A/N: So here it is—the final chapter. I know I left the end sort of 'open,' so, yes, there may be a sequel some day, but it's not entirely up to me J I need to thank, one more time, all of you who reviewed this story. Your kind and supportive words stayed with me and inspired me, and still do now. And to those who reviewed 'Theft of Reason' more than once, that was definitely above and beyond the call of duty and I truly appreciate it. Thank you for sticking with this story all the way through! And I also have to offer special thanks, once again, to my good friend and beta, Grissom. Without her I don't know if I ever would have posted this fic, but I do know it would never have been as good as it finally turned out. Enjoy!
Chapter 11: After Effects, Part Two
Grissom padded out of the bedroom and walked over to the kitchen. He noticed Sara's sleeping form, and, smiling to himself, opened the refrigerator, trying to be quiet. When nothing caught his attention, he closed the door, and then he turned when he heard Sara call him from across the room.
"Grissom! What are you doing out of bed?"
"I was hungry," he replied, his soft, hoarse voice a contrast to her shocked cries. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"God, Grissom, you sound awful," she told him unnecessarily as she walked over.
"I know." He coughed and tried to clear his throat, but it didn't help, it only made the pain worse.
"It must hurt like hell."
He nodded. "It does."
"You probably shouldn't even be talking at all."
He nodded again, agreeing, then added, "But I still need to communicate."
"I know," she said sympathetically. "Just try to communicate less."
She looked him over. He was quite disheveled—his face unshaven, his hair mussed, his slept-in clothes extremely wrinkled. But twelve hours of sleep had seemed to help—at least a small amount. The dark shadows under his eyes were a bit less noticeable, the lines of pain on his face smoothed somewhat. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly. "Any better?"
He closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and then looked at her. "A little."
She suddenly recalled why they were standing in front of the refrigerator. "Oh, you said you were hungry. What can I get you?"
He shrugged tiredly.
"I know, that list the doctor gave you doesn't sound too appetizing." She smiled slyly at him. "If you could eat anything, what would you want right now?"
He thought about it. "Scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit, I guess," he answered without much enthusiasm.
"Well, eggs are soft enough," she said brightly, but she quickly realized the problem with that logic. "But you can't have anything hot, so…I could make the eggs and then wait for them to cool…"
He wrinkled up his face at that suggestion.
"Yeah, you're right," she agreed. "Cold eggs—gross. What else would you like?"
He just stood there.
She felt bad that he had finally gotten his appetite back, but couldn't even enjoy the foods he really wanted. "All right," she began. "Why don't you sit down, and we'll find something."
He stepped over to the table. She watched him wince and reach for his left side as he lowered himself heavily into one of the chairs. She knew his ribs must be extremely tender after all the standing and moving around he'd done in the last three days.
Sara opened the refrigerator and looked over the contents, even though Grissom had already checked and found nothing. Then she began opening and closing cabinets. Most of the things she found that were soft enough for him to eat were meant to be served hot. She was about to give up, when something caught her eye. "Got it," she said, turning and smiling at him. "Pancakes."
"Pancakes?" Grissom repeated.
"Yeah, I bet you never knew this, but I make a mean pancake, and they're great cold. We'll let them cool off and put syrup on them. They'll be nice and mushy."
He considered it, and realized he was actually in the mood for some pancakes—even cold, mushy ones. "Sounds good," he told her.
"Great. I'll get it going." She started gathering the ingredients and mixing them up in a bowl. After she had poured the first round of batter into the pan, she went back to the refrigerator. Taking out two small containers of applesauce, she pulled off the tops and handed them to him with a spoon. "This is about the best I can do for fruit."
He quickly emptied the containers as she continued cooking.
After the pancakes were done, and they were waiting for them to cool, Sara went over and sat down with Grissom. She had brought over a glass of juice for each of them. "Apple juice," she explained. "I know probably want your usual coffee, but you can't have it because it's hot, plus you really don't need caffeine now anyway. And I thought orange juice might be too acidic for your throat."
"Thanks," he said, taking a sip from the glass.
A few minutes later, there was an unexpected knock on the door. Sara looked at him, puzzled, and then glanced at her watch. "That can't be Catherine already," she said. "Shift only just started." She went to the door, opened it, and discovered that it was Catherine, after all. "Hey," she greeted her colleague.
"Hey."
"What's up? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"I'm still on the clock. I just thought I'd stop by and see what's going on."
"Well, we're about to have some cold, soggy pancakes. Would you like to join us?"
"I think I'll pass," Catherine replied.
"How about some hot ones then?" Sara suggested. "There's some batter left. I could make up another batch."
"If it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all. Our pancakes aren't quite cool enough yet anyway." She went back to work at the stove, pouring batter onto the hot frying pan. "You want some juice?" she asked Catherine.
"You can put up a pot of coffee," Grissom said suddenly. "Just because I can't drink it, doesn't mean you two should suffer. I'll show you where…" He started to get up.
"Stay put," Catherine ordered, cutting him off, "I know where everything is." She gathered what she needed and turned on the coffee pot.
Soon, the warm comforting aromas of rich coffee and sweet pancakes filled the air around the table where they all sat. "You know, I think we really should be serving you this 'breakfast' in bed, Grissom," Catherine mentioned.
"I needed to get up for a while," he explained. "I was getting too cramped just lying there."
"Your voice is still pretty beat up, huh?" she said, surprised that he didn't sound any better yet.
He nodded, getting a little tired of everyone pointing out the obvious.
"Is there anything we can do to help?"
"No," he rasped. "I think it just has to run its course."
"And you need to stop talking so much," Sara told him. "Otherwise how will your throat ever heal?"
"It's hard when people keep talking to me. I don't want to be rude."
"Should we get out the pad and pen again?" Catherine suggested, teasing.
"Please no," Grissom replied. "It takes too long left-handed."
"Too bad we don't know sign language," Sara commented. "Could you still sign with a broken hand, Gris?"
"It would be hard, but I could get across most of what I needed to."
Sara got up and served the food, placing plates in front of each of them. Grissom tried a forkful. The pancakes were very good, but it was an odd sensation eating them at such a cold temperature. "Thank you, Sara. These are great," he told her. "But you don't have to eat them cold, too. Why don't you make yourself some fresh pancakes?"
"Are you kidding? I love cold pancakes," she assured him.
He raised an eyebrow at her, but let the comment slide by.
They ate in silence for a while, but it felt comfortable—almost like things were back to normal. Or at least as normal as it was for them to have time to share a meal. The team enjoyed eating together whenever they could swing it during a shift. Sometimes it was easier to get together after shift, but that seemed to also happen only rarely.
Eventually, Sara asked, "Whatever happened with that DB tonight? The one in the parking lot?"
"Oh yeah," Catherine replied. "Seems like a simple case. She was shot, there was an eyewitness. The description sounds like her boyfriend, but he took off. Brass is tracking him down now." After a bite of pancakes, she continued, "Your friend, Sheriff Mobley, paid me a visit tonight."
"What did he want this time?" Grissom inquired with irritation. He had never gotten along with the sheriff.
"He was worried about the case because it happened in daylight in a busy parking lot near the Strip. He was afraid it would scare off the tourists if we didn't catch the guy immediately."
"Good old, Brian," Grissom said. "Always worried about how he looks to the tourists."
"What did you say to him?" Sara wondered.
"I told him we have a suspect and we're working on the evidence. When we have a case ready and get him into custody, I'll let Brian know."
"Catherine, I'm surprised," Grissom commented with a grin. "I thought you'd be more politic than that—just like you always told me to be."
"Oh, please, Gil. I can't stand Brian Mobley any more than you can. But…I guess I'd better get back to the lab anyway. I've got some evidence that's still being worked on, including a shell and casing in ballistics." She got up with her plate and mug, rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher.
"Thanks for the pancakes, Sara," she said, coming back to the table. She stood behind the empty chair next to Grissom so she could gauge his reaction to what she was about to say. "I heard some news about Chuck Newton back at the police station," she began.
Grissom froze, and Catherine saw a flicker of fear cross his face and fleetingly touch his eyes before he regained his composure.
"What did you hear?" Sara prompted, saving Grissom the words.
"Well, he got himself a high-priced lawyer and they're going to plead insanity."
"Are you kidding?" Sara exclaimed. "He knew exactly what he was doing."
Grissom had turned completely serious. "He won't get off," he said, intensity filling his cracking voice. "What he did to Kim Miller was premeditated. He planned it out. He wore the ski mask and gloves to prevent fingerprints and identification. He may be disturbed enough to commit cold-blooded murder, but he's not the least bit crazy."
"That's right," Catherine agreed. "It'll never hold up in court. Our evidence will put Mr. Newton away—for a long time."
Just then came three insistent knocks at the door. They all exchanged "who can that be now?" glances, and Catherine shrugged, then said, "I'll get it," as she walked over. She turned the knob, and an energetic Nick and Warrick came bounding in.
"Hey, what's up, boss?" Warrick greeted, patting Grissom on the arm.
"What's going on? Doesn't anybody work around here?" Grissom said, mock-grumpily. Truthfully, even though he was glad to see the guys, he was feeling a little crowded. He wasn't used to having so many people in his house.
"We've got some time on our hands," Warrick explained.
"Yeah, we had an easy case—home burglary. Already wrapped up. Catherine didn't have anything else for us. No mayhem or murders—except for Cath's shooting, of course. I guess the bad guys heard you're out of commission, Gris, and so they're lying low for now," Nick finished with a big grin.
Grissom looked at him pointedly. "'Out of commission?'" he repeated. "What am I, an ancient air craft carrier?"
"Not ancient, boss," Nick replied, teasing, "just a little banged-up."
"Thanks," Grissom grumbled back.
"Well, like I said, I do have to head back to the lab now," Catherine began. "Do you want to come, Sara? Or I can drop you off at home so you can get some sleep."
"Thanks, Catherine, but I think I'll stay here a little longer."
"Okay," Catherine responded, then she turned to Nick and Warrick. "Now you two don't tire him out," she instructed firmly. "I don't want to be doing his job forever—too much paperwork."
"Sure thing…mom," Nick quipped, knowing he'd pay for that later.
Catherine tossed a look his way, her eyes narrowed. She leaned over Grissom from behind, hugging him around his shoulders. Holding her head close to his ear, she said quietly, "You be good. Let them help you, and be a model patient, okay?"
He turned to glance back at her and nodded, a small smile on his face.
"Bye, everyone," Catherine announced, heading for the door. "I've got a date with a bullet. I'll page you if I need you."
They all said goodbye back to her as she left.
"So, you guys want some breakfast?" Sara asked.
"It's the middle of the night," Nick answered.
"So? Don't you usually eat breakfast in the middle of the night?"
"No, we usually eat lunch in the middle of the night," he corrected, flashing his dimpled grin.
"No thanks, Sara," Warrick put in. "I'm fine."
"Me, too," Nick added, being serious now. "But I would like some coffee."
"Help yourselves," she replied. Turning back around, her eyes found Grissom sitting at the table. She noticed that he was starting to look tired again, so she began collecting the dishes as she suggested, "Why don't we move this over to the couch? Go get comfortable in the living room, Grissom. I've got these."
He got up and made his way to the couch, as Sara moved toward the sink. As he slumped down, he did feel more comfortable than he had sitting upright at the table. Nick and Warrick grabbed their coffee and joined him—Warrick taking the spot next to Grissom on the couch and Nick pulling over a chair.
"So, how are you feeling, boss?" Nick asked. "You look…better." It was an obvious exaggeration, but a good-natured one.
"I guess I feel…" Grissom began, and then trailed off, blowing out air. "Tired, mostly. And my ribs hurt a lot, and my throat now, too, but I guess I'm okay."
Sara had come over and heard him talking. She knew he must be really exhausted to speak so frankly to the guys. Normally, Grissom would have just said, "I'm fine," and not elaborated in any way. He would have tried to keep his "tough" façade up. Warrick and Nick knew it wasn't the true Grissom, but they usually played along.
The three younger CSIs exchanged concerned glances, knowing that Grissom had to be totally physically and emotionally drained to be so plain and straightforward.
Although Sara knew Nick and Warrick would enjoy hanging out with Grissom for a long stretch of time, she could tell she would have to kick them out fairly soon and get Grissom to go lie down again. He was past due for another pain pill anyway, and looking more drawn by the minute.
"So, another case closed, huh, Grissom?" Nick began. "We've got enough evidence to put that Chuck Newton away forever."
"Yeah, that dude is finished," Warrick commented.
Sara and Grissom's eyes met, information passing silently between them. Sara nodded and told the guys, "His lawyer is planning on pleading insanity."
"What?!" Nick and Warrick cried instantaneously.
"No way!" Warrick added.
After the initial shock wore off, Nick said logically, "They aren't going to get away with it. They can't. We have a ton of evidence against Chuck." He turned to Grissom and Sara for confirmation.
"We know, Nick," Sara assured him. "He won't get away with it. Our evidence will hold up in any court."
"Of course it will," Nick said, trying to reassure himself.
But a veil of nervousness seemed to still hang over the little group in Grissom's living room. They tried to make small talk for the next few minutes, avoiding any mention of their work or the Chuck Newton case, but a sense of discomfort remained.
Grissom had gotten completely quiet; he was staring downward, his index finger against his lips. Sara could tell that his attention had turned inward and that he was weighing something in his mind. Her eyes locked on Grissom, she spoke to the other two CSIs, "Why don't you guys come back later, after shift?"
"Sure," Nick replied.
"See you later, Sara," Warrick said, as he and Nick headed out the door. As they left, they watched Grissom, but didn't offer him a goodbye because they could tell they would get no response; he was obviously intensely immersed in his thoughts.
The front door closing was the first sound to cause Grissom to look up. He glanced around, as if waking from a daze, seemingly trying to figure out what had happened to Nick and Warrick. Feeling Sara's hand on his arm, he moved his gaze to her face.
"Come on," she said gently. "I think it's time for you to hit the sheets again."
She eased him off the couch and into the bedroom, snagging a cold bottle of water from the fridge on the way. As he sat up on the bed, she handed him one of his pills. He washed it down with some of the water, and set the bottle on the night stand.
"Do you want to get under the covers this time?" she asked, smiling. "Or change out of your clothes?"
"No," he replied, "this is fine." He slid gingerly onto his back and settled in.
"Sleep tight," she said, and took a step toward the door.
"Sara," he called, his voice a feathery whisper.
She turned and looked at him.
"Would you…" He squirmed a little and averted his eyes from hers. "…stay in here until I…"
"Sure," she told him, moving back to his side and sitting on the edge of the bed. Uncertain if he would allow her to, or want her to, she took his hand. He didn't resist, so she slid her hand farther into his warm grasp, curling her fingers around his.
Meeting her gaze, he said, "Thanks…for now, for before…for all of it." His mood turned sheepish, and he looked away again.
"It's okay," she assured him. "Now go to sleep, Grissom."
He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes.
By asking her to stay, he had let her know that he needed her, and because of that she wanted to offer him as much comfort and protection as she could. Her fingers longed to brush against the warmth of his face, or get lost in the wavy locks of his hair, or stroke the soft cotton of his sleeve. But she refrained from giving into these yearnings and just kept a secure grip on his hand.
As Grissom attempted to quiet his racing mind, he couldn't help but think of Chuck Newton and his horrible empty eyes. The way they bore into him, almost piercing right through him. He couldn't help but remember Chuck's most haunting words to him: I should have killed you, too. An involuntary shudder ran through Grissom's body. How close had he come to death in that dark living room? Would something like that happen again at another crime scene? He had tried not to think about it, but now it seemed to assault all his senses at once. He couldn't forget, or get past it. The attack, the many different feelings… It was the fear that was the most powerful—the fear that lingered now, swarming in and out of the recesses of his consciousness. And, as he lay there, his mind and body crying out for rest, Sara's comforting presence strongly felt, but not seeming to help, he didn't know if he could ever truly make it go away…
FADE OUT