Disclaimer – No matter how much I'd like to, I don't own CSI, CBS does. I also on't own the song Mad world.
A/N – Okay, so here is my first fic ever. I decided to do a little experiment of picking a song and using each verse as a chapter title. The song I picked is Mad World, which s originally by Tears for Fears, and which therefore is owned by them or Gary Jules, who made a cover of it. I'm not sure which one of them, since I've got no idea how copyright laws work exactly. Anyway, enough ranting. Enjoy and please review.
It was Sara's first night off in weeks and, for once, she was actually glad. It had been such a bizarre week. There had barely been any new cases so she and Greg had been forced to work on a cold case, the murder and rape of a young woman in her own home. As evidence they just had one hair, which hadn't been matched to anyone back when the crime had been committed, and the gun, registered to a dead doctor. Needless to say, they hadn't gotten far. Then, someone had broken into Grissom's office but taken nothing, although they had managed to smash one of his butterfly cases. This had resulted in a very paranoid and irritable boss and a two-hour lecture on being observant to what happens around the lab, courtesy of Ecklie.
Now it was finally over, Sara was relieve and she was in good spirits as she climbed the stairs to Greg's apartment. Due to some weird miracle, or the fact that Grissom had been rather distracted since the security of his office had been breached, Greg and Sara both were off. They had planned to spend it together eating popcorn and watching Monty Python movies, which they had settled on after Sara had categorically said no to chick-flicks.
Grinning at the idea of Greg watching 'How to lose a man in ten days', she was startled when she collided with a man upon reaching Greg's floor. The man took one swift look at her, grinned eerily and continued to run down the stairs.
Slightly freaked out, she continued her way until she reached Greg's apartment. The door was wide open.
Puzzled, she called out his name before entering. There was no answer. Had something happened? No, she reassured herself, Greg was probably asleep, or in the shower, and had left the door open so she could let herself in. She let out a nervous laugh. It was highly unlikely. If that had been the case he would've just left it unlocked, not open like that. She tried calling him again as she crossed the threshold. Again, silence. With a jolt to her heart, she noticed scratch marks on the lock, telltale sign of being jimmied.
Now starting to feel a bit panicky, she called again, this time reaching for her gun. Her hand grabbed air. She mentally smacked herself. She was off-duty; her gun was in her locker.
Throwing caution to the winds, she stepped in, hearing nothing but the loud thumping of her own heart.
The room was cluttered, but nothing was out of its way, there was no sign of any kind of confrontation. Good, that was a good sign. Maybe Greg had fallen asleep, after all. She started to relax but when she walked down the hall that led to the bedroom, a scream froze in her throat.
There was blood, a lot of it. Greg sitting on the floor, his back propped against the wall. A look of agony contorted his features. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. His hands were clutching his right shoulder. He didn't seem to be aware of her presence.
"Greg?" her voice came out small and frightened.
If he heard his name being called, he didn't acknowledge it. She tried again, louder this time.
His eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her, confusion visible on his face amongst all the pain. Finally, he smiled. Or tried to, anyway. To Sara, it looked more like a grimace.
"Sara. I-is he go-ne?"
"Shh, don't talk." Sara kneeled next to Greg and reached into her pocket for her phone. "Don't worry, I think he's gone." She looked around nervously, what if the perp wasn't gone? What if he returned to finish the job? It was possible, yet Sara was more worried about Greg's condition. He was getting paler by the second and his skin felt cold and clammy. He could be going into to shock from blood loss. Pressing her own hand on tpo of his in order to help apply pressure on the wound and stop the bleeding, she flipped her phone open with her other hand and frantically tried to dial, but her own fingers were shaking and she had to try at least twice before she could get the three digits right.
After she'd asked for an ambulance and given Greg's address to the operator she hung up and dialed another number.
"Brass." His voice rang out from the other end. Sara looked at Greg before answering. He seemed to have fallen into unconsciousness.
"Hey, it's Sara." She tried to sound calm, but she wasn't making such a good job of it, apparently, since when Brass next spoke he sounded concerned.
"Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Greg' not. Someone broke into his apartment. I think he's been shot." For a second, there was nothing but silence on the other end.
"Is he still-?" Sara broke him off before he could finish.
"Yes, he's still alive," she said. As she spoke them, the words were a relief, even to her. "I've called an ambulance."
"I'll be right there."
Ten slow minutes passed, and every second Sara grew more scared, to the point of being near hysterics. Her left hand was getting numb from not moving it from Greg's shoulder. Every thirty seconds or so, she'd call Greg's name out loud to see if he'd wake up. He never did. Then she'd touch her fingers to his jugular to check for a pulse, even though the slow, and almost imperceptible, rising and falling of his chest indicated he was alive. Still, feeling the small beat under her fingers was a relief every time. His pulse was weak, yes, but it was still there.
Finally, she heard steps coming towards her and she quickly turned around, alert, to see two paramedics carrying a stretcher. One of them pried her gently from Greg while the other set to work on him. Two minutes later they were carrying him out the door, mounted on the stretcher.
She so badly wanted to follow and hold Greg's hand all the way to the hospital, but she had to stay and wait for Brass. So, when the paramedics disappeared from the door she collapsed on the floor. She would've loved to start pacing but she knew that if she moved much around the apartment she might erase or move evidence left by the shooter and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
As she sat there she couldn't help but wonder whether Greg would make it or not, whether he was still alive or not. And suddenly, tears were welling up in her eyes. She sank her head in her hands and quietly just let them roll.
It was in this position that, a few minutes later, Brass and Grissom found her. They were accompanied by a few other cops.
"Sara." At the sound of her name she almost jumped. Quickly wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she stood up and looked at the two men standing in front of her
"What happened?" asked Grissom. She told them quickly.
"Okay," said Brass, concern etched in his face. "We'll need your statement later. But first, why don't you two go check on Greg. He needs someone at the moment."
"And the scene?" Sara asked. She desperately wanted to go and find out how Greg was doing, but she also wanted to catch the bastard who'd shot him.
"I'll have Catherine and Warrick come and do it. I'll drive you to the hospital and then I'll come back and help them."
"I can drive myself," she said indignantly.
"Sara," started Grissom, giving her a look of exasperation mixed with concern, "you're in no state to drive."
"It's not true!" she protested hotly.
"Sara, your hands are shaking." She looked down. He was right, they were still shaking. Defeated, she allowed him to lead her out of the apartment and to his car.