Greg stood in DB's office waiting for his assignment feeling decidedly uneasy. Nick was away at a remote crime scene, and Finn and Morgan were chatting quietly to his left, also waiting. DB was on the phone, seated behind his desk with a frown on his face as he tried to get rid of his caller, his gaze sweeping over his subordinates with measured curiosity.
Greg pulled out his own cell phone, tapping out a cheerfully teasing message to his best friend.
'Sara, are you sleeping? Did you forget to get up for work?'
He hit send and returned to his worrying. Sara had been distant and edgy lately; he knew she was miserable over Grissom's apparently abrupt decision to end their relationship, but was as reluctant to talk about it as her body was to allow her to sleep. He hated to wake her, if she had succumbed to slumber, but he knew she would be furious if she missed work.
Thinking about her work habits he sighed; Sara had returned to her old ways in the last few months. She arrived first, left last and maxed out on overtime every month without fail. That she wasn't here now made him feel queasy and tense. Seeing DB looked to be stuck for the moment, he stepped out into the hallway and dialled Sara's home phone. He let it ring all the way to voicemail before hanging up and trying again. Still not getting an answer he tried her cell, and growled in irritation when he heard nothing but empty ringing and the standard phone company message she had reverted to recently.
He slid back into the office just as DB was hanging up, a frown nestled in his brows. He handed a slip of paper to Finn.
"Suspicious activity in Henderson Finn, Morgan," he said with a shrug at Morgan's raised eyebrow. "No idea, but Vartann will meet you there. Greg, you and I have a body in a dumpster," he finished. Greg nodded, too preoccupied to grimace in disgust. He watched Finn and Morgan leave before turning to the boss.
"Did she answer any of your calls?" asked DB, beating him to it. Greg shook his head, the gnawing feeling in his stomach intensifying. DB sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We'll swing by her place first," he decided, lips pursed in thought. "I was worried when I got here before her, but these damn paper chasers have been after me all evening. She hasn't been right since that man walked out on her."
Greg let that phrase turn over in his head as they walked out to the parking lot. That man! The one whom he had admired and looked up to for years. That man, whom as a young intrepid scientist he had practically hero worshipped. The one who he had been elated to see finally notice his best friend and put meaning and purpose back into her life. The one whose excited emails from Costa Rica he had so enthusiastically read, desperate for any news about what they were up too.
That man who Sara had given her heart and soul to, and who had so savagely handed them back seemingly out of the nowhere, torn, tattered and damaged beyond repair. Listening to her confession weeks ago now, he had been devastated on her behalf, and incensed by his former mentor's actions.
Now he sat silently in the passenger seat as DB drove, unwilling to make polite conversation, feeling tired and thoroughly worn down by the current state of affairs.
When they pulled up in front of Sara's home he felt his stomach lurch; her car was pulled onto the drive, and not into the garage where it usually rested. They walked up to the door and DB rang the bell; they heard it echo through the silent house, but heard or saw no movement. DB took a step back from the threshold, scanning the building for an open window but Greg simply shook his head and pulled his keys from his pocket, selecting one and pushing it into the lock. Sara had given it to him when she returned from Paris; not knowing her neighbours well, she had wanted someone she knew and trusted to have a spare.
Inside it was dark, cool and oddly silent. Nothing hummed or creaked like in other homes, and he wondered idly if this was a coping mechanism for the insomnia that plagued his friend. He called her name softly, and then louder when he got no response. DB following, he passed through the empty living room and into the equally quiet kitchen. The air was so still that not even the fronds of the many plants moved. The office was the same, as were the spare bedroom and bathroom. With a sigh, Greg walked to Sara's bedroom door and tapped gently on the frame, calling out to her. Hearing nothing he pushed the door further ajar and peered inside. In the dim light from the hall lamp DB had flicked on he saw a pair of luminous amber eyes staring at him through the dark; Benjamin, a young mackerel tabby cat, regarded Greg irritably as he stepped into the room, disturbing his peaceful nap. Greg called out to Sara, seeing her shadowy form on the bed. When she didn't answer, he groped along the wall for a switch until he managed to illuminate the room in a dim glow from the muted lights.
Sara was sprawled face down on top of the bed, wearing yoga pants and a soft sweater he recognized as having seen her relax in before. Benjamin was curled into her side, one paw resting possessively on her arm; he glared angrily as Greg approached.
"Sara," called Greg again, louder this time. Still his friend didn't respond and, upon reaching the bed, Greg reached out a hand to gently shake her shoulder. She moved under his touch, but only because of it; when he let go, she slipped right back into the same position, unmoving and unresponsive. Alarmed, he slid a hand under her shoulder and pushed, rolling her onto her back. The cat hissed and swiped a paw at him, claws extended.
"Whoa little man," soothed DB, scooping the cat up and tucking it under one arm as he scanned the room. Greg bent over Sara, listening for breath in her lungs. DB's gaze fell on the cabinet on the other side of the bed and he walked around to examine the few items neatly placed on top. One item stood out and he picked it up, studying the label.
"Eszopiclone," he said, squinting at the date. "It was refilled three days ago, and it's empty." He upended the open bottle over the bed, but nothing fell out. Greg peeled back one of Sara's eyelids to reveal a pinpoint pupil.
"I'll call an ambulance," DB's tone was urgent now, his phone already in his hand as he let the bottle fall. The cat squirmed in his grip, and he unconsciously rubbed its chest with his thumb, trying to sooth the animal as he dialled.
"Sara, can you hear me?" demanded Greg, as he struggled to find a pulse in her wrist, and then her neck. She was breathing, but barely and her lips were tinged blue with lack of oxygen. He tried to think of what he knew about eszopiclone and its overdose implications.
"Eszopiclone," he mumbled aloud, trying to focus and stem off his panic. "Known as Lunesta, used to treat insomnia and falls under the nonbenzodiazepine hypnotics class. Three milligrams is equivalent to ten milligrams of diazepam. Signs of overdose include lack of awareness, coronary something or other and coma. Great!" he muttered, staring at Sara.
"They're on their way," said DB abruptly, returning his phone to his pocket. Still tucked between DB's arm and his CSI vest, Benjamin struggled wildly in his quest to get back to Sara. DB restrained the cat with two hands and glanced around quickly; spotting the bathroom door he strode over, stuck his head inside checking for other exits and, finding none, quickly shut the now howling feline inside.
"I can't find a pulse," said Greg urgently as DB knelt on the bed on Sara's other side. Skipping her wrist, the older man reached straight for the carotid, probing with more pressure than he would on a conscious patient. Greg yanked out his phone and dropped it on the bed; he tapped in a speed dial command and pressed the button for speakerphone.
"Autopsy," answered the familiar voice as Greg leant over Sara's head, listening to her shallow breaths.
"Doc its Greg," he said without preamble. "Sara's overdosed on eszopiclone. Paramedics are on the way but we can't find her pulse and her breathing is negligible."
"Breathing is non-existent," interrupted DB as the slight rise and fall in Sara's chest stopped. "I found her pulse, but its…" he floundered for the right words. "Weird. Too slow."
"Greg, breathe for her," instructed Doc. "I'll count for you. DB, is there any indication of how long ago she overdosed?"
Greg tilted Sara's head back and pinched her nose, his other hand on her chin, holding her mouth open. Taking a deep breath he sealed his mouth over hers and exhaled to Doc Robbins count.
DB scanned the room with a practiced gaze; his eyes fell on Sara's phone and he picked it up, sliding his thumb over the screen to activate it. The phone showed an alarm set to wake her before shift; it had gone off but not been silenced, instead ringing itself into submission.
"At least two and a half hours Doc," he called over the coroner's steady counting. As Greg blew another lungful of air into Sara, Doc Robbins broke his count momentarily.
"You must tell the paramedics," he said urgently, "it will change how they treat her." He resumed his count as Greg inhaled deeply.
"I hear sirens," said DB, running to the front door.
He returned within a minute, leading a pair of paramedics who couldn't have been more different if they tried. The man was tall and lanky, with dark features and a shock of black hair that looked as though no amount of taming would keep it in order. The woman was tiny, muscular and pale in the extreme. Her eyes were such a light blue they appeared clear, and her blonde hair was swept into an immaculate braid from which not a single strand dared escape. DB filled them in as they moved, and Greg stepped aside as they took over with the easy calm brought about by many years of practice.
Doc Robbins fell silent, listening attentively to discern any possible information. Saskia sliced through Sara's sweater, exposing a dark blue tank top and applied monitoring leads as Matt took over ventilation. The monitor beeped and Greg and DB stared as wavy lines appeared.
"Arrhythmia," said Saskia, trying to get an IV line started. "God this is like trying to find a needle in a haystack," she muttered, searching for a vein that wasn't constricted and near invisible.
The machine squealed, making Greg and DB jump backwards in shock.
"V-fib," muttered Matt as Saskia reached for the electrodes, promptly sticking them to Sara's chest and attaching the wires to the defibrillator.
"Charging," said Saskia as the defibrillator whined. "Clear," she ordered and they both moved away. Sara twitched slightly as the shock tore from the end of the leads and into her body and the monitor let out a long, continuing beep as the lines smoothed out.
"Asystole," narrated Saskia, unaware she was even speaking. "Come on," she cajoled Sara's heart, staring intently at the flat line. She sighed in satisfaction when the monotone ended and a healthier rhythm took its place, indicating normal cardiac function had been restored. Matt was back breathing for Sara as Saskia prepared her to travel.
"Where are you taking her?" asked DB as the paramedics strapped Sara to the stretcher.
"University Medical Centre," said Mark, tightening a strap across Sara's forehead as Saskia injected medication into the IV port she had finally managed to obtain. Seconds later they were gone, the front door slamming behind them.
"I'll meet you there," said Doc Robbins, making Greg jump. He had forgotten the phone call was still running. Hearing the doctor disconnect, he picked up the device which still lay on the bed and pocketed it.
"No what," he asked numbly, his gaze falling on DB.
"We look for anything amiss," said the supervisor firmly. "And then go to the hospital." An enraged howl from behind the bathroom door made them both jump again. DB sighed and went to let the cat out of his temporary prison. Benjamin stalked by him in the manner only an irate cat can manage, his tail held high and his fur rippling as he twitched in outrage. Jumping onto the bed he hissed when he saw Sara was gone, sniffing the blankets as he clawed at the unfamiliar scents left behind by the paramedics.
"Come on buddy," soothed DB, holding out a hand to stroke the little guy.
"His name is Benjamin," offered Greg helpfully. "Sara rescued him from an abusive home about nine months ago. They're nuts about each other, but he doesn't seem to like anyone else. He glares at me, and he always hisses at Nick." Finding nothing in the room that seemed to indicate Sara's state of mind, he looked at the growling cat and sighed, wincing as DB snatched his fingers away a second too slow to avoid being bitten. "Maybe we can ply him with food?" he suggested, moving to the kitchen where he knew Sara kept her pet supplies. Benjamin's dish was mostly full, but he topped it off and replaced the water anyway before hunting through the immaculate countertops, hoping to find anything to help explain the situation. He found nothing, returning to the bedroom to find DB exiting the bathroom with a sigh and a shake of his head.
"Absolutely nothing," he said to Greg.
"Same," replied the CSI with a defeated sigh.
"Let's go to the hospital then," suggested DB. "Maybe they can tell us more." Trailing his boss out of the room, Greg scooped up Sara's phone and dropped it into his vest pocket just in case.
…
The ride to the hospital was silent, both men running the last hour over in their minds, wondering not just what had happened, but how.
An orderly at the main emergency desk directed them to the waiting room, where they found a silent Doc watching for them. Greg said nothing as the other two spoke, instead sliding into a chair and feeling despair settle upon him with all its lead weight accompaniment.
DB's phone rang and he frowned, wondering who wanted him just then.
"Hello?" he answered, without bothering to look at the screen.
"Where are you?" demanded Brass, impatient to get moving with the case.
"Jim, I'm sorry," said DB, having forgotten entirely about the body he and Greg were supposed to be attending. Knowing the police captain shared a deep friendship with Sara, he continued. "I'm at University Medical Centre with Greg; Sara is unwell." Brass didn't miss the unspoken urgency of his remark.
"Can you send a tech out here? I may not be a scientist, but I'm pretty sure the victim is a dealer and junkie from the neighbourhood."
"I'll call Hodges," said DB with some satisfaction, having spent much of the previous evening being harassed by the specialist about unfounded accusations surrounding co-workers. "He has a light workload tonight."
By the time he'd hung up the phone and walked the length of the hospital and back to find three cups of decent coffee, Brass was striding into the waiting room. DB, Doc and Brass crowded into a corner to talk, keeping an eye on Greg who sat staring into his cup as though it would provide the answers he was looking for.
"What happened?" asked Brass, skipping pleasantries. "I saw her yesterday and she seemed fine."
"She overdosed on eszopiclone," said Doc, his lips pursed in anger. Brass gave him a look.
"Lunesta," translated DB. "Sleeping pills. She didn't show up for the start of shift; Greg and I went to check on her."
"So what's wrong with her?" Brass wanted to know, one hand impatiently tapping a staccato beat against his thigh.
"Cardiac arrhythmia," said Doc. "They had to shock her heart back into rhythm. She wasn't breathing independently either."
"How do you," began Brass.
"I was on the phone with Greg," shrugged the doctor.
"What are we looking at?" asked DB, wondering about Sara's immediate future. Doc sighed and leant back against the wall, taking a deep sip of coffee.
"Coronary vasospasm; the blood vessels of the heart spasm and constrict, limiting or blocking blood flow. That leads to ischemia, where the tissues are devoid of oxygen and sometimes necrosis, where the tissue dies. Cardiac ischemia can also cause myocardial infarction."
"Heart attack," said Brass flatly, recognizing that one. Doc nodded bleakly.
"Will she live?" asked DB, wanting a straight answer.
"That depends on a lot of factors," replied Doc, raising a hand in a helpless gesture. "How much she ingested, how long ago, whether they can counteract the drug before it does too much damage. There are risks of prolonged coma; that she can't breathe independently isn't a good sign." He paused, floundering for words.
"And if she does?" asked Brass grimly.
"She won't be unscathed. Eszopiclone is nasty stuff. If I was a practicing physician, I wouldn't want to prescribe it. There are other, safer sedatives just as easily available."
They fell silent, taking in the grim reality.
"Why was she even taking sleeping pills anyway?" asked Doc, draining his cup and squashing it in his free hand.
"She hasn't slept in months," said DB.
"She never said anything," mused Doc.
"She doesn't," snorted Brass, "she never has."
"At least not until her birthday fiasco," noted DB.
"I could kill that man," snarled Brass suddenly, daggers in his eyes. "I warned him! I warned him when he went running off to Costa Rica that he'd better be sure of himself. I told him that she would lose it if anything like this ever happened between them."
"You're talking about Grissom now, right?" asked DB. Doc nodded as Brass fumed.
"The man never changed in all the years we worked with him," he explained. "It took Sara years to wear him down and get him to admit his feelings. When he did, it was like his universe had shifted. I thought for sure they were destined for forever."
"Why didn't we notice?" asked Brass suddenly, bursting abruptly back into the conversation. "How did we let… this… happen?"
"This…" echoed Doc.
"Attempted suicide," said DB quietly. The other two gaped at him. "Someone needs to say it," he told them, raising his hands peacefully. "We need to acknowledge the facts; Sara tried to kill herself. The question is what do we do now?"
"You mean," seethed Brass into the chilly silence, "what do we do if she lives?"
…
Greg sat numb and frozen. He could not believe what he had witnessed, and his brain felt as though it was struggling to push aside mountains of clouds determined to impair his thoughts. The only coherent strand floating through his consciousness that he managed to cling on to was a single question; why? Other thoughts swirled in a confused mass; there was something just out of his reach that was important, he knew, but he couldn't reel it in to begin putting the pieces together.
His coffee cooled in his hands as he stared into its murky depths, seeing nothing. It was only when he dimly heard DB mention a name that he stirred. Grissom. His former boss. Sara's estranged husband. He reached into his pocket, groping for the cell phone he had stowed there. Pulling it out he stared at the iPhone and its recycled bamboo cover, wondering if he should call Grissom and let him know what was happening. Was it worth it? He wondered. Would Grissom even care?
…
How long it was before a doctor arrived to speak with them none of them could have said. The news, when it was spoken, was grim. Greg, Brass and DB crowded around as Doc Robbins spoke with the ER physician; words heavy with medical connotation descended upon them, only a few making sense because of Doc's earlier foresight. Cardiac ischemia, coronary arteries, aerobic tissue, myocardium, cerebral hypoxia. As the terms tumbled down around him like spiked hailstones battering his skin, Greg wondered if the list would ever end, until the doctor abruptly asked something that shattered any lingering illusions he may have had.
"If Ms Sidle has a health care proxy, now would be the time to get them here. There may be some decisions to make."
…
The doctor walked back through the heavy double doors of the ER and Greg, Brass and DB turned in unison to Doc, all asking the same question with their eyes.
"Her heart stopped," he said. "When blood stops flowing adequately, aerobic tissue like the heart and brain are damaged very quickly; often the cells can't recover and die. Then the damage is permanent. In Sara's case, there is damage to the heart muscle surrounding the left ventricle; the left anterior descending artery and the left circumflex artery are also affected. At the moment she's holding on, but if she deteriorates anymore they will have to bypass the damage." He paused, searching for a simpler way to put explain. "It's like a cascade of effects; the drug caused a chain reaction of things to happen."
"So, part of her heart died?" asked Brass, wanting clarification. Doc nodded.
"Some cells are damaged, some have died. The same is true of her brain."
"She's brain dead?" choked Greg, distraught. Doc shook his head.
"That's not what I said. Small parts of her brain are dead. The same thing happens with head injuries or strokes. The brain is remarkable; it can be trained in some instances to take over the duties of other areas."
"So she might be fine?"
"Greg, she may never wake up. If her heart stops again, I imagine it will kill her. At the very least, if she recovers she will have many months of rehabilitation."
"Will she recover?" asked DB.
"I really don't know," sighed Doc. "Right now they've cooled her body temperature to slow the effects of hypoxia and try and save cells from damage. She has some advantages over most patients who present with this type of issue; she's young and she's otherwise healthy. If she doesn't deteriorate further, she will probably live. If she does," he raised his hand, palm open and facing upwards as he shrugged.
…
With the acknowledgment that they were unlikely to hear more for the next several hours, Greg walked away from the group headed outside for some fresh air. He pulled out Sara's phone again and stared at it in resentment, bitter anger bubbling inside him. Bringing the screen to life he couldn't help but smile slightly at a picture of Benjamin sprawled on his back, paws in the air, and then felt his heart sink. Not so long ago the welcome screen had been a photo of Grissom and Sara together in Paris. As he scrolled through the phone book, he realized he had no idea where in the world Grissom was right now, and for a moment he felt a flash of savage hope that he was about to wake the man from a sound sleep. He stopped at the right G, his thumb hovering over the send button. Would Sara even want them to call him?
Raising the device to his ear he listened; the connection seemed to take an age before he heard it ring. When it did, he found himself counting. It rang once, twice and again. Then, in the middle of the third ring, there was a slight pause and then the voicemail cut in. He stared, appalled, for a moment before yanking out his own phone and typing in the number. He let it ring through to voicemail, then hung up and redialled. This time it cut to the answering service after just one ring. He took a breath, incensed.
"Grissom, it's Greg," he said flatly. "Sara overdosed on sleeping pills. Her heart is failing and she undoubtedly has brain damage. For some reason I can't fathom you are still her health care proxy, so if you want any say in her treatment you should probably surface from whatever far-flung country you're hiding in." He hung up, his hands shaking so badly with rage he nearly dropped the phone onto the concrete. It took several minutes to school himself into enough stillness before he was able to construct a text and send it to the same recipient; 911, check your messages now! GS
…
The anger over Grissom bypassing the calls helped Greg focus, and he paced back inside as he finally put together the puzzle he had been struggling with for the last few hours. Seeing DB and Brass moving away from the desk, about to leave, he hurried over to them.
"She didn't try to kill herself," he blurted out, sure of himself. They stared at him in varying degrees of shock, pity and disbelief. "Hear me out," he insisted, when DB opened his mouth to protest.
"Sara loves animals," he said quickly. "Especially her cat; she would never, ever do anything that would harm Benjamin, either directly or indirectly, no matter how miserable she was personally. And her house; there's nothing out of order, no note, nothing. She'd even set her alarm to wake herself up for shift. There has to be an alternative explanation."
...
...
I wasn't going to publish this...
This is what happens when I wake up grumpy and am still seething with the writers...
I had always promised myself I would never write a story centralized around unhappy GSR- I don't do angst, I like drama and tension with realistic happy endings...
This is also because I'm stuck with Shalom Aleichem...
This will not/had better not turn into another long WIP; three is plenty at one time! I think I'll be setting a ten chapter limit.
So in the meantime, enjoy and please R&R.
And feel free to puzzle it out: who's right? DB, Doc and Brass, or Greg?