A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out there. It needed some rewrites that my valiant beta, Grissom, had to look over. I want to thank her again for her above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty work on this chapter! I really appreciate the double-beta-ing you did on this one, and your great idea for the part I was stuck on. You are truly the best, Gris! (grins) Thanks a million for all the reviews on this story so far, everyone! I hope you enjoy chapter 4!
Chapter 4: Breaking Through
Grissom suddenly gasped in the darkness and jerked his head off Sara's shoulder; she could feel his heart racing, threatening to jump out of his chest. "Grissom, what is it?" she asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"
"Sara?" he replied unsteadily.
He sounded scared, and a queasy sensation settled deep in Sara's stomach. "I'm right here, Grissom. What's the matter, huh? Is it your head?" She reached up and swiped a hand across his forehead and through his hair, frowning in concern at the amount of sweat pouring off him. It was very hot in there, but Grissom was completely drenched.
"What happened, Sara?" he asked. "Why is it so dark?"
His confusion made her sit up straight, instantly alert. "Grissom, don't you remember? We're still in the mine."
"Mine?"
Oh, God, this isn't good, she thought to herself, trying not to totally lose it. "Yes, in the mine. We were looking at a body and then the whole place collapsed. Don't you remember any of it?"
There was a long moment of silence before he stammered, "I'm…not sure."
She turned the flashlight back on. "Grissom, look at me," she said. She helped him sit up and he shifted around painfully to meet her gaze. The blankness she saw in his eyes was frightening. "Gris, don't you remember the accident at all?" she asked, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "The cave started rumbling and coming down on top of us?" she prompted.
He started nodding slowly, but then shook his head, his brow furrowing. "No," he began softly. "I…I can't remember…"
"It's okay," she reassured him, sensing the panic rising within him.
"It's not…" he began hesitantly. "I can't seem to remember any of it, Sara."
She was definitely worried, but she tried not to show it. "It's all right, Grissom. You took a pretty hard shot to the head. I'm sure that's why your memory is fuzzy. I'll tell you what happened…if you want me to."
He nodded again. "Yeah, please tell me, Sara."
He was almost pleading, and the desperation and fear she felt emanating from him almost made her cry; the uneasiness in her stomach increased tenfold. She could sense how scared he was at the realization of the missing memories, and how much he needed to know what had happened to them. "It's okay, Grissom, I'll tell you," she promised. The sense of responsibility for him and his well-being almost overwhelmed her again, but she embraced it this time, accepting what she had to do and rising to the occasion.
"Well, we came into the mine and we were looking around." His eyes, staring anxiously into hers, told her that he remembered that part. "Then there was this loud rumbling. The support beam over our heads started to collapse, and you pushed me out of the way before everything came down on top of you." She was still touched by his act of selflessness, but she kept her tone matter-of-fact as she reminded him of the events that had led up to their present circumstances.
"You woke up," Sara continued, "and you were trapped under a pile of debris. I lifted the piece of the beam that was lying across your back and you pulled yourself clear. We talked for a while, and then…"
"I fell asleep," he finished. He was glad at least some of the memories were still there. There was no question in his mind about their current situation and the fact that they were stuck in the mine for the time being. He ran a hand over his face. "Any progress in getting us out of here?"
"Nothing yet," she told him reluctantly.
"How long have we been in here?"
She glanced at her watch in the light. "I guess about three hours."
He nodded, closed his eyes and rubbed them.
She couldn't help but smile in his direction. "By the way, thank you," she said.
He looked at her again. "For what?"
"For saving my life."
It was extremely awkward for him, not recollecting any of what she was thanking him for. She had told him what had occurred, but to Grissom it felt like what she had described had happened to someone else, to a complete stranger. Finally he answered, "I'm glad you weren't hurt," and managed a half-grin for her. But his expression rapidly changed into an uncomfortable grimace. "Sara…" he groaned. Before she could even ask him what was wrong, he went on, "I think…I'm going to be sick again." Unfortunately, the memory of the first time he had vomited was still clear.
Sara quickly took his shoulder and gently turned him in the opposite direction. "Here, face this way, Gris," she suggested. "You can lean on your good arm"
He followed her lead and slouched there, staring at the ground and waiting for his stomach to rebel again.
Wanting to touch him in some way, Sara carefully avoided his various injuries, choosing to gently stroke the back of his head and his shoulder. She hoped he would find the repetitive motions calming and comforting.
The nausea peaked, and Grissom tried to breathe through it. He tasted the sour bile rising in the back of his throat, but he stubbornly fought to keep it down. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, the feeling faded and he slowly sat up.
"Are you okay?" Sara asked softly, feeling him shift.
He nodded. "I think it's passing."
"Good." She got back into her previous position, arranging their clothes behind her again.
Following her lead, Grissom leaned against her, getting as comfortable as possible. They sat there silently for several minutes.
"Are you awake, Gris?" Sara finally asked, her voice low.
"Yeah," he answered.
"I'm sure they're coming to get us."
"Of course they are. They know we're in here."
"I wonder why it's taking so long, though?" she wondered, seeking a logical reason from the always analytical Grissom.
"I'm sure they're doing their best, Sara. It might be difficult for them to break through, or maybe they're afraid the rest of the structure could collapse."
She glanced uneasily up at the overhead supports. They appeared stable, but she knew how they looked could be deceiving.
"We'll get out, Sara," he promised her. "And it'll be soon."
She smiled at the way he was reassuring her; she was supposed to be protecting him here—she was supposed to be the strong one right now. "Thanks, Grissom. I'll try to remember that."
"You know, Sara, this place reminds me of this little cave I found when I was a kid."
"Really?" Her interest was piqued.
"Yeah. It was along this rocky beach near our house in Marina del Rey." He paused for a moment, remembering. "I used to ride my bike down to the beach and look for dead seagulls and other things." The change of subject seemed to calm him somewhat, and had gotten his mind off the disturbing memory loss.
"Animal corpses? Really, Gris?" She couldn't help but make a disgusted face; it was a good thing he wasn't looking at her.
"I used to perform autopsies on them," he told her, sounding somewhat self-conscious. "I wanted to know what was going on inside, and what might have caused their deaths."
"Sounds messy. I hope you didn't do these autopsies bare-handed…yuck!"
A burst of laughter escaped him. It seemed completely out of place in the desolate mineshaft, but to Sara it was a wonderful, welcome sound. "Actually, most of the time I ended up wearing my mother's rubber dishwashing gloves," he explained.
Sara giggled a little at that image.
"Yeah, I spent a lot of time at the beach," he went on. "I was pushing my bike over the dunes and I saw this rocky outcropping in the distance. I went over to check it out, and it was this little cave. It didn't look like anyone had been inside for a while. And, of course, being about ten, I just had to go in and explore."
"What was inside?" she asked, getting pulled into his reminisces.
"Not much—dirt, dust, rocks, lots of spider webs. But I thought it was cool. I would go in there a lot and play, or read by flashlight, or look for interesting insects to collect."
"Wow, this is really unusual, Grissom."
"What, that I dissected dead animals and hung out in a cave?"
"No, that you're actually sharing personal stories with me," she replied, obvious contentment in her voice.
"Oh. Well…" He struggled with the words for a moment. "I don't know. It just felt right telling you this stuff."
She smiled before returning to the previous subject. "So, what did your mom and dad think about your…hobbies?"
"Well, my mother was great," he began. "She always supported whatever I was interested in. She even let me bring my insect specimens into the house, even though she hated bugs. I would get books from the library and try to identify the different species."
"And your dad?"
Her tone had been casually curious, but she felt him stiffen, and she knew she had asked the wrong question. Grissom didn't talk about his parents much, but Sara knew she had never heard him even mention his father. She ran her hand reassuringly up and down his left arm, letting him know it was okay, and that he didn't have to say anything more.
For several long minutes, he didn't. Just their breathing broke the heavy silence in the air. Finally, Grissom cleared his throat, and said, "I don't know much about your childhood, Sara. Just that you grew up in California somewhere, and that you have at least one brother. I remember you telling me that you found drugs in his bedroom once."
Sara was speechless for a second, amazed that Grissom had recalled that one detail about her brother. She had mentioned it after a case when they were in the locker room. Maybe he 'records' everything I say, too, she realized.
Finding her voice again, she said, "Um, yeah, I grew up on a small island called Tamales Bay. Most people have never even heard of it. My folks owned a bed and breakfast. Being raised there was fine, I guess. I felt a little sheltered and cut off from things—where we lived was pretty far off the beaten path—but it was nice there. Sometimes I still miss the ocean and the beaches, especially here in Vegas."
Grissom nodded, glad the spotlight was off him for the moment. "What kind of stuff did you like to do as a kid?"
"You know, the usual," she told him. "I loved the beach, like you. I was a fair swimmer. I was a bit of a tomboy, though. I liked to play sports and climb trees. I loved reading, of course, and read everything I could get my hands on."
"Sounds like an all-American childhood," he commented.
"Very few things are actually what they seem, Grissom," she responded enigmatically. But, after a moment, she went on, "I remember one summer—I was maybe eleven—a couple of my cousins were visiting. My mother complained that someone had stolen a bunch of chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar. It was one of those old-fashioned jars, made of thick green glass. There was a fingerprint on the lid, so one of my cousins and I became 'detectives.' We fingerprinted my brother and the others using ink pads and paper." She stopped for a minute, grinning broadly. "We made a huge mess and my mother was furious. But, eventually, we matched the print to my little cousin, Adam, and he cracked under the pressure and finally confessed. That was great."
"Already following the evidence even as a child, huh, Sara?"
"I guess I was," she replied. "We all had a great time that summer. We even formed a little 'detective agency' to solve crimes in the neighborhood. Kind of like the kids in the Encyclopedia Brown books. Did you ever read those, Gris?"
"I think I may have read one or two of them," he replied.
"Great books. I read every single one when I was a kid. I loved trying to solve the mystery before peeking at the answer in the back of the book." After a moment of recollection, she added, "But that summer was a lot of fun. We even got a few 'cases' to investigate. Some were the usual neighborhood kids' stuff—doll-nappings, lost dogs. Stuff like that. But we had one 'case' that was very interesting."
"What was it?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"This little boy from down the block came by one day and wanted to 'hire' us," she began. "He said someone had stolen his piggy bank from the shelf in his closet. We 'investigated,' but couldn't find any evidence that would lead to the thief."
"You know there's always a clue, Sara," Grissom commented with a sly grin.
She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "Well, I didn't necessarily know that then, Grissom, but I figured the perpetrator must have left some sign that would give him away. At least that's how it always seemed to work in the Encyclopedia Brown stories."
"So, did you find something?"
"Eventually, yes," she said. There was a long pause, making him think that she might not elaborate, before she decided to end the suspense. "While I was looking in the little boy's closet, I smelled something sweet and very familiar. My curiosity awoken, I asked him what he had kept in his piggy bank. He said 'coins,' but I was still suspicious and I asked him what kind of coins. He said 'golden ones.' Looking around the closet some more, I found a tiny piece of gold foil wrapping on the floor. You know the kind they use to wrap chocolate coins?"
She waited for Grissom to acknowledge that with a nod that she felt against her shoulder. Then she went on, "So I asked the little boy if the coins in his bank were chocolate coins, and he said they were. After that it was very simple. We just took a careful look at the members of his family—the only ones who had had access to his closet—and we noticed that his older brother had some stains on his face and chin. Upon closer inspection, I proved that it was chocolate, and so the culprit was found. Faced with the evidence, the kid's brother confessed, and so ended the 'Case of the Chocolate Coins.' What do you think, Grissom?"
"That was nice work, Sara—for an amateur at least."
She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the grin in his voice. "Give me a break, Grissom, I was only eleven."
"Well, when I was eleven, I helped the local police solve the mystery of why so many opossums were dying in the area."
"Really? Tell me more."
"Okay," he began eagerly. "One morning I was walking along the beach like always, and I noticed the bodies of three young opossums…"
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Jim Brass stood toe-to-toe with the man in the well-tailored suit. Arms crossed in front of him, the police captain growled, "Tell me again why you're not doing anything to get my people out of there."
"The district engineer and the geologists haven't ruled the area safe yet," the man answered, sounding decidedly anxious.
"And what are they waiting for?"
The other man swallowed. "I already told you, Captain Brass, the mine has to be deemed safe enough for any rescue attempt, and more importantly, for the heavy equipment to be brought in."
Brass looked behind the assistant engineer, and took in the row of three steam shovels, standing there idly. The operators mulled around, waiting for permission to start digging. Then, the homicide detective's gaze swung to the mine shaft, and the pile of rubble where the entrance had been. He released a tense breath. "Your guys calculated how much air would be in the collapsed mine, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what did they come up with?"
"I told you before, Captain."
"I know that, Mr. Porter," he said, straining to keep his patience. "But please, just humor me."
The nervous man glanced upward before reminding Brass of the number. "They calculated approximately twelve hours of breathable air would be trapped inside the main passage of the mine."
"Right." Brass made a show of looking at his watch, even though he was very aware of what time it was. "And Grissom and Sara have already been in there for over six hours. So, what exactly are your engineers and geologists waiting for?" he asked rhetorically, his volume rising in growing anger. "For it to be too late so that all they're going to have to pull out of there are two dead bodies?"
Porter cringed back from the captain's rage. "I'm sure that's not what Mr. Lester wants to happen."
"Then let him do something about it."
"I'm sure he wants to, Captain Brass, but he just…can't. He's discussing the options with Professor Hess, the head geologist at Western LVU, as we speak. They've been working on this since the investigators became trapped, I assure you."
"Well, they had better find a way," Brass began. His voice was lower now, but laced with unmistakable menace. "Because I'm giving you and Lester and the rest of your office one more hour. After that, I'm gonna get some of my men and we're gonna go at it ourselves—with picks and shovels and our bare hands, if we have to—and get them out of there."
Porter checked his watch, making note of the new deadline, then looked back into Brass's determined eyes. "I understand, sir."
Hoping he made his point, but also meaning every word of it, Brass walked over to where Nick Stokes leaned impatiently against his blue Denali. Catherine Willows was nearby, pacing restlessly and throwing worried gazes in the direction of the collapsed mine shaft.
As the police captain approached, Nick pushed off the SUV and stood up straight. "What'd he have to say?" the CSI asked.
"They're still waiting on word from the district engineer and head geologist," Brass reported in frustration. "They won't do anything until they hear."
"I can't believe there's all this heavy equipment here, and these guys are just sitting on their hands," Nick huffed. "Grissom and Sara are trapped in there, and they could be hurt or unconscious or worse!"
"I'm with you on this, Nick," Brass replied, trying to keep the other man calm. "But remember, we don't know exactly where they are inside there. It could be dangerous to just burst in with those earthmovers. We've got to make sure we do this carefully…and right."
Catherine stopped moving and came to stand near the men, biting her thumbnail; she didn't seem to share Jim's optimistic view of the situation. "We have to get them out of there, Jim," she said, understanding his words, but also sharing his impatience.
"I know," he answered. "I told that guy, Porter, that I was giving him one more hour before we start digging ourselves."
"Okay," Catherine said reluctantly, even though she didn't like the idea of waiting even longer.
"Yeah, I guess we can wait a little longer," Nick grudgingly agreed. "But I don't like it."
"I don't either, Nicky," Jim admitted. "But we have to give the engineers one more chance. It really will be much easier to find Grissom and Sara with their help and equipment." He released a long breath. "Are you guys sure we can't use one of your infrared gizmos to find out where Grissom and Sara are in there?"
Nick shook his head. "Not unless you can get us a police chopper so we can fly over the mine. That's the only way our 'gizmo' can get a proper reading of that large an area."
"I'll give it a try," Brass told them. "Unfortunately, two trapped CSIs might not rate high enough on the sheriff's list to give us the chopper." He looked around. "Isn't someone missing from our little team?"
"Warrick had to leave," Catherine explained. "He's got a case in Henderson. Dayshift was swamped, and they needed one of us. He'll be back as soon as he can. He didn't want to leave."
Brass nodded, and stood there, staring at the mine shaft and silently praying for the safety of their friends.
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Grissom and Sara had stopped talking a while ago. Now they just sat there silently, their breathing filling the space, sounding much more labored and raspy than before. Sara had been pleasantly surprised at the amount of personal information Grissom had shared with her, but conversing for as long as they had probably hadn't been the best idea under their current circumstances. Sara was sure that talking used up a lot more oxygen than sitting there quietly, and she could feel the difference as she inhaled and exhaled
Also, her already dry throat now burned horribly with thirst, and she realized that all the talking had only exacerbated their situation. She knew Grissom must be feeling it, too, and she was about to pull out the bottle of water when, as if on cue, Grissom began to cough.
"Grissom?" she said, feeling the spasms wracking his chest. "Are you all right?"
He continued coughing.
"Grissom?"
It became obvious that he couldn't answer her, and she moved quickly, nudging him gently. "Grissom, sit up for a minute." He remained slouched against her, hacking uncontrollably. "Come on, you've got to sit up." She guided him until his back was upright. Then she grabbed the water from her kit, opened the top, and handed it to him. "Drink some of this," she instructed.
He took a sip, trying not to choke as he kept coughing. Finally, he got his rebellious lungs to calm enough so that he could swallow several mouthfuls of the water. Then he passed it back to Sara.
"Thanks," he rasped. He closed his eyes tightly, and covered them with his good hand. His head and injured arm had pounded along with each cough that had cut through him; the hacking had stopped, but the pain remained, throbbing angrily. He tried to breathe deeply to quiet his still-queasy stomach, but the hot, stale air just made him want to start coughing again.
"Are you all right?" Sara asked, worriedly from behind him. "Do you feel like you might throw up again?"
Grissom shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Good," Sara said, sounding a little relieved. She held the bottle of water to her lips and took a long swallow, finally allowing herself to have some. Her parched mouth and throat sucked up the liquid instantly, like a sponge. She wanted more, but didn't take another drink. Instead, she carefully recapped the bottle and placed it back into her kit, noting with some trepidation that it was only half-full now. I hope they come to get us soon, she said to herself.
After squaring the water away, she leaned back again, placing a hand on Grissom's shoulder, inviting him to do the same. They reclined into their previous positions, moving closely together in spite of the continually growing heat.
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"All right, that's it," Brass said suddenly. It had been nearly fifty minutes since he had given the assistant engineer, Porter, his deadline, and he simply couldn't stand still for another second. "We're not waiting any longer." He walked past Nick and Catherine on his way to the two police cars parked behind their Denalis. "We're going to get them out," he told the CSIs as he continued to the uniformed officer on the right. "Get your tools together, and I'll be right with you."
Nick and Catherine nodded, and moved to the rear of their SUV.
Jim motioned to the other cop, and the trio gathered in front of one of the police cars. "We're going to try to get inside that mine and get our guys out," he informed them. "I need you to radio for fire rescue and the paramedics. And then grab some shovels or whatever you can find to help us dig."
"You got it, Captain," one of the officers replied, his partner nodding along. Then the first guy grabbed the handset of his car's radio and started putting in the calls.
As Jim was walking back to the CSIs, he noticed a man in a hardhat approaching. He introduced himself as Bob Martin, the foreman of the nearby construction site.
"Is everything squared away over there, Mr. Martin?" Nick asked.
"Yes. We still don't know what caused the explosion, but it looks like it was just an accident. The investigators who came haven't found any evidence of foul play." He took a breath, before adding, "I still think it was a miracle that no one was hurt. I guess we're just lucky that the explosion happened so early in the morning when most of my guys hadn't even reported yet. I never dreamed that an explosion at my site, over a mile away, could cause such damage out here." He looked at the others solemnly for a moment. "How are your people doing? Any progress in getting them out?"
"I'm afraid not," Jim answered.
"How many are trapped in there?"
"Two."
Martin shook his head. "I can't believe they haven't tried to reach them yet," he commented.
"Well, the district engineer has been holding us up," Brass explained. "But we're about to take matters into our own hands. "We're just gonna grab some shovels and start digging."
"What about those earth movers there?" Martin asked, indicating the large machinery to their left.
"I don't know," Brass admitted. "It's up to the engineer."
The foreman paused thoughtfully. "We have steam shovels and bulldozers over at my site, just sitting there, idle. I could have my guys bring them in to help you."
"I appreciate that, Bob," Brass told him, "but it's a matter of jurisdiction and insurance. I wouldn't want you or your company to get into trouble."
"I understand," Martin replied. "But the offer still stands, in case you change your mind."
"Thank you, Bob," Brass offered before turning to Nick and Catherine. Nick handed him a shovel, and the police captain announced, "Let's go."
"Captain Brass," Martin called, stopping Jim in his tracks. "I've got a whole construction site full of guys just standing around. We've got shovels, and even pick axes. Let us help. Consider my whole operation at your disposal."
"Well, thanks again, Bob," Brass replied with a tight grin. "We'll definitely take you up on that offer."
"No problem, Captain," Martin said back. He hurried off the way he had come to round up his workers.
At that moment, Warrick pulled up in his Denali, coming to a hard stop next to Nick and Catherine's car. He swung down from the front seat and stepped quickly over to the others. "What's goin' down?" he asked. "Any word on Sara and Gris?"
"We decided to get them out ourselves," Nick informed him, tapping the handle of his shovel against his palm. "We've waited long enough."
"Well, all right!" Warrick agreed with grim enthusiasm. He opened the back of his SUV to pull out a shovel. "Don't start the party without me."
The very anxious assistant engineer hung up his cell phone and turned around as he heard footsteps approaching. Captain Brass was leading a determined group of people holding shovels and picks; Porter felt a bit like Frankenstein being surrounded by the angry villagers brandishing pitchforks and torches. He swallowed hard and held his hands up in surrender as the others reached him. "I just got off the phone with Mr. Lester," he stammered as the small crowd came to a stop in front of him; he held up his cell phone as evidence of his words. "And he's on his way here with Professor Hess. They said you could start the rescue operation."
The crowd seemed to thaw at that information—their harsh edges softening somewhat. Porter felt a little better, until he had to tell them the rest of the news. "But…" he began, cringing inwardly as he felt the emotions of the group shift back to anger. "…he gave a permanent 'no' to using any machinery. With not knowing where your people are, it's simply too dangerous. Sorry."
Brass wanted to lash out at the man, but he realized that he and the district engineer were probably right—it would be safer for Grissom and Sara if they broke through manually.
"Let us know when Lester and Hess arrive," Brass said. Then he turned to his group. "Let's get at it, guys."
Catherine, Nick, Warrick, and the two uniformed officers joined Brass at different points around the collapsed mine shaft. "All right, people," he called, signaling everyone to begin, "let's get them out."
Pings, scrapes, and ragged breathing filled the desert air as Brass and the others tried to carve out a path to their friends, praying all the while that they would be in time.
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Sara put a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her coughs; she didn't want to wake Grissom. He had fallen asleep again a few minutes earlier, and she was going to just let him be. Listening to his shallow, uneven breathing, she realized it probably wasn't the best choice—for a lot of reasons. But she also knew that sleep was his body's natural defense against the shock and trauma, and she couldn't bear to disturb him.
She told herself that she would wake him in an hour or two and he'd be fine. But, the condition of the air in the mine had deteriorated, and getting enough oxygen into her lungs to remain alert and aware was becoming nearly impossible. That, coupled with the still-intensifying heat, made Sara fear that she wouldn't be able to stay awake so she could watch over Grissom and wake him when she should. Sweat was pouring off both of them, dehydrating them further, and Grissom's shirt was sopping, but she still held him closely against her as he slept.
Despite fighting the incredible drowsiness as hard as she could, Sara felt herself slipping into a semi-conscious doze. Suddenly, Grissom groaned in his sleep, and Sara's head snapped back up. He groaned again and she felt his body tense. "Shh, it's all right," she reassured him. "I'm right here, Grissom, I'm right here. Shh…" As she soothed him with her soft words, she ran her fingers up and down his left arm. She even chanced stroking his back—very carefully.
Her touches didn't seem to hurt him, but instead seemed to relax him, allowing him to slip fully back into a deep slumber. He shifted, burrowing even closer to her, so that the side of his face, rather than the back of his head, now rested against her chest.
Once Grissom was settled again, Sara felt a little more awake, but she didn't think it would last. She rested her cheek on the top of his head. His hair was still gritty, and she could smell earth, the tang of salt, and even the slight coppery odor of blood. But, underneath it all, she could still make out the scent of his shampoo. It was clean, fresh,…ordinary. The faint soapy scent made Sara think back to whenever this long, trying day had begun for him. She imagined Grissom in his shower, lathering up his hair just like any other night before he headed off to work.
For some reason, this image of complete 'normalcy' brought the prick of tears to Sara's eyes. Would Grissom ever be able to do such a commonplace activity again? Would she?
She placed a gentle kiss within his damp curls, tasting salt on her lips, and trying to keep the tears welling in her eyes from falling. Where was everyone? her exhausted mind worried. Where were Brass and the rest of their team? Why hadn't anyone tried to get to them yet? She tried not to dwell on it, tried to keep being optimistic, but she had to admit it was becoming more and more difficult.
What if no one came? She shook her head, attempting to physically rid her mind of that horrifying thought. She was able to push it away, but it still remained in the recesses of her consciousness. Too bad our brains aren't like an Etch-a-Sketch, she thought, becoming suddenly giddy. Then we could just give our heads a good shake and everything we didn't want to think about would completely disappear. The picture that simile put in her mind made her want to laugh. If our brains were like an Etch-a-Sketch, I know which way I'd twist Grissom's dials! she added silently with a touch of glee, her tears forgotten.
Then she really did start to laugh, but tried to do it quietly so she wouldn't bother the currently sleeping object of her thoughts. But her silent amusement grew, causing her to shudder more violently, shaking Grissom against her. She really didn't want to wake him, so she slowly got herself under control again. Once her soundless guffaws had faded away, Sara definitely felt much more alert and ready to watch over Grissom. Her chest hurt a bit from getting even less precious oxygen during her bout with the giggles, but it had no effect on the smile that still lingered on her lips.
As she sat there in the quiet darkness, she thought she heard a new noise in the distance. It was far away and muffled, but it resembled the 'ping, ping' of metal on rock. For a second, Sara thought she might be having an auditory hallucination, but she listened more carefully, and she could swear the sounds were real. She knew the clamor signaled the others coming to get them.
This revelation further increased her newfound energy, and in spite of the continuing physical discomfort of the mine, she felt better than she had since they had become trapped. "They're coming, Grissom," she assured her oblivious companion. "They're finally coming. We're going to be all right."
To Be Continued…