CHAPTER 38: REUNION
Greg could see the body being brought in. It slumped over Greene's shoulder, but not easily – not slung over like a bag of potatoes, as he'd seen so many times. Greene clutched the body awkwardly, struggling to hold it up over his right shoulder, where it leaned too far off. It was too broad.
It was no it, but a he, as Greg saw when he looked into his ex-friend's brown eyes. They had held fear, but, at the moment they met Greg's, they held nothing but relief and, dare Greg guess it, an apology.
Greg's eyes returned a look of pity for the ordeal his friend had just cast himself into, but, nonetheless, his own sort of relief as well. He wouldn't mind a friend in this place, even if he did very much mind that Nick was here.
Perhaps, between the two of them, they'd even stand a better chance of getting something done for their own sakes, along with that of the case.
"Hi friend," Greg said as Greene lugged the very alive body over to Greg's side of the room before dropping it – him – unceremoniously, and with great effort, on the floor.
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The call startled Grissom. It had been too long without sleep, and he growled at nobody in particular, as the caller couldn't hear him, having not picked up the phone yet. But they had interrupted precious dreams of Sara Sidle merged into the strongest dreamless sleep he had found in what felt like years.
Yet, this time, he couldn't dream of Sara. He found only the same hellish refuge as Greg had earlier. The same flames that covered the knife in Nick's nightmares covered the world – his team was his world – in Grissom's.
Dreams presented a strange juxtaposition of peace and desperation. The calmness of candles gently drifted into – onto – flames enveloping Warrick, then Greg, then Nick. The candles burned, but oh so calm were they.
Oh so peaceful, tranquil, even sweet. Yet they burned. He saw the strangled screams and could not understand the peace in them. In slow motion, he watched them melt and burn as Lou Gedda, and his whole team, reincarnated bigger, pulled their own puppet strings.
Sara Sidle was nowhere in sight in his dreams, and he knew why. Even in dreams, his team needed him more. What was left of his team. He sighed, rolling over and clutching his blanket, in restless yet deep sleep.
He could loosen the strings that the inadvertent puppeteer that was Sara Sidle held over his heart.
The strings would stay, but the hands, stronger, that held it – hands of Greg, Nick, Catherine, Warrick – even Sara if she wished to return – those held his heart more strongly. And those deserved his full heart, and his full attention.
He had been distracted for too long, letting Greg watch over Nick's pigheaded actions, letting Catherine take care of many of his supervisory duties, and Warrick – well, he hadn't bothered to think of who'd been watching out for Warrick. The FBI had, he thought, laughing mirthfully in his gently awakening state.
Hearts reappeared in his mind, as did, in true Gil Grissom fashion, quotes. "Leave a place in your heart where dreams may go." To this, he responded. That place, he thought, was still empty, and the dreams still too slippery. All he could feel were the bounce, and the emptiness, as the dreams ricocheted off coronary walls, pounding into heartstrings long gone flat, whirring through uneven piercing tempos and into nothingness, only to bounce back, back again. I wonder, he thought, if those dreams would stay for just one second longer than gravity or momentum would allow – if that would be enough.
Yet he had to let go, let go for now and let the puppeteer strings of dreams of Sara Sidle loosen, so he could put his whole heart – or as much of it that was left – into helping the thing that had always been his life, if not his heart: his work, and, more importantly, his team.
He picked up the phone. "Hi Sara. Can I call you back? I'm having trouble with the team."
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"Hi friend," said the crustily burnt body strongly resembling Greg Sanders.
Nick looked over, horrified, toward the familiar body, taking in the scars and burns littering it.
He cringed just looking at the hand, which was covered in third-degree burns. The body, in response, looked curiously at him, and chuckled. "You alright, Nicky?"
Nick just nodded in repose.
"I'm so sorry man," he said, biting back tears. He wanted to hug Greg, tell him everything was alright – or at least that it would be – but he looked so fragile, as if a hug would merely exacerbate the wounds. Most of all, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. This was not a display that Nick Stokes typically sought, but he wanted to hug the ground and plead and cry; he wanted to show Greg how truly sorry he was. Yet no action, he thought, could speak loudly enough. He was the source of the burns littering Greg's body.
He was surprised that the fragile, burnt body could – albeit with Greg's usual gracelessness – amble over to the crying heap on the floor and himself offer an arm and a shoulder to cry on.
All Nick could see were the burn marks, and the potential painful reactions when salty tears touched the tender skin.
"It's alright man," Nick heard over and over again, still disbelieving, until sleep took him in the charred, welcoming arms of his best friend.
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Catherine Willows went home and poured all of her tequila down the drain. Her entire stash of hard liquor swirled around the kitchen sink.
She watched the colors with awe.
They swirled and swirled.
She loved it. The odors simultaneously enchanted and repulsed her. They were all-too familiar by themselves, but, together, they were the accumulation of her troubles going down the drain.
She left only a bottle of vintage Merlot. She would savor that, and with the help of a friend. Popping the cork, she turned around, with glee, holding the bottle above her head for Warrick Brown, also grinning and relieved, to see.
Half a city away, Nick Stokes lay unconscious and guilt-stricken, recently out of a nondescript van, Greg Sanders sat in pain but productivity, covered in cigarette burns, and Gil Grissom slept fitfully, dreaming of the sparkle he missed in Sara Sidle's eyes.
Tina Brown cried half a city away, but Warrick Brown was done with her tears.
After two failed marriages, a fake death and oh so much dreaming, Warrick Brown and Catherine Willows were finally getting their night.
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Author's Note: Not much to say here, except the usual reminders and gratitudes. Thanks to Mma63, SawyerFan and GregsLabRat for reviews, and to PisceanPal and racefh for beta. Please check out the poll on my page and, most importantly, review! Thanks a bundle,
Harper