Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In the mail today I received a very nice letter saying that I now own CSI and its' related entities...oh, that's not true. I received junk mail.
Spoilers: "No Humans Involved" and "Who Shot Sherlock Holmes?"
Summary: Little post-ep for "Who Shot Sherlock Holmes?".
A/N: I suppose you could call this a post-ep for "Sherlock"; that's when I wrote it. Mostly, though, it's just my wishful thinking. Also...I have no idea where this takes place. The ol' muse didn't provide me with a setting this time around ;-)
"Sara..." He's hesitant, and I know from his tone that we're about to have A Talk. "Sara, are you okay? You seemed happy tonight, but that case with the foster kids-"
"Reminded me too much of–me. That's why I needed some time off." I see once again the tear-stained faces of Kevin and Raymond, hear again the resigned voice of Glynnis: "Believe me, Mrs. Tenney is one of the good ones."
"Honey..." I feel the displaced air as he comes up behind me, so I don't flinch when his hands settle on my shoulders. There's pressure building deep in my chest, making it hard for me to breathe; my breath starts coming in shuddering gasps, shaking my whole body. I bite my lip, trying to stop the tears before they start. He suddenly shifts his grip, moving so quickly that I'm unprepared when he turns me to face him. His thumb on my mouth shocks me, but then he shows me the red smear on it.
I've bitten through my lip.
Again.
I look away, trying to distract him. When I speak, my voice is loud, overly cheerful. "Hey, I'm really glad you promoted Greg. He wanted to be a CSI so badly."
"I'm not concerned about Greg, Sara, I'm concerned about you! If you need to cry, then cry."
"I can't!" I wish he'd stop talking, or better yet, go away. If I'm alone I can deal; I can throttle down the emotions, the memories–
"Why?" He takes hold of me again, his hands loosely encircling my elbows. "Sara, why?"
And just like that, it's too much. The memories; his concern; anger that this is what it took for him for him to show compassion; a million other little pressures from my life: all these come raging forward, spitting out of my mouth in the one sentence I swore to myself I would never say to anyone in my new life, let alone him.
"Because when I cried, she hit me!" I shove away; he's so surprised that he actually lets me go. That initial push seems to have sapped all my energy, so instead of running I stand there, shaking and gasping; when he speaks my name softly, I brace myself for a stream of platitudes, all the things people say when they think they understand the hell you've gone through.
"It wasn't your fault."
"She had no right to do that."
"I'm sure she didn't mean it–not really."
I can't bear to hear those things, not again, not from him. My eyes close in defeat, and that triggers the tears; I cry silently at first, but soon I'm sobbing. All I want is to curl up and hide; no sooner has the thought entered my mind than my knees buckle, sending me toward the hard floor in a fall that will probably hurt later.
I'm crying so hard that my mind doesn't register at first that there are arms around me, or that I'm not actually on the floor.
Gradually, my tears run out; you can't cry forever, after all. My mind is still fuzzy, though, so it takes a while for me to realize that, logically, the arms holding me are Grissoms', that I'm curled up on Grissoms' lap.
Surprisingly, that realization doesn't embarrass me. Maybe it's because he's already seen me at my worst, so this little breakdown won't damage his opinion of me any more.
Maybe it's because I'm exhausted, physically and emotionally, and I don't care about anything right now.
Or maybe...
Just maybe...
Maybe it's because for the first time in more than twenty years I feel safe in someone's arms.