This was just an idea that popped into my head while I was trying to write the newest chapter of my story God Called in Sick Today. It is VERY loosely based on this really awful movie I once saw; I took the basic story line and hopefully made it not suck as badly. This is set directly after that scene in Play with Fire when Sara asks Grissom out.
Rejected. How often did I walk in there, waiting to catch his eye, to make him smile that astute, unforgettable smile? And how often did I get ignored, sent on another mindless task to try to get me out of his sight? He sent hints, glances that made me know he wasinterested, but then he just seemed to forget all about me. Grissom just dismissed it as he is the boss and I am Sara Sidle, workaholic protege extrordinare. That because of our jobs, we could never hope of becoming closer. This little exchange went on for years and I always thought that each new day was the day it happened, the day the silly exchange ended.
He was so comforting yesterday, it seemed like he was looking only at me. Maybe it was the small fact that I was almost blown up. Maybe it was because he realized how quickly I could be taken away from him, how quickly he could lose his chance. Stupidly, I decided to act on this last notion and ask him out to dinner. He didn't even try to come up with an excuse; all I was worth was a flat out 'no'. I was so sick of being treated like a statue, void of emotion and always in the background.Feeling more fed up than ever beforeand pushed by this new adrenaline that almost dying gave me, I was finally through with the whole situation. After hiding out and cryingin the bathroom for about half an hour, I was turning in my two-weeks notice. The fact that I didn't have another job waiting didn't seem to matter at this time. The last thing I remember was walking out of the stall, wiping mytears,and holding my head up high, with an expression I hoped read 'Fuck you, world', before I slipped. I fell into the bathroom mirror, my head colliding with the glass before falling onto the marble counter. Then everything slowly began to fade. It was like I was drunk, more wasted than ever before. The bathroom was slowly spinning. It was as if I were aware of the earth's revolving for the first time. All images began to blend - sink, counter tops, stalls - before everything faded to black.
Awake. I sat up as quickly as possible and I immediately regretted that sudden movement when my head started pounding. I eased back down and rested my head once again on the soft pillow. The soft pillow? What happened to the cool tiles of the restroom floor? I forced open my eyes and looked around the room. It was a bedroom, obviously, with rich, butter-cream walls, white carpet, and oak furniture pieces scattered throughout the room. On the walls hung framed photographs that I couldn't quite make out from my position on the bed. Seeing as I was currently buried under this royal blue comforter, my view of the walls was blocked. As I pulled the blanket from over my head and glanced around the room, I realized that this was the first time I had ever set foot in this room. I guessed that the key to figuring out exactly where I was hid in those photographs. I stood up, slower this time, and began walking toward the wall, my bare feet sinking into the shaggy white carpet.
The first picture was of two children, an older boy and his sister. Both of them had to be under the age of nine. They were posed, grinning in front of a blue screen - - most likely a class picture. As cute as the kids were, they really weren't helping me out of my present situation, so I continued looking. The second picture showed the kids again. Instead of a blue screen, this picture was taken outdoors, with the children sword fighting with sticks in a yard. A woman was standing to the left of the pair; from the way she was looking at them, I assumed she was their mother. Something about her struck me as familiar so I looked closely at the picture one last time.
Gasping, I turned and ran toward the door. I had no clue where to run to, though, or who would be standing outside that door. Yet what the photograph showed, who I saw in the picture, scared the shit out of me. The woman in that picture, the woman staring lovingly at the children I didn't know, was me.
I made it across the room in record time. As I reached for the door handle, I noticed the note tacked to the bedroom door, the lime green thumbtack contrasting vibrantly with the oak door.
"Sara," it read. So obviously, the note was for me. I didn't feel like I was reading someone else's personal note anymore and I continued to read on, althougha different name probably wouldn't have stopped me. "I left early for work and I went ahead and dropped Vinny and Clara off at school. I took the liberty to turn off your alarm clock so have fun on your day off. I'll see you at noon." That was it. I recognized the handwriting, the long scratchy cursive stood out in my memory, but I couldn't place it. At least I wasn't stuck with a complete stranger.
Once again, I attempted to leave the room and, once again, I was distracted. You see, in the explosion that happened yesterday, I cut my hand on some glass from the walls of the lab. I needed a few stitches and the hospital staff wrapped it in bandages. However, instead of the mass of bandages, there was a single thin scar, running across my hand like a piece of string. It looked as if that scar had been there for years. I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but whatever was going on was certainly scaring me now.
The note told me that no one else was home so I cautiously tiptoed out of the bedroom and began exploring the house, trying to memorize the layout before anyone got home. The house was beautiful, it had every single feature that I pictured myself having when I moved into my first real house. It was like a dream. Then it clicked; this was a dream. It was my mind trying to show me that everything would be alright, that my future would be fine if I didn't quit my job. Or maybe, in this dream I had already quit my job, thus signifying that I needed to move on and, subconsciously, I was ready to do so. And in "real life", I was passed out on the bathroom floor, waiting for someone to find me. I decided to just go get some breakfast and wait for it to end. I was making myself some cereal in the enormous kitchen when I remembered the note. I had to wonder whom I subconsciously envisioned myself marrying and I wanted to stay asleep long enough to figure it out.
I checked the small silver watched that adorned my wrist, a watch I didn't own before this dream. Eleven o'clock. I had an hour to kill. So I found the living room: a huge, elegant room with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and the most comfortable chairs I could imagine, and plopped down on the sofa beside the tv screen. For the next ten minutes I was channel surfing until I finally settled down on one of those home design shows. There I sat, staring at the tv, and I was just beginning to think to myself that the British carpenter was hot, when I caught sight of the cut again. That thin scar that ran across my palm was where this whole problem began. I had a feeling the explosion in the lab was somehow linked to my dream, but the thing that I couldn't get was how. How much time had passed since that day? What happened to everyone – Grissom, Catherine, all of them – in the time that passed?
The rattling of keys in the door at the back of the house ended my train of thought. After what seemed like an eternity, the door creaked open. I could hear the faint echoing of footsteps in the back hallway.
"Sara?" he called, questioning, with a worried sound to his voice.
"In here," the words stuck in my throat. I was nervous, my hands were shaking, I could barely catch my breath. I don't know why but for some reason I felt as if the answer to all of my problems lay in this one person.
He walked in, took one look at my pajama clad form and grinned. "Good morning."
"Greg" I couldn't mask my disappointment as I saw him turn into the kitchen. I was expecting ANYONE other than Greg, the awkward, annoying lab tech who could drive a person insane within seconds. It was like expecting Colin Farrell and getting Will Ferrel instead. He tried to balance three grocery bags in his arms and wave to me simultaneously. I grimaced, already envisioning the mess the spilled groceries would cause on the shining white tiles of the kitchen floor. It never came. He slid the bags on the counter with ease, throwing the food in the refrigerator like it was an art form.
"I thought I'd pick up some groceries on my break," he glanced at me as he ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair, the fake blond highlights finally gone. He reached his other hand back into the last remaining grocery bag. "Rocky road ice cream," his eyes danced as he held it up for me to see.
"I'm not hungry," my reply was a little short, but I don't think he noticed. And I really wanted that ice cream but I sure as hell wasn't going to accept it from him. I still hadn't moved from my position on the couch and I was trying to decide whether that would still be considered rude. Although I was convinced this was just a dream, I still didn't want to be rude. With the food finally up though, he walked over toward me and sat beside me on the leather sofa.
"Did you get to sleep in?" His huge brown eyes met mine as he waited for an answer. I only nodded and looked back at the design show, pretending that the show took my full attention. We sat there quietly for a few minutes before he grabbed my knee. He was running his hand along the inside of my thigh before I pulled away quickly and stared at him, with a look I know read 'What the hell is the matter with you?'. He shrugged it off and stared me down again, as if he were trying to read my thoughts.
"Let's go get something to eat"
"I thought you just went to the store."
He laughed. " Unless you're really in the mood for frozen tofu burgers, I suggest we eat out. Now get dressed," he mockingly ordered me out of the room, his hand pointed in the direction of the door for emphasis. I got up and marched out, figuring slapping the man who I was supposed to be married to wasn't the smartest bet.
AN: I do realize that this is COMPLETELY OUT OF CHARACTER and probably very, very shitty. I've only written this one chapter so unless you guys want more then it will be a standalone piece. I haven't decided on Grissom or Greg as the guy who gets the girl. Any suggestions?