, as sharply as she could, "listen to me." Her voice was growing hoarse and weak. She coughed. "When I'm better, do you… would you," she swallowed, "have dinner with me?"

His head came up. "God yes! Oh yes, dinner and everything else, Sara. God yes!"

It wasn't a smile, but it was close and the healing began.

THE END