Title: Myself Almost Despising
Summary: Not everything is as it seems at first blush. Sara wakes up in the hospital and begins to piece together a trauma she endured at the hands of the person she trusts most.
Spoilers: This takes place sometime after "Dead Doll" and sort of departs into an alternate, angst-filled universe from there.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or anything related to the show.
Author's Note: This is an angsty, fic which I've been working on for a few months. It'll be several chapters long, and I plan to update regularly until completion.
Trigger warning for domestic violence. Although that isn't really what this story is about, there will be depictions of abuse/torture, so read at your own risk. Also, trigger warning for attempted suicide.
For anyone I haven't scared off, as always, reviews are very, very welcome. Even just a few kind words can be enough to keep a writer immersed in a universe and fandom enough to keep writing and sharing stories.
As Sara struggled through the vague and hazy fog which had for some reason enveloped her consciousness, she was aware of light and sound. The light was bright - brighter than the fluorescent world a night worker such as herself was used to seeing. Sunlight? Her rational side speculated. Peeking open one eye, she confirmed that a shadeless window near her bed was the culprit for the excessive amount of ultraviolet radiation now assaulting her.
And there was a sound… beeping? Dull and rhythmic, the low tone interrupted the quiet slowly enough to be a comfort rather than a nuisance. As she listened, it made time with her own heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Heart monitor.
The observation hit her like a bucket of cold water, and Sara clawed her way towards more conscious awareness, suddenly realizing the cottony haze around her was drug-induced. A needle in her arm led to an IV bag beside the bed, and she could feel the heart monitor on one of her fingers. A shifting of her legs betrayed the feeling of a catheter beneath the sheets.
That was never a good sign.
"Where...?" she began in alarm, struggling to speak even as her words came out slurred. Her throat ached, she realized, and swallowing did little to help with the dryness. Alarm began to set in as Sara did her best to sit up. But even putting the slightest flex into the muscles of her abdomen resulted in blinding pain, and she hissed sharply.
Beside her, Nick sat up in his chair and moved closer to her, as though he had been dozing and suddenly woke at her aborted question.
"Sara!" he said, breaking into a smile. Reaching over to her bed, Sara noticed him press one of the buttons on her bed, presumably to call a nurse. "You're at Desert Palms Hospital. Everything's going to be all right."
As he spoke, he scooted his chair closer to her and reached for her hand. The gingerly way he held it, careful of the IV attached, Sara knew things must be far worse than she could imagine at that moment. In many ways, Nick acted like the brother she had never known, both joshing and protecting her at every turn. But now, there was no teasing humor in his eyes, only naked concern and gratification that she was alive.
She glanced around, although the movement sparked an ugly ache in her neck. "Where's…" Her throat ached at the attempt at speech, but she cleared it impatiently. "Where's Grissom?"
Nick opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated. "He's… Sara…"
Before he could formulate a response, a nurse entered the room. Nick informed the woman needlessly, "She's awake."
The nurse leaned over the hospital bed to study the monitors before checking Sara's IV. Patting Sara's hand gently, she gave her a smile before looking back at Nick. "I'll get the doctor and be right back."
But Sara was already looking back at her friend, the brief interruption having only served to stir her growing alarm. Already, memories of what had occurred the night before had begun to permeate her consciousness, and with them came a cold wave of fear making it difficult to breath.
"Where's Grissom?" she asked again, more strongly this time.
"Sara…" Nick began, obviously trying to choose his words carefully.
But the interminable wait for his answer clawed at her, and Sara demanded, "Nick, is he alive?"
The question seemed to startle him, and the other CSI momentarily froze in horror as he met her eyes. What he saw there, she would never know, but he finally understood her desperation.
"Yes, Sara, he's alive. He's fine. It's just..."
Not even taking a breath to give a sigh of relief, she pursued doggedly, "Was he hurt? Where is he? Is he here at the hospital?"
Even as Nick shook his head, she was ready to ask more questions. He held up a hand to slow her down. The gesture only served to frighten her as the Texan drawled slowly, "Sara, do you remember what happened to you?"
She blinked at the question. Up until that moment, all she could think about was Grissom. She remembered being afraid for him, of icy terror replacing every single drop of blood in her body as the image of a gun to his head floated into her mind, quickly replaced by the unnaturally loud sound of a gunshot at close range.
It had not occurred to her to think about why she herself was in the hospital. But the query drew her up short, and she realized how much of the haze of whatever pain medication in her IV was beginning to abate. Pain replaced that feeling of numbness, and she focused on the source.
Her abdomen. Her hand. Her feet. Her skin - pretty much everywhere. The side of her face pulled when she spoke, and she thought she could make out the tug of a line of stitches. Each new pain tied itself to renewed flashes of memory, horrible images forming in her mind as she remembered each circumstance.
A knife, drug across her skin, parting the layers of the epidermis until blood flowed. A lit match, held to her foot until it burned out. And then another. And another.
Flexing the hand which did not have the IV and heart monitor attached, Sara realized several of her fingers were in splints. Nausea rolled over her as she remembered the person who had so delicately taken that hand into hers, as gently as though he were handling fine china. And then, an aching moment later, he had wrenched her little finger unnaturally to the side, breaking delicate bones and sending agony up her entire arm.
In her mind's eye, Sara traced the hand holding hers, followed the callused fingers across white knuckles to a masculine wrist. The hand connected to a very familiar arm, but she allowed her mind to complete the journey despite knowing where it would end.
His arm disappeared into the sleeve of a simple t-shirt, the kind he often wore to bed, and Sara finally lifted her eyes to his face. A sharp contrast to what he had just done to her, his expression bespoke unimaginable agony. Tears floated at the edge of his eyes, and his mouth had set into a firm line. Despite a very obvious attempt to remain composed and collected, she knew all too well the force of emotions necessary to crack this man's typical facade of calm.
"Sara?" Nick said, drawing her attention. "Do you remember what happened? Can you tell me who did this to you?"
Her lips trembled as they formed the name, not from anger or betrayal, but from continued apprehension for his safety. "Grissom."
Her friend stared at her a long, uncomfortable minute before he closed his eyes briefly and sighed. "Grissom did this to you?" he asked, not entirely surprised but also clearly hoping he had misunderstood her.
Flashes of recollection set off in her mind, little firework-bright explosions of pain-filled awareness. Every cut, every burn, every broken bone and bit of tortured flesh, had been inflicted by the same hands, she knew. Grissom had done it all. Sara had no question in her mind that was true.
And yet... the emotions tied to every moment of her ordeal were completely contradictory to what she would expect. Blame would not be admitted, not then and not now, and Sara searched her memory to explain why.
"I think…" she began, taking a second to run her tongue over dry lips. Suddenly, speaking seemed terribly difficult, and Sara felt the weight of exhaustion begin to press down on her again. "I think … I think he did it to save my life."
TBC