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This is set post season 3. No direct mention is made of Grissom's surgery, although it is assumed that he recovered from it without incident (because really, what would they do with a deaf Grissom for another 2 seasons?). To the best of my ability, I've tried to keep characterizations and events in the universe of "this could actually happen."
No infringement is intended, I'm just borrowing the characters because they're so much fun to write.
This is Part one. More will eventually follow.
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She stopped in front of the door to his office. It was shut almost all the way, but a weak light spilled through the crack. Shift had ended hours ago, but in typically fashion Sara had stayed late, wrapping up loose ends on a few pieces of evidence. Somewhere along the line Nick, Warrick and Catherine had stuck their heads in to say good night before leaving. A lab tech had mentioned Grissom leaving for the night too, but he never left his office open. She pushed the door open enough to peer into the dim room.
"Grissom?" There was no response though and after a few seconds she began to close the door again.
His voice stopped her. "I'm here" he said softly, from somewhere within the office. "Did you need something?"
"Oh, no." Sarah opened the door again, the harsh light from the fluorescents in the hallway illuminating her way as she stepped in. "I just thought you left hours ago. I saw the light on..." Grissom wasn't behind his desk and Sara's eyes surveyed the room looking for him, even as she spoke. She finally saw him. He was sitting in the shadow of one of the shelving units. His back against the wall, his knees drawn up, and a more than half empty bottle of bourbon at his feet. He didn't look up at her, instead his eyes were focused on the pale orange liquid in the glass he held in his hand. She hadn't thought he kept alcohol in his office and briefly wondered where he had gotten it.
Grissom remained silent, so she spoke again, "It was a tough case." It was an acknowledgement, an invitation to talk. The case she was talking about had been forced to back burner tonight, after the evidence proved too weak to take to the DA's office. That wasn't the only reason it was hard, though. The victim was a young girl, no more than eight years old. The autopsy revealed that she had been abused and beaten repeatedly in the past and brutally before her murder. They were convinced her step father, a rough, blue collar man, was responsible. Examining the crime scene was heartbreaking; the squalor of the one room apartment the family was living in, the corner the child had been sleeping in, the ratted doll with one eye missing on her mattress. Sara knew she had come a long way with being able to handle her emotions on cases, but this one was almost too much.
She had to leave the interrogation room two separate times while they were interviewing the step father to avoid blowing up. The second time, Grissom had followed her out and suggested she might be more comfortable handling one of the other new cases that had come in. She had almost blown at *him* then, the determined calm that he had exhibited since the case testing the last shreds of her control. She had almost called him unfeeling again, along with some other choice adjectives. Almost. Instead she had bitten her tongue and muttered something less accusatory, but the look on his face and the momentary flash in his eyes told her that he had intuited what she hadn't said. Sometimes he was too good at that.
She hadn't left the case, of course. But now it was over anyway and here was Grissom alone in his office, sitting on the floor, drinking when he thought he wouldn't be disturbed. The case must have bothered him as much as it did her, she realized, he was just better at covering it. The revelation wasn't a complete surprise, she knew him well enough to know that he was affected by the tough cases in his own way, but now open evidence of just how much was before her eyes.
He had heard her last statement and was looking up at her now. "Yeah, tough case." He was echoing in a monotone, and then after a pause, "Can you shut the door? The light..."
He hadn't asked her to leave, she realized, and took it as an invitation to stay. Sara shut the door gently and dropped her bag and files on a chair. The rift that had been growing between them for months made her hesitate, but she walked over and slid her back down the wall until she was sitting next to him. Darkness allowed one to make allowances.
"How much have that have you had?" She nodded towards to bottle.
Grissom eyed it for a moment before responding, "It was full," he said with a shrug.
He must be completely drunk then, Sara thought. But his words were deliberate and even, with only a little trace of a slur. Instead, he spoke more slowly, as if taking the extra time his brain demanded to consider what he was going to say before he said it. Always so determined not to reveal himself. She wondered if he had been here like this since shift ended.
"We should have gotten that bastard," Grissom said, his voice laden with an emotion Sara couldn't quite identify, "We followed the evidence and it got us nowhere... what's left when science doesn't work Sara?"
Coming from Grissom the question was a shock, but Sara answered after a heartbeat; she knew this one. "Faith."
"Faith?"
She nodded, "Faith that we did the best we could for that little girl; faith that somehow the universe will make sure that guy pays for what he did; faith that next time we'll do better." How odd it was for her to be offering the words of comfort to him, the teacher, the cold unemotional one.
Grissom shook his head, "I don't think I have too much faith left anymore."
Sara was silent for a few minutes, absorbing his confession. He had been doing this job for over 15 years and she wasn't sure what she could say that he hadn't heard before, or said before. He probably knew even better than her that there were good days and bad days, and at the end of the bad days sometimes it was all you could do to drag yourself through to the next.
"You can't solve them all Grissom, I know you try, but there are times when the best we can do is just the best we can do. It's not your fault." It sounded weak even to her own ears, but Sara had a feeling she couldn't say anything that would really make a difference. Sometimes it's just the gesture that counts.
"I know it's not my fault, but it is my responsibility."
"We're a team Grissom," Sara said, trying to share some of his burden, "Remember?"
He scoffed in response and emptied the contents of the glass down his throat.
None of the gang had ever managed to get Grissom to go out with them, so there was always ongoing speculation about what the Boss would be like after a few. If Catherine knew, she never told; Nick thought that he would be up on the counters doing pole dances; Warrick bet money that he would pass out after one. Greg had said something about feathers and latex. But the Grissom that sat next Sara now was none of those things, he seemed powerfully introspective and for once, almost vulnerable. She knew it wouldn't last, but it made her want to reach out for him, even though he had brushed her off last time she tried.
"Let me drive you home Grissom. You can't do anything more for her and you can't sit here in your office all day." Grissom didn't respond, his eyes staring off at the opposite wall. Sara reached a hand out and laid it on his arm to get his attention. "Grids?"
The contact startled him out his revere and he looked down at her hand. Warm, soft and gentle; short nails; no nail polish. His mind categorized and analyzed even through the alcohol induced fog. "Sure, thanks." He couldn't drive himself anywhere like this and suddenly, the idea of spending the day sitting on the floor drunk didn't seem quite as appealing as it had earlier.
Sara nodded and stood up, preferring a hand to help haul Grissom to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a few seconds, his hand grabbing her shoulder to steady himself. "Sorry," he muttered before pulling back. The bottle and glass were slipped into a drawer and he somehow managed to remember his briefcase before following Sara out of the office.
She eyed him discretely as they walked down halls bustling with people from the day shift. Grissom moved with a shuffle, with his head down and one hand trailing against the wall. She hoped they could make a clean getaway without anyone talking to them. He may be able to almost pull off looking sober, but she doubted his ability to hold a completely coherent conversation. Fortunately, they escaped without running into anyone.
Outside, Grissom squinted in the bright morning light and almost tripped on the way to her car.
"Oh god," he mumbled as she put a steading arm on his, "too bright." She wondered if he was on the edge of a migraine, too. Sara led him to her car and he settled into the passenger seat. With a sidelong glance at the man beside her, Sara put the car in reverse and pulled out of the CSI parking lot.
TBC
This is set post season 3. No direct mention is made of Grissom's surgery, although it is assumed that he recovered from it without incident (because really, what would they do with a deaf Grissom for another 2 seasons?). To the best of my ability, I've tried to keep characterizations and events in the universe of "this could actually happen."
No infringement is intended, I'm just borrowing the characters because they're so much fun to write.
This is Part one. More will eventually follow.
-------------------------------------------------
She stopped in front of the door to his office. It was shut almost all the way, but a weak light spilled through the crack. Shift had ended hours ago, but in typically fashion Sara had stayed late, wrapping up loose ends on a few pieces of evidence. Somewhere along the line Nick, Warrick and Catherine had stuck their heads in to say good night before leaving. A lab tech had mentioned Grissom leaving for the night too, but he never left his office open. She pushed the door open enough to peer into the dim room.
"Grissom?" There was no response though and after a few seconds she began to close the door again.
His voice stopped her. "I'm here" he said softly, from somewhere within the office. "Did you need something?"
"Oh, no." Sarah opened the door again, the harsh light from the fluorescents in the hallway illuminating her way as she stepped in. "I just thought you left hours ago. I saw the light on..." Grissom wasn't behind his desk and Sara's eyes surveyed the room looking for him, even as she spoke. She finally saw him. He was sitting in the shadow of one of the shelving units. His back against the wall, his knees drawn up, and a more than half empty bottle of bourbon at his feet. He didn't look up at her, instead his eyes were focused on the pale orange liquid in the glass he held in his hand. She hadn't thought he kept alcohol in his office and briefly wondered where he had gotten it.
Grissom remained silent, so she spoke again, "It was a tough case." It was an acknowledgement, an invitation to talk. The case she was talking about had been forced to back burner tonight, after the evidence proved too weak to take to the DA's office. That wasn't the only reason it was hard, though. The victim was a young girl, no more than eight years old. The autopsy revealed that she had been abused and beaten repeatedly in the past and brutally before her murder. They were convinced her step father, a rough, blue collar man, was responsible. Examining the crime scene was heartbreaking; the squalor of the one room apartment the family was living in, the corner the child had been sleeping in, the ratted doll with one eye missing on her mattress. Sara knew she had come a long way with being able to handle her emotions on cases, but this one was almost too much.
She had to leave the interrogation room two separate times while they were interviewing the step father to avoid blowing up. The second time, Grissom had followed her out and suggested she might be more comfortable handling one of the other new cases that had come in. She had almost blown at *him* then, the determined calm that he had exhibited since the case testing the last shreds of her control. She had almost called him unfeeling again, along with some other choice adjectives. Almost. Instead she had bitten her tongue and muttered something less accusatory, but the look on his face and the momentary flash in his eyes told her that he had intuited what she hadn't said. Sometimes he was too good at that.
She hadn't left the case, of course. But now it was over anyway and here was Grissom alone in his office, sitting on the floor, drinking when he thought he wouldn't be disturbed. The case must have bothered him as much as it did her, she realized, he was just better at covering it. The revelation wasn't a complete surprise, she knew him well enough to know that he was affected by the tough cases in his own way, but now open evidence of just how much was before her eyes.
He had heard her last statement and was looking up at her now. "Yeah, tough case." He was echoing in a monotone, and then after a pause, "Can you shut the door? The light..."
He hadn't asked her to leave, she realized, and took it as an invitation to stay. Sara shut the door gently and dropped her bag and files on a chair. The rift that had been growing between them for months made her hesitate, but she walked over and slid her back down the wall until she was sitting next to him. Darkness allowed one to make allowances.
"How much have that have you had?" She nodded towards to bottle.
Grissom eyed it for a moment before responding, "It was full," he said with a shrug.
He must be completely drunk then, Sara thought. But his words were deliberate and even, with only a little trace of a slur. Instead, he spoke more slowly, as if taking the extra time his brain demanded to consider what he was going to say before he said it. Always so determined not to reveal himself. She wondered if he had been here like this since shift ended.
"We should have gotten that bastard," Grissom said, his voice laden with an emotion Sara couldn't quite identify, "We followed the evidence and it got us nowhere... what's left when science doesn't work Sara?"
Coming from Grissom the question was a shock, but Sara answered after a heartbeat; she knew this one. "Faith."
"Faith?"
She nodded, "Faith that we did the best we could for that little girl; faith that somehow the universe will make sure that guy pays for what he did; faith that next time we'll do better." How odd it was for her to be offering the words of comfort to him, the teacher, the cold unemotional one.
Grissom shook his head, "I don't think I have too much faith left anymore."
Sara was silent for a few minutes, absorbing his confession. He had been doing this job for over 15 years and she wasn't sure what she could say that he hadn't heard before, or said before. He probably knew even better than her that there were good days and bad days, and at the end of the bad days sometimes it was all you could do to drag yourself through to the next.
"You can't solve them all Grissom, I know you try, but there are times when the best we can do is just the best we can do. It's not your fault." It sounded weak even to her own ears, but Sara had a feeling she couldn't say anything that would really make a difference. Sometimes it's just the gesture that counts.
"I know it's not my fault, but it is my responsibility."
"We're a team Grissom," Sara said, trying to share some of his burden, "Remember?"
He scoffed in response and emptied the contents of the glass down his throat.
None of the gang had ever managed to get Grissom to go out with them, so there was always ongoing speculation about what the Boss would be like after a few. If Catherine knew, she never told; Nick thought that he would be up on the counters doing pole dances; Warrick bet money that he would pass out after one. Greg had said something about feathers and latex. But the Grissom that sat next Sara now was none of those things, he seemed powerfully introspective and for once, almost vulnerable. She knew it wouldn't last, but it made her want to reach out for him, even though he had brushed her off last time she tried.
"Let me drive you home Grissom. You can't do anything more for her and you can't sit here in your office all day." Grissom didn't respond, his eyes staring off at the opposite wall. Sara reached a hand out and laid it on his arm to get his attention. "Grids?"
The contact startled him out his revere and he looked down at her hand. Warm, soft and gentle; short nails; no nail polish. His mind categorized and analyzed even through the alcohol induced fog. "Sure, thanks." He couldn't drive himself anywhere like this and suddenly, the idea of spending the day sitting on the floor drunk didn't seem quite as appealing as it had earlier.
Sara nodded and stood up, preferring a hand to help haul Grissom to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a few seconds, his hand grabbing her shoulder to steady himself. "Sorry," he muttered before pulling back. The bottle and glass were slipped into a drawer and he somehow managed to remember his briefcase before following Sara out of the office.
She eyed him discretely as they walked down halls bustling with people from the day shift. Grissom moved with a shuffle, with his head down and one hand trailing against the wall. She hoped they could make a clean getaway without anyone talking to them. He may be able to almost pull off looking sober, but she doubted his ability to hold a completely coherent conversation. Fortunately, they escaped without running into anyone.
Outside, Grissom squinted in the bright morning light and almost tripped on the way to her car.
"Oh god," he mumbled as she put a steading arm on his, "too bright." She wondered if he was on the edge of a migraine, too. Sara led him to her car and he settled into the passenger seat. With a sidelong glance at the man beside her, Sara put the car in reverse and pulled out of the CSI parking lot.
TBC