A/N: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter 1! I'm glad a few of you like this story and I hope you stick with it. Some dramatic license has been taken with the layout of Brass's office for the purposes of this fic. I hope no one minds too much! J
Chapter 2: Respite
It had been three hours, and Grissom was still locked in his office with his bugs. Catherine and Sara had made sure that they doped him up on plenty of cold medicine and aspirin before he began the painstaking work with the insects. He had studied, measured, pinned-up, photographed, watched, timed, and re-measured all the different species and stages of the flies and beetles. He had also taken copious, detailed notes every few minutes.
Right now he was measuring a tiny, developing insect with a caliper, and then comparing its size and appearance to pictures in a thick entomology text. He had already done it twice and was working on the third time as his frustration and discomfort grew. His headache, which had dissipated earlier, was back now and throbbing in full force. His eyes burned harshly and watered occasionally, making concentration increasingly difficult. As he leaned over the large open book, he felt a tickle in his nose and throat, and he turned away quickly, grabbing a tissue and sneezing as far away from the worktable as he could. He shivered, when just a moment ago he had been sweating, and ran an impatient hand through his hair. He had to pull himself together to do this right.
He attempted the measurement one last time, and got an accurate number. He went to jot it in the logbook in front of him, but stopped when the columns of writing began to swim in and out of focus. He blinked hard, several times, and looked again, but everything was still blurry. Exhaling deeply, Grissom pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, willing away the intense pain and blinding exhaustion.
Sara knocked, and then walked into the office. She was holding two plastic beverage bottles—one of water and one of apple juice—between the fingers of her left hand. When she saw Grissom leaning over the table, his hands over his eyes, she hurried to him, dropping the drinks on the nearest shelf. "Are you all right?" she asked, touching his shoulder, breathless worry evident in her voice.
He dropped his arms and tried to focus on her with his bleary, red-rimmed eyes.
"You do not look good," Sara told him. "I think it's time for a break, Grissom."
He rubbed his eyes harder, and finally got Sara's face to appear clearly in his vision. "I'm not done yet," he protested weakly.
"You need to rest," she said. "You can't even see straight. I doubt your calculations would be accurate right now anyway."
"But I can't just leave…"
"I'll watch after the bugs for you, Grissom."
He seemed surprised by her offer, but also grateful. To be truthful, he was utterly out on his feet. "But you hate bugs."
"I know." She smiled. "Just tell me what to do."
He started to lead her to the table and board where all the equipment and specimens were, but she stopped.
"Wait a minute," she said. "Let me go tell Catherine what's going on. We have to come up with a place where you can sack out and not be bothered for a while." Before heading out of the room, she picked up the bottles she had left on the shelf and handed them to him. "Here you go. I didn't know what you wanted, so I brought both water and juice. Drink something—you need to keep yourself hydrated." With that, she was out the door.
A few minutes later, the two women returned to the back room. Grissom held the now half-empty apple juice bottle in his hand, as he tried to explain in as much detail as possible what he needed Sara to do. It involved taking photos in ten-minute intervals, and doing some measurements and other things. Although insects gave her the creeps, she would do her best to not mess up Grissom's involved work so far. Despite his exhaustion, Grissom was still reluctant to leave. But he gave in as Catherine gently pulled him from the room. "Thanks, Sara," he called over his shoulder.
As she led him toward the outer exit, he asked, "Where are we going?"
"I spoke to Brass, and he said you could use his office to get some sleep. He's got that big couch in there, and we can close the blinds and lock the door. No one will bother you."
He glanced back toward his office where they had left Sara.
"I know it's going a little out of the way, but I couldn't think of any place in the lab you could rest undisturbed," Catherine explained.
"I was almost done with the beginning of the linear regression," he replied. "I can't leave Sara there too long. We're almost up to the critical point."
"Just for a couple of hours, Gil," Catherine pleaded. "Please. You need it."
He looked at her with exhausted eyes, and nodded as they stepped into the gathering darkness of the Las Vegas dusk. The LVPD building was close by, but not within quick walking distance—about a five-minute drive.
* * * * * * *
Catherine closed the last of the blinds in Brass's office, plunging the room into almost total darkness. She clicked on the desk lamp for some illumination—just until Grissom got settled. Right now he was standing there, in a bit of a daze, so Catherine removed the apple juice bottle that was still clutched in his hand and then gave him instructions, "Lab coat off." She helped him shed it and hung it neatly over the wooden coat rack in the corner. "Shoes off."
The object of her directions continued to stand there, unmoving, and she didn't know whether he was playing with her or if he was really that out of it; she guessed the latter and that just increased her concern. She took his arm and gave him a little shake. "Gil?"
He looked down at her and tried to focus on her voice. He was so far past complete exhaustion that he felt like he was shrouded in a thick fog; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
Once it appeared that she had his attention, she said, "Sit on the couch and take off your shoes."
He lowered himself heavily onto the well-worn piece of furniture. The muscles in his back and legs were throbbing and he couldn't wait to stretch out on the sofa, which was fortunately long enough to fit his full 5'11" frame fairly comfortably. As he removed his shoes and placed them neatly next to the couch, Catherine went to the closet to find the pillow and blanket Brass had told her were there. She brought the items over to Grissom, handing him the pillow. He arranged it near one arm of the sofa and laid down, lifting his legs onto the cushions and settling on his right side. He couldn't contain a groan of relief as he finally freed his aching body from the pull of gravity.
Catherine covered him with the blanket and turned off the desk light, but she didn't leave the room. She pulled a chair next to the couch, and sat there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the near blackness. When they did, she was able to make out his face, and saw that his eyes were closed. Several minutes dragged by, and Grissom, without opening his eyes, mumbled, "I can't sleep with you watching me." He had felt Catherine's gaze on him through the thick darkness, and he knew she was still there.
"Well, I'm not leaving until I know you're asleep," she replied softly.
Grissom exhaled deeply and tried to quiet his mind. Luckily, although many things nagged at him, sleep was coming to engulf him at a rapid pace.
After a few more minutes, Catherine abandoned the chair and kneeled on the floor next to Grissom. She began gently stroking his hair, first the sides and then the top, her fingers sliding through his soft curls, her fingertips grazing his temple and forehead. Her brow knitted when she realized that his skin was still much warmer than it should be, but the worry lines relaxed as her attention turned to the state of his breathing. She listened as his respiration slowed. Congestion caused the air to move raggedly, half through his nose and half through his open mouth, but the rhythm was becoming more even as he fell further into sleep.
As Grissom slipped into the welcoming darkness, he could sense Catherine's fingers moving repeatedly over his face and through his hair. Normally, he would have resisted such uncharacteristic contact, but now he found it especially soothing, and he silently thanked Catherine as he drifted off into a deep slumber.
Satisfied that he would be out for a while, Catherine slowly stood, reluctantly breaking her physical connection with Grissom. Quietly, she crept to the door and shut it behind her as soundlessly as she could manage.
* * * * * * *
It was an hour later, when Catherine went back to check on Grissom. She had already attended the autopsy of their young man from the desert. Doc Robbins had told her that the vic had been stabbed four times with what was most probably a serrated hunting knife. The edges of the wound tracts were ragged and torn. But they still didn't know who he was or have many clues as to who his killer might have been.
Then a new case had come in—a 406 in Henderson—and Brass had brought it straight to Catherine, knowing that Grissom was currently 'unavailable.' The police captain could hardly believe that the workaholic graveyard shift supervisor was actually 'sleeping on the job,' but when Catherine had explained to him how sick Grissom was, Brass had let it go without further comment. Catherine had handed off the assignment to Nick and Warrick, who had come into the lab well before the official start of shift. After that, she had checked in with Sara—she was doing very well with the bugs, trying hard not to do anything to jeopardize Grissom's data.
Catherine opened the door of Brass's office, slipped inside, and gently closed it, trying not to let any errant light into the darkened room. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows once again, it appeared that Grissom was sleeping peacefully, and Catherine smiled. Then, moving closer to him, she realized that he was definitely sleeping, but not at all serenely. Instead, he was shivering miserably, the blanket rumpled and discarded near his waist. He had either been tossing fitfully, or had felt overheated and flung off the cover. Either way, he was cold now, despite the fever that Catherine knew was still raging. She leaned over and pulled the blanket back up to his neck, trying to tuck it in place without waking him. She could feel his body trembling beneath her hands, and she wished she could offer him more comfort or something that could instantaneously make him feel better, but she just did her best. After a moment, she left him again, knowing with a pang of regret that she'd have to return all too soon to wake him.
* * * * * * *
Barely another hour had passed when Catherine returned reluctantly to Brass's office. She snuck in quietly like before, listening to Grissom's congested breathing. She really hated to wake him, knowing he needed much more than two hours of sleep on a lumpy couch. As she walked over and squinted down at him, her only consolation was that after she disturbed him, she planned to get some food into him, let him finish up with his bugs, and then whisk him off to his house where he could climb into bed and recuperate in peace for a few days. Holding that thought in her head, she leaned over and shook his arm. "Gil?" When she got no response, she shook him quite a bit harder. "Gil?"
Getting nothing in return from him, Catherine felt herself fighting sudden panic throughout her body. She turned around and clicked on the desk lamp. Glancing down at him in the pool of brightness, he appeared okay—at least as okay as he could be under the current circumstances—but he still showed no signs of knowing she was there. He had shifted onto his back now. His eyes were closed; his face was ruddy with fever, yet still relaxed. Letting out a calming breath, she mirrored her position from before, kneeling next to the couch. She reached forward and gently touched his forehead and face. His temperature had spiked even higher, and she mentally estimated it, deciding that it had not reached a dangerous level yet. But it also didn't seem to be getting better—his skin was bone-dry, with no evidence of perspiration signaling that his fever was breaking. Catherine was worried; she hoped that the next dose of aspirin would have more of an effect.
She moved her hands to his hair, and started running her fingers through it, her nails lightly scraping his scalp. Her other hand went to his left arm, stroking up and down. This time, her touches weren't meant to soothe, but to ease him slowly into wakefulness. She finally got a reaction when he began to stir—his head rocking back and forth on the pillow. Then his eyes fluttered open and he blinked several times. It took a while for the face in front of him to become clear.
"Gil?" Catherine repeated, watching his eyes attempting to focus. "Gil, wake up."
When he could finally see who was leaning over him, he rasped, his mouth and throat dry, "Cath?"
"It's me," she replied gently. "Everything's okay. It's just time to get up." Once again she thought about how much she hated doing this, especially since he had been sleeping so soundly.
She gave him a few minutes to regain his bearings, then took his arm to help him up. She got him into a sitting position, and left him there as he slumped forward, rubbing his hands over his face to force himself to full awareness.
"Take these," she said, handing him four pills and the remaining apple juice.
He looked up at her and accepted her offering, downing all of them at once with a swallow of juice. It was no longer cold, but still tasted fine as he finished up the bottle.
"Okay, let's go," Catherine told him, assisting him to his feet. "Your bugs are waiting." She grabbed his lab coat off the hook and folded it over her arm as they headed out to her car.
* * * * * * *
As they returned to the crime lab, Grissom was surprised when Catherine began to steer him toward the break room. He stopped walking, and asked, "What…?"
"I picked up something from the deli for you," she explained.
"I need to get back to the bugs and relieve Sara."
"No, you need to eat."
"I'm not hungry, Catherine," he persisted, as she guided him into the room. It wasn't entirely true; Grissom's stomach was painfully empty and he was tempted at Catherine's suggestion of food. The last meal he had eaten was over nine hours ago, but the last meal he had actually kept down was probably twelve hours before that. He was still afraid that what happened earlier at the crime scene might happen again if he ate anything.
She sat him down at the long table, and opened up the paper bag on the counter. "It's chicken soup, the great American cure-all. It's pretty bland, Gil. You'll feel better with something warm in your stomach. And it'll give you some energy." She opened the Styrofoam container and watched as thin steam escaped out the top. She had gotten the soup about twenty minutes ago, and figured that the temperature should be just right by now. She placed it in front of Grissom with a plastic spoon and a napkin. Then she grabbed a cold bottle of juice from the refrigerator for him, and sat down at his side.
Grissom sniffed at the soup. From what he could get through his clogged nasal passages, it smelled good—very good. He knew he wouldn't be able to taste most of it, but he lifted a spoonful to his lips and tried it. The soup went down easily and soothingly, although at first, Grissom's uncertain stomach wasn't totally accepting. There were some uncomfortable, queasy waves before everything calmed down. Then he swallowed the rest of the broth hungrily.
Smiling, Catherine handed him some crackers from the bag. "I thought you said you weren't hungry."
He just looked at her sheepishly as he ate the crackers, and then drained the container of juice.
"Do you want something else?" she asked him, collecting the trash from the table. "I could look around here for something for you, or go back to the deli."
"No, I'm fine. Thanks, Cath," he replied.
She retrieved the two remaining packages of saltines from the paper bag and slipped them into his shirt pocket. "For later—they're great for settling the stomach."
He smiled his thanks, and then went to the sink to wash his hands and splash some cold water on his face. When he was done, he picked up his lab coat and put it back on. "I've got to go give Sara a break," he said, heading out of the room and toward the DNA lab.
When he walked in, Sara was bending over the counter, scribbling some remarks as she closely watched the insects. "Hey," she said to him, straightening up.
"I can finish up now," he told her, sliding his glasses on. "Thanks again for doing this."
"Why don't I stay for a little while in case you have trouble deciphering my notes or something?"
"You don't mind?"
"Not at all." She grinned at him. "I actually found all this kind of fascinating, even though I still hate bugs." She watched as he checked over what she had done, and studied the development in his insects over the past two hours. "How are you feeling? You look a little better," she pointed out happily.
"Catherine fed me," he replied.
"That was a good idea. It looks like it helped."
"So far, so good."
They fell into a studious, companionable silence as they resumed their observation of the bugs.
* * * * * * *