I can barely breathe; I know she's also struggling with the normally simple, mindless act. We stand four feet from the body. For twelve hours, we'll poor over the scene trying desperately to break it down into tiny, microscopic pieces so we begin to miss the forest for the trees. It makes it easier for her; sometimes, it makes it easier for me.
She immediately volunteers to work the perimeter; she always does. She always tries to stay as far away from the women as possible. She has to; if she gets too close, she begins to remember how she easily could have been this woman lying haphazardly on the plush white carpet of her own apartment. She knows she's been lucky, but I know she often wonders exactly when her luck is going to begin to run out. She doesn't need to say these things to me; I know them. I know them from her visceral reaction to the scene and from the little comments she makes while processing the evidence.
We work silently. It's a well choreographed dance we do. I know what she needs only by the way she moves; she knows when I need her. She says she's missed working with me; I don't think she could ever possibly understand just how much I have missed working with her. I've missed so much about her; I've missed watching her teach Greg. It's a paternalistic pride I have for the youngest CSI; I know he's in good hands with her. I know she's in good hands with him; he's not going to let her self-destruct . . . it's when she's with Grissom that I begin to worry.
I ask how things have been; she's acutely aware that I know about her problems. She's acutely aware that I'm not around to silently support her anymore; she knows that no one else knows how to distract her. I tried to explain to Greg why exactly we go out to breakfast every morning to just eat and talk for hours. I'm far too tired to do that anymore; she's far too tired to meet me for lunch. I asked Greg to make sure that she eats breakfast; he said he'd try. I hope he has because I've watched her dance the fine line between depressed and suicidal for too long; I've watched her get better and worse. The other three CSIs don't see in her what I see; they tend to ignore her cries for help. They tend to see it as Sara just being angry; it's not about anger . . . it's about torture. It's about Sara torturing herself as she thinks Grissom would want her to. She wants to torture herself for wanting something more than the evidence; all Grissom is ever going to want is the evidence. Sara . . . well, she's not evidence.
I hate handing these cases over to Sara as I prepare to clock out. I know it's not fair to make her confront all the evidence on her own. It's only luck that this woman wasn't her. The memories are still fresh; I see it in her eyes. I ask Greg to help her; Sara accepts the help. She doesn't fight it anymore; she knows it's important to make sure that whoever did this goes to jail. I know she holds her breath when the DNA is being run through all the databases; her attacker's DNA is in those databases. I know she wants the DNA to be a match to that man. I know she wants to put a name to the DNA forcefully injected into her body. I don't understand it, but it's important to Sara. I know it's because she doesn't want to be a victim again. I sure as hell don't want her luck to run out.
"Lunch later?" I asked as I began to collect my things.
"I'll be too tired," Sara replied. I knew she wouldn't go home until she had the answers that she needed.
"You know that you are lucky, right?" I asked.
"It's not about luck," Sara replied defiantly.
"Well, then I know I'm lucky," I replied. She looked confused.
"Why?"
"I'm lucky you're a strong woman," I replied. She lowered her head; she didn't believe that for a second. She was always was waiting for her luck to run out. I was always waiting for her to realize that she had been given a second chance at life; if that's not luck, I don't know what is.
FIN