The John Doe was atop a slightly sloped hill, the grass covered with dew in the morning cold. Greg approached the scene and paused, studying it, bracing himself. This was still relatively new to him, and while he would give anything to stay in the field, he still needed time to adjust.
The victim was well defined and looked to be in his thirties, death by a bullet to the head. Greg studied the face, tranquil despite the bloody wound and lesser abrasions that marred the features. He shuddered inwardly before taking a photo. It was disconcerting, how peaceful victims often looked, despite evidence that their final moments were anything but.
"Looks like we have defense wounds." Greg's head snapped to the right as Sara pointed to the man's bloody fingers, which had very clearly been on the receiving end of something sharp and relentless. Greg snapped a picture as Sara stood and walked further along the body.
"We've got a shoe print here. Looks like a size ten," she called as Greg noted what looked like a fiber stuck in the man's nail.
"Hold on," he said distractedly. "I think I -" he faltered at the sound of a gasp. He'd not been working in the field long, but so far as he knew, Sara was not one to lose her professional composure. He whipped his head around to find Sara standing, legs askew as she'd been forcefully jerked upward by the tall man behind her who had pinned her arms with one hand and held a knife to her throat with the other.
Panic rippled through Greg's body as thoughts raced through his mind - didn't the officer say the scene was clear? Where did this man come from? - when the knife at Sara's throat pricked the flesh ever so slightly. His stomach dropped as a small crimson bead snaked its way down her delicate neck. Her calculated struggles turned into a frenzy as she blindly pried at the knife, cutting her fingers in desperation as blood began to smear and drip.
The fear that froze him suddenly gave way to adrenaline, and Greg lunged forward, screaming Sara's name. He heard the shot before he felt it, the excruciating pain radiating from the wound until his entire leg was on fire and his body gave and collapsed. He could hear someone scream his name - Sara, he assumed, though his consciousness was fading, and with each moment the world was becoming more and more incomprehensible. He attempted to open his eyes to find Sara, words of desperate adulation on his tongue as he faintly acknowledged that this could be the end. Oh God, this could be the end, and if he didn't say -
He heard a scream, and for a moment his vision cleared just enough to watch Sara crumple to the ground as the man deftly sprinted down the hill. He felt a sharp pain, different and somehow worse than the presently unbearable throbbing in his leg, as a swelling sickness grew in his chest...
Greg heard shouts behind him, presumably officers, as he finally succumbed to darkness.
Greg slowly opened his eyes, blinking and adjusting to the bright, unfamiliar white room. He turned his head slightly, deliberately, drinking in all of the details that his groggy mind could bear when he landed on a figure by the door... was that Grissom? And to his right sat Catherine, her face full of maternal concern and... what that sympathy?
He was in a bed, he realized. He struggled to sit up, but Cath gently placed her hand on his shoulder and guided him back against the pillow. "No, rest."
He leaned back and frowned slightly. "Where am I?"
"You're in the hospital, Greg," Grissom stated.
Catherine gently cradled Greg's hand in hers. "How are you feeling?"
"Confused." He shifted slightly and felt a definite ache in his leg, and then he remembered: the man, the gun, Sara's face - Sara.
His eyes jumped from Catherine to Grissom as he fought the familiar sting in his eyes. "Where's Sara? Is she alright?" Grissom lowered his eyes, and when Catherine squeezed his hand he felt cold, knowing fear shoot through his veins. Rage, agony, and guilt struck him violently as tears fell freely, while inside he was screaming the undeniable, painful truth:
Sara Sidle was dead.
He barely remembered how he'd gotten to work with these damn crutches. He was numb in every sense, save for the pain in his leg, but he welcomed it; it assuaged his guilt in a strange, small way, penance for failing to save her. Oh, he knew he'd done all he could, but it didn't alleviate the shame. He also knew he wasn't ready for work, not yet, but being home alone gave him too much time with this thoughts and memories.
He heard footsteps behind him as he poured his coffee, and instinctively he turned slightly to peer over his shoulder, half hoping he'd see... but of course it wasn't her. It never would be.
Sara had died, and with her, his soul.