This is an alternative explanation for Sara's behaviors in this series, spawned by the episode "Hunger Artist". Sara's actions during this case got me to wondering (watch and pay close attention to the scene with Warrick when discussing Ashleigh—watch Sara's face). I've not met anyone with BOTH OCD and Aspergers though I've dealt intimately with people suffering from OCD and others dealing with autism and Aspergers. Forgive me if I've been inaccurate, it is entirely unintentional.
This is very rough and there might be inconsistencies. If there are please ignore them unless they are detrimental to the story. Thanks.
AND OF course I don't own these characters, they're just something to play with when I am not working on my book or short stories for publication.
I write completely off the cuff and do not edit/revise. These are fun, little stories I write to warm up to the big stuff (my book) so do not antagonize over details.
So here it is and enjoy.
SARA's POV
I like numbers. Always have. I count to calm myself, doesn't matter what, just as long as it's counting. I can tell you all ninety-two elements and their exact atomic weights, I can tell you the exact number of tiles on the break room floor, on the ceiling in the conference room, all the rooms in the lab. I like numbers, that's why I chose physics; mathematics are precise. Mathematics are ordered. I need order.
One number repeats in my head until I can't get it out. Nine thirty four. It's my apartment number. It's my locker combination. It's how old I was when my mother killed my father. Nine years and thirty four days. It's how long I sat in the closet before the social workers found me. Nine hours and thirty four minutes. Its how much time passed between that day and the day I first met Grissom. Nine years and thirty four days. Its how much time had passed between that day and the day he called me to come to Vegas. Nine years, thirty weeks and four days.
Nine thirty four haunts me. Grissom knows this—I told him years ago that this number bothers me. I didn't tell him the severity of it. When I'm stressed I count to nine hundred thirty four, and then I start again. He heard me, counting softly under my breath when he picked me up at the police station after I was pulled over. His eyebrows rose when I reached nine three four and started over again.
Everyone laughs when they say I never sleep, but they don't realize the truth. I can't sleep, not without counting first, and the SSRIs don't exactly make sleeping easier. I only sleep when my body crashes. Nine days thirty four minutes is the longest I've went without much more than an hour's sleep.
I obsess over this number, I obsess over my work, I obsess over the man I love. Rationally I know I have a problem and I've conscientiously taken the medications I've been prescribed since my freshman year in college. But this time, my doctor wanted to try something different, a different SSRI. I was leery, change bothered me a lot. But if it helped me get passed these obsessions—live a normal life like other people, like other women, I wanted to at least try. I envied Catherine. She had no idea the kind of hang-ups I had. So I gave in, switched prescriptions.
I was reviewing old case files and came across the Ashleigh James' case a few nights ago. I remembered how much trouble the team had had understanding that woman. Not me. I understood her code, I understood her obsessions. Mine was numbers, hers was her body. She'd been abused, I'd been abused—how else were we supposed to cope? I stared at her billboard a lot that week, thinking, understanding. Grissom was there, and I gave him a lame excuse.
Sometimes I wonder if he suspects the exact nature of nine thirty four. He's never said anything.
Sometimes I wonder if Warrick suspected my problem. He sure looked at me strangely when I mentioned writing in shorthand, when I spoke of tearing apart my coffee maker.
I don't want them to know. It's my secret, my problem. I do my job, that's all that matters. I speak for the victims screaming through my mind when I can't sleep. I do make something of a difference, I think.
Grissom's looking at me, he's speaking but I can't hear him. The blood has rushed to my ears. I'm dizzy now, dropped the bindle containing that so important evidence. I feel the metal of my field kit biting into the skin below my knees as I fall over it. I'm dizzy, I can't think.
David, the assistant coroner, is at my side and I have to tell him. Let him know there is medication in my system. What's wrong with me?
"Meds, new. In locker." I look at him, at his eyes widened in fear, before covering my face with my hands. Grissom's beside me, I can feel him touching my hair. I look at him from between my fingers, blocking the rain that's falling—washing away our crime scene.
Before I pass out I can't help but be surprised at the concern in his blue eyes.
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Grissom stared at the woman lying in front of him. She was pale, so very pale, and it scared him. He barely caught her whispered words but they somehow sunk into his brain. He grabbed his phone, hit Catherine's number.
"Willows."
"Catherine, are you still at the lab?" His voice was frantic, fear lacing every syllable.
"Grissom, yeah, what's wrong?"
"Get into Sara's locker, now! I need you to tell me what pills she's taking, and I need you to bring them to the hospital. Desert Palms is the closest." He disconnected, shoving the phone into his pocket as the paramedics returned, having just left the scene five minutes earlier.
"What happened?" One yelled and Grissom vaguely recognized him as Sara's ex, Hank. Grissom never thought he'd ever be thankful to see that man again.
"She just fell over. Said something about new medications." David told them, moving out of the way as they slid her onto a waiting gurney.
"What's she on?" Hank asked.
"Don't know. She's not been ill or anything." Grissom told him, mind playing back everything that had happened in the last week or so.
Sara had seemed fine. A little more agitated than normal, but he'd chalked that up to the cases.
"Must be some sort of reaction." The other paramedic said as they cut away Sara's work vest to check her vitals. It was then that Grissom noticed the reddened skin over her chest. Hank noticed it too, and pulled her thin tank top up, exposing her stomach.
"Let's get her moving!"
She was loaded into the ambulance and Grissom hopped in beside her. "It's ok, Sara!" He told her over and over again.
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Catherine and Warrick stood back as Nick took a crowbar to Sara's locker, pulling the metal free with all his strength.
Catherine grabbed the bottle sitting on the top shelf and quickly read the label before dialing Grissom's number.
"Grissom! Citalopram Hydrobromide, it's for OCD!"
Grissom's eyes rose as a few things fell into place. Sara had OCD? It explained why she never slept, explained why she was a germ-a-phobe, explained why she obsessed over cases—and why she counted when upset.
Why hadn't she ever told him? Did she trust him so little that she couldn't share this with him?
But then again—why should she?
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Grissom waited. And waited some more, anxious for news on Sara's condition. The hard purple plastic of the waiting room chair dug into his back but he gave it almost no notice. Greg and Nick occupied two chairs beside him. Catherine and Warrick and the rest of swing shift remained at the lab to cover any cases that arose along with Sofia. Greg bounded up from his chair, pacing back and forth, back and forth and Grissom had to keep himself in check. The boy was just worried about Sara—they'd grown exceptionally close. Grissom briefly wondered if she'd at least told Greg about this.
"Did you know?" Grissom asked softly, words encompassing both men.
"No." Nick said. Greg just looked away.
"Greg? What did you know?" Grissom pushed.
"She never told me, no. But…well…I had a friend in college who had it bad. We roomed together. I saw the signs." The boy stopped pacing, ran his hands through his hair. "He was on heavy meds, it was bad. Sara's not that bad! I didn't really know for sure."
"I've known her for fifteen years, Greg, and I never suspected." Grissom said flatly. He berated himself within the confines of his mind. What else did he not know about Sara? What other secrets was she hiding?
He had arrogantly thought he knew her better than anyone else and now here was this young man, this boy, who had guessed such an important thing. Shame flooded Grissom, illuminated how selfish he had been in this strange little game he played with her. What sort of man would lead a woman like Sara on the way he had? What kind of man would let fear control him and therefore her?
It's no wonder she didn't hate him.
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I awoke still dizzy, still disoriented, still unclear how I'd gotten there.
"Ms. Sidle, Sara, can you hear me?" A male voice asked. A fifty-something doctor leaned over me, his tone laced with business-like concern. I immediately knew I didn't like him.
"Yes. What the hell happened?"
"We think you've experienced a sensitivity to your medication. Maybe took too much?" He asked, probing.
"No. Only took what I was told." I tried to remember. "Did I pass out? What the hell's wrong with me?"
"How long have you been on the Citalopram Hydrobromide?"
"Three weeks or so. Before that I was on Fluxovene."
"Ah. I see."
"You see? What the hell does that mean?"
"How long have you been depressed? Taking SSRIs?" The doctor asked briskly.
"Not depressed. Obsessive Compulsive, and Aspergers. Not depressed. Twelve years and sixteen days. Twelve sixteen. Not depressed, not depressed." I told him. I was not depressed. I had never been depressed. It's always been OCD. Did he believe me? One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. I couldn't take it anymore, so I began counting softly to myself.
"Ok. Before the Fluxovene? How long were you on it?"
"Eleven years three hundred fifty nine days. Eleven three fifty nine. Why? Only Fluxovene and Citalopram Hydrobromide. Before that no meds. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight."
"Sara? I need you to stop counting." The doctor spoke firmly, but I stopped listening. I didn't want to talk to that son-of-a-bitch anymore. He thought I was depressed but I knew better.
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Grissom stood when the doctor entered the waiting room with an annoyed look on his face. "How is she? Can we see her?"
"You are?" the doctor inquired looking at each man.
"I'm Gil Grissom, her supervisor, this is Nick Stokes and—"
"Greg. I'm her brother."
Grissom looked at him quickly, wondering why he lied and then it hit him. Legally, the hospital wasn't supposed to release information to anyone other than next of kin. Grissom nodded, silently praising Greg's quick thinking.
"Ok. Here's the deal. I suspect it's just a matter of her reacting too strongly to the changing of medications. But I need to ask a few questions. Do you think you three can answer?"
"We'll try, but shouldn't you be asking Sara? Is she awake?" Greg said, worry pulling his brows together under his shaggy haircut.
"Yes she's awake, but without the proper medication, I'm afraid she's not being very forthcoming—or very cooperative."
Strangely enough—it was the annoyance in the doctor's voice that reassured Grissom the most. "That's my Sara for you."
Greg and Nick shared a quick glance at that. His Sara? Since when?
"Your questions, Doctor?" Grissom said, "What are they?"
"First—do any of you know if she's been sleeping at night?"
"She works nights, and Sara never sleeps. Three hours a day is about normal for her." Greg said, repeating common knowledge.
"Any changes in that over the last three weeks? Has she been more anxious, jittery than normal? Panic attacks? Nervousness? High strung?"
"She's been a little off over the last few weeks. I just attributed it to the cases we were working." Grissom frowned thinking back over the last weeks.
"Has she appeared to have lost weight? Loss of appetite?"
"Sara's always skinny, but yes. She might have lost some weight over the last month or so." Nick said, the best to tell because being on another shift he often didn't see Sara for days at a time. "So what is it, doctor? When will she get better?"
"It sounds like something called Discontinuation Syndrome. What it is, when SSRI's are discontinued or dosages change, or the types are changed some patients develop symptoms ranging in severity. She was on one type for over eleven years and her body just can't handle the change to this new medication, which she seems to be allergic to as well. She also suffers from a mild form of autism known as Asbergers syndrome."
"So? What can you do for her? She needs the SSRI right?" Greg demanded. "Will she be ok?"
"Eventually, yes. But we need to watch her carefully. We need to get the new medication out of her system before renewing her old prescription and still monitor any withdrawals. It can be a tricky process. There can be motor and sensory issues to develop as well as agitation, nightmares, and even suicidal tendencies. This is rare, but it can happen. Plus, she's drastically underweight, suffering from malnutrition, her blood pressure is up, and she's exhausted. She'll be here at least two weeks, if not longer."
"Two weeks?" Grissom asked, "Can we see her?"
"Of course. Having company will probably help. But I want to warn you—without the medications her original condition will be more pronounced. When I left her she was counting. Do any of you know anything about OCD, and its effects? She isn't the same woman you interact with on a regular basis."
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Nine hundred thirteen, nine hundred fourteen, nine hundred fifteen, nine hundred sixteen. I stopped counting for a moment when Nick and Greg walked in, followed closely by Grissom. "No. No. Don't want to see anybody. No Grissom. No Grissom. No Nick, no Greg. Don't want to see anybody. Don't want anybody to see me. Don't want anybody to see me."
"Sara." Grissom leaned over the bed, blocking Nick and Greg from my view. I focused on his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. I continued counting softly under my breath. Nine hundred twenty seven. Nine hundred twenty eight. "Sara. Keep looking at me. Everything's going to be all right. I promise."
I didn't believe him. Of course I didn't believe him. "Promise. Promise. Promise. Blue. All right. All right. Nine hundred thirty one, nine hundred thirty two. Nine hundred thirty three. Nine hundred thirty four. Want to go home. Want to go home. Take me home. Take me home. One, two, three, four, five."
"Still counting?" A voice asked from behind the three men and I saw that doctor again. I still didn't like him. "Very well, then."
I was happy when he left the room. "Grissom. Take me home. Please."
"Sara, I can't. You have to stay here for a little while. Until they fix this. You'll be all right. I promise." Grissom squeezed my hand and I returned the movement, grasping him as tightly as my shaking hand could.
"No. I don't want to stay here. I don't like that doctor. I don't like him and I want to go home." My voice was rising but I didn't care. Why wouldn't anyone listen to me?
A nurse entered, a woman about my own age with a pretty face. She smiled at Greg and Nick before uncapping a hypodermic. She inserted it into the shunt on my IV and plunged the liquid in.
"What was that? Tell me." I demanded. I hadn't asked them to give me anything. What were they doing? The three men just sat there, not doing anything to help me.
"Sh. It's just a mild sedative, something to help you rest and calm down." The nurse said and I wanted to hit her. I didn't need to calm down—I needed to go home.
I focused on the blue of Grissom's eyes, hoping he'd at least help me. I felt my own eyes drooping and I fought as long as I could. But it wasn't long before I was drifting off, mumbling "Grissom please…"
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Grissom's heart broke hearing her words. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and carry her someplace she'd feel safe. He agreed with her—he didn't like that doctor either. The man seemed so apathetic, so unsympathetic to Sara. She deserved better than that.
He waited until he was sure she was asleep, instructed Nick to remain with Sara and Greg to return to work. He approached the receptionist at the admitting desk. "I'm Dr. Gil Grissom, Sara's supervisor. When will she be moved to a regular room?"
"Let me see. She's scheduled to be placed in psych in about an hour. I can't tell you what room just yet."
"What? Psych? That's out of the question." He told her bluntly. "If it becomes common knowledge that she's in a psych ward her career will be over. A regular room on another floor is needed. A private room."
"Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle's insurance doesn't cover a private room." The woman told him, whispering to prevent others from overhearing. "Can she afford to pay for it out of pocket?"
"No. But I can." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed her a credit card. "I'm a very wealthy man thanks to my job. Here's my account number. Charge me for the difference between her insurance and the cost of a private room. And, uh, no one else is to know of this, ok? She's a proud woman and will be very angry if she finds out."
"I understand, sir." She copied his card and he signed a form stating they had his permission to charge his account. "It's a nice thing you're doing for your friend."
"She's more than a friend." He told her softly, surprising even himself. "And I hate to see her that way."
"I'm sure she'll be fine."
"I hope so."
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I awoke the next morning groggy and confused. Once I realized where I was I started to panic, began to count. I was halfway to my goal when someone entered my room. I was relieved to see it was Dr. Elias, my former physician. I'd had to switch a month ago when my insurance was changed and she wasn't on my plan. Just seeing the doctor who'd treated me since I'd arrived in Vegas calmed me greatly and I managed to stop counting.
"Hi, Sara. Heard you've been given a bit of trouble. Lets try to get things back on track. We're going to start the fluxovene again, but we need to wait a few days to make sure the other medication is completely out of your system. But in the meantime, I've ordered some nutrient drips. You've lost weight—again—and you're body is rebelling. We'll get that taken care of. I'd say you'll be back to your old self in a couple of weeks. How's that sound?"
"I want to go home. I want to go home."
"I'm afraid you can't. Not until we fix this. You shouldn't have been taken off the fluxovene, and now we have to evaluate the affects of the change before we can decide if it's safe for you to go home. Look at this as a vacation. You're in a private room, with one hundred plus cable channels and with a personal nurse. Enjoy it. Rest. I promise to get you out of here as soon as I can."
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Grissom stood a few yards back, away from Sara's hospital room door. He was thankful he'd managed to track down Dr. Elias after finding out from the ER doctor that she'd been Sara's doctor for five years. It had seemed logical that she'd be the most familiar with Sara's particular needs. When he'd explained the situation, and who the patient was, the woman had been more than willing to see Sara. But Grissom had sworn her to secrecy about his paying her bill.
He was once again thankful for his lip reading skills as Dr. Elias spoke with Dr. Whitney—the ER doctor—and Dr. Johanson, the doctor who'd prescribed the Citalopram Hydrobromide. He cataloged the woman's words as she spoke harshly to the two men. "She should never have been taken off the Fluxovene. She'd responded well to it long before she was even my patient. What were you thinking? Oh wait, let me guess—pharmaceutical promotion. So much money for each patient that switches? This woman has been on Fluxovene for almost twelve years. You couldn't have expected the other SSRI to leave her system in a few weeks. We'll be lucky if there's no lasting damage. And as for you, Whitney, just because a patient is on a SSRI, doesn't mean they're depressed. You've been around long enough to know better. No wonder she doesn't like you, serves you right. You might want to work on your bedside manner."
Grissom smiled, thinking of the doctor's face when he'd been informed that Grissom had called in Dr. Elias to take over Sara's care. The doctor must have heard Sara saying she didn't like him, but he hadn't protested too much at being replaced, just made comments about nutcases that Grissom had found highly offensive. Grissom's complaint was currently being investigated by the man's bosses. He wondered idly if the doctor had been informed of it yet.
He nodded at the trio of doctors as they walked passed him before he started walking toward Sara's door. He wanted to see her, wanted to reassure her that no matter what the next few weeks brought, she'd not be going through it alone, that he'd be there for her, just as he had a few weeks ago when Ecklie and Catherine demanded he fire her.
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I was flipping channels when Grissom entered but I turned the television off when I realized it was. I had calmed down considerably, though I found myself counting often. Worse than I had in college, even. But I didn't care anymore. So what if Grissom thought I was some sort of freak. I was, always had been. Just now everybody would know it.
"Hey. I figured you might want some company." He spoke softly, hesitantly and I looked at him, seeing the worry in his eyes. Why did he care so much? Had I asked him to somehow? Didn't he know I'd given up on him well over a year ago?
"I guess. How's the lab?" I struggled to keep from repeating my question a few times. Damn Aspergers. It usually wasn't that evident, I'd stopped repeating statements back in college. What was he thinking of me?
"Everyone's fine. Worried about you. Mad at me."
"Why? Why?" I cursed silently at the double question. Why couldn't I control myself? I breathed deeply, trying to remember the behavior modifications I'd become so good at years ago.
When I'd first met Grissom I was able to control my OCD through therapy and behavior monitoring and modifications. Was pretty darned successful too. No one had ever suspected. It was only after college when I'd heard my mother had died that my condition became worse. The numbers started again. Like they had when I'd been a little kid stuck in the foster care world. I'd gone almost six years without obsessive counting and then it came back with one phone call. And now this, now everyone was going to know. I was just another freak again.
"They think I've been running you too much. They think you've made yourself sick trying to pick up the slack when we lost Nicky and Warrick. They're blaming me for you not eating, not sleeping. No biggy, it is partially my fault. I should have been more aware of things."
"Not your fault. Not. Not. Not. The damned drugs make me stay awake for days, make me not want to eat. Not your fault." I was doing it again, but he didn't seem to mind, didn't even act like it was anything out of the ordinary. I fell just a little bit back in love with him again right then. Didn't he see me for the freak I was? "Do they know? About the OCD? The Aspergers? I don't want people to know, its not their business. My secret. Mine. Mine."
"Sara. Calm down." He told me firmly, squeezing my hand, blocking out the harsh light from the window as he leaned over me. "Only Greg, Nick, Rick and Catherine know. And they won't say anything to anyone. Don't worry. And there's nothing wrong with you having OCD or Apsergers. You are a brilliant, bright, and beautiful woman. You are not a freak."
He must have heard me muttering to myself earlier. But he was wrong, I was a freak and I knew it. Who else but a freak would spend five years waiting for a man to notice her?
I knew about my obsessions. I knew about my obsession with him. I couldn't change it, and in that moment, with his eyes looking down at mine, with his hand resting on mine, I didn't want to change any of it.
I'd be ok. I knew it.