Defying the Devil
Summary: Sara hallucinates in the desert. Spoilers for Dead Doll.
Author's Note: I was informed that my friend (Kegel) wanted to read a non-GSR, Sara-centric, Dead Doll fic so here it is. No (obvious) pairings. Just Sara and her thoughts.
She closed her eyes and opened them again, blinking the dust and sand away. Whereas hours ago she had been drenched, there was not a single drop of water inside her body or out of it and she was definitely feeling it. And yet, she stumbled on, out of breath, out of water, out of time, or so she thought.
She truly believed that she was dead, and this was hell. Of this she had no doubt. She had drowned beneath that car, and she was doomed to wander this infinite desert for eternity, searching for the city of sin that would be her salvation. But she was convinced she would never find it.
Nonetheless, she urged herself onward for the sheer purpose of defying the God she still didn't believe in and spiting the devil that seemed determined to steal her soul. She forced herself to remain conscious by reciting basic math problems in her head. But it was when the solution of forty-six to four times six actually began to make sense that she realized she had finally lost her mind.
She stumbled to her knees and bent her head. If only she could rest for one minute… And yet, she knew that was the devil talking. If she stopped, she would never start again. She would be admitting defeat. She refused to let them win. Dead or not, she had to keep going. She wouldn't give Natalie the satisfaction. Natalie, the devil, in her mangled mind they were interchangeable.
She forced herself to her feet, which was a strain. Her left side was completely numb, which gave her an awkward limp as she cradled her useless arm against her stomach. She took deep breaths, each one drier than the last. She had to be dead. Dead in the daylight.
"It was not your day to die…"
She looked around and for a moment she wondered who had spoken. And then she recognized her own voice echoing in her head. Somewhere in the depths of her mind, Nick smiled hopefully.
She was being realistic. People died. A lot. She was dead. She was wrong. She was right. She was lost. She was traversing a mile long grave, one in which she would eventually fall, and close her eyes, and maybe the devil would leave her alone. Maybe Natalie would have her revenge. She was desperately ready to give up. She was dead. It only made sense for her to lie down so she could rest in peace.
Her vision swam and she contemplated laying her body down in her dry grave.
"I'm not ready to say goodbye…"
And somewhere in some alternate reality, Grissom held her hand.
She looked up at the blue sky and prayed for rain. She thought she saw the sun grin at her. She thought she saw a lot of things these days. Days… How long had she been crossing this desert? An eternity. And she would continue for an eternity more, always hoping, always being let down, because she would never find home. This was her penance. For everything in her life that she had done wrong. For doubting the existence of a God who would let her parents fall from grace. For stealing from her first foster parents. For letting that boy touch her when she was thirteen. For beating up that same boy when his touch had gone too far. For cheating on her history exam in high school. For all her cursing, and yelling, and defiance. For lying. To Grissom. To her friends. For all the other petty crimes she had committed in her life that she didn't recall now.
She wished there was someone to talk to other than herself. Someone who would come to be with her, help her through this hell, guide her home again. But she knew that was impossible. No one was looking for her. No one would come for her.
"I came here for you…"
And though she could not see him, she felt Greg stroking her hair.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to lay down her arms and surrender. She wanted to lie in the dust and let it bury her in hopes of maybe rising to purgatory. If she admitted she was wrong, if she told them it was a mistake, would she be forgiven?
But what was a mistake? Her life? Her choices? Her sins, her accomplishments, her romances, her rivalries, her friendships, her search for happiness, her search for meaning, her love, her fear, her pain, her skepticism, her consciousness…?
This couldn't be hell because she didn't believe in hell, and she made no mistakes worthy of punishment. Her sins were her own, and she had been glad to have committed them, because she had learned from them, and dammit, she was stronger than some metaphorical embodiment of ultimate evil. She kicked evil's ass on a daily basis. She needed to get back to Vegas if only so she could find Natalie and snap her neck in half. No one in hell or out of it messes with Sara Sidle.
With renewed vigor, she took another step forward, not even realizing that she had half-rolled down a hill, and her feet had been previously dragging in the sand. She lifted them up, drawing on all the strength she had left, desperate to prove herself wrong. She was dead, she was dead, she was dead, she was—
Was she dead? Once so certain, now she couldn't be sure. If she was dead, why was she still thinking? Walking? Remembering? Why did Nick's optimism rise unbidden in her chest? Why did Grissom's belief in her urge her feet to move as if on their own accord? Why did Greg's focused courage clutch her heart and help it to continue to beat, a supernatural pacemaker refusing to let her give up?
What would Catherine say if she found her there, dead in the desert, covered in sand, her bones bleached by the sun? Would she say to Sara's corpse in disappointed tones, "I could have made it, if I was her." And dammit, anything Catherine could do, Sara could do better.
No she couldn't.
No she couldn't.
No she—
The world began to spin much faster than Sara was used to. She wavered. Her stomach churned. Heat stroke was a bitch.
Four times three is twelve. Four times four is sixteen…
She covered her eyes with her good hand and tried to steady her dizzy head. No. She had to keep going. If only to prove Catherine wrong.
Four times five is twenty. Four times six is forty-six.
A bush. Lovely little bush. It was on fire with the heat. And then, all of a sudden, every thing made sense. Moses was suffering from heat stroke when he talked to God.
She fell to her knees, the bush swimming in and out of her vision, illuminated by some unearthly light. She touched it with her hand and felt the flames lick her palm, icy cold and refreshing and she smiled.
"Lay down a while," it said to her. "Rest."
"Are you God?" she asked.
"Does it matter?" the bush replied.
She closed her eyes. Her head was pounding. She was so thirsty. All she wanted was to just lie down. "Am I dead?"
"Maybe."
The bush wasn't very helpful. "If I rest, will I ever get up again?"
"Probably not."
She thought so. Resting would be giving up. But she wanted to give up. To hell with Catherine. She had lost sight of Nick's smile. Grissom let go of her hand. Greg stopped stroking her hair. She was utterly alone.
"I guess I could just… close my eyes…"
"It's OK to give up," the bush said. "You've come a long way and fought so hard. You did well. Do not be ashamed."
Sara slowly stretched out in the shade of the bush and closed her eyes. "I'll miss them…" she breathed.
"I'll miss you."
Grissom's voice floated into her thoughts. Her eyes fluttered open. They were counting on her. But then, her eyelids were too heavy to keep open. She was exhausted. It was impossible.
"I was rescued."
"I know that Sidle scent."
"You got plans?"
Sara's eyes flickered behind her lids. "Nope."
"You want to get a beer?"
"Stop it…" she moaned. She was too tired to think. To tired to remember. To tired to dwell on all the people she would be letting down.
"You're not letting them down," said the bush.
"What do you know?" Sara asked. "You're just a bush."
Shadow and light swirled in front of her vision and she felt as if she was on fire, burning brighter than any star, and she felt like soaring high into the blue and losing herself among the stars. And all of a sudden she was breathless, gone, floating without an anchor in an open sea of air…
Things were dark and warm and soft for a hundred years. She had no voice, no vision, no sense of smell, touch or hearing. She had no body at all. She was nothing but a tiny ball of herself, her own identity, a name lingering on the depths of the void of forgetfulness, and soon she would be nothing at all, and while the part of her that was still there feared letting go, the part of her that was already gone called to her in soothing tones from the other side of the door…
And then, an ever unpleasant sensation, she felt as if she was being stretched apart, pulled in two directions at once, away from herself and out of the warmth, back to the fire of the desert and the sun. She was drowning, cold liquid dripping down her body, blazing trails of ice down her wounded arm, hands, hands, hands all over her, touching her, moving her, feeling for life…
"Sara!"
There it was, that was all she had left, uttered on those familiar lips, all of her encased in two simple syllables, and he spoke them with such desperation, such relief, such reverence, as if he knew the curves of every letter and the secrets they represented. How could he sum up everything she ever was just by speaking her own name?
"Sara, it's Nick, I'm here, can you hear me?"
She didn't want to. She was still floating. She didn't want to hear him. If he was there, she had let him down. If he was there, then she wasn't really dead to begin with. If he was there, then she had really given up.
She noticed then that she was no longer breathing. But this fact didn't frighten her as much as it probably should have. Indeed, she felt as if the reason she wasn't breathing was because her body didn't need as much oxygen anymore. It seemed almost natural, this fading away, this dying…
She wanted to fly away, to go back to the warmth and the nothingness, to be on the wings of something else, where she could forget herself, where she could be safe, and warm, and at peace…
"I can't get a pulse!"
And you won't… Sara thought to herself. She was dead. She was convinced she was dead. She didn't want to be alive. Life brought agony. If she had been alive this whole time… she had failed. She didn't want to come back to the desert and the fire and the strangely comforting talking bush. She wanted to feel Grissom's hand again, hear Greg's voice, see Nick's smile. She wanted to bicker with Catherine. She wanted to tease Warrick. She wanted to confide in Brass. She wanted to go home. And if she just let everything go, if she just stopped trying… it would be so nice to stop thinking. And she would be safe again.
"She's been out here this whole day about fifteen hours, she's not answering me at all."
Open your eyes, she told herself.
But she was too tired. The voices were coming from everywhere, far away and lost in the darkness. Her skin was blistering as the flames of the sun licked her wounds like the three tongues of Cerberus. The icy trails from the liquid that blazed across her body sizzled and evaporated almost on contact. She was somewhere in between existence and nonexistence, and it was a painful place to be. Every muscle ached. Everything that used to make sense to her no longer did. Everything she used to want and care about no longer mattered.
"How is she?"
And then there was Catherine. Sara wasn't sure where the woman's voice had come from, or if it was even real. She wasn't sure any of this was real. But it sparked something in her. She would be damned if she couldn't prove herself a fighter. Sara Sidle didn't give up. Surrender was never an option. Not when she was young, not when she pursued her goals, and certainly not now.
And then, she was being lifted up and carried away, off into the sky. Her body was screaming. With every second, the pain became more apparent. She missed the floating. She missed being far away. Was this surviving?
"Were you expecting a ball of light?"
She cursed herself. Shut up.
"It's what you do with it that counts."
And then, there were other voices in her head.
"Let me guess… Sara Sidle."
"You've got that Sara-look."
"I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm a good listener."
"Doesn't mean we just give up."
"You make me happy."
Something warm wrapped itself around her hand, and despite the fact that she was on fire, she welcomed the touch. It chased the pain away somehow, it gave her courage, it reminded her of what it felt like to not be alone anymore.
She wanted to know who was there. She wanted to know who was holding her hand. She slowly opened her eyes and saw a name before a face. Which was appropriate, considering she felt as if all she had left was her own name.
Grissom.
She saw him smile at her. This was real. This wasn't some burning bush hallucination. This wasn't voices echoing in her head, or some strange delusion that he was there, that Greg was there, that Nick was there, that they were all there in some way. No, he was actually there, and he was actually holding her hand, and she felt such a wave of relief wash over her. She no longer wanted to die. She was glad to be alive again. She had conquered hell and she would brag about it to everyone she knew.
She had conquered the desert.
She had proved that she could do it.
She was alive, and she planned to stay that way.
When she woke up again, the world was cool, and harsh, and bright, far from the warm, soft darkness she had been used to before she was brought back from hell. And yet, she didn't mind so much. Because she was here, with the people she had been too afraid to let down. She was back again.
She blinked a few times. She turned her head to the side and saw a familiar face, fast asleep by her bedside. She reached up with her good arm and pulled off the oxygen mask.
"You brought me back," she choked, her voice hoarse, but distinguishable.
He blinked and seemed to stir. He looked at her groggily a moment before it dawned on him that she was awake and speaking to him, and a smile infected his features as he pulled his chair closer to her bed.
"Aw, Sara…" he said, sounding so relieved to see her awake.
Her brow furrowed, trying to chase away the dull headache that was tapping on her brain. "I heard you," she said. "You brought me back."
He didn't seem to understand. "When…"
She smiled. "I could hear you," she told him. "I know you got there first."
He looked breathless, but he shook his head. "You didn't have a pulse…"
"That doesn't mean I was dead."
Nick looked down at his knees, then up at her again. "You have terrible timing," he said. "Grissom just left."
"He'll be back," Sara said confidently. "He always comes back."
Nick looked awkward. "Sara, I'm so glad you're OK…" he said, smiling at her, his eyes magnified behind unshed tears.
"I guess it wasn't my day," she said.
He laughed and closed his eyes, which made the tears spill down his cheeks.
"You all helped me…" she breathed. "I heard you all the time. You were everywhere."
He smiled that familiar, optimistic smile, and it warmed her to the core. The good kind of warm. The kind of warm that didn't burn.
And then the door open. Someone was coming in, looking as though he was trying not to spill two cups of coffee.
"OK, so, Starbucks was closed, you get that good old crappy kind of—" He stopped talking when he looked up and saw that Sara was awake. She thought that maybe he would drop the coffees.
"Hello, Greg," she said.
He coughed, as if to dispel any awkwardness in the air before hurrying over to her bed and setting the coffees down on a metal tray. "Hey," he said quickly, brightly, his face lighting up. "How are you feeling?"
"Probably better than I look," she replied.
He laughed and reached out slowly, pushing her hair back from her face slowly, tenderly. "Nah," he said. "You look great."
"He's lying." The words had come from the door again, and Sara looked over to see the blonde, proud, and glowing Catherine leaning against the doorframe with folded arms as she beamed at Sara. She walked into the room and stood at the end of Sara's bed. "You look like hell."
"Been there," Sara said, nodding. "Beat it."
Catherine's grin broadened and she straightened out the sheets at the foot of Sara's bed. "You did good," she said quietly.
"Hey," said Warrick happily as he came into the room. "There's our girl."
Brass stepped out from behind Warrick. "Nick paged us," he said. "Good to see you awake again. Grissom's on his way back."
Both Brass and Warrick also collected around Sara's bed, and she realized that she was finally home again. This was where she belonged, and this was where she would stay.
And then, her eyes flickered to the doorway when Grissom arrived, looking breathless and relieved and adoring all at the same time. He said nothing as he approached the bed, and neither did she, their gaze locked. He stood by Nick, who was still smiling at her. Greg seemed to be compulsively stroking her hair. And Grissom took her hand in his.
And she had never felt safer.