Reason To Believe
Summary: What if Greg's attack had yielded tragically different results?
Setting: Season Seven, 2006-2007.
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.
Author's Note: This fic has been on my computer for about six years now, and I keep coming back to it. A sizable amount has been written, but I never finished it, so I never posted it. I've caught the CSI fic bug again lately and am going through a lot of old things. I'm hoping that posting the chapters I have will motivate me to finish. I avoid unfinished stories as much as possible, and I love this concept too much to ignore it. So, go back in time with me, if you will, to ten years ago. I hope you enjoy the ride.
"No man is a failure who has friends." – Clarence, who finally earned his wings.
Chapter One: Rebirth
One day, it was as if someone had hit the "on" switch. And though it began suddenly, it didn't happen all at once. The factory lights buzzed on and there loomed the old corroded thing, damaged but not destroyed, and neglect had left it a little worse for wear. Then, achingly slowly, the rusting cogs creaked to life and began to run again. The pulleys and levers gradually regained their momentum and the old machine was active, despite missing a few parts. It began chugging away, pumping pistons, making sounds, performing tasks, and… opening his eyes.
It started with open eyes.
At first, that's all the old brain could do, was open his eyes. They couldn't even really see anything, at first. There were white lights, indistinguishable at first, and a part of him somewhere long lost wondered if this was what being born felt like. He couldn't make out details, just shadows and shapes. But then, the shapes drifted away again and night fell for a little while.
He blinked many times, and every time he raised his eyelids again, the world had somehow changed. At first, they were heavy, and the lights would shift with the world, but soon it became easier to open his lids again, and he didn't need to blink as often. Sometimes he would watch the shadows before closing his eyes again.
One time, he opened his eyes, and the blurs around him were accompanied by sounds, but it was as if he heard them under water. They were damp and heavy. After what seemed like hours, the sounds began to string together and become clearer.
"Can you hear me?"
He knew those sounds. They were words. Words had meaning, didn't they?
"But he doesn't respond… Note the way his eyes are moving. What could this mean?"
He wasn't sure what it meant, and he didn't know why he was being asked.
"He's dreaming."
"Good guess. The movements resemble what we might see in a patient in the middle of REM sleep. So if he isn't dreaming, what does it mean?"
There was a honking sound, animalistic and loud. It took him a moment to realize that it had come from his own mouth.
There was shuffling around him. And then, the question again, this time much more sincere. "Can you hear me? Mr. Sanders, can you hear me?" There was anticipation in her voice, hungry for a response.
He made the sound again, and tried to shake his head. He blinked, hoping his vision would become clearer. But his eyes made his head ache. He felt overwhelmingly tired.
"Suzie, can you ask Dr. Wallace to take the interns, please?"
White flooded his vision and he cried out, jerking away from it.
"Pupils are responsive. Suzie, bring me his file. Jesus, his eyes weren't moving randomly, he was tracking our movement. Mr. Sanders, if you can hear me, blink your eyes."
He tried. He wasn't sure he succeeded. He was so tired. The darkness claimed his vision and it stayed for a while. The sounds were suddenly gone. When his eyes opened again, he could see colors. He groaned.
Someone else moved in the room. He could hear it. "Greg?"
He didn't know the voice. He saw a shape. Blue and brown and beige. He tried to focus his eyes, but his head hurt.
He became suddenly aware of a dry warmth in his hand, and slight pressure. It felt strange.
"Greg, are you awake?"
"How's he doing?"
"He's awake, doctor! Look! He's looking at me!"
"Good… OK, Greg, let's try this again. If you can hear me, I need you to say so. Can you hear me?"
He thought he said yes.
"Hm… Greg, can you say your name for me?"
He assumed that his name was Greg. He tried to say it.
"What does that mean?" said the other voice.
"This is a process, Ms. Sidle. People don't just emerge from a coma miraculously cured. But at least he's responsive. It's a good sign, I promise. You're holding his hand?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No, it's perfect. Greg, would you try and squeeze your right hand for me?"
He did. There was a gasp.
"I felt it. Oh God, he squeezed back."
He slipped away again. The shapes were fuzzy, and there was an echo in his head.
But when his eyes opened once more, it was like breaking the surface of the ocean. He gulped down air. He'd forgotten how to breathe. His vision was slightly more distinct, but things were still blurry, like looking through saran wrap. He blinked several times, much more rapidly than he had before, and nothing changed when he opened his eyes. It was all the same, one world, one timeline. His lungs were burning and his head was filled with cotton.
"Greg…" A soft, but sturdy voice. Tentative. Unsure of himself.
Greg could relate. He closed his eyes because the light was invasive. He prayed he wouldn't slip away again.
"Greggo?" The voice seemed scared, but Greg saw no reason for it. He opened his eyes and turned towards it, squinting as he examined the face. A man in his thirties with trimmed brown hair and deep eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but the wrong sounds came out. He was lost. What was happening? What was wrong with him? Why wouldn't his body obey him and who was this person standing beside him?
There was a weak smile. The man rubbed Greg's shoulder. "It's OK, Greggo. The doc said that this could happen… Do you understand me?"
Slowly and painfully, Greg managed to shake his head no.
The man laughed, but there was still something missing from it. "I know, stupid question, huh?" His smile gained strength. "But you know what I said, and that's what I meant."
A door opened, catching Greg's attention. "Ah, we're awake again, I see," said a woman with black hair in a white coat. She held a clipboard and approached the bed with determination. "My name is Dr. Amador. Do you know what I'm saying to you?"
"Yeah, he, uh, he does, I checked," said the man by his bed, a little too eagerly.
She smiled kindly at him, but it seemed rehearsed, as though she had done it many times before. "Let him answer for himself, please, Mr. Stokes." She turned back to Greg. "Now… If you understand me could you nod?"
Again, Greg shook his head.
She chuckled as if he were making some sort of joke. "Being obstinate are we? Well, that's all the proof I need." She made a note on her clipboard. "Could you make a fist with your right hand?"
He looked down at his fist and squeezed. His fingers curled and brushed against his palm. The lines on his hand felt strange and dry on his fingertips, like sand. His hand blossomed outward again and he slowly turned it over so his palm faced the ceiling. He was fascinated by how small it looked.
"Fantastic," said the doctor. "Now could you clench your left hand?"
At first, nothing happened. The left side of his body felt numb. He concentrated on it, trying as hard as he could to do as she asked.
He managed a twitch in his fingers.
"Hm…" Dr. Amador remarked, making another note on her clipboard. "Can you wiggle your toes on your right foot for me?"
The sheets on the bed moved. Moving his leg a little to the side, the appendage seemed lazy, a heavy stone shaking off cobwebs, dust and moss that had grown on it over decades.
"And your left?"
The sheets were still. Dr. Amador looked at her clipboard again.
"What's that mean?" asked the anxious man by his bed.
She looked up and smiled at both of them. "There's no need to be alarmed. Greg, you managed a twitch, and believe it or not, that's a good thing. This could only be temporary. Now, about your aphasia…" She pursed her lips and flipped a page on the clipboard. "When asked your name before, you couldn't pronounce it. Do you know what your name is?"
Greg nodded.
"Could you say your name for me, please?"
He hesitated and glanced at the man by his bed. The doctor followed his gaze.
"Mr. Stokes, I would appreciate it if you waited outside," she said.
"I want to know what's wrong with him," Mr. Stokes said, stubbornly.
"And I will tell you when I'm done with the tests. But I think he's embarrassed to have you here, listening to him."
Mr. Stokes looked as though he had never considered this. His face fell. "Oh… yeah, right, OK." He looked at Greg. "I'll be right out in the hall, OK, Greg?"
Greg nodded. He felt a strange connection to the man. He wondered if they were brothers.
Nick Stokes sat in the waiting room, his forearms on his knees, hands clasped and head bent. Three months. That's how long they had waited for any sign concerning Greg's condition, but the best the doctors could offer them was "wait and see." There had been scans and x-rays and prognoses… But inevitably, no one could know what was going on inside Greg's brain.
Nick closed his eyes. He'd imagined what this day would be like. One day, Greg would open his eyes, and be absolutely fine. He would laugh and beg them to sneak him out of the hospital when the doctors insisted on keeping him for observation. Within days, he'd be back to work, falling back into his daily routine.
But of course, this was just a fantasy, one that was encouraged by Hollywood and fairytales. Nick knew that brain injuries were tricky things. And even coma survivors don't escape completely unscathed. If he woke up at all, there was bound to be problems. Deep down, as a rational, educated forensic investigator, Nick had known all of this to be true. But it hadn't stopped him from dreaming.
Today was supposed to be a happy day. A day of relieved sighs and falling blood pressures. But Nick didn't feel it yet. He still feared the worst. Greg had looked at him with unfocussed eyes. They were lost. And it terrified him.
"Nick?"
He looked up and saw Grissom standing six feet away from him. He was looking at him in the way an owl might, stiffly and with raised eyebrows, seeing more than what was in front of him.
Nick nodded. "Doctor's in with him now, running some tests on his language issues."
Grissom nodded, but his expression didn't change. "But otherwise?"
"He was… more awake than ever. It wasn't like before, where he kind of knew what was going on. He looked at me. He moved his head when I spoke. He responded to the doctor's commands. That's a good thing?"
Grissom cocked his head to the side. "Why do you say that like a question?"
Nick raked a hand through his short hair. "I don't know, Grissom… After the attack, the doctors said that… maybe it was a good thing he was comatose, because he wouldn't feel his injuries. They've mostly healed now, but I still feel like… there are wounds he hasn't felt yet and I don't want him to feel them."
Grissom nodded and sat wordlessly next to Nick in the chair. He said nothing for a moment, just staring straight ahead.
"I haven't told the others about your phone call yet," he said, suddenly.
Nick blinked. "Why not?"
"Because they'd want to come," Grissom explained. "Immediately."
"So?"
"So… I don't think that's a good idea. It would be overwhelming for Greg. One or two of us here at a time, that's been working, I see no reason to change that pattern today. And besides, they have work to do. Murders to solve."
Nick looked down, flashing back momentarily to the night of Greg's attack, and the subsequent investigations. "If we'd worked harder and faster that night, maybe we could have caught them before Greg—"
"No," Grissom interrupted.
Nick looked at him. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
He said nothing at first, but then, "I mean that we are human. Not only is it illogical to blame ourselves, but it's also pointless. What does it change?"
He spoke as if he'd said it before.
"Yeah…" Nick agreed after a moment. "I guess it doesn't change what happened."
Dr. Amador rounded the corner and Nick leapt to his feet. Grissom, recognizing the action, looked to the doctor.
"He has a form of Broca's aphasia," she explained. "Which could last for the rest of his life, or it could dissipate in a matter of weeks or even days. His brain has been asleep for three months. It's adjusting to being awake again."
"Broca's aphasia, what does that mean?" Nick asked.
"Words," Dr. Amador explained. "He literally can't find the words. Mostly nouns, but verbs as well sometimes. I showed him pictures of everyday objects. He knew what they were. But when he'd try to name it, some other word or nonsense sound would come out. He's having trouble with his consonants as well, but I think that will pass. Just while I was in there, he was trying harder to annunciate."
Nick fell back in his chair. "So… we can't talk to him."
"No, you can talk to him," Dr. Amador clarified. "It's a problem with expression, not comprehension. He seemed to understand me fine enough. The problem is, he can't talk to you. He will try to reply, but his words won't make sense to you."
"What other problems does he have?" asked Grissom.
"His left side is weak… Half paralyzed. But the subtle movements indicate that the neural pathways are still intact. It could be they're bruised or scarred. I think he should regain at least some movement there."
"Some?" Nick muttered, nervously.
"Well, a full-recovery is unlikely," Dr. Amador explained. "There will be some residual problems that will crop up in the future, but we'll cross those bridges when we come to them. Would you like to see him?"
Grissom and Nick looked at each other.
When they stepped inside, Greg's head was turned toward the window. Three months in a bed had taken its toll on his body. He seemed much smaller than he used to, and his skin was sallow, hanging off of bones and scattered with scars. He turned when he heard the door click shut and stared at them blankly.
"Hey, Greggo," Nick said, trying to smile.
He squinted. "Don't do binoculars…"
Nick stopped, frozen by the nonsensical words. But Grissom seemed unfazed as he continued to approach the bed.
"It's good to see you, Greg," he said quietly.
Greg looked at him and blinked. "Buh… Binoculars. Can't find binoculars." He closed his eyes tightly and seemed to internally berate himself. "No… not right…" he explained. "No ocean." He gestured to his eyes.
Grissom leaned forward. "You can't see?"
Greg nodded. "Exactly, thanks!" He held his hand in front of his eyes. "Here window," he explained, then stretched his hand out at arm's length. "Here, nuh, no ocean."
"He's nearsighted," Grissom concluded with a small smile.
Nick tried to fathom how Grissom deciphered that. "The gestures?" he guessed.
"The words," Grissom explained. "He can't think of the word he needs, but he remembers the associations. Binoculars are used to see things far away. An ocean is like a sea, which is a homonym for—"
"Sight," Nick realized, comprehension dawning.
"You're welcome," said Greg.
"I'll go tell the doctor…" said Nick, finding it hard to breathe in Greg's room. He was glad for the excuse.
Grissom sat down in a chair by Greg's bed. "To be honest, it's easier than talking to you when you were a DNA tech. You said all sorts of things I couldn't understand. At least this has some sort of logic to it."
Greg gave him a confused smile. He pointed at Grissom. "Fa… Family?"
Grissom was taken aback by the word, and the plethora of associations that went with it. He wasn't sure what Greg meant, but a part of him was warmed by it. "No…" he said slowly, and Greg looked disappointed. "I mean… You know who I am, don't you, Greg?"
Greg looked distressed. He shook his head and tears bloomed in his eyes. He brought his right hand up to cover his face as he fell back down on the pillow.
It bothered Grissom as well. "I know you're frustrated… Do you know who you are?"
He stopped moving and brought his hand down from his face. He paused, then nodded.
"Do you remember your mother?"
His eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously. "Sanifornia…" he began, then shook his head. "Califran…" He pounded the bed with his closed fist.
"California," Grissom provided.
Greg nodded. "Here?" Greg asked, pointing towards the ground.
Grissom shook his head. "No, Greg. You're in Las Vegas. You live here. Remember?"
"Live…" He frowned. "Lost Vegas?"
Grissom chuckled. "Lost Vegas sounds about right, doesn't it?"
Greg paused. "M-mom?"
Grissom smiled. Greg knew that word so well, it was impossible to lose it. "She was here at first. But she had to get back to work. I called her, she's on her way."
"Mouth sounds…" Greg said sadly. "Not… easy."
"I know," said Grissom. "But I like the fact that you're not afraid to try anyway."
Greg smiled at him with half-lidded eyes. He leaned back on his bed and closed them completely. Grissom stayed until he saw Greg's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. He rose to his feet and held the rail on the edge of his bed.
He stayed there all night.
NOTE: A handful of liberties have been taken with the symptoms of aphasia. It's actually a mix of a few different aphasias, but I took some poetic license for the sake of the story. As a former linguistics student, I do know that this does not have the exact same symptoms, and at times seems like Werneke's and then Broca's, and if you, too, are familiar with the disorder, then I apologize for misrepresenting it. If you are unfamiliar with the disorder – be aware that fiction is not always accurate.