WHITE WASHED WALLS
by Mila (mila@engineer.com)

DEDICATION:
In the memory of my brother, Big D.


It was not a nice neighborhood. In reality, it was anything but. The dark, drafty, run-down apartment buildings exuded a sense of desolation and foreboding .... As if the buildings themselves had witnessed so many countless crimes committed by the denizens of Las Vegas that they themselves were ready to give up.

That was what Sara Sidle perceived at she grabbed her kit out of the police-issue Tahoe and strode, sure-footed to the door of one of the buildings. Just as she was reaching out her latex-gloved hand towards the doorknob, a voice made her stop. "Sara! Wait!"

Sara turned to her right and watched as Jim Brass jogged towards her, gun in hand. "Yeah, Brass?" she asked him as he arrived at her side. "You need something?"

He peered at closely and asked, "Has this place been secured?"

Sara tried to look as unconcerned as she could as she lied through her teeth, "Sure."

An eyebrow went up. "So where are the officers that cleared the place?"

She waved vaguely in the direction of the alley running along the side of the building. "Had to check the perimeter. Cruiser's parked down that way."

Brass peered at her again, as if he were trying to divine whether or not she was telling the truth. Finally, she sighed in annoyance and said brusquely, "Jim, we got the call from an eyewitness. The murder happened less than 45 minutes ago. My crime scene is getting old, and standing out here while you stare at my face isn't helping us figure out who did it."

A look flashed through Brass's eyes -- was that hurt? -- as his cheeks colored slightly and he glanced down at the ground. But he quickly straightened up, his face composed once more.

"Ladies first," he announced chivalrously, gesturing for Sara to enter before him.

Sara smirked at him before opening the door and stepping inside. By the time Brass entered behind her, Sara was already flicking on her flashlight and beaming it around the room. Brass quickly pulled out his own and made his own cursory inspection of the room.

"So where's the body?" Sara mused to herself aloud, looking for blood, body parts, anything. She walked further into the room, towards a flight of stairs in the back. Jim following, frowning. Something was off. Something he couldn't quite place.

As Sara peered up the stairs, Jim trained his flashlight on one of the doors that led off of the entranceway. It was closed. "Sara?" he asked cautiously. "You weren't lying to me about this place being cleared, were you?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Because, you know, when a place gets cleared, we clear every room. And every door remains open after we've searched it."

Sara looked at Jim and then followed the beam of light emitted by his flashlight. She glanced at her feet and mumbled, "Sorry."

"Sara -- we're at a murder scene that was phoned in less than an hour ago, with a supposed eye witness -- who let me point out is nowhere to be found and might be armed. God knows where the hell the perp is. And all you can say is 'Sorry'?!"

Sara, a bit annoyed, looked up at Brass's face, a tirade of her own ready to be launched. But her words died on her lips as she saw that he really WAS scared -- scared for the two of them and their situation.

The creak of a floorboard behind them made the two whirl around. One hand on the doorknob, a tall hispanic man was attempting to make his escape. When he realized that the two officers had seen him, he lifted his other hand.

And Jim Brass and Sara Sidle found themselves staring down the barrel of a 6-shooter for about 3 seconds.

And then he started shooting.

As the man was pulled the trigger, Jim threw himself bodily into Sara, knocking her to the floor and trapping her under his body. He grunted as the bullet meant for Sara's chest went through his shoulder.

The gunman shot thrice more -- missing only once -- before sprinting out the door.

Sara lay under the warm, solid mass of Jim Brass's body, mind going into temporary shock. He had a gun. Oh my god he had a gun. I could have been shot, her mind repeated all of this over and over before suddenly it click. I might have been shot at, but Jim took the bullets for me.

Carefully easing the man off of her she rolled him onto his back to observe the damage. One of the bullets had gone through his side; the bullet meant for her had gone through his left shoulder. But what scared her most was the bullet buried in his stomach, and the hole through the right half of his chest.

She was startled out of her staring by Jim's voice. "Sara," he said through his teeth, gritting them from the pain. "Use the radio in my car. Get help."

She nodded and then sprinted out of the building, down towards the street, yanking the door of his car open and praising any listening deity that his car hadn't been locked. The radio was lying on the seat.

"We've got an officer down. Repeat: officer down. He's been seriously wounded. We need an ambulance ASAP!" She quickly gave the dispatch officer the address of the apartment complex, cursing at herself and her impatience. Then she dropped the radio and raced back inside.

Upon entering the room, she saw that Jim had rolled onto his back and had pressed one arm into his side in a futile attempt to staunch the blood flow. She knelt beside him, unable to look at the gaping hole in his chest, and gently stroked his cheek. "Jim?" she whispered to him, as if afraid to wake him up. "Jim? Answer me. Come on, Jim, you can do it."

Slowly he opened his eyes and gazed up at her, his eyes reflecting the incredible pain that he was in. "Sara?" he rasped, his breathing quick and shallow.

Sara could feel the tears gathering in her eyes as she pushed his hair out of his face. "Shhh, Jim," she said, soothingly, her voice catching in the back of her throat. "It'll be OK. They're sending an ambulance over."

He nodded and closed his eyes. "So cold ... " he murmured.

Sara slipped her arms behind his back and pulled his body up so that he was lying across her legs, head leaning against her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight against her chest. "Come on, Jim, stay with me," she whispered to him, keenly aware of the tears running down her face. "Stay awake for me. Please, Jim."

He opened his eyes and focused them on her face. "Sara?" he whispered.

She tried to smile through her tears. It probably looked more like a grimace. "Yes, Jim?" She looked down at his face, stroking the side of it with one hand.

His breathing was labored. He struggled to get enough air into his lungs, wheezing hard. The bullet had probably gone through it, she realized. Or maybe he had broken a rib and punctured it. "I--" he started, then took several breaths, trying to get air. "--need to tell you --"

He broke off again, unable to find the air necessary to speak.

"Shhh, Jim," she said soothingly, shifting him slightly against her chest. "You can tell me later, after the doctors check you out--"

"NO!" he exclaimed, in an anguished voice. "I have to say ... this ..." he struggled to form the words, coughing and gasping for air.

"Jim --"

"Let ... me... say this... Sara." The look in his eyes, pure determination along with the incredible pain made her back down and nod, acquiescently.

As he tried to catch his breath again, she heard the sirens in the distance, getting louder rapidly. Soon the ambulance would get here.

"Sara..." it game out as a murmur. She glanced down and for the first time realized just how pale he had become from blood loss. He was fighting to stay conscious.

"Jim --"

With an effort, he lifted one blood-stained hand and grasped hers. "No ... You need ... to know this." he locked eyes with her. "Sara ... I love you."

Then as his eyes closed and she stared in shock, the paramedics pulled her away. She stumbled out of their way, watching numbly as they loaded him onto a stretcher. And even as the ambulance roared off into the distance, all she could hear, repeated over and over in her head, like a doomed mantra ... Sara, I love you....
She vaguely remembered arriving at the hospital. Somewhere, beyond the murky haze that had settled onto her brain, she remembered the commotion she had caused when she had entered with her blood-soaked shirt. She had been checked out briefly, but now sat here, on the hard plastic chair, staring at the white-washed walls of the hospital waiting room.

Her peripheral senses were aware of the others in the waiting room. Of the parents anxiously awaiting news about their child who had broken his leg. Of the families of the new mothers giving birth to children just within. But they were unimportant now. All that was important was the man somewhere inside the maze of corridors. The man whose last words to her had been a confession of undying love. The man who now underwent surgery ... a surgery that could save his life.

Sara ... I love you. And still the words echoed through her mind. He loves me, she realized once again. She still couldn't believe it. Jim Brass, the tough cop who she had watched terrorize suspects in the interrogation room until they broke, loved her.

Sara ... I love you. He had always been courteous with her, ready with a smile every time they met passed in the halls of CSI or met at a crime scene. He would banter with her whenever he gave her a lift to a crime scene or as they waited outside of the interrogation room for a suspect to be brought in. And during that incident where she had helped clear the premises and he had dressed her down ... the way he had done so ... it had been like he had been scared ... scared to lose something -- or someone -- that he truly cared about.

And she had smiled back and bantered with him. She had been more relaxed, more at home with him than the rest of the team. Nick was a sweetheart -- a big brother. Greg and Warrick too. Grissom was more like a dad, trying to guide her right.

But Jim Brass ... he was more than a friend. He was like, like ...

She blinked. Like a lover.

Somewhere between the banter, the conversations, the smiles, the gentlemanly opening of doors, the friendship had ended and the love had started. And it had taken until now for her to realize it. It had required a suspect to shoot Jim Brass before he told her how he truly felt. And it had taken until now for her to realize it too:

"I love Jim Brass," she whispered to herself, as if saying it would make it more true, more special. "I'm in love with Jim Brass." It was a good feeling.

"Ms Sidle?"

At the sound of her name, she glanced up hopefully into the face of the young doctor in front of her. But even before she heard his words, before he handed her the blood-stained badge and service pistol, she saw in his face just what she had been dreading. She saw the distant look of regret and sympathy that all doctors wore when delivering bad news to the family of the patient. The look that would disappear as the doctor went back to his duties, ex-patient forgotten.

The cold, white-washed walls that had seen so many like her provided little comfort as she cried.

.: THE END :.

*stares at her work* Wow. That hurt to write. Too many correlations with my life. My brother, Big D, was shot like this. Maybe not exactly like this, but close enough. Sara's experiences at the very end, with the Doctor and all, that is almost exactly what happened when Big D was shot.

Needless to say, this wasn't how I was planning on having the story go. It was supposed to be happy, dammit! But this is what you folks get. Hope you like it. ;)

My review board at Following the Evidence is located at .

I really appreciate any reviews I get! Thanks!