TITLE: This is the Fish
AUTHOR: Blaze/lastkidpicked/whatever you wanna call me
SUMMARY: It's been almost three years since "Chasing Life". Sara's having trouble coping, Grissom's got a problem of his own, and there's a tricky case with no evidence. Oh, and Barnes is back.
RATING/SPOILERS: Okay, I'm going with PG-13 this time around. If it seems off, e-mail me. Spoiler-wise, there are mini-mentions of the following episodes: Bully For You; Sex, Lies, and Larvae; Anatomy of a Lye; Unfriendly Skies; To Halve and To Hold; Burden of Proof; Scuba Doobie Doo; and Altar Boys.
DISCLAIMER: Okay, I do not own any of the following products/companies/people. No money will be made, and there is no infringement intended. I don't own CSI or anything relating to CSI; Everclear; OxyContin; Nirvana; The X-Files; Cosmopolitan, the Discovery Channel; Google; and Peggy Lee.
FEEDBACK/ARCHIVING: Nice feedback only, please. And/or constructive criticism. Ask first before you archive it.
A/N's: First off, this is directly related to events in Chasing Life. Therefore, it is very useful to read CL first. Second, a lot of the story is more devoted to the characters than the case. All inaccuracies, medical or scientific or otherwise, are all my fault. Third, any and all resemblance to anyone in real life is completely coincidental and unintentional. Fourth, I have to thank [you know who you are] for saying this wasn't also completely sucky. Fifth, ENJOY!
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Today medical science recognizes that some folks aren't helped by relaxing exercises. In cases of difficult tension and nervous apprehension, doctors are now prescribing medicine. It makes those who fear they're about to quit feel like they're ready to begin, bidding their darkened spirits goodbye for the calming peace of a cloudless sky. . . (Everclear, Ataraxia)
It was always wonderful to wake up with your wife and your dog, to be able to look over and see the tarantula climbing the sides of her container, to simply lay awake for a few minutes before getting up into the bright Las Vegas night.
Grissom treasured these solitary moments before the apartment woke to pre- work chaos, loved to listen to Sara's easy breathing and the sounds of the city, loved the feel of Scope's weight at the end of the bed even though he denied it during the waking hours. It was in these moments he was truly peaceful, truly happy, truly aware of how lucky he was. Truly perfect, as if nothing was wrong in the world, an idea he knew as a criminalist was flawed. But right now, everything was flawless.
The brunette by his side stirred, and with a touch of regret, he said goodbye to his peace. His bedside clock's LCD display glowed a cheerful 9:00 pm, and Grissom reflected that they had no need for an alarm-Sara's internal clock was impeccable, and if she was told what time to get up, she was up. In two years he hadn't seen her miss a night.
She grumbled, rubbing her eyes and stretching, narrowly missing Grissom with an outstretched arm. Her clock was perfect, she was up, but Sara hated it. She never had been and never would be a morning-or in this case, night-person. People who were cheery when she awoke were to be viewed with suspicion and irritation, and Grissom had learned to leave her alone. Sara was set into her 'morning' routine, she had the coffee machine in the kitchen programmed to start producing at 8:55; by the time she had made her way to the kitchen, the caffeinated liquid would be ready to be consumed. After two cups, some food and a shower, she was fine, but before that. . .well, the phrase "Don't mess with Texas" came to mind.
"Hi," he said quietly, testing the waters. Her response would dictate how the night went, he called it the Sar-ometer, and it, like her internal clock, was hardly ever wrong.
"Go away," she growled.
Ah, it was going to be one of those nights. The cases would be agonizingly difficult as usual, but they would be nothing compared to Sara. It was nights like these that he was glad he was shift supervisor: he could throw her bad attitude onto another member of the team, let her work off whatever it was that made her feel like hell, and then go home like nothing had ever happened.
"I'll take Scope out," Grissom offered, and her only reaction was to grunt approvingly and pull the covers over her head.
The golden-haired dog bounced with anticipation as he dressed, pausing only to allow him to slip on her leash before bounding out the door. The pair spent half an hour in the park near their home, burning off the young dog's energy by throwing tennis balls, one after another, ten in all. The park was ten minutes from the building, so the dog received nearly an hour of exercise, and they did this twice a day.
Scope was still exuberant as they returned, and Grissom remembered that Sara normally took her out, which resulted in about twice the exercise in the same amount of time. It was alright, though, Grissom generally did more training, so Scope had slightly more mental exercise with him.
Speaking of training. . . "Scope, find Sara," he commanded at the door of the apartment, letting her off the leash, she took off like lightening. The smell of coffee permeated the air, and he noted with curiosity that the shower wasn't running. Normally, she'd be waking up under the spray by now. He shrugged. Maybe she was ahead of schedule; it wouldn't be the first time.
Scope dashed out of the bedroom to rebound off of his leg, then ran back to the bedroom. He followed her to the room, expecting to see his wife getting dressed.
Sara was still in bed.
"Sara?" Grissom asked, concerned. This was not like her at all.
She turned to lay on her stomach, not answering. Definitely not like her. He could count on getting some kind of a grunt at least, generally speaking.
Grissom sat next to her still form on the bed, touched her shoulder. "Hey, what's going on?"
She rolled over to look at him through half-lidded, glassy eyes. She looked like she'd been drugged, or like she'd been drinking. Sara didn't drink, hadn't since a friend of hers was killed by a drunk driver, and he couldn't think of anything she'd eaten or drunk in the last few days that he hadn't shared.
The look in her eyes was confused, unaware of her surroundings, like all of the thoughts in her head were jumbled up, and Grissom made the quick decision to call Catherine. Neither of them was going to work tonight.
As he reached for the phone, it rang, startling Sara out of her daze. She blinked twice and shook her head, trying to shake off the cobwebs.
Grissom answered with a brisk, "What?"
"Hi, it's Catherine, I need both of you here, now."
He reached over to put his hand on Sara's forehead to check her temperature, she ducked away from it, whispering, "No" like a petulant child. "Cath, I don't know if that's possible," he answered.
"Gil, it's important. A murder came up, and you know Nick, Warrick, and I are still working that case from last night."
"Well, Sara's sick, I don't know when we'll be in."
Catherine sighed heavily, the noise created a large amount of static to flow through the line. "Just.get here as soon as you can, okay? I'll go over to the scene, get prelims from Brass. Nick and Warrick can handle themselves for a few hours."
"Thanks, Catherine," Grissom said, hanging up.
"I'm not sick," Sara stated firmly. "I'm fine."
Only his eyes moved to look at her, doubt explicit in his expression. "You slept in. You never sleep in."
"Well, I did today. Doesn't mean anything." She sent him her patented Sara glare.
"It could mean everything," he started. His next comment was delayed by Sara leaping up to run to the bathroom. Knowing that no one wanted company while vomiting, Grissom remained seated on the bed. "How are you?" he called after two minutes. "Headache?"
The toilet flushed. "Shut up, Grissom," she responded, sounding ill.
"You okay to go to work?" He stood and opened her dresser, placing clothes on the bed, trying to pick out a shirt and a pair of pants that matched.
"Of course," Sara said, walking into the room. "And, no, I don't have a headache."
AUTHOR: Blaze/lastkidpicked/whatever you wanna call me
SUMMARY: It's been almost three years since "Chasing Life". Sara's having trouble coping, Grissom's got a problem of his own, and there's a tricky case with no evidence. Oh, and Barnes is back.
RATING/SPOILERS: Okay, I'm going with PG-13 this time around. If it seems off, e-mail me. Spoiler-wise, there are mini-mentions of the following episodes: Bully For You; Sex, Lies, and Larvae; Anatomy of a Lye; Unfriendly Skies; To Halve and To Hold; Burden of Proof; Scuba Doobie Doo; and Altar Boys.
DISCLAIMER: Okay, I do not own any of the following products/companies/people. No money will be made, and there is no infringement intended. I don't own CSI or anything relating to CSI; Everclear; OxyContin; Nirvana; The X-Files; Cosmopolitan, the Discovery Channel; Google; and Peggy Lee.
FEEDBACK/ARCHIVING: Nice feedback only, please. And/or constructive criticism. Ask first before you archive it.
A/N's: First off, this is directly related to events in Chasing Life. Therefore, it is very useful to read CL first. Second, a lot of the story is more devoted to the characters than the case. All inaccuracies, medical or scientific or otherwise, are all my fault. Third, any and all resemblance to anyone in real life is completely coincidental and unintentional. Fourth, I have to thank [you know who you are] for saying this wasn't also completely sucky. Fifth, ENJOY!
-------------------------------------------------
Today medical science recognizes that some folks aren't helped by relaxing exercises. In cases of difficult tension and nervous apprehension, doctors are now prescribing medicine. It makes those who fear they're about to quit feel like they're ready to begin, bidding their darkened spirits goodbye for the calming peace of a cloudless sky. . . (Everclear, Ataraxia)
It was always wonderful to wake up with your wife and your dog, to be able to look over and see the tarantula climbing the sides of her container, to simply lay awake for a few minutes before getting up into the bright Las Vegas night.
Grissom treasured these solitary moments before the apartment woke to pre- work chaos, loved to listen to Sara's easy breathing and the sounds of the city, loved the feel of Scope's weight at the end of the bed even though he denied it during the waking hours. It was in these moments he was truly peaceful, truly happy, truly aware of how lucky he was. Truly perfect, as if nothing was wrong in the world, an idea he knew as a criminalist was flawed. But right now, everything was flawless.
The brunette by his side stirred, and with a touch of regret, he said goodbye to his peace. His bedside clock's LCD display glowed a cheerful 9:00 pm, and Grissom reflected that they had no need for an alarm-Sara's internal clock was impeccable, and if she was told what time to get up, she was up. In two years he hadn't seen her miss a night.
She grumbled, rubbing her eyes and stretching, narrowly missing Grissom with an outstretched arm. Her clock was perfect, she was up, but Sara hated it. She never had been and never would be a morning-or in this case, night-person. People who were cheery when she awoke were to be viewed with suspicion and irritation, and Grissom had learned to leave her alone. Sara was set into her 'morning' routine, she had the coffee machine in the kitchen programmed to start producing at 8:55; by the time she had made her way to the kitchen, the caffeinated liquid would be ready to be consumed. After two cups, some food and a shower, she was fine, but before that. . .well, the phrase "Don't mess with Texas" came to mind.
"Hi," he said quietly, testing the waters. Her response would dictate how the night went, he called it the Sar-ometer, and it, like her internal clock, was hardly ever wrong.
"Go away," she growled.
Ah, it was going to be one of those nights. The cases would be agonizingly difficult as usual, but they would be nothing compared to Sara. It was nights like these that he was glad he was shift supervisor: he could throw her bad attitude onto another member of the team, let her work off whatever it was that made her feel like hell, and then go home like nothing had ever happened.
"I'll take Scope out," Grissom offered, and her only reaction was to grunt approvingly and pull the covers over her head.
The golden-haired dog bounced with anticipation as he dressed, pausing only to allow him to slip on her leash before bounding out the door. The pair spent half an hour in the park near their home, burning off the young dog's energy by throwing tennis balls, one after another, ten in all. The park was ten minutes from the building, so the dog received nearly an hour of exercise, and they did this twice a day.
Scope was still exuberant as they returned, and Grissom remembered that Sara normally took her out, which resulted in about twice the exercise in the same amount of time. It was alright, though, Grissom generally did more training, so Scope had slightly more mental exercise with him.
Speaking of training. . . "Scope, find Sara," he commanded at the door of the apartment, letting her off the leash, she took off like lightening. The smell of coffee permeated the air, and he noted with curiosity that the shower wasn't running. Normally, she'd be waking up under the spray by now. He shrugged. Maybe she was ahead of schedule; it wouldn't be the first time.
Scope dashed out of the bedroom to rebound off of his leg, then ran back to the bedroom. He followed her to the room, expecting to see his wife getting dressed.
Sara was still in bed.
"Sara?" Grissom asked, concerned. This was not like her at all.
She turned to lay on her stomach, not answering. Definitely not like her. He could count on getting some kind of a grunt at least, generally speaking.
Grissom sat next to her still form on the bed, touched her shoulder. "Hey, what's going on?"
She rolled over to look at him through half-lidded, glassy eyes. She looked like she'd been drugged, or like she'd been drinking. Sara didn't drink, hadn't since a friend of hers was killed by a drunk driver, and he couldn't think of anything she'd eaten or drunk in the last few days that he hadn't shared.
The look in her eyes was confused, unaware of her surroundings, like all of the thoughts in her head were jumbled up, and Grissom made the quick decision to call Catherine. Neither of them was going to work tonight.
As he reached for the phone, it rang, startling Sara out of her daze. She blinked twice and shook her head, trying to shake off the cobwebs.
Grissom answered with a brisk, "What?"
"Hi, it's Catherine, I need both of you here, now."
He reached over to put his hand on Sara's forehead to check her temperature, she ducked away from it, whispering, "No" like a petulant child. "Cath, I don't know if that's possible," he answered.
"Gil, it's important. A murder came up, and you know Nick, Warrick, and I are still working that case from last night."
"Well, Sara's sick, I don't know when we'll be in."
Catherine sighed heavily, the noise created a large amount of static to flow through the line. "Just.get here as soon as you can, okay? I'll go over to the scene, get prelims from Brass. Nick and Warrick can handle themselves for a few hours."
"Thanks, Catherine," Grissom said, hanging up.
"I'm not sick," Sara stated firmly. "I'm fine."
Only his eyes moved to look at her, doubt explicit in his expression. "You slept in. You never sleep in."
"Well, I did today. Doesn't mean anything." She sent him her patented Sara glare.
"It could mean everything," he started. His next comment was delayed by Sara leaping up to run to the bathroom. Knowing that no one wanted company while vomiting, Grissom remained seated on the bed. "How are you?" he called after two minutes. "Headache?"
The toilet flushed. "Shut up, Grissom," she responded, sounding ill.
"You okay to go to work?" He stood and opened her dresser, placing clothes on the bed, trying to pick out a shirt and a pair of pants that matched.
"Of course," Sara said, walking into the room. "And, no, I don't have a headache."