Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account.
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Oddly enough, it was O'Reilly who saved her.
The assignment slip said "robbery", and when she got there, the big detective was waiting on the front lawn, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.
"Wife woke up and found the window open and her husband's prize fishing rod gone," he reported as Sara came abreast.
"Something the matter?" she asked. The lines of O'Reilly's face were a little deeper than usual. But he just shrugged, and gestured her towards the house.
The elderly lady who let them in was quietly dignified, and fully dressed in a blouse and slacks despite having risen from her bed to call the police and her husband. She offered them coffee, but Sara refused, wanting to get started gathering whatever evidence was there to be found. The house was well-kept, she noted as she inspected and dusted. Mrs. Franklin had reported feeling a draft and waking to find the window in her husband's den open and the pole gone from its display stand. Given its value, Sara wasn't surprised it had been taken, but she did wonder why the expensive pen set on the desk and the humidor full of Cuban cigars had not been touched. As was so often true, there was little hard evidence--all the fingerprints probably belonged to the Franklins, and Sara found no distinguishing footmarks or betraying fibers.
They were taking their leave of Mrs. Franklin in the front hall when the door opened and an equally elderly man stepped through. He was a tall man, a little stooped with age but still strong, and his eyes raked over Sara and the detective in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but she merely nodded politely as O'Reilly explained why they were there.
"Is there any chance of recovering my property?" he asked brusquely, cutting off the detective mid-word, and O'Reilly exchanged glances with Sara before turning back.
"Not much, sir, I'm sorry," he admitted. "This was an expert job."
Mr. Franklin's face darkened a little with anger, but he nodded, all but ignoring his wife, who was standing quietly in the background.
"We'll let you know as soon as we have anything," O'Reilly concluded. When the older man said nothing more, he turned towards the door, and Sara preceded him out.
"I was going to ask you, Sidle," O'Reilly said, then halted halfway down the sidewalk with a grunt and bent over to tie his flapping shoelace. "Hold on."
Sara put her weight on one foot and waited.
In the quiet came the sound of a raised voice through an open window, freezing her blood. "You stupid bitch!"
But it was the light crack of a slap and the muffled cry of pain that made her move.
O'Reilly made a snatch for her and missed as she bolted back towards the front door, reaching for her weapon. But before she could touch the knob he caught her, jerking her to a stop. "Stand down, Sidle," he hissed over the sound of another blow and curse. "This is my job."
She was shaking, Sara realized, with an anger so huge that it was all she could do to focus. But she saw her own fury mirrored in the detective's eyes and nodded, moving back just enough to let him pass.
O'Reilly paused a second, centering himself, then turned the knob, even as the stomach-turning noises continued. "Mr. Franklin!"
The tableau in the hallway heated Sara's blood from ice to boil. Mrs. Franklin was still standing, barely; she leaned against the elegant little table in the hall, one arm cradling the other wrist. Blood smeared her lower lip, and her carefully-coiffed hair was mussed and tangled.
Her husband stood over her, his fist in the air even as he turned. "What--get out of my house!" he snarled, face flushed red with rage.
"Step away from Mrs. Franklin, please," O'Reilly ordered, his voice polite, firm, and frozen.
The elderly man's face darkened further. "This is my house and my wife. You have no right--"
"Citizen in distress," O'Reilly returned calmly. "Ma'am, are--"
Mrs. Franklin wobbled, and Sara darted forward, catching the woman as she sagged to her knees. Mr. Franklin's face went almost purple, and he grabbed Sara's shoulder in a bruising grip.
She snarled. She couldn't let Mrs. Franklin fall, but the old man's strength was threatening to drag her off-balance, and she had no hands free to tear him apart.
And then the painful squeeze was gone. "You're under arrest for assault," O'Reilly rumbled as he pinned Mr. Franklin against the wall and cuffed him. Sara had never seen him look so fierce. "You'll press charges, Sidle?"
She nodded tightly. "Hell yeah."
Mr. Franklin began to curse again, but O'Reilly ignored him, rattling off the Miranda and then calling for an ambulance. Sara shifted the half-conscious woman in her arms and watched with savage satisfaction.
xxxx
"I didn't provoke him," Sara said, her voice icy.
"I know," Grissom replied quietly. "O'Reilly gave me a full report, Sara. You did exactly as you should have."
He watched as her jaw shifted. She was still furious, and with reason, he knew. She had to blow off some of the steam, and he hoped she'd do it now. Fortunately, she'd closed the door when she'd come in.
"She's not pressing charges, Grissom." He relaxed a trifle as Sara started to pace. This righteous rage he could deal with as her supervisor; the despair and pain would have to wait until they got home. "He's been beating her for almost forty years, and she won't do a thing about it."
"He'll still be charged with assaulting a police officer," Grissom noted, keeping his tone calm and firmly repressing a chill. O'Reilly had been quick, Franklin hadn't had time to more than grab Sara's arm, but he could have really hurt her. Grissom knew such dangers were part of the risks they ran, but-- I don't have to like it.
"Yeah, and that'll get him what? He's over seventy, they'll probably reduce his sentence anyway." Sara's face was flushed. "She'll go right back to him, and he'll go right on smacking her around any time he feels like it."
"You can't help everyone, Sara." She glared, and he returned a steady stare. "She's a mature adult and she has to make her own choices. Her husband's arrest may give her the opportunity she needs to change."
"Maybe." Sara unclenched her fists with a visible effort, halting her pacing in front of him. "I'm going to go see her this afternoon, Grissom, so don't even try to stop me."
"Wouldn't dream of it." As Sara calmed a bit more, he gave her a small smile, and straightened to rub his hands up and down her upper arms. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes for a moment.
"I want you to go home." Her eyes snapped open, and he gave her a stern look and squeezed her arms lightly. "You're too keyed up. The robbery evidence can wait. There's only an hour left in the shift, Sara, don't argue with me."
She tilted her head, and he could see the calculation in her eyes, but apparently his promise not to interfere with her visit to Mrs. Franklin was an equal trade. "Fine," she said, slightly grumpy. "I'll see you later?"
"Absolutely." Grissom let her go, suppressing his concern. He'd be home not long after, and could do more there than just give her platitudes.
xxxx
Sunlight was trying to make its way around the blinds, but the room was mostly still in cool shadow. Grissom sat in his armchair and watched Sara on the couch, listening carefully to her. Very carefully.
"I spent my high school summers volunteering at the hospital." Sara rested her elbows on her knees, staring at nothing, and he wanted very much to go to her and surround her with himself, to make her feel better, but he held still. Now was not the time.
She laughed a little, but the sound wasn't very amused. "It's funny to think of it now, but for the first two summers I helped out with some of the sick kids, the ones that were strong enough to come to the playroom. We used to make puppets and things. But after that I switched down to the emergency room, doing filing and answering phones, stuff like that. They never had enough personnel."
Sara paused for a moment, looking back into time. "I saw it over and over, Gil. Women coming in with black eyes, broken ribs, bruises on their arms and throats and ankles. Burn marks, from cigarettes. Missing teeth. A lot of times it was the same women. And most of them had one thing in common." Her face hardened, the bones standing out starkly. "They all said it was an accident. They bumped into doors, tripped going down the stairs, spilled something while they were cooking--the excuses went on and on. Except they all had this scared look in their eyes, this hopeless look."
Her hands locked together in a tight knot of tendon and bone. "A lot of them were poor, but we got a few of the wealthier ones too. Sometimes their abusers would come in with them, all upset and solicitous, or just really possessive. It used to make me so mad, but there wasn't anything I could do. Nobody pays attention to a teenager."
Her voice shook a little, and Grissom realized it was with anger. "I wanted to yell at them. How could they do that? How could they go back, again and again? How could they expose their kids to that? We got the kids, too," she added. "More burns on them, and sometimes belt marks." She bit her lip.
"I know--there weren't as many resources fifteen years ago. I know that." Her gaze was fierce on nothing. "But it didn't hurt any less when two of them came back in ambulances, one with a gunshot to the chest, the other beaten unconscious."
Sara lifted her head at last. "They both died, Gil. Their abusers killed them."
Her eyes were brimming, and he couldn't stand it any longer. He got up, sat down beside her, and just put an arm around her shoulders. He really wanted to hug her hard, to pull her into himself until nothing could touch her, but he couldn't, and anyway she'd never let him. His Sara always fought her own battles.
This time, however, she did let him comfort her. Gradually, she leaned against him; some of the tautness left her in a sigh, and she went on.
"I saw the rape cases, too. The women--the girls--who came in with their clothes torn and their lips bloody, or the ones who came in two days after the fact, looking white and scared, wanting a pregnancy test. The ones who wouldn't let anyone do a rape kit on them, because they were ashamed, or because they didn't think anyone would believe them." She shook her head, and turned it to bury her face in his chest. "You know, that's part of the reason I went for physics? It seemed so clean, after that. There's no injustice in physics. No lies." Her voice was a little muffled, but he could still make out the words. "I guess I was running away."
"Sara, no." Grissom stroked her hair with his free hand. "No. You're a brilliant scientist. Studying physics was a worthy use of your gifts."
Her hands slowly unlocked, her body twisted until she could slide her arms around him. "And yet I ended up in law enforcement. Ironic, huh?"
"You could go back, if you wanted," he pointed out, though the thought of not working with her anymore troubled him deeply. She shook her head, rubbing her face against his shirt, and he could feel the small hot seep of tears through the cloth.
"No. Forensics is what I do now. And every once in a while it does make a difference." She sighed, then chuckled tiredly. "I'm sorry. I've been gushing all over you--"
She started to pull back, but Grissom spread his fingers over the back of her head to hold her in place. "Remember what I told you about leaning on someone once in a while?"
Her head stilled, but he could feel the tautness in her body. "Uh-huh. And I said I didn't want to make a habit of it."
Making a split-second decision, Grissom let her head go, putting that arm around her as well and shifting his weight. Sara's head jerked up as he slid her body onto his and leaned back against the arm of the couch, holding her against him. She braced her hands on his chest, staring down at him in surprise.
"I may not know much about relationships," he said sternly, "but I do know that partners support each other. You can lean on me, Sara." She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And it makes me feel good to know that I can help." He let one corner of his mouth twitch up. "If this is going to be an equal relationship, you have to let me be the strong one once in a while."
Sara stared at him for a moment longer, then giggled weakly, which made him smirk. She laid her head down on his chest and hugged him back, and the tension ran out of her body as though someone had cut her strings.
"I'm afraid I'll break into pieces, if I do," she whispered after a while.
"Then I'll help you put them back together again," he replied, knowing exactly what she meant. Somehow, breaking down in front of someone was the ultimate vulnerability; the only difference was that he had already gone through it, and Sara had taken care of him then, holding his shattered self together until he was able to go on.
The thing was, he was a new shape afterwards. I'll help you, he thought, savoring her warm weight against him. And if one of your pieces gets mixed up with mine, all the better. You already have a piece of me.
I think you always have.
See Chapter 6