Disclaimer: They aren't mine, I tell you! Unless TPTB want to give them to me… Which I doubt.
Summary: G/S Post 'Play with Fire' (Quite some time after, perhaps). It's just a little idea that was beginning to claw at my head to be let out. Gonna be short, I hope…
Gil Grissom sat back in his chair, and stretched his arms high above his head, trying to work out the cramp in his wrists and hands. The paperwork that sat in piles around him seemed to grow as his tired vision played nasty tricks on him.
His shift had finished almost two hours ago, but the files didn't care that he should be home, sleeping the sunlight away.
They needed to be dealt with.
He had almost forgotten what colour his desk actually was.
Last nights shift had been, as Catherine Willows might say, a bitch. He was two CSI's down at the start of shift, and it seemed that in every side street on the strip, something illegal was being discovered.
Three four-nineteens, a burglary, two assaults, and a couple of domestics. The lab was swamped. He, Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown had managed to keep the place afloat for the first few hours, but soon he had resorted to calling in Catherine from her night off.
He would have called in Sara Sidle too, but she was away, attending a conference in Los Angeles. She came back today.
He'd organised it for her, hoping she'd take the time to relax a little.
He'd found out the train times and found a hotel for her to stay in.
She'd just thought he was trying to get rid of her. He sighed and checked his watch. Her train should be arriving in the station about now.
Even if he hadn't known that she was away, he would have felt it. The lab was… empty without her in it. Yes, there were people around, going about their work, but she was not people.
She was Sara.
At that moment, he realised that the lab was almost completely silent. The dayshift must have gone out on call, he surmised.
Just for a second, he found himself missing the fact that he could sometimes hear the low tones of her voice drifting through the halls as he worked.
She often sang without realising, when her mind was occupied with a case, or some particularly fascinating piece of evidence. In the past, he had heard her sing of love and happiness, but now all he seemed to hear were melancholy lyrics that made his heart feel as heavy as lead.
In his mind, he caught a few of her words floating through the air, so real that she could have been standing beside him, whispering them in his ear.
"These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time can not erase…"
He shook his head almost violently, trying to get her ringing voice out of his head. It wouldn't go.
Of course, it would be conceited to think that he was the source of her pain.
'But none the less, I do' he muttered.
He blamed himself, for treating her badly, for making her feel alone.
He knew he had hurt her, he saw it in her eyes, in the way she avoided him when she could. He could even feel it in the air around her.
"…When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears,
You screamed I'd fight away all of your fears…"
Despite all this and the guilt he felt, he didn't know how to undo what he had done. Though he tried, it all seemed to him to be out of his reach, way beyond what he could manage. And so, he left it as it was. So long as they came to work, did their jobs and went home again, everything would be fine.
"…I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have all of me…"
He rubbed his face with his hands.
If only it were that simple.
Exhaling forcefully, he stood. This lack of sleep is really beginning to mess with me, he thought.
Leaving the mountain of paperwork behind him, he headed to the break room for a cup of the black stuff that passed as coffee, and a different environment to shake the thoughts of her from his mind.
Thankfully, when he arrived there, he found it empty. The TV flashed away above the table, the sound low but still audible.
He poured himself a cup of coffee that could possibly have been there a while, and sat down on the couch. Perhaps he'd think about heading home soon.
It wasn't as if he could think straight at the moment anyway.
As he sat sipping his coffee, he watched the TV for a while. It was the news, but it seemed as if nothing was really happening yet. It was only early yet. Give it time, he thought. Give it time.
Suddenly, a female newscaster interrupted the weather reporter, with an image of some kind of accident hovering next to her. Grissom's interest piqued. He found the remote and turned up the volume.
"We interrupt this regular broadcast to bring you news of a horrific train crash just outside Las Vegas. The train, which was on its way into the city from Los Angeles, hit a bus on a level crossing around five miles from the station."
There was a sharp crash.
"Fire fighters are on the scene as I speak, as are the paramedics and the police…"
The remnants of a shattered coffee cup lay scattered on the floor around his feet, glinting in the light. Grissom was frozen, his gaze fixed on the TV, hearing more details but not taking them in. He pulled out his cell and dialled a number. …Six, seven, eight rings. No answer.
That was Sara's train. It had to be.
After a second he was gone, bolting to his car.
It was only a few minutes to the train station. They could tell him if she was ok. They would tell him everything was all right, that she wasn't on that train.
He mentally shook himself. It was always possible it wasn't her train. No use panicking just yet.
But if it was her train, well… he didn't know what he would do.
He swerved to avoid a truck as he sped down the street.
********
He got to the station a few minutes later, and leapt out of his SUV, barely pausing to lock it behind him. At a run, he headed for the customer service desk. The woman behind the desk was barely visible through the throng of people surrounding her, clamouring for information. Most of them looked like business people who were only worried about when the next train was going to arrive.
"Excuse me! Excuse me!" Grissom fought his way to the front, receiving many a dirty look. "Excuse me!"
The flustered woman looked up at him. "These people were ahead of you, sir. You'll get your turn. Please, return to the back."
"Can you please just-"
"Sir-"
He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. He pulled his ID out of his pocket, and flashed it at the woman. Immediately she stiffened.
"Now, all I need to know is which train it was that crashed." He shook as he spoke. "Please."
"1359 from Los Angeles. The eight fifteen, if that helps."
It was all Grissom could do to stay standing. His knees were weak and his hands shook. "Th-thank you." It was her train. He'd booked that ticket himself. Oh Jesus. He stumbled away and managed to make it back to his car. He leant heavily on the bonnet, and tried to steady his shaky breathing. She was in that wreck somewhere. She was trapped, maybe she was dead. He felt numb.
Suddenly he straightened. Maybe he could help. Maybe he could go find her. They were always eager for volunteers. His ID would help, too. Before he realised it, he was back in his car, heading out.
********
It was obvious when he was getting close because he could see the wispy smoke curling up through the air.
He came over the brow of and hill and finally he saw the wreck. Grissom gasped.
Stopping the car, he jumped out and slammed the door. It was horrific. It looked like someone had taken a knife and slit open the lead carriage, entwining it with the bus, and then tied the rest of the train in knots. The fire was mostly out, but the smoke still hovered around the metal mess like a cloud, not eager to leave.
He made the rest of the journey on foot, till he reached the yellow crime scene tape. He lifted it and ducked under, his eyes fixed on the wreckage ahead of him. He didn't notice a lanky Cop headed his way.
"Sir."
Grissom ignored the voice and continued to walk forwards. "Sara!" He called out before he could stop himself, before he realised how futile it was. The smell of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, and he gagged. Fire had torn through these carriages, and there were obviously no survivors.
"Sir, you can't be back here…" The cop took him firmly by the arm and tried to drag him away, back past the tape, but Grissom shook him off. "I'm with criminalistics! Here!" He took out his ID and almost threw it at the hapless cop.
"Sorry." He melted away, obviously embarrassed at his mistake.
Grissom had to turn his face away, and fought to suppress his gag reflex. He couldn't do it, and vomited almost violently.
He wiped his mouth, panting.
"Sara…" He whispered. There was no way she could have survived this… No way.
He sank down to his knees, and tears started to roll down his face. He could hear people moving behind him, but he was too lost in grief to turn and see who they were. His body was convulsing with sobs, and all he could hear was the rapid thump, thump, thump of his heart, feeling his pain envelop him till he was drowning in it.
"I'm so sorry, Sara." He choked out the words as best he could. Where ever she was, dead or alive, he hoped she could hear him. "I'm so sorry that I never let you in, that I never let you know how much I loved you. And now… Now I really am too late. I never told you that I loved you. Please…" He cradled his head in his hands and sobbed. "Sara… Please forgive me."
"I do."
Grissom shuddered intensely at the sound of her voice, at first believing that it was in his head.
No, it couldn't have been. It felt too real. He twisted around and looked up. The sun was beating down, shining in his eyes, and he couldn't see her face.
He could see her hair flicking lightly in the breeze, and the outline of her body silhouetted against the sun.
She was holding out her hand to him.
Taking it, he stood shakily, the tears still flowing.
As his face drew almost level with hers, his eyes adjusted and he could see that she was crying too. Big dewy drops were rolling down her cheeks, making dark patches on her shirt.
"Grissom…"
He just stared at her; his eyes unable to verify that she was really there. He reached out and gently touched the skin of her cheek, brushing it lightly with his fingertips. She was there. She was alive. And she was standing right in front of him.
"Oh, Sara."
He pulled her into his arms and held her tight, as if he feared she might disappear with the smoke that was swirling around them. "I thought you were…"
"What's going on?" She sniffed into his shirt, completely confused.
"I'm so glad you're here." He drew back from her to check her over, and finding her intact, he pulled her body back against his, losing his face in her hair. "You were on that train…"
Now she understood. "No, the conference was cancelled, and I got an earlier one back. I was at home, listening to my police scanner and I heard that-"
"Oh, thank god." He was squeezing her so tight that she thought her spine might snap. She didn't care, though. He was holding her, and that was all that mattered.
"I'm so sorry, Sara." As he spoke, the hairs on her neck stood on end, and it sent a shiver through her body. Whether it was from the words he said, or the fact that his warm breath was tickling her ear, she didn't know.
"I've hurt you, I know I have. Please, let me make it up to you." He rubbed his hands gently on her back and sighed. "Don't ever leave me, Sara Sidle."
"Never." She murmured through shaking lips. And she meant it.
The End.
AN: Well. This is the end of my first one shot. :) Hope you liked! Any feedback is appreciated.