I think this affliction may be called "fear of ending a story, lest one do
it badly." Please, do humor me and continue reading. I swear I'm trying
to wrap it. I just get these freaky doubts and insecurities and keep
writing. Hope it's not boring. Nothing worse than boredom. I think it's
going to be heavy on the angst until the final chapter. Only like two more
to go. I swear. Ok, and I'm going to try some sarcastic (or maybe nice)
humor to offset all this gut wrenching melodrama.
Again, thanks for reading and reviewing. Really hope you hang in there with me. Next chapter will be up much more quickly than this one.
*************************
A siren droned in his head and he could sense a slight swaying motion. He was vaguely aware that his body hurt. No, not just hurt; it was a steady ache accentuated every few seconds by stabbing pain. Opening his eyes a fraction of an inch, he saw a woman in uniform with a stethoscope draped around her neck. He couldn't fathom the why, how or what. Strange dream, he thought. A man in a white shirt with blood smears and disheveled tie sat slumped beside the woman. Lines of fatigue seemed to surround the man's closed eyes. Grissom tried to focus his mind. Why was Brass in his dream or nightmare as it was now becoming?
This was bizarre. Had he been feverish before turning in? Oddly, he couldn't remember turning in. The ritual would have been the same as usual: shower, eat, unwind by reading or listening to music, then hit the bed. Cases had almost constantly invaded his sleep as a younger CSI, but that was now a rarity. He'd learned the hard way that if work didn't get checked at the doorstep, it would slowly eat away at him. Sure, plenty thought him callous, indifferent or just plain devoid of feeling, but he could not continue in his chosen profession unless he could rely upon scientific detachment. Despite his personal edict, some cases still wormed their way inside and fed upon his psyche until the nightmares shook him awake, leaving him confused and unable to remember the content. Thankfully, they became fewer as he'd grown into the profession and learned to better manage his emotions.
The only recent disruptions of his sleep were decidedly present. Unlike the nightmares, Grissom could recall these nocturnal rompings of his mind with incredible clarity. Holding Sara. Kissing Sara. Making love to Sara. Saying words to her in his dreams that he couldn't fathom uttering in reality. Grissom had always thought it a cruel joke that his subconscious could so freely give and receive pleasure, while lately, his conscious mind sought out refuge from even the most benign contact with Sara Sidle.
Sara? Something tugged at his mind. Sara? What? He remembered her smile. Grissom's eyes had closed. He was so groggy. His arms felt weighted and the pain persisted. He really needed to steer this dream in a more pleasant direction. Sara. Yes. He could feel himself sinking into the comfort of his down pillow, soft hands wrapped around his chest. Aahh, Sara. He smiled. The pain should be gone. It wasn't. It hurt more than ever. Pain? Sara? Grissom was jolted back to his senses as his mind allowed him to remember. Reality hit hard. The dingy apartment came back to him. Charlie Dunn's smug face played in his mind. Everything came back.
Grissom tried to sit up, much to the consternation of the paramedic beside him. "Easy, easy. C'mon, you can't move, Mr. Grissom. We'll be at the hospital soon. Help me out here." she raised her voice over the wail of the siren.
The commotion roused Brass. "Stop it, Gil. You're going to mess up the paramedics' handiwork." He paused briefly, taking in the sight of the conscious CSI, before giving the thinnest hint of relaxation. "Though it is not to have you back with us again."
Grissom was more than confused. "Why isn't Sara here? She was hurt. Where did they take her?"
"She's at the hospital already. We'll be there soon."
"I'll need to see her, Brass," Grissom stated. His tone was cool, business like and much more suited to an interrogation room than an ambulance. "I'm all right. Help me sit up." The CSI again tried to raise his head and body from the stretcher.
"Hey!" the paramedic shouted, reaching for the IV lines.
"Grissom, hold it!" Brass raised his voice and put a firm hand on his friend's chest. "Don't move! You were shot, damnit. You need to stay still."
The pressure on his chest, coupled with a wave of dizziness returned Grissom's head to the pillow. He closed his eyes in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. After a few moments, he took a deep breath that seemed to catch halfway. His voice wavered as he spoke softly. "Any word on Sara?"
"She's hanging in there," Brass sighed and slumped back in his seat. "Trying to breathe on her own. We'll know more soon."
The paramedic leaned closer to her patient. "We're almost there, Mr. Grissom. A team of trauma specialists are gonna descend on you like locusts. You'll have a bunch of unfamiliar people asking you questions and hooking you up to various machines. I'm not saying this to scare you. I want you to be prepared. It can be somewhat overwhelming."
Grissom gave a small nod; his eyes still squeezed shut.
"Be cooperative. Answer their questions. Being combative will not help them to help you," she finished and quickly began making last minute preparations for arrival at the hospital.
**********************
Catherine was speaking on a pay phone to the left of the surgical floor waiting area. She smiled weakly as Brass handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Hanging up the receiver, she let him guide her gently over to where the others sat.
"Had to talk to my kid, you know," she sighed and rubbed her tear-streaked face with a tissue.
Brass nodded. "I know."
Greg's legs were draped across two of the vinyl seats as he alternated between staring vacantly down the hallway and shielding his eyes from the bright overhead lights. He wore headphones and shifted uncomfortably every few minutes. Warrick glanced up as Brass and Catherine sat on the sofa across from him. Grabbing his jacket, he pushed himself to his feet.
"I'm gonna find the cafeteria. You want anything, Cat?"
"Liquid diet," she replied, gesturing to the coffee cup. "Thanks."
The tall CSI shrugged, donned his jacket and started down the corridor.
"I'm not hungry either, Warrick, thanks," Brass said.
They couldn't hear his mumbled reply. Catherine thought absently that Jim wouldn't have wanted to hear it.
Nick walked hurriedly into the waiting area. "Hey, the floor nurse just told me a doc should be out to talk to us in a couple of minutes."
"Maybe Gil's out of surgery?" Catherine ventured, trying not to sound overly hopeful.
"Not sure," Nick replied, popping open his Coke. "She wasn't quite that talkative."
"Well, I think we're about to find out something anyway." Jim Brass stood as a dark haired thirty-something man in fresh scrubs approached the group. Nick nudged Greg's feet off of the chairs and he startled briefly before removing his headphones and getting to his feet. All eyes were on the man approaching them.
"Family for Mr. Grissom?" he asked.
"That's us," Catherine stepped forward.
"I'm Doctor Lesky. I was one of the attending trauma surgeons in the ER and assisted our chief orthopedic surgeon on Mr. Grissom's case. Let me assure you, he's doing very well."
An almost audible sigh could be heard from the assembled group and Doctor Lesky smiled.
"Could you run down the damage, doc?" Brass asked.
"The bullet splintered a fairly significant portion of Mr. Grissom's left collarbone. We were able to repair that with some small plates and screws. There was some bone loss along the top portion of the collarbone, but it's nothing that will effect range of motion or quality of life. He'll need some physical therapy in a couple of weeks."
"When can we see him?" Warrick interjected as he rejoined the group.
Doctor Lesky glanced at his watch. "He's in recovery now. Give us an hour or so."
"Sara Sidle, Doctor?" Catherine spoke up quickly, before the man could walk away.
"She was taken into surgery more than two hours ago," Brass added.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about Ms. Sidle. I can only assume that she's still in surgery. I'm certain her doctor will speak with you." He nodded at them and walked down the hall.
"Shit." Greg through his headphones to the floor and stalked away.
***********************
Sara couldn't remember ever having felt so good. So fulfilled. It was like her favorite sweatshirt from college wrapped around sunshine and the best kiss she'd ever received. It was topped by whispered words from the man who had delivered the kiss and now held her. Grissom's arms felt so comfortable and warm. She snuggled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm. The beat echoed in her head.
TBC
Again, thanks for reading and reviewing. Really hope you hang in there with me. Next chapter will be up much more quickly than this one.
*************************
A siren droned in his head and he could sense a slight swaying motion. He was vaguely aware that his body hurt. No, not just hurt; it was a steady ache accentuated every few seconds by stabbing pain. Opening his eyes a fraction of an inch, he saw a woman in uniform with a stethoscope draped around her neck. He couldn't fathom the why, how or what. Strange dream, he thought. A man in a white shirt with blood smears and disheveled tie sat slumped beside the woman. Lines of fatigue seemed to surround the man's closed eyes. Grissom tried to focus his mind. Why was Brass in his dream or nightmare as it was now becoming?
This was bizarre. Had he been feverish before turning in? Oddly, he couldn't remember turning in. The ritual would have been the same as usual: shower, eat, unwind by reading or listening to music, then hit the bed. Cases had almost constantly invaded his sleep as a younger CSI, but that was now a rarity. He'd learned the hard way that if work didn't get checked at the doorstep, it would slowly eat away at him. Sure, plenty thought him callous, indifferent or just plain devoid of feeling, but he could not continue in his chosen profession unless he could rely upon scientific detachment. Despite his personal edict, some cases still wormed their way inside and fed upon his psyche until the nightmares shook him awake, leaving him confused and unable to remember the content. Thankfully, they became fewer as he'd grown into the profession and learned to better manage his emotions.
The only recent disruptions of his sleep were decidedly present. Unlike the nightmares, Grissom could recall these nocturnal rompings of his mind with incredible clarity. Holding Sara. Kissing Sara. Making love to Sara. Saying words to her in his dreams that he couldn't fathom uttering in reality. Grissom had always thought it a cruel joke that his subconscious could so freely give and receive pleasure, while lately, his conscious mind sought out refuge from even the most benign contact with Sara Sidle.
Sara? Something tugged at his mind. Sara? What? He remembered her smile. Grissom's eyes had closed. He was so groggy. His arms felt weighted and the pain persisted. He really needed to steer this dream in a more pleasant direction. Sara. Yes. He could feel himself sinking into the comfort of his down pillow, soft hands wrapped around his chest. Aahh, Sara. He smiled. The pain should be gone. It wasn't. It hurt more than ever. Pain? Sara? Grissom was jolted back to his senses as his mind allowed him to remember. Reality hit hard. The dingy apartment came back to him. Charlie Dunn's smug face played in his mind. Everything came back.
Grissom tried to sit up, much to the consternation of the paramedic beside him. "Easy, easy. C'mon, you can't move, Mr. Grissom. We'll be at the hospital soon. Help me out here." she raised her voice over the wail of the siren.
The commotion roused Brass. "Stop it, Gil. You're going to mess up the paramedics' handiwork." He paused briefly, taking in the sight of the conscious CSI, before giving the thinnest hint of relaxation. "Though it is not to have you back with us again."
Grissom was more than confused. "Why isn't Sara here? She was hurt. Where did they take her?"
"She's at the hospital already. We'll be there soon."
"I'll need to see her, Brass," Grissom stated. His tone was cool, business like and much more suited to an interrogation room than an ambulance. "I'm all right. Help me sit up." The CSI again tried to raise his head and body from the stretcher.
"Hey!" the paramedic shouted, reaching for the IV lines.
"Grissom, hold it!" Brass raised his voice and put a firm hand on his friend's chest. "Don't move! You were shot, damnit. You need to stay still."
The pressure on his chest, coupled with a wave of dizziness returned Grissom's head to the pillow. He closed his eyes in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. After a few moments, he took a deep breath that seemed to catch halfway. His voice wavered as he spoke softly. "Any word on Sara?"
"She's hanging in there," Brass sighed and slumped back in his seat. "Trying to breathe on her own. We'll know more soon."
The paramedic leaned closer to her patient. "We're almost there, Mr. Grissom. A team of trauma specialists are gonna descend on you like locusts. You'll have a bunch of unfamiliar people asking you questions and hooking you up to various machines. I'm not saying this to scare you. I want you to be prepared. It can be somewhat overwhelming."
Grissom gave a small nod; his eyes still squeezed shut.
"Be cooperative. Answer their questions. Being combative will not help them to help you," she finished and quickly began making last minute preparations for arrival at the hospital.
**********************
Catherine was speaking on a pay phone to the left of the surgical floor waiting area. She smiled weakly as Brass handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Hanging up the receiver, she let him guide her gently over to where the others sat.
"Had to talk to my kid, you know," she sighed and rubbed her tear-streaked face with a tissue.
Brass nodded. "I know."
Greg's legs were draped across two of the vinyl seats as he alternated between staring vacantly down the hallway and shielding his eyes from the bright overhead lights. He wore headphones and shifted uncomfortably every few minutes. Warrick glanced up as Brass and Catherine sat on the sofa across from him. Grabbing his jacket, he pushed himself to his feet.
"I'm gonna find the cafeteria. You want anything, Cat?"
"Liquid diet," she replied, gesturing to the coffee cup. "Thanks."
The tall CSI shrugged, donned his jacket and started down the corridor.
"I'm not hungry either, Warrick, thanks," Brass said.
They couldn't hear his mumbled reply. Catherine thought absently that Jim wouldn't have wanted to hear it.
Nick walked hurriedly into the waiting area. "Hey, the floor nurse just told me a doc should be out to talk to us in a couple of minutes."
"Maybe Gil's out of surgery?" Catherine ventured, trying not to sound overly hopeful.
"Not sure," Nick replied, popping open his Coke. "She wasn't quite that talkative."
"Well, I think we're about to find out something anyway." Jim Brass stood as a dark haired thirty-something man in fresh scrubs approached the group. Nick nudged Greg's feet off of the chairs and he startled briefly before removing his headphones and getting to his feet. All eyes were on the man approaching them.
"Family for Mr. Grissom?" he asked.
"That's us," Catherine stepped forward.
"I'm Doctor Lesky. I was one of the attending trauma surgeons in the ER and assisted our chief orthopedic surgeon on Mr. Grissom's case. Let me assure you, he's doing very well."
An almost audible sigh could be heard from the assembled group and Doctor Lesky smiled.
"Could you run down the damage, doc?" Brass asked.
"The bullet splintered a fairly significant portion of Mr. Grissom's left collarbone. We were able to repair that with some small plates and screws. There was some bone loss along the top portion of the collarbone, but it's nothing that will effect range of motion or quality of life. He'll need some physical therapy in a couple of weeks."
"When can we see him?" Warrick interjected as he rejoined the group.
Doctor Lesky glanced at his watch. "He's in recovery now. Give us an hour or so."
"Sara Sidle, Doctor?" Catherine spoke up quickly, before the man could walk away.
"She was taken into surgery more than two hours ago," Brass added.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about Ms. Sidle. I can only assume that she's still in surgery. I'm certain her doctor will speak with you." He nodded at them and walked down the hall.
"Shit." Greg through his headphones to the floor and stalked away.
***********************
Sara couldn't remember ever having felt so good. So fulfilled. It was like her favorite sweatshirt from college wrapped around sunshine and the best kiss she'd ever received. It was topped by whispered words from the man who had delivered the kiss and now held her. Grissom's arms felt so comfortable and warm. She snuggled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm. The beat echoed in her head.
TBC