TITLE:
Shards of Her HeartAUTHOR: Anansay
SUMMARY: Grissom follows a lead. Post Butterflied.
SPOILERS: Butterflied - 4x12
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: I do not have the right to use these characters and I am using them with out permission of the copyright owner. I am making no money off this creation. These characters are owned by CBS and Anthony E. Zuiker.
January 18, 2004 ~*~
Grissom frowns as a shadow races past his doorway. A glimpse of colour there and gone. His hearing might have been failing but his eyesight is as strong.
But then there is the smell, the unique scent that comes wafting into his sanctuary and washes over him with its sudden and intense tensing of his body as his mind struggles with the knowledge that something has just happened, something big and terrible. And he doesn't really want to know what.
He rises from his chair, his knees stiff and sore, goes to the doorway and sticks his head out. No one. The hallway is empty. With a frown he steps out and looks around. Still no one. But the scent is still there, slowly fading.
He follows it, letting his nose lead the way as he weaves from side to side, exhaustion clouding his senses.
Left turn.
Right turn.
Woman's bathroom.
He stands before the door, his hand outstretched toward the doorknob before he comes to his senses and lets it drop. He still has enough sense to know he doesn't belong in there.
But someone is in there. Someone who... ran like a flash from... the interrogation room.
A chill scurries down his back and he leans his head on the door, closes his eyes and tries to remember all that he said. He is so tired, so worn out. His body isn't used to triple shifts anymore. He's getting old.
And the thought leaves him cold.
Colder still when his newfound hearing picks up a sound and he straightens, leans in and listens.
It comes again, a muffled sniffle before another small cry.
His hand shoots out only to once again be stilled by almost five decades of teachings in the fine art of gender differences.
Another cry and his insides begin churning.
And then a sound completely different from the others and makes him jump back, feeling suddenly a little scared. A loud crash, a crushing of something like crisp paper.
Glass.
"Shit..."
He looks around himself. Alone. Strange for such a busy lab that at this particular moment in time there should be no one in the halls.
His hand shakes as it reaches for the doorknob and he turns it and pushs the door open.
She's sitting on the floor
Debbie Marlin on the bathroom floor
There is blood
pool of blood
Her arm is outstretched, fingers gingerly picking up the pointy shards.
long arms wrapped around her body
Fingers with blood on them. One hand is tucked under the other and a small pile of glass grows in front of her. After a few are picked up the hand comes to the face and wipes the eyes and then the nose. A sniffle. Her body jerks.
He leans against the wall, more like falls against it. He can't take his eyes off her, her curled figure on the tile floor.
And then she turns her head and he gasps and his body tenses as a flood of goosebumps attacks his skin. She's looking up at him.
Debbie Marlin forever staring at the doorway
Her hair rests over her shoulders. Eyes swollen and pink.
Pristine bathroom... clean and white... curled body on floor... dead eyes... blood...
Sara's eyes... alive but fading... she's still here... she's still alive... she still moves and feels... bleeding on the bathroom floor... hunched over as though in pain...
Twinkles of glass crinkle as he walks then falls toward her. His knees scream when he lands on them.
Sara sits back and stares at him. Dead eyes. Limp hair. Bottom lip trembles. Push it down or let it come out?
He sees her hand hidden by her arm and reaches out, taking it out of hiding. Her knuckles are red, the skin torn. The blood wet and shiny in the harsh light.
Why the hand? Second time he's held her bloody hand.
Honey...
He looks up into her eyes. Sorrow. Longing. Pain. Numbness. It's all there, and the knowing.
Her hand is warm, so warm in his. He wraps his fingers around hers; his hand rubs the top, careful of the cuts. She is so warm. Warm and alive. His hand moves in circles on hers, and before he knows it he's rubbing her wrist and arm as well. Rubbing as though to induce warmth to return to the flesh. Warmth that never really left. Or is he trying to recapture his own warmth... through her?
She sits and lets him touch her. Her eyes never leave his.
He touches her face, his fingertips gently running down her cheek, feeling the sticky wetness of her tears. Never before had he allowed himself to touch her, to feel her skin in so blatant a manner. Never before had the urge been so strong that his body touched anyway.
A tremulous sigh. His or hers?
Pressure in his chest, needing release.
She pulls her hand back, lets it rest on her thigh as she pushes herself up, her eyes never leaving his. Two steps back. Perspective. She's moving away, backing away, turning away.
He's kneeling on the floor, in a pool of broken glass, staring at up her. She rinses her hand in the sink, pats it dry with paper towels and wraps more around her hand.
Another bandaged hand.
With one last sniffle and a blink of her eyes, she bows her head and walks past him and out the door, leaving him alone in the woman's bathroom, the pieces of glass glinting on the floor around him, like the shards of her heart.