A/N: To those of you who share my love of a protective Grissom, I hope this pleases…more as soon as possible…thanks for the continued support of this story by such terrific readers and reviewers… -Kathy
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Brass paced anxiously after he ended his brief call from Grissom, having already alerted an officer at the diner that he was in need of transportation for the purposes of backup to a new location STAT.
His worry increased as he wondered just how long his friend would be able to wait before charging into the building in search of Sara, even without backup.
Recalling the desperation in Gil's voice, his mind replayed the night of her first attack.
Shit! Even with SWAT teams aiming at the scene, and me only yards away, the damn bastard still rushed the situation…this time, he's going to get himself hurt – or worse.
Still, Jim had to admire the determination in Grissom's actions as his one thought was of saving the young CSI who Brass had always suspected had stolen his friend's heart years ago.
As the cruiser's sirens could be heard in the vicinity, the detective pulled out his service revolver and checked that he had a fully armed piece.
Let's just hope I don't have to use this, he sighed before hopping into the almost stopped police car before yelling their destination to the officer.
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At that moment, Gil having shut off the lights and sirens a block away, his borrowed cruiser was now rolling in silently through the opened gates of the off-street parking lot.
Coasting in slowly, his eyes searching for signs of activity in the apparently abandoned building, his trained eye spotted disturbed dirt and possible tire tracks near the steel garage door in the corner of the building.
Driving slowly back towards the alley, Grissom parked in the dead end court behind a forgotten dumpster and exited the vehicle without sound.
Pulling his service revolver taken from his two-second stop at his office following his departure from the AV lab, Gil took off the safety and shoved the piece into his deep jacket pocket.
Straining for any evidence of life inside the building, he moved back towards the suspiciously disturbed area of concrete in front of the large windowless doors.
Glancing around to be sure he was not detected, Grissom applied pressure from both outstretched hands onto the main plate of the garage door and pushed upwards – feeling it give a minute distance upwards.
Unlocked. Someone must be in there!
Continuing his search of the perimeter, Gil squeezed himself alongside the building finding himself almost squished between the high chain-linked fence and the harsh brick façade of the two story edifice.
Ahead, he could see what he thought might be a crack in the boarded up windows.
There were few street-level windows, but only one seemed to emit a soft shadow.
Lights on inside an abandoned building? It could be just some homeless person…
Grissom didn't know whether finding an indigent would make him sigh with relief, or pound his head against the wall in frustration.
Either way, he needed to track down the source of that glow.
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Inside the structure, Sara shivered with both cold and terrorized anticipation.
"Old Jim" had left her for what seemed like hours, although it hadn't been more than ten minutes.
He had tied her arms tightly above her head with her legs spread apart and strapped down to something on either side of this frigid table.
Aside from his disgusting overtures, he had actually done little else beside secure her with the chaffing bindings to prevent her escape.
She was surprised he hadn't taped her mouth shut, but figured he had taken her to this god-forsaken place and wasn't worried about anyone finding her.
Her eyes closed as she tried to hold out hope that somehow Gil would find her.
He did last time didn't he?
The ropes were cutting into the grafted skin and she could feel sensations like knife blades as some of the skin gave way through the pressure of the knots.
What have I done? This is my fault I'm in this mess.
Why did I run away from Gil?
I should have told Ecklie to go kiss his ass, and just quit the lab.
Why didn't I try to find Gil?
He'll blame me for getting myself kidnapped and raped, and I won't blame him one bit.
He'll blame me for leaving him, especially after I promised I wouldn't leave him again.
He'll never want me now. I'm such a mess.
But oh lord…I want him to find me…I want him to hold me…I need him to make this better…I can't do this alone.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the heavy door slamming open as Old Jim pushed against it with much exertion as he lugged in a large cardboard box.
Sara whimpered unconsciously as he set the container down harshly on the table…and she heard the clanking of glass bottles knocking into each other.
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Brass was two blocks away as tried to reach Grissom again, swearing when he received a prompt to leave a voice mail.
"Dammit, Gil," he swore as his fist hit the dashboard in frustration.
"Get us there pronto!" he bellowed and the officer placed a lead foot on the accelerator.
Grissom had turned of his cell phone to prevent his clandestine entrance through the side window from being detected.
Originally, he had just planned to remove the outer boards and scan the area from the outside.
That was before he spotted movement from the edge of the long hall.
Quickly replacing the boards and holding them in place with his body to block out any residual shadows, Gil had pressed his face to the cracks and watched from his vantage point near the drop ceiling as a figure moved almost in front of him before slamming into a large door not forty feet from where he was now standing.
Something about this figure seemed familiar, but Gil didn't waste time trying to discern where he might have seen him before.
Having removed the boards again, Grissom had successfully removed enough of a broken piece of windowpane, allowing him to maneuver the old inside latch to an open position.
While he moved quickly, his motions had been totally silent. He wasn't going to tip his hand and put Sara in more danger.
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Inside the room, Sara's shirt hung open and her naked form was now being studied by her attacker as he walked around and around the table, leering to the point of drooling.
Sara waited for the inevitable, her body almost convulsive as she replayed her earlier attack and the pain associated with it.
Watching with an almost detached interest, a behavior gleaned from years of abusive childhood encounters, her eyes widened as he moved towards the container and brandished a beer bottle dripping with icy cold drops of moisture.
He hit the top of the bottle on the edge of the table, the sound causing an involuntary whimper to rise again from her lips.
The movement had removed the crimped aluminum top off the bottle, and Sara watched him down the entire contents in one long sip.
He trashed the empty by pitching it against the wall, the crash resounding through the almost empty room.
He laughed at her pained expression, and reached in to repeat the motions with a new bottle.
Grissom had his head slightly inside the raised window, straining for sounds of movement.
The sound of the first bottle breaking was almost like a gunshot, causing him to reach reflexively for his piece.
He listened again as the second bottle broke, and he could now discern the sound of mocking laughter intermingled with the tone of smashing glass.
Grissom's jaw tightened, but he remained in place as he had been directed by Brass.
Inside the room, old Jim was now reeking of fermented brew as he leaned over towards Sara, mockingly inquiring, "Oh, where's my manners? Would you like a beer, pretty girl?"
Sara found her head shaking vigorously in denial, her mouth unable to speak as she watched him draw another bottle from the case.
"Please," the whispered cry was barely heard.
"Sure, pretty girl. Whatever you want. You know, you and old Jim can party all night long," he laughed again as he moved towards her.
"NO!" Sara screamed. She knew he would probably kill her if she riled him sufficiently, and even death was a better alternative to the fate he had in store for her.
"Shut UP!" Jim yelled before slapping Sara hard enough to make her hear the vertebrae in her neck snap in adjustment.
Hearing Sara's wail was all the incentive Grissom needed to make his move.
Had he stayed in his perch one more minute, he would have seen Brass arrive at the parking lot in search of the cruiser Grissom had parked out of sight.
A muscular form such as Grissom's makes quite a racket as it enters a narrow window space hurriedly, and the sound of glass breaking in the corridor caused Sara's attacker to wheel around and run to his knapsack long ago forgotten on a corner divan.
Seeing old Jim pull out a revolver, Sara screamed out, "He's got a gun!"
Within a few steps, old Jim returned to Sara's side and this time he slapped the side of her head with the butt of his revolver, causing her to cry out in pain as blood began to gush from her head wound.
As luck would have it, at that exact moment, Grissom kicked in the door without waiting to see that it had been closed but unlocked.
The first thing he saw was the butt of this maniac's gun hit Sara in the head.
The next thing he saw was red.
Strange things happen to a man when he is faced with seeing violence directed to a loved one.
The adrenaline rush that pumps through his body turns sinew and tissue into steel.
The mind loses focus on anything but protecting that loved one from future harm.
And moving to the utter decimation of the person responsible for incurring that harm.
Sara watched her attacker's surprise as Grissom almost flew at him, knocking his gun from their position mere centimeters from her face.
Her head was spinning from the concussive blow, but her mind was reeling at the look on Gil's face as he pummeled old Jim's lanky form with such power that Sara almost believed the man would snap in half.
After several blows to his midsection, Grissom yanked this man's hair upwards which caused the blood already gushing from his mouth to now drool from the spaces between his missing teeth.
But what caught Sara's attention was the quick glance at Gil's glare.
He was almost unrecognizable to her.
The kind, scholarly, brain over brawn scientist she had come to know and love was replaced by this vigilante she couldn't identify.
The sheer hatred oozing from blue eyes now almost black with anger made Sara call out to him.
"Gil, please."
But he was on autopilot, battering this man who had long since given up the battle for consciousness.
On and on his fists flew as expletives were now directed with every blow.
Sara knew without a doubt that if someone couldn't reach him, he was angry enough to kill this man for what he had done to her.
Terror again seized her heart, as she refused to be the reason he took someone else's life.
She knew when his calm finally returned, he would not be able to live with himself for killing another human being, despicable though he may be.
Sara knew she couldn't be the cause of that.
"Gil! PLEASE!"
Somewhere outside, Sara heard voices and panic welled up inside as she thought old Jim may have friends who would come to hurt Gil.
Hearing Brass' deep tenor calling, "LVPD, come out with your hands up," Sara searched for a way to reach Gil before anyone else entered the room.
"Gil, help me!"
His fist poised in midair, the plea for help cut through the fog of his anger.
Grissom's eyes finally focused on the bloody, nearly unconscious form he had pinned against the wall.
He released the body from his grasp with a shove, watching with uncharacteristic pleasure as the man slumped into a limp blob onto the doorway.
In a heartbeat, Gil was at her side, removing his jacket to cover her lower extremities before moving to close a few buttons on her shirt.
By this time, Brass had entered with his gun raised, his eyes shooting back and forth in well-practiced maneuvers to secure the scene.
The sight of Grissom trying valiantly to preserve some form of dignity for an obviously wounded Sara just about broke his heart.
Kicking the assailant's gun well out of reach, Brass whirled around to the officer in the hallway to prevent him from entering the scene.
"Call EMS," he bellowed as he turned to cuff the still unconscious man at his feet.
While Brass dealt with the bloody prisoner, Gil was coming off his adrenaline high.
As often happens, the body shuts down to protect itself and give itself time to heal.
Breathing was becoming difficult, as was looking directly at Sara while he released her from her bindings.
I almost killed the man.
I wanted to kill him.
I would have killed him if she hadn't stopped me.
I never felt that deep a rage before.
What kind of animal must she think I am?
No better than the dirtbag who did this to her?
NO!
I'm not anything like him!
He hurt her!
He hurt my Sara!
I should have killed him for what he did to her!
As Gil was beginning to get spun up again, Sara was watching his breathing becoming shallower and his jaw tightening.
She knew he was trying to temper his anger with little success.
What could she say to tell him how glad she was that he had saved her from reliving a fate worse than death?
As near as they were to each other, their internal debates made both feel light years apart.
It wasn't until Brass pulled the nearly conscious man onto his feet that Gil lifted his head towards the criminal, his sneer belying his continuing need for satisfaction for what Sara had endured.
Gil's back was to Sara as he turned to watch Jim walk away with his prisoner.
She didn't need to see his face to know what was running through his mind.
Every muscle in Grissom's body was on high alert, his heart demanding his feet should follow the handcuffed man and finish the job.
So when the softest touch of Sara's hand was felt on his back, Gil reeled about swiftly with eyes narrowed in anger.
"Gil…I'm…sorry."
The plea was full of genuine remorse for what Sara felt was her poor judgment that led them to this point.
Suddenly, the need for revenge was replaced by the overwhelming desire to placate any misplaced sense of wrongdoing on the part of this tortured victim.
He leaned in until their faces were almost touching.
His fingers reached out with shaking movements as he softly caressed the bloody cut along her hairline, his heart shuddering at the implications of the bruise had it been a few centimeters to the left.
Their eyes connecting, his softly shaken head spoke volumes of his despair at her predicament and of his wonder at her survival.
Reaching for her hand, he held it tightly as if afraid to release her would mean to lose her.
After a moment, she returned the grasp as if to show him she understood that sentiment.
With silence engulfing them within their private moment, the nearby sound of a garage door opening to admit the paramedics was lost to them as they stared expressionless into each other's eyes, their tears mingling onto the union of their hands – and hearts.