BABBLING A/N: I would just like to say THANK GOD FOR SNOW DAYS! I've been out of town all weekend, so depressed at not getting to post for you brilliant people, and then SNOOW! And we can't forget the monkeys who run the BOE. If they weren't such chickens, I'd just be getting home! So yes, PRAISE THE SNOW GODS! Oh, also, I'm hoping to post quicker now hat the holidays are coming up, so keep your eyes peeled!
REALLY IMPORTANT...THINGY: I FIXED MY STUPID "DUH" IN THE PLOT LINE! It's still stupid, but at least I have now created a mildly plausible reason why Greg and Sara couldn't leave the scene. Thank you all for the cyber kick-in-the-ass. For those of you who are too busy to re-read it, nothing even remotely pivotal to the plot has changed, I just had the bomb wire running to the door so if they tried to open it again, the whole thing would go Ka-blooie. Now, if ANYONE even THINKS about asking me why they couldn't have just crawled out the window, I LAUGH AT YOUR SUPERIOR MIND, and thumb my nose in your general direction. With that said, Read On!
The first thing Brass was aware of was not intense pain, as he'd expected. In fact, he felt relatively OK, considering he's just been thrown about five feet through the air. Now if only he could wake up from this nightmare.
Opening his eyes slowly, he was met with the pale pre-dawn sky and leafy treetops swaying slightly. Calmed somehow by that image, he managed to make himself roll over, ignoring the sharp pain in his muscles. He felt a slow fire burning in his left wrist, and glanced down at the swollen appendage with a blank glumness.
The world swayed when he finally got the nerve to look up at the wreckage before him. Smoke was rising from the sad, charred remnants of the house, debris covering everything within 20 yards. Cops were just picking themselves up off the ground, looking dazed, and the blonde paramedic was staring horror struck at her twisted ambulance as she hung an arm loosely around the once more hysteric Mrs. Nieman. Billy sat quietly on the asphalt, looking up at his mother with wide, frightened eyes.
Brass took in the scene, cataloged it in his mind, and drew his gaze back to what was left of the house. The spasm that cringed through his body had nothing to do with his sore muscles, and everything to with the painful, twisting horror deep in his gut. Covering his mouth with the back of his good wrist, he choked back a gagging cough, the bitter sulphuric scent of burned plastic making him feel sick.
"Detective Brass? Sir?" The gentle touch on his shoulder made him flinch back, his throat too tight to mutter an expletive. Looking up into the face of the first cop on the scene, Andrews, he managed a weak nod. "Are you alright, Sir?" His question was sincere, but it didn't register with Brass, who was staring with fascination at the blood dribbling down from the deep gash in the you man's forehead.
Turning his head away from the query, Brass's eyes landed instead on the bomb squad, who looked almost amusingly lost. It made sense, he mused. After all, the bomb had already blown, so what could they do? Another shudder slithered down his spine.
"Hey, Brass, you OK?" This time it was Williams' voice that called to him, while strong hands hefted him to his feet. With the vague feeling that he should be embarrassed by this, Brass looked at the ground.
"Sir?" Andrews again. He wished they'd go away. "What...what are we supposed to do sir? There...The CSI's, Sir, they were still..."
Brass had to shut him up. He couldn't hear the end of that sentence. Clearing his throat, he barked gruffly at them both, still not looking up. "Somebody get the LVFD down here if they haven't already been called! We need to make sure nothing else is going to burn." Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Williams. "Jack, you know what needs done. Go do it, and take the kid with you." He jerked his head at Andrews. "And you, Andrews, get that forehead checked out, and soon." With nods, they walked off.
Brass rubbed his wrist gently, the pain helping him recollect his thoughts that had scattered about like papers from a filing cabinet. His eyes fell back onto the fallen house, and a painful howl of fury threatened to escape him, the urge so strong that he bit his lip to the point of blood. This wasn't supposed to have happened.
Whirling around, his gaze landed on the bomb squad. "You!" His tone was almost an accusation. "I think you're a little late, don't you, fellas?" They didn't feel guilty enough to satisfy him. They couldn't. "Go back to your station. You're of no help now." When they did not jump to his command, he sneered. "Get the hell out of here, now!" Finally they began to move.
His eyes swept once more over the scene, watching in disgust as the civilians began to return to the scene. They now stood, gaping at the wreckage, like it was some display for their amusement. His good hand clenched into a shaking fist.
"We called the Fire Department. ETA is five minutes," Williams spoke from behind him. When he only nodded, the cop tried again. "Hey...Jim, you OK? I know you knew the CSI's in there..." he trailed off. "Jim?"
"I'm fine, Jack. Go make sure our first class civilians over there don't get to close to the action, eh? Wouldn't do to let things get out of hand, now would it?" Not able to miss the seething sarcasm, Williams turned to leave once more. "Oh, and Williams?" He stopped, waiting as Brass glanced again at the ruins. "Call the search team in with some heavy equipment. We...we at least have to recover...the bodies."
It was at this point Brass realized there was nothing else he could do. He turned again to stare at the deathtrap that had just taken away his normal life. Some small part of him hoped that maybe, just maybe they had somehow managed to survive. But he was a cop, and a realist. And he knew they weren't coming out of there, except on stretchers. In body bags. Someone else would have to process this new crime scene, probably Grissom...
Brass staggered forward a few steps, the air leaving his lungs as his stomach tried to revolt. Jesus H. Christ, he was going to have to call Grissom. HE was going to have to call his best friend and tell him that...Greg...Sara...He squeezed his eyes shut. Sara!
As sirens sounded in the distance, Brass stumbled over and picked up his cell phone off the grass with shaking fingers, pawing roughly at his eyes to rid himself of the sudden dust in them.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Grissom jumped slightly at the ring that suddenly filled the interrogation room. Mr. Michael Bryner blinked at him slowly, stopping in mid sentence. "You gonna get that?" The scrawny man asked, sounding as if he couldn't care less.
Well, right now, Grissom couldn't care less about whoever was calling him either. It was not every day a serial killer was caught with a fresh body, returning to an active crime scene. And the fact that Bryner was now denying he knew anything about any of the bodies - including the one he was carrying - made him all the more fascinating to Grissom. And the damn phone had just interrupted the first honest statement the suspect had made.
Catherine glanced over at him as well, looking mildly irritated as it rang again. "Please continue, Mr. Bryner."
Bryner arched a brow over his wide, watery eyes. "What was I saying?"
Grissom was now at the end of a scathing look from the blonde as his phone rang one final time and fell silent. "You were discussing your gambling habits at the Sunset Casino, Mr. Bryner," she said, trying to remain calm. They'd been at this for ten minutes, but it felt like hours.
Bryner blinked again, a twisted, nasty look curling his lip up into a smirk. "The where?" He shrugged. "Never heard of the place." As Catherine's mouth opened again, he cut her off. "You know, I'm sort of thirsty. Do you think I could get some water? And, uh," he blushed. "I really gotta pee. Can we take a break?"
Whatever reply Catherine planned, it was cut off when Grissom's phone began to ring again. She threw up her hands in disgust. "Fine! We break for ten." Another withering glance was aimed at Grissom as they left for the observation room where Nick and Warrick were waiting.
"I apologize, Catherine," Grissom tried, over another shrill wail from his phone. "People...no one ever calls me when I'm in interrogation."
Catherine glared. "We lost him, Gil. We were finally making it somewhere and that damn cell screwed it up, and screwed us over. He isn't going to talk now."
"You don't know that." He avoided her gaze because he had the very same feeling. He knew he should have just stuck to the bugs.
Catherine's eyes rolled spectacularly as the phone continued on. "Just answer the phone, Gil, OK?"
Shooting her another look of apology, he pulled his cell off the clip on his pocket, flipping it open. "Grissom." Brass's voice sounded gruff and pained as he said hello. "Jim? Is something wrong?"
Grissom actually felt the blood drain from his face as Jim's words slid into his ear, some standing out in bold print. "...explosion...Sara and 't have survived..." He'd never heard Brass's voice sound so broken. He'd never had his vision twist quite the way it was now. The phone crashed to the floor from his trembling fingers.
"Grissom?" Warrick's voice was concerned. His gaze fell to his old team, almost amused at how warped and far away they looked. He watched the black dots dancing on and around them, and found himself wondering if he'd locked his townhouse that evening.
The voice that issued from his mouth was low and gravelly, foreign to him. "There's been an accident." The world twisted violently, and he slid to the ground, his head in his hands.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sara groaned as her alarm went off, her hand feeling around for the snooze. Her head muzzy, she grappled around with her eyes closed, eager to make the ringing stop so she could go back to sleep. When her hand landed on something warm and soft, a thrill of terror went through her that she didn't quite understand.
Slowly, she pried her lids open, dazedly amused when she found herself looking at a toy car that was dangling over her head, stuck to a wooden beam by the edge of a melted tire. Then, deciding it was the only appropriate course of action, she screamed.
She bit her lip to stifle the terror-filled sound as memory came rushing back, and her stomach clenched in sick horror. She and Greg had just been in an explosion. Another one. Greg!
Panicked, she tried to sit up, but a sharp, burning pain in her thigh had her flat on her back again in an instant, gasping for air. It was then that she became aware of the warm, sticky blood on her leg. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to get her thoughts together. Fright warred with reason, her instincts trying desperately to override any training she had. She laid like that, silent and still for endless minutes, trying to pull herself together.
With her eyes closed, her other senses began to clear, and she was once more aware of the soft warm object under her right palm. Flesh. Blinking, she slowly tried to sit up again, the pain pounding through her body as nausea rolled in her stomach. Gritting her teeth, she breathed heavily through her nose till the worst passed.
She looked around slowly, her eyes first falling on the heavy beam resting on her left leg, and widening as she saw the large piece of wood sticking out of her thigh. Quelling her panic once more, she looked to her left, so see her hand resting on the cheek of one Gregory Sanders, who was not moving.
Terror seized her at his stillness, and she tried to lean over to him, but the patches of black swimming across her vision warned against it. Shaking, she moved her hand down to his lips with a silent prayer.
The gentle puff of air across her palm was the most wonderful thing Sara had ever felt. Gasping in relief as a sob escaped her throat, she ran her fingers through his hair absently. "Greg? Come on Greggo, you need to wake up." She shook his shoulder, her thigh burning in agony as she moved. "Greg! Come on Greg, wake up. Please?" A shiver ran through her. "Damnit, Greg, wake up!"
His moan was music to her ears. She waited, holding her breath as his eyes slowly drifted open, his dark irises blank and unfocused. He moaned again. "Sara?"
She ran her hand through his wild hair again. "Rise and shine, Greggo."
"Uhg." They both thought that summed matters up nicely. "We got blown up again."
"Yeah."
He blinked, his gaze roving around in the quasi-dark. "Where are we?"
She bit off her sarcastic retort, and began to look around herself, having been so worried about him before that she hadn't been observant of her surroundings. Looking up, she noticed shafts of light filtering down through the rubble. "Is that a water heater?" She followed his eyes to the still intact metal structure.
"We're in the basement."
"Literally, or figuratively?" His smirk reassured her a little, but when he suddenly began coughing, thick wet chokes of air, worry closed in again.
"Greg?" He gasped for air as the fit subsided, his eyes glued to the ground before him.
"Blood." He swallowed audibly. "I'm coughing blood, Sara. You...you know what that means." She did.
"Can you move, Greg?" Internal bleeding was never a minor injury.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a pained groan issuing from his lips as he rolled to his side. "Don't go on your back. If you cough again...you could choke."
"Thanks for that info, Dr. Sidle." She was silent. "I'm sorry Sara. I...I'm scared."
Staring at her mangled leg, she nodded. "Yeah, me too, Greg."
There was a long, quiet pause, only Greg's increasingly wet breathing filling the room. "Are they going to find us, Sara?"
It amazed her once again how young he sounded. Had she ever been that young? She allowed herself a bitter smile as she wondered if this was how Grissom felt. "I think it will be awhile, Greggo."
"I may not have that long." What could be said to that?
Sara shivered again, aware shock was setting in. She fought it, knowing that Greg's only chance to make it out alive could very well be her ability to help him. Her eyes were drawn once more to her damaged limb, the fire lancing up her leg like nothing she'd ever felt before. She knew getting the beam of was going to do more than hurt. "Greg?"
Another liquid cough. "Y-yeah, Sar?"
She breathed in deeply. "I need you to ignore me, for a minute, ok?"
"Huh?"
"Greg, just, just recite the periodic table, or something." She cut off his words. "Just do it Greg!"
Still confused, his voice wavered softly. "Alright."
Again, she took a deep, slow breath through her nose, and held it as she stretched forward and shoved the beam as hard as she could. She couldn't bite back the whimper, even as it slid off a little. "Sara?"
"Periodic table, Greg!" She softened, panting and dizzy. "Recite it out loud. I...I need a distraction."
This time, he didn't hesitate. "Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium..."
Focusing on his words, she shoved forward again, the beam slipping drastically, even as the stake in her thigh ripped pain through her entire being. "Shit!"
Greg didn't stop. "...Magnesium, Aluminum, Silicon..."
She took a sharp breath through her nose to cut off a heave from her rebelling stomach. Stretching as far as she could, she pushed for all she was worth, until her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the wood as it slid to the cold ground. She caught sight of the strange angle her leg was at just as the fresh blaze of renewed agony swept through her, wrenching a sob from her throat that she couldn't " his voice slowed to a halt as she slumped back, gasping and fighting the tears that slipped down he cheeks. "...S-Sara?" She could only snuffle, biting her lip when his dry hand found hers.
A small eternity swept by before the hazy edges of pain receded from her head enough for speech. "That hurt." Was that really her, speaking with that pitiful voice?
"Yeah, I gathered," he whispered, squeezing her hand. She clutched at his fingers weakly. "You going to be alright?"
She huffed a laugh. "You're the one bleeding out."
"Yeah, but it doesn't...the pain isn't sharp. It's just sort of...achy." He chuckled tiredly. "Although I've got one hell of a lump rising up on the side of my head."
"Mmm, mine's right above my neck." She sighed, wondering what the rest of the world was doing. As she thought this, it occurred to her to check for her cell, which wasn't there, of course. "Greg, have you looked for your–?"
"Yeah." She looked over at him, and he grinned ruefully. "I fell right on top of it. The piece of shit is smashed to bits. Yours?"
"MIA." Just like them. She stifled a hysterical giggle at the thought, laying completely back on the ground, her eyes following the light that drifted down on them. As she looked closer, she realized that the actual opening was only about nine feet up, not nearly as far as she's imagined.
Greg suddenly gave a shuddery gasp, pulling his hand away from hers, and she looked at him just in time to see him curl up, clutching at his stomach as bubbling coughs wracked his body, a miserable moan escaping in between the pained splutters. "Oh, Greg."
It was then that she was struck with the absurdity of it all. Greg dying in a basement of a house where some 12 year old boy decided to full around with something worse than matches. It had such a sense of irony. Sara gritted her teeth, angry now, and more determined. He wasn't going down like this. Neither of them were. He owed her breakfast.
Above, a steady whirring sound, like a chainsaw, buzzed and filtered down past the ringing in her ears. At least they were looking for them, but within this rubble, it would take forever, or a miracle. She didn't think they had either on hand.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours, she never knew. Greg's breathing became too labored for him to do anything other than cough, and shock had finally begun to take hold of her system. She was lulled into a doze by the buzzing machinery over them, trying to ignore the headache that settled in as the grinding noise steadily grew louder.
It was not until the metallic thrum became unbearable, and the first trickle of sawdust drifted down into her eyes and up her nose that she even considered what any of it meant. But as the debris covering over the dark little room began to fall in around her and Greg, and sunlight suddenly blasted down mingling with urgent shouts from a familiar voice, a slow smile worked its way onto her face.
Perhaps they had their miracle after all.
Check that out! It wasn't a cliffie! Sorta... ::EVIL LAUGHS:: Anyway, I hope this lived up to your expectations, and if it didn't...please tell me you love me anyway. ::Grins:: Thanks for Reading!