Dead Reckoning
Summary: The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.
A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this last chapter out. Some weeks, it doesn't pay to get out of bed. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.
Chapter 3
Dead Reckoning – The process of determining where you are based on where you've been.
Gradually, a warm stickiness registered in Sara's mind. She lifted her hand in front of her. Turning it around slowly, she splayed her fingers in surprise. Her head tilted to the side, quizzically examining the flesh. Dark, viscous liquid covered it. An acrid odor bore through the haze.
It was blood.
Moving in a dazed stupor, Sara bent her head down. Her arms and her clothes were stained with it. She could feel it on her skin. There was so much blood. Too much. People needed blood to survive. They died without it. A shiver started wracking her body, and her breath caught in her throat.
The sharp retort of static went off behind her, and she jerked when the officer started talking. She didn't turn around, didn't respond to any of the people around her. Sitting on the gurney, Sara stared vacantly into the night. Lights from the ambulance and the police vehicles created a nightmarish staccato of images, each burning itself into her conscience.
People were talking, she realized distractedly. Talking about her. Disjointed snippets filtered into her mind. She recognized Brass describing what had happened. His anger and concern carried clearly in his "the bastard had her trapped." Someone was talking about cinderblock walls and disintegrating bullets. Another voice added that at least it was self-defense. Suspension. That was Ecklie. He sounded upset.
Grissom didn't say anything. He didn't have to. She saw him when he arrived. Angry didn't begin to describe his mood. Brass had to stop him from charging her. She'd avoided his gaze since then, but it still seared into her. Sara didn't feel the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes.
David was talking now. Single shot. Entered the upper abdomen. Exited through the back. Not in a straight line. Must have deflected off the spine or a rib. A fragment from the bullet or bone probably nicked the descending aorta. Explained all the blood, and why her CPR attempts failed.
Explained how she killed him.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered.
The black plastic hid the body of the man – the boy, really – as it was moved to the coroner's van. Sara started to rock slowly back and forth. She killed him. She didn't mean to. He was just eighteen. Too young to die. She only fired once. It killed him. Shots to the abdomen weren't supposed to be immediately fatal. She only wanted to stop Thorpe. He still died.
She was a killer.
Someone told her to hold her arms out, and Sara complied automatically. Angry flashes from the camera blinded her accusingly. Each picture was a permanent record of her taking another human life. A set of coveralls was held in front of her, and it took an effort to understand they needed her clothes. More evidence of her crime. With shaking hands, she peeled the blood-soaked clothes from her blood-stained skin. Proof of her act marked her, for all to see.
After redressing, Sara became aware of people moving towards her. A fresh surge of adrenaline coursed through her body. Trepidation burned away her mental fog. She wanted to see Grissom, and she wanted to hide. How could she make him understand? She hadn't meant to kill the boy. It was an accident. Would he understand?
She glanced at them briefly. Grissom's eyes racked over her body, and she could see they were dark with wrath. A fresh shudder went through her frame, and Sara wrapped her arms around herself tightly. She took a deep breath; she wouldn't deny what she had done. She couldn't. Thorpe's blood still covered her.
It was Brass who asked her to repeat what had happened, and Sara fought in vain to keep her voice from cracking. She focused on the detective; she couldn't face Grissom. Not yet; not until she had a chance to explain. Recounting what happened in the hallway, Sara noted the three exchanging looks when she told them Thorpe had fired first. A cold chill ran down her spine; they doubted her.
"I didn't start it," she insisted.
"Maybe it was a car backfiring," Grissom said to the other men.
She finally turned to him, and her eyes narrowed. Sara expected him to be angry with her for killing Thorpe. She had to live with that; she deserved that. But he didn't believe her? Of all the people in the world, she thought she could count on Grissom. He'd been so supportive lately. But he was calling her a liar. She knew he had been upset earlier when he learned that she was planning on leaving, but Sara couldn't believe he'd take it out on her now.
It had been a big mistake to tell him about her family. She knew from past experience the way people reacted once they learned the truth. Sara had hoped Grissom would be different, but now she realized he was like the others. He'd been waiting for her to snap, waiting for her genetic destiny to manifest. Anger and pain wove with her guilt to form a tangled emotional tapestry. She glared at Grissom and marched towards him.
"I know what a car sounds like when it backfires," Sara half-shouted, furiously shrugging off the hand Brass put on her arm. The panicked look in Grissom's eyes only fired her pent-up emotional release. He actually thought she had gone on some crazed killing-spree.
"And I know what a gun sounds like. I heard one. He fired at me first."
"Sara."
She spun quickly towards Ecklie. He was staring at her intently, an odd expression playing over his features. Finally letting out a sigh, he held out a large evidence bag. A nine-millimeter gun was inside it.
"Thorpe's magazine was full. The round was in the chamber. The safety was still set on his gun. Thorpe never fired at you, Sara. It's impossible"
"No," she whispered in shock. She killed him in cold blood? Backing away from them, her head shook erratically from side to side. Brass reached for her arm when she stumbled on the curb, but Sara yanked out of his grasp. "No," she cried again before retreating into the darkness.
The therapist discreetly stood up and walked to a credenza, where she made fresh cups of tea. Grateful for the measure of privacy, Sara fought to bring her crying under control. She gritted her teeth and snatched another tissue. The memory was too fresh, the crime still raw.
Handing over the mug, the therapist settled calmly into her seat. She blew softly on her own steaming liquid and regarded the CSI inquisitively. Bringing the cup to her lips, she took a short sip and smiled once Sara composed herself.
"So, why do you blame yourself?"
Sara's head lifted in a sudden motion. After staring incredulously for a moment, she let out a short, sarcastic sigh. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I killed him!"
"I see. You knew he'd be at that scene? On that night? You went there with the intention of killing Thorpe?"
"No. Of course not," Sara answered shortly. She set her mug down and leaned back on the leather sofa angrily. "But it's what I ended up doing."
"Do you really believe intention isn't important?" She waited as Sara rubbed her arm silently. "Okay, tell me, what's the department's procedure for when you're forced to fire."
"Why are you asking me? You're with the department. You know what it is."
"Humor me," the therapist said evenly. "What's the procedure if you need to defend yourself?"
"You're supposed to aim for the chest. Better chance of stopping your victi … your opponent. You're supposed to fire the entire magazine."
"And what would you say your mood was at the time?"
Sara fingers worried a loose thread on her sweater, and she shrugged. "Pissed off."
"You were angry from what he did to you earlier. But what about at the time you shot?" the therapist pressed. "Thorpe had stalked you for days. Threatened you. He trapped you in a dead-end hallway. He pulled a gun on you. You know what he did to Pamela Adler. Weren't you scared?"
"Yeah," Sara allowed, wiping at her eyes. "Yeah. I guess I was."
"Let's review: You were acting in self-defense. You know departmental procedure. Your records show you're qualified. At the time, you were emotionally charged. Despite this, despite all your training, you were able to limit your response to one shot. You even aimed for a non-vital area. All in all, it was a freak shot that killed Thorpe. But this is your fault?"
Sara's head dropped down, swaying from side to side. In their prior sessions, she'd never brought up her fears of becoming like her mother. It had been hard enough to attend the counseling; she was private by nature. She'd kept her darkest fears to herself. How do you explain that your life had become a living nightmare that would only get worse? "You don't understand."
"So tell me," the therapist said, leaning back and taking another sip of tea.
"I heard him fire at me. I heard his gun go off," she said firmly. "I can remember the sound of it. The way it echoed in the hallway, I'm positive I heard it."
"What makes you think you didn't?"
Sara snorted angrily, standing up and pacing the room. "I thought you were supposed to be helping here. Feeding my delusions? Probably not a smart idea."
"Who says you're delusional?"
"Oh, right! I'm hearing things. What does that make me? Schizophrenic? Great. This just keeps getting better," she said, her arms making frantic motions.
"I'd say it makes you human. I know you're upset. I understand that. But there's nothing unusual about your reaction."
Sara stopped short, and then she turned slowly to face the therapist, who sat serenely stirring her tea. "Look, no offense, but if you think that's what's 'normal', you need to get out more. Meet some people that aren't nuts. Or get help yourself."
"Hear me out for a minute," the older woman replied with a gentle look, waiting until Sara sunk back onto the couch. "How many times had Thorpe threatened to shoot you?"
"Twice."
"And that wasn't all he threatened to do to you, was it?"
"No," Sara choked out, closing her eyes as she recalled the violent rape depiction Thorpe left under her door.
"It's safe to say you were stressed."
"That's an understatement."
The older woman nodded her head in agreement. "When you turned around and saw him aiming that gun at you, did you have any reason to doubt that he would do either, or both, to you?"
Sara shook her head dejectedly. "He didn't even have the safety off of his gun. I wasn't in danger. He couldn't have shot me."
"Was there any way you could have known that? And do you really think Thorpe wouldn't have used the opportunity to slide the safety off if you hadn't have shot him?"
Sara leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her hands were clamped in front of her to control the shaking. She didn't respond immediately, staring at the patterns on the Oriental carpet. The geometric design was soothing; the regularity providing a sense of order her mind lacked.
"Look, I understand what you're trying to do. Honestly. You're going to say that it was a normal reaction to the stress. You're going to say that I heard something else, and I thought it was a gun."
"The mind does process stimuli according to the situation," the therapist noted.
"So I've heard," Sara huffed, grabbing a fresh tissue from the box.
"It also happens to be true. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that tenement is in a bad part of town. There's a lot of gang activity around there. Is it really unreasonable to believe that another gun was fired somewhere in the area?"
"No," Sara said, closing her eyes in defeat. Her counselor meant well, but she didn't get it. A gun firing in an enclosed area makes a distinctive sound. It's different than one going off in a distance. It's different than any sound a car made. Sara knew the sounds well; well enough not to confuse them, no matter how stressed she was.
She was aware that the therapist was watching her appraisingly. Her admission that she could have heard another sound had been hollow even to Sara. They talked for a bit longer, and she went through the motions. Sara even willingly agreed to another round of sessions. But in her heart, she doubted it would help.
Sara knew that she had heard Thorpe's gun, but that hadn't happened. Her mind had made it all up. The sound, the retort – none of it had been real. The delusion was so convincing that even now she still believed what she had heard, although she knew it was physically impossible.
Wasn't that a definition of insanity?
Her life had never been easy, but she survived everything it had thrown at her. Scars remained, though. She knew she had issues with trust and self-confidence in personal matters, but Sara never doubted her mental skills. It wasn't false pride. She had the awards, the scholarships and the professional record to attest to her intellect. It had been the only constant in her life. And now it was something she could no longer count on.
Her head was hanging low as Sara left. She couldn't go to work; she was suspended pending an investigation. Exhaustion was threatening to take her over. She hadn't eaten or slept since the shooting the day before, but she didn't want to go home. Her cell phone was off. She expected a stack of messages to be waiting for her, but she wasn't in the mood to talk to her friends. They would need reassuring that she was all right, and Sara couldn't give that to them.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, Sara stared into the cityscape feeling utterly lost. She didn't know what to do. Nothing made any sense. Wandering down the street, she wondered if anything ever would again.
Brass pulled into the apartment parking lot, letting out a relieved sigh when he saw Sara's vehicle. He'd stopped by several times since the shooting. This was the first time it had been there. He understood better than anyone that she needed space and time to come to grips with what had happened, but enough was enough. No one said anything when she didn't answer her phone at first, but Atwater and Ecklie had been getting impatient. He'd been developing an ulcer.
He got out and waited a long minute. Walking around to the passenger side, Brass opened the door and stared into the interior. After an awkward silence, the detective rolled his eyes. "We're here. Are you getting out or not?" he asked irritably.
"Why did you drag me along?" Grissom responded with equal vexation. At the resulting annoyed stare, he unfastened his seatbelt and exited the car slowly. "I can wait here. I don't even know why I'm here."
"If you don't know that answer, my friend, you're not as smart as people think you are."
"Sara won't want to see me."
Grissom had no doubts about the veracity of his statement, and his voice was harsh with repressed emotion. At the scene, Brass had to stop him from rushing to Sara's side, but she'd turned away from him. She didn't want him then, why would she want him now? It was his fault; he'd lost his temper earlier. No, it had already been too late then. Sara already made plans to get another job, to leave the lab. To leave him. He hadn't even warranted a warning.
"I think you might be wrong," Brass said, his expression softening when Grissom turned to him questioningly. "Hey, I know. I'm talking to you. But even you get things wrong from time to time."
Grissom responded with a grunt. He harbored no false illusions. In his mind, he knew this day had been bound to come, but foreknowledge didn't ease the pain. "She won't even return my phone calls."
"She won't return anyone's calls. No one, and I mean no one, has heard from her since the shooting." He waited until the implications sank in before waving Grissom forward. "The brass, so to speak, are getting antsy. It was self-defense, but avoiding their calls? That makes people wonder if she's hiding something."
"That's insane! Thorpe tracked her down and confronted her. No one can say she acted inappropriately."
Brass repressed a smile. He had no idea why Grissom was so hesitant to see Sara, but his reaction settled one thing. There was no doubt he cared. But it did make his reluctance seem even more out of place.
"Hey, I'm on your side here. But Thorpe's mother is crying foul. He was a creep, but he was her creep. She may try to make trouble for Sara. Ecklie is being his normal unfriendly self, too. The facts are on our side, though. It's all been documented."
After taking a few steps, he noticed Grissom wasn't following him. An uneasy feeling came over the detective. He turned his head around and grimaced at him. "You did fill out a report. Right? Please, Gil. Tell me you documented all of the shit Thorpe did to Sara. Any of it."
Grissom closed his eyes, and his hand wearily reached up to rub his temple. He heard the sigh from his companion and shook his head.
"Well, I did document it. And the DA and the judge can verify Thorpe caused trouble in the courthouse. It does look funny that you never filed a report," Brass added, pausing to give him a perturbed look. "Of course, paperwork gets lost, right? Maybe you'll find a copy of those reports on your desk when you get back to the office?"
"Jim," Grissom exhaled.
"Yeah. It was just a thought. Come on. Sara needs a friend."
"I think that takes us back to my earlier statement," he said, grudgingly following the detective. "She doesn't want to see me."
"Don't be so sure about that. Look, put yourself in Sara's shoes. You've never shot anyone. You don't know what it's like. She needed time to get herself together. But she's going to need friends later."
"Right."
The detective rolled his eyes at his colleague's petulant tone. Grissom needed to get out of his funk. It wasn't going to do Sara any good to see him this way. Looking at his distracted friend, he bobbed his head decisively. He always excelled at being the 'bad cop'.
"Hey! This isn't about you. You're not the one that creep terrorized. You're not the one that he threatened. Or the one that killed him. Stop pouting. Think about what's best for Sara here," he said harshly.
Grissom merely shrugged. "I am thinking about her. That's why I should go. I'll only make things worse," he declared. "I already have."
Brass cocked his head and looked at his friend in confusion. Something was going on between the two of them. It had been ages since they were openly hostile, but it had been abundant lately. Thorpe's antics caused Sara – each of them – to be on edge, but that hadn't explained all of the tension.
Watching Grissom now, he noted the mask of indifference on his face. It couldn't reach his eyes, though; they told a tale of inner pain and anguish. He really did believe what he was saying, and it was tearing him up. A glimmer of understanding formed in his mind, and Brass nodded his head instinctively.
He had seen Grissom's barely controlled rage at the scene. It had taken an effort to keep him away from Sara, even after he learned the blood covering her was Thorpe's. Brass had no doubts the scientist would have torn the rapist apart with his bare hands if he had hurt Sara. Oh, yeah, there was something else going on here, and it wasn't giving him a warm-fuzzy feeling.
Brass had arrived at the scene while she was desperately trying to perform CPR on the body, tears running down her face. He had to pull her away when the ambulance arrived. Sara had collapsed, both mentally and physically, when the paramedics called Thorpe. He'd felt she needed space to decompress from her attack, to let her process what had happened. Grissom's frantic mood wouldn't have helped her any. Now, the detective wondered if keeping them apart had been a mistake.
"She'll be glad you're here," he said encouragingly.
"Jim, I'm telling you. I'm the last person she wants right now. You go."
"I'll bet you're wrong," Brass said, giving him a half-smile as he knocked on Sara's apartment door.
Both men started when it opened to reveal a bare chest. A muscular, male chest. Looking up, they met the gaze of an almost-nude Hank Peddigrew.
Doc Robbins stood over Thorpe's body, shaking his head sadly as he shifted his weight on his crutch. Dispassionately, he spoke his initial observations into the recorder, noting visible characterizations. His headshake took on another meaning as he measured the angles of the plastic straws marking the bullet's entry and exit wounds.
Turning off his recorder, he gave David a resigned look as they removed the straws and rolled the body onto its back. "He's only eighteen. That's too young to die. But that's probably middle-aged for a gang member."
"They don't even value their own lives," David said. "I don't understand people."
"Neither do I. Until they end up on my table, where all is revealed," Robbins quipped. "Shall we?"
After making the Y-incision, the coroner began removing the internal organs, his features set in concentration. Bullets fragment in seemingly random patterns once in the body, and he was on the lookout for the telltale shearing damage caused by the pieces. As he handed each organ to David to be weighed and sampled, Robbins frowned.
The divergent wounds suggested the bullet ricocheted on a bone before exiting the body. Each bullet shattered in its own way, turning every body into a unique gory puzzle. But the damage to Thorpe's organs was more extensive than he expected. Bone fragments poked from various sites.
Robbins leaned back, his eyebrows rising as he contemplated his next move. The pieces of bone confirmed the bullet had hit one, but the fragments were spread out in a wide pattern. He was having a hard time mentally recreating the path the bullet had taken.
"David," he finally called out. "Set up the fluoroscope."
Brass darted his eyes to the side quickly. Grissom's mouth was still open, but his muscles were visibly tightening as his anger grew. Realizing an ugly confrontation was about to erupt, the detective moved between them. Seeing another bloody death wouldn't help Sara any. Besides, nightshift was already down one CSI; they didn't need two on suspension. The strength of the arm trying to shove him aside was surprising, but not as much as the paramedic's response.
"Hey! Great timing!"
"I beg your pardon," Brass sputtered, bracing himself against the doorframe.
"I'm glad you're here. I was getting ready to call someone," Peddigrew replied. He seemed completely unfazed to be standing in just his shorts and socks as he stepped aside to make way for them. "Come on in."
"What?" Grissom snarled, trying again to move around Brass. Images of the paramedic taking advantage of Sara raced through his mind, and he could taste bile. Earlier concerns that she wouldn't want to see him were replaced by a desire to make sure she was all right. If Peddigrew had hurt her ...
"Hold up, Hank."
The duo turned around and watched dumbfounded as a second paramedic came jogging up the hallway. He was carrying a spare uniform and a large plastic trash bag. Brass turned back to stare inquisitively at Peddigrew, but the sound of retching carried from inside the apartment.
"Sara's sick?" he asked, literally lifted off his feet as Grissom finally forced his way into the apartment.
"Not really," Peddigrew answered.
"I think you better start explaining," Brass said, watching as his friend tried to open the bathroom door. He grabbed his arm, pulling him into the living room area, indicating he should give Sara some privacy. Grissom reluctantly followed, leaning against the far wall, where he stared angrily as the EMT dressed.
"We had a call of a patron collapsing at the Redwoods Diner. When we got there, we saw it was Sara. She'd passed out in her booth. She started to come around as we were checking her out."
"Drunk?" Brass asked worriedly. He kept his eyes on the paramedic, but he saw Grissom bolt upright.
"In a sense," Peddigrew said. "The manager said she was only partway into her third beer when she passed out. She hadn't started her meal, and her blood sugar was low. There're rings under her eyes, so I'd say she probably hasn't slept much lately, either. With all that's happened, I guess that isn't a surprise."
"She refused medical treatment, but she wasn't in any shape to drive. Her place was on the way back to the station. Hank drove Sara back here in her car, and I followed," the other paramedic added.
"And you always do a striptease for your patients?" Grissom asked, his sarcasm barely covering his anger.
"Only when they throw up on us," the other EMT joked, jabbing his elbow into Peddigrew's ribs.
The bathroom door opened, distracting Grissom's attention. Sara looked terrible. Her hair was awry, and water stained the front of her shirt. Her skin was an unhealthy pale tone, and her eyes vacant. She walked unsteadily into the kitchen, absentmindedly waving her arm to clear a path. Taking a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, she drank it slowly. A sickly groan escaped her lips.
"You're still here?" she asked when she saw Peddigrew returning from the bathroom. "How many different women are you screwing now? Is Whatsherface in the dark this time around?"
Hank smiled embarrassedly as the room's other occupants stared at him. He turned to Grissom, but the look he received made him change his mind. Speaking to Brass, he continued to stuff his fouled uniform into the trash bag.
"Sara'll be fine. She didn't have that much to drink. Exhaustion and lack of food played a bigger part in her passing out. But it wouldn't be a bad idea for someone to stay with her. Just in case."
"I don't need a babysitter," she muttered, resting the cold bottle against her forehead.
"Sara," Grissom said, fighting to keep his voice soft. His temper was still piqued, but his concern for her was stronger. Even if she didn't want him, he couldn't ignore her when she was in need.
"You?" she slurred, waving her hand as she staggered towards her bedroom. "Hank, take Grissom with you when you go. You'll like him. He's a bastard, too."
Brass rocked back on his heels as the room fell into an uneasy silence. The paramedics looked embarrassed, and it was obvious Grissom was alternating between rage and heartbreak.
"Okay! That went so well," the detective said with a false levity. He pointed to the paramedic. "Thanks for your help, but I think it's time you left. Now. Probably wouldn't be a good idea to come back, either."
"Right," Peddigrew responded, quickly exiting the apartment.
Facing Grissom, he pulled his lips back in a grimace. His friend wasn't even trying to hide his pain. Brass shrugged apologetically. "So, I guess you were right, after all. She didn't want to see you."
"I'm so glad you find this amusing."
Brass walked to his friend, gently herding him towards the door. "I don't, Gil. She's upset. Don't take it personally. The alcohol only made it worse."
"In vino veritas," Grissom noted sadly. "A person is more likely to say what they really mean when they're drunk."
"Some people. I've been there. It's worse than you can imagine. You say things you don't mean. She needed to take out her frustrations on someone. You got the honors that time."
"She means it," he said. Grissom dropped his head in defeat and any lingering hopes he had of convincing Sara to stay evaporated. "I … lost my temper earlier. She told me she had an interview for another job. I … didn't handle it well."
"Look, take my car back to the station. I'll stay here with Sara. You go home and get some rest yourself. You're the guy with all the quotes. Isn't there something about things are never as bad as they seem?"
Once Grissom was gone, Brass let out a groan. So much for trying to help. Walking by the bathroom, he winced and reached in to turn on the overhead fan before closing the door. He went to her bedroom, knocking softly when he heard a muttering coming from inside.
Going into the room, he planted his hands on his hips in his best angry parent mode, and shook his head at her. Sara lay haphazardly across the bed, her limbs akimbo as she tried to untie a stubborn shoelace. He could see she was getting upset, swearing at the inanimate object. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Brass pulled her legs onto his lap, and he slid her shoes off.
"Jim?"
"Hey, doll," he replied, gently extracting himself and standing back up. "You are a real mess, you know that?"
"Hell, you don't know half of it," Sara mumbled, smiling as he tried to politely maneuver her body so her head moved towards the pillows.
"Oh, I'm going to know. You and me? We're going to have a nice little chat when you're sober."
"Not drunk."
"Of course you're not. You're the picture of perfect sobriety," he said softly, rolling his eyes as he eased the covers over her. "You get some sleep. I'll be in the other room if you need anything."
"You're staying? Oh, that's nice," Sara said, unsteadily lifting her head up and smiling wanly. "You're a nice guy, Jim. I mean that. You are a real good guy. Why couldn't I have fallen for you, huh?"
"Oh, now I know you're drunk!"
Brass smiled sadly as she curled up into a ball. A quick search of the room located a trashcan, which he placed strategically by her side. He made a face as he considered the odds it would end up being used. "Figures I just had this suit cleaned," he sighed.
Sofia wove her way across the pockmarked pavement, her eyes trained on the sight in front of her. A frown formed as she saw the figure bending over the crime scene tape, staring into the tenement's doorway. She shouldn't even be there.
"Doc, what the hell is going on?" she called out.
"And a good afternoon to you, too," Robbins replied, hobbling his way under the crime scene tape. He stood to the side of the staircase, running his eyes around the area, noting the locations of where Sara had knelt and where Thorpe's body had been found. His free hand came up to scratch his beard as he walked around the edges of the room.
"I'm assuming there's a reason you woke me up to come here," she asked with a trace of impatience as she entered the building. "This was dayshift's case. Ecklie didn't want graveyard to handle it."
"I don't care whose case it is. I'm the head coroner for Clark County. The crime scene is mine. And I'm trying to understand what happened."
"Okay," she sighed. "That's why you're here. Why did you call me out?"
Robbins turned to her, and Sofia was surprised that he was smiling. "I need your help."
Brass was in the apartment's small kitchen when Sara eventually exited the bedroom. Groaning and holding her head, she walked by him without registering his presence. Reaching the closed bathroom door, she stopped and cocked her head in bafflement. With a confused grunt, she opened the door, but retreated immediately as the smell reached her.
"The aftermath is never as much fun, is it?"
Sara jumped and let out a frightened yelp. It turned to a moan of pain when she saw who it was. Sinking onto the couch, she cradled her head. A fresh groan emerged after Brass pulled a hand away. She took the aspirin and bottled water from him with an incoherent thanks. After swallowing the medicine, she attempted to glare at him.
"Damn, Brass! What the hell were you trying to do? Do you have any idea how jumpy I am? You scared the shit out of me. Do you have any idea what I could have done to you?"
"Puked on me?" he quipped brightly.
"Ugh. Don't mention puking. Any bodily fluids. Greasy food. Runny eggs. None of it," she warned him weakly.
Brass shook his head in mock-horror, smiling evilly at her swearing response. He retreated to the kitchen and retrieved two mugs of coffee. Sara grunted, quickly taking a drink of the hot liquid. Her face scrunched in disgust.
"This coffee is terrible."
"Yeah, well, my domestic skills are rusty. I've been lost ever since they put Martha Stewart away. Besides, you're in no position to complain. What's the big idea eloping like that?" Brass asked with a hurt expression.
Sara's eyes opened widely. Panic settled over her features. Slowly, she lifted her head, staring at him in shock. "I did what?"
"That paramedic guy. He had to go to work. Said he'd be back later for the honeymoon. He seemed awfully eager to get started on that," Brass said, lifting his eyebrows salaciously.
Sara again attempted to glare at him, but she ended up grimacing in pain. She took another sip of the brew, shaking her head at the taste. That triggered another round of moans. "Real funny, Brass. Ha. Ha. It's impossible to get that drunk. And no lectures," she instructed. "I killed a kid. I think I deserved to get drunk after that."
"No arguments from me on that count," he replied, walking to the chair and settling in. "I know what it's like. Years ago, I killed a passenger in a car. I ended up on permanent desk duty after that. I don't remember about three days after that. But I wasn't stupid enough to drive."
"I wasn't. I was going to take a taxi home," Sara said, patting her pocket until she found a scrap of paper. "My address. I was all set."
"That idea only works if you're able to tell someone to call you a taxi. And it's still dumb. Did you ever think the cab driver might not be a model citizen? What could have happened to you?"
"Know the owner of the diner. He's a friend of the taxi dispatcher. He'd make sure everything was cool. No problem."
"Yeah, that's something we never hear on the job. You're lucky your, ah … friend? … was there to drive you home."
She snorted sarcastically and went to take another drink. The mug paused at her lips, and Sara tilted her head in concentration. Her eyes turned to Brass after a moment. "I puked on Hank, didn't I?"
"Oh, it certainly smelled that way."
"Good," she said, smiling as her eyebrow went up. Again, she started to take a drink, only to pause as memories came back. This time, she looked at Brass hesitantly. "Grissom was here, wasn't he?"
"Uh, huh."
"Did I puke on him?"
"Nope."
"Damn," she sighed, closing her eyes as she curled up on the couch.
"Oh, come on. He was here to help," Brass said impatiently, noting her nearly-silent snort. Watching her, he tried to evaluate her mood. She was upset, which was normal after a shooting, but the gloom literally rolled off of her body.
"Maybe I don't want help," Sara sighed.
"Don't want it, don't want it from him or don't think you deserve it?"
She shrugged noncommittally. "Do I have to pick one?"
"I'd appreciate it. It would help me understand what's going on."
"It's pretty simple. I killed Thorpe. I swore I'd never kill someone. That I'd never become the type of person that could take another life."
"I realize that," Brass said slowly. "And? It was self-defense. I don't think anyone's going to be crying a river at his funeral."
"I would."
"Why? He was scum, Sara. He was going to kill you. If you were lucky, that's all the creep was planning."
"He had the safety on his gun!"
"So? That just means he was a stupid creep. It doesn't change anything," Brass stated. "Tell me this – if Thorpe had been threatening someone else, what would you have done? You want me to believe you would have let him kill me or Nicky? Grissom?"
"No dice, Jim. If he was threatening someone else, I'd have shot him, sure. But I'd still be upset if I killed him. But it was just the three of us in there. Him, me and my overactive imagination."
Seeing her wiping at her eyes, Brass dug into his pocket. Taking a pen, he jotted something down and passed it to Sara. "We found a sheet of paper with this written on it at his place."
"What is it?" Sara asked in confusion.
"Oh, break my heart, why don't you? That's my license plate number and home address. You weren't the only one on Thorpe's list," Brass said. Taking the paper back, he added some more lines and handed it to her again. "I see you recognize that. Yeah, he was after Grissom, too."
"How did he get this information?"
"We haven't figured that out yet. But it's not important. What's important is that you stopped him. If you hadn't, you'd be dead, Sara. The rest of us would have been next. Do you remember Mr. Murphy? He's the manager at your grocery store."
"What about him?"
"The doctors think he'll live," Brass said, nodding when her head snapped painfully up. "Thorpe attacked him. He carved him up pretty badly. The knife was in the back of his pants. Don't think this punk was just playing around."
Sara curled into a ball on her sofa. She had no doubts what Thorpe intended; he'd been clear about that. The trouble was she snapped. Her mind created a scene that caused her to panic. She had no problems defending herself, but in her haste, she'd fired a fatal shot. If she had remained in control, she could have incapacitated Thorpe.
"I lost it, Jim. I swear, I really thought he fired first. I wasn't trying to kill him."
"It's a damn good thing you did!" he said, anger infiltrating his voice for the first time. "That's something else we have to talk about. What the hell were you trying to do? You know one shot, if it isn't fatal, is only going to piss someone off. Thorpe was dangerous enough. We're going to pay a visit to the firing range before you go back to work. I'm going to drill procedure into your head until it's second nature. Capiche?"
"Don't bother. It really doesn't matter any more."
"Are you serious about leaving?"
Sara looked at him in surprise. After a beat, she shrugged weakly. "Grissom told you about that? Kinda doubt it. I can't exactly leave in the middle of my own shooting investigation. I don't know what I'm going to do. About anything."
Brass let out a sad sigh. Getting up, he sat beside her on the couch. He bumped her body, offering an apology when Sara moaned loudly. "Look, you go get your shower. Eat something. Go back to bed. Trust me. You'll feel better once you get some rest. I wasn't joking earlier. I do know what you're going through. The worse thing you can do right now is ignore your friends."
"I wasn't ready to tell everyone I was okay," she grumbled, but an embarrassed flush crept up her cheeks. "I'm still not."
"Then don't do it. No one expects you to be all right. Well maybe you. If you think you should be okay right now, you're crazy."
"Oh, I'm sure of that," she said with a humorless chuckle.
Brass patted her hand gently. "It'll get better. Don't forget your friends, okay? We've been worried. Part of being a friend is letting your friends help you."
"You're right," Sara admitted, forcibly climbing off the sofa. She headed to the bathroom, but her face scrunched as she opened the door. "Ugh."
"Don't look at me. I'm not cleaning up in there. Consider it a life lesson. You have to clean up your own messes."
"Thanks, Brass."
He smiled as he walked to her. "Look, I'll take care of Atwater and Ecklie. You don't need to deal with that bureaucratic bullshit now. You call your buddies. I'd start with Gil. You really hurt him by calling him a bastard in front of everybody, you know that?"
"I'm not falling for that trick twice, Jim. I wasn't that drunk," she sighed, resting her forehead against the bathroom doorframe.
"I'm not joking, Sara."
She turned around anxiously, shaking her head slightly. "No. I didn't do that."
"You did."
"Oh, God, tell me I didn't do that. Shit. I probably did. Great. What else can I screw up? Don't answer that," she whispered sadly, closing her eyes as she sank to the floor. "I really don't want to think about that now. No. Don't talk about it. I'm serious."
"Hey, your call. But you should talk to Gil later," the detective said.
"I, uh, think I've said enough. I don't think he'll want to listen to me. Not after what I said. And you better have a damn good reason for laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you, sweetheart. Well, yes I am. I'm laughing at both of you. Grissom told me the exact same thing on the way over here, except it was you that didn't want anything to do with him. And this is the same guy that had to be restrained by two officers from killing Thorpe."
Sara pried an eye open and stared at the detective in disbelief. "Grissom? Out of control?"
"It's not surprising. You know him. He always acts a bit…"
"Withdrawn?" she suggested.
"Reserved. But everything that's important to him, he does with passion. He doesn't go around flaunting the way he feels. In fact, he bottles it up. And you know what happens when you shake up a bottle. The pressure keeps building, so when you do open up, it's going to burst out. It's probably even going to be messy."
"I think I'm still drunk," Sara sighed, rubbing her temple. She gave the detective a one-eyed stare. "We're talking about the same Grissom?"
"I really hope there's only one of him! I don't think the world is ready for more than one," Brass quipped. "At least talk to him, Sara. If nothing else, you should apologize. I tried to tell him not to take it personally, but he did."
"I will. After I shower. And I get my brain back into my skull. Thanks," she said, ungracefully climbing to her feet to join him at the apartment door. "You really are a nice guy."
"Just keep it to yourself, okay? We can't have the scum of the city knowing I'm really a big teddy bear."
After seeing him out, Sara retreated to the bathroom. Eventually, she came back out, cleaner than when she went in. A stack of towels joined her bedding and clothes in a laundry pile. She eyed the kitchen, but her stomach protested the idea of food too much to eat. Grabbing her cell phone, she groaned at the number of messages. Settling onto the couch with a decent cup of coffee, she started the process of calling her friends.
She'd phoned everyone except for Grissom. That wasn't going to be an easy conversation, and Sara had no idea where to start. Things had gone badly so quickly. He'd taken the news of her plans to leave personally, even though there was nothing between them. If it hadn't have been so painful to him, it would have made her angry.
And it also appeared that she had misjudged his reaction at the scene. He'd been furious, but it hadn't been directed at her. She was trying to wrap her mind around the things Brass had told her.
When the knock came at the door, her eyebrow went up in surprise. Had Grissom come back? She doubted that; she had no memory of insulting him in front of the others, but there was no reason for Brass to lie. He'd be too hurt to give her another chance. That particular bridge had been rickety to begin with, but she doubted any of it remained.
Checking the peephole, Sara frowned. She didn't recognize the man outside. Opening the door cautiously, she took the business card he held out.
"Miss Sidle? I know you probably don't remember me. I'm Thomas Adler. It was my wife, Pamela, that Tony Thorpe attacked."
"I remember," she said and stepped back to invite him into her apartment.
Adler took a seat on the couch, nervously fiddling his hands. He declined Sara's offer of a drink. Once she sat down, he took a deep breath and let it out loudly as his words rushed out.
"I can only imagine how you feel right now. I'm sorry for bothering you at home. Don't worry, I'm not staying long. I just wanted to talk to you. Well, actually, I wanted to thank you, but that probably sounds too harsh. But I, the whole family, we've been afraid that Thorpe would come back. Finish what he did to Pamela," Adler said, his voice choking with emotion.
Sara leaned back into the chair, uncertain how to respond. Thanks for killing Thorpe was the last thing she wanted. But looking at Adler, she could tell he was honest. He was still a young man, but his hair was already graying. Stress lines marred the corners of his eyes. Thorpe had terrified her for days. What had it been like to live with that fear for years?
Clearing his throat, Adler smiled shyly at Sara. "You must think I'm a monster. I'm not. I don't believe in violence. But I won't lie. I am so glad Thorpe is dead. I … I can finally rest, knowing Pam won't suffer because of him again."
"How is she?" Sara stammered, trying to find a way to respond to his comments.
"The same. The same as yesterday. And the day before. And every day since Thorpe attacked her. I understand now. Everything that made Pam who she is died that day. Her body doesn't realize it. The doctors say she doesn't feel any pain. I really hope they're right."
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, her own tears joining Adler's.
"Thank you. I still visit her. Almost every day."
"She's lucky to have someone who cares so much for her."
"Honestly, it would probably make Pam upset," he laughed, wiping at his eyes. "If she could, I bet she'd tell me to move on. That I shouldn't waste my life. Even her parents have told me I should file for a divorce or an annulment. But I can't."
Sara sat in her chair, sympathetically watching as Adler composed himself. His grief was still raw, and it struck a chord with her. She wanted to offer him some solace, but she had none to give. All she could do was let him talk.
"Sorry. I … this is still painful. They say time heals wounds, but what if the wound is always fresh? Every time I see her there, I think she's asleep. I know she'll never wake up, but every single time, I hope she will. And when she doesn't … Everyone tells me if I stop visiting, it'll be easier, but they're wrong.
"I love Pamela. Some people claim they're in love, but they don't know what they're talking about. It's not the real thing. Not true, once-in-a-lifetime love. I could stop seeing her at the home. I could get a divorce. Even find another wife. But, she's here," he stated, tapping his chest firmly. "She always will be. All that other stuff? I can run away from her physically, but I'd never get away. She'll always have my soul. And that's a good thing. Believe it or not."
"I … do," Sara said, her head nodding of its own accord.
"You love someone like that."
"It's … not exactly the same."
Adler gave her a brief smile. "Pamela and I had a great relationship, but it wasn't always easy. We went to the same high school. I'm pretty sure she hated my guts there. I, uh, I could be a jerk at times. And she wasn't always a saint. Things started out rough for us, but I think the troubles made what we had stronger. We tested our relationship, and it survived. We knew it was a strong one, and that is really a powerful thing to know."
He paused, swallowing repeatedly. Sara could see the pain coming back to his eyes. When he looked up, she was greeted by a haunted look. "I still wonder, though. Did Pam really know how much I loved her? Did she know what she meant to me? You never think the last time you talk to someone will be the last chance you'll get. She probably would have thought I was crazy, but if I could tell her again, I'd make sure she knew everything. So there'd be no doubt that she knew."
"I'm sure she knew," Sara offered kindly. "And if Pamela had the chance, I think she'd tell you how much you meant to her."
"Thank you," Adler choked, standing quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to cry on your shoulder. I guess I shouldn't thank you for killing Thorpe, but I do thank you for all you did for Pamela. You caught him. I, uh, I don't know what any of us would have done if Thorpe hadn't been identified. Thank you for that."
"You're welcome. I … wish I could have done more."
"You did all anyone could have done. I'll be going now. I know you have a lot to deal with, with the shooting and all. Thanks for listening to me."
"You're welcome," Sara repeated.
Sinking back onto her couch, she stared at the cell phone. Pursing her lips, she picked it up. Her finger drifted over the speed dial. Sara knew she owed Grissom an apology. Adler's statement had resonated with her. But that didn't make things any easier. With a sigh, she set the phone back down and retreated to her bedroom.
This had better be good," Ecklie growled in Grissom's ear as they walked towards the building. He made a disagreeable sound when he saw the sheriff waiting for them, and he eyed his subordinate with obvious distaste. "This wasn't graveyard's case. I told you to stay away from it. What are you trying to prove?"
"Conrad, I have no idea what's going on here. I had a page to show up," he replied honestly.
"This whole thing is a mess. I warned you she was a loose cannon."
Grissom clenched his fists in silent fury. His own thoughts about Sara were in a swirl. Her sudden plans to leave had been painful on many levels, but her accusation at her apartment cut him deeply. But there was no way he'd let anyone blame her for what happened.
"That's interesting, Conrad. Can I include the fact you think it would have been better if Sara let Thorpe kill her in my report to the sheriff?" he asked in a loud voice, taking a small victory in the way Atwater spun around.
"That's not what I said," Ecklie replied. "Don't mess with me, Grissom. Believe it or not, I want what's best for the lab. Having a CSI that hears things and shoots isn't in the best interest of the lab. Do you know what's going to happen when that becomes public knowledge? You don't have any political skills, and both of you are going to need them. And what is Sofia doing?"
Grissom's eyes narrowed as he saw Sofia walking the perimeter, taking photos as she went. He trusted her abilities, but this was the wrong case to show initiative. Thorpe's mother was threatening to sue, and he didn't want anyone doing anything to inadvertently complicate things for Sara.
"Curtis!"
She paused in her actions, standing up when Ecklie strode to her angrily. Grissom followed, but did a quick double take when he saw the coroner limping out of the building. He stopped and waited for Robbins to join him, his head cocked to the side in confusion. The doctor's cheerful smile only added to his bewilderment.
"What's going on here? I called dayshift in specifically to handle the shooting. Do I need to remind you that this wasn't your case?" Ecklie demanded.
"Sofia is here because I called her. Do I need to remind you the scene is mine until I release it?" Robbins asked dryly, his smile fading as he moved to join the others.
Grissom trailed behind. He glanced towards Sofia, silently asking for an explanation, but she gave a quick wink. With a sigh, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't really want to be at the scene of Sara's attack. The memories of that night still troubled him. Even now, after dwelling on it non-stop, he wasn't sure where he had gone wrong. He'd thought they'd been making progress, but Sara had been planning on leaving him all along.
"Gentlemen," Atwater said diplomatically. "We all work together. Albert, of course the coroner's office controls the scene. But you have to admit it's unusual for you to be out here, or to bring in other CSIs."
"I know. But I needed to see the scene to understand what happened. I asked Sofia for help in that."
"What's to understand?" Ecklie asked irritably. "Sara shot and killed a man who pulled a gun on her."
"I know you're ambitious, Conrad, but I think I'm still the head coroner. Leave the cause of death to me."
"Well, what other conclusion can you reach?" he asked sarcastically.
"Sara didn't kill Thorpe," Robbins stated.
Grissom dropped his hand away from his face suddenly. His mouth was open as he turned his head to each of the other people present. Ecklie and Atwater had similar expressions, but Sofia and the coroner were both smiling.
"I … don't … what?" Grissom finally stammered. "Al, Sara shot him. Her gun had been fired. If she didn't kill him, what did?"
The coroner's eyes twinkled in mirth as he watched them exchanging confused looks. With his free hand, he pointed to the tenement's doorway. "I think I can explain this easier inside. This way, gentlemen. And Sofia."
Robbins walked into the building, leading them down the darkened hallway. Portable lights had been set up, illuminating the bloodstained walls. Grissom flinched in sympathy for Sara. It had to have been a nightmare for her, trying to save Thorpe's life in the cramped space while his blood gushed from his body.
"Okay, Sofia, go to Sara's position again," Robbins directed. After she knelt in a similar manner to where Sara had fired, he stood in front of her. "Sara fell there. She was on one knee. Thorpe was here, and when she fired, the bullet entered here," he said, pointing to where the light from the laser Sofia held hit his body. After the others nodded, Robbins pulled an evidence bag from his jacket pocket. "This is the same bullet."
"What?" Grissom asked, the first to grasp the significance of the finding. There had been two wounds on the body. Sara's bullet had to have exited. The wound on the back wasn't as large as a normal exit wound, but they'd assumed that the bullet had fragmented when it deflected off the bone.
"Bobby's already matched the markings to the test bullets fired from Sara's pistol. The bullet was lodged in Thorpe's spine. At most, she would have paralyzed him," Robbins said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second bag. It was full of small, metallic fragments. "This is the bullet that killed Thorpe."
"The exit wound? It was from a second bullet?" Ecklie asked incredulously.
"Yes. I don't know what Bobby will be able to tell you about this one. I can tell you that it hit the rear of the ribcage when it entered, and it fragmented on impact. The bullet and bone fragments caused damage to multiple organs. It also lacerated the aorta. That's what killed him."
"Sara was right," Grissom whispered. In the stunned silence, his voice carried eerily. He looked up with an astonished expression. A small smile graced his lips. "She did hear another weapon fire."
"The second bullet entered his back roughly here," Robbins said, holding his hand up with the fingers indicating the angle. He started walking towards the entrance. "The other shooter stood here. Sofia found the shell casing in an empty apartment. It rolled under the door."
"Sara never would have seen the other shooter. He was directly behind Thorpe. If you turn these floodlights off, you can't see a thing," Sofia added.
"Good. Sara will be glad to know she didn't kill Thorpe," Grissom sighed. He'd be able to give her some good news. "She'll probably be upset he died, but she can't blame herself for it."
Robbins let out a huff of breath as he turned to face his colleagues. "You can tell her it was a good thing the bullet did kill Thorpe. If it hadn't have hit the bone and shattered, it would have been a through-and-through shooting."
They watched as the coroner pulled his own laser pointer from his pocket and motioned for Sofia to step aside. Moving into position, Robbins held the light so it matched the trajectory of the bullet. Grissom followed the beam of light curiously. He paled and swallowed around the dryness in his throat as realization dawned.
Sara walked forward slowly, her eyes trained on the doorway as she tried to figure out what to say. It was always easier to talk to Grissom if she had a chance to rehearse beforehand, but she had no idea how to even start. She'd been unable to call him; she wanted to apologize in person. It seemed a small thing after insulting him in public.
Adler's visit had convinced her that she had to talk to Grissom about other things. A few times in the past, she'd let him know how she felt, but it had always been indirectly. She'd never actually said the words. Now Sara planned to tell him exactly how she felt. They may part on bad terms, but she never wanted him to doubt how she felt or how dear he'd been to her.
The only trouble was Sara questioned whether Grissom would listen.
Reaching the entrance to his townhouse, she let out a sigh and gave her body a shake. Sara knocked softly and braced herself. The moment the door opened, she'd start her apology before he could shut her out.
"Hey. I'm so sorry for what I said earlier. I really am. Can I come in?" she gushed out before the overwhelming odor of alcohol registered. Sara blinked and ran her eyes over him. Grissom was dressed only in a faded pair of sweatpants and his hair was tousled. A nearly-empty glass of amber liquid was in his hand.
He didn't answer but turned around and took an uneven course to his breakfast bar. Sara came in, closing the door behind her. She followed him, her eyes widening as he refilled the glass and took a long swallow. Her attention went to the bottle. It was nearly empty, but she had no idea how full it had been when he started.
"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.
"Oh, I'm just peachy! Everything is just perfect!" he said sarcastically, sloshing the glass in the air. "Like you give a damn."
Sara winced and dropped her head in embarrassment. Grissom definitely was upset with her. She considered leaving; even if he'd listen to her, she doubted he'd comprehend or remember. Huffing out a resolute breath, she lifted her head. Now was the worst time to leave him alone. Closing the distance between them, she smiled kindly.
"Believe me, you're going to regret this when you wake up," Sara told him firmly, reaching over to take the glass from him. She sighed as he swatted ineffectively at her hand and took another deep swig. "Hey! I'm serious. I think you've had enough."
"No, I haven't. It still hurts."
She watched sadly as he staggered away from her. Acting quickly, she grabbed the bottle of Scotch and hid it behind a bookcase before rejoining him. "Oh. I am sorry for calling you a bastard. I don't even know why I said it."
He made some gurgling sound in his throat in response. Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was obvious something had him very upset. And her head still ached from her own escape into the bottle. She made a mental note to thank Brass again for putting up with her earlier drunken display.
"Grissom," she said, rubbing his bare arm. "I am sorry. Do you understand? I didn't mean it."
"You always say what you mean. You never say something that you don't mean. You said it. Therefore, you meant it," he said, punctuating each line by lifting the glass in the air.
Even drunk, his logic came to the forefront. She didn't agree with his conclusion, but the display caused Sara to smile ruefully. It became a concerned frown when he quickly drained the alcohol. Shaking her head, she tried to figure out her next step. Talking was probably a futile effort at this point, but the liquor had an added bonus of opening Grissom up. Maybe it would make him more receptive as well.
"Hey, come on. Let's sit down," Sara said. She grabbed his arm and guided him to the couch. Her head cocked to the side as she watched him. Grissom was drunk, but coherent. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but not falling down. She wondered how much he'd had to drink, or if alcohol always had this effect on him.
"Guess I should have bought you a beer before I asked you to dinner," she joked lightly, smiling at his puzzled look. "Don't worry about that. Look, I don't remember what I said to you, so I don't know what I was thinking. I guess, maybe, I was still angry. From back at the scene. I was angry that you didn't believe me. That I didn't kill Thorpe on purpose. That I heard another gun. Boy, was I ever wrong about that. I hope you believe me that I didn't mean to kill him."
"No."
"Grissom, I wasn't trying to kill him. Please, believe me about that," Sara said, dropping her eyes abashedly.
"No. You didn't."
"What?" she asked hesitantly. Looking up, she saw Grissom staring at her. Sara had the impression they were carrying on separate conversations. "I didn't what?"
"You didn't kill Thorpe."
"I wish. And, I think you are really wasted."
"The other guy killed him," Grissom said, swirling the last of his drink in his glass before draining it. He stood up so suddenly it startled Sara, who had been sitting there watching him quizzically. Walking back to the breakfast bar, he stopped and started scratching his head. "Where's my bottle?"
"Grissom, there wasn't another guy." She started moving to him before he found where she hid the Scotch, but he turned around. A moment of panic overcame her when she saw the wild look in his eyes. She retreated as he stalked forward. Silently, he walked her back to the couch, roughly pushing her to the seat before retreating.
"You were there, sort of like that. Thorpe was here. The bastard," Grissom said harshly. He took unsteady steps back and held his hand up like a gun. "And back here was the other guy. He shot him. Dead. And if his bullet had gone through, it would have gone through."
Sara sat on the couch, shock washing over her. Was this a drunken fantasy of Grissom's or was he right? It seemed too good to believe, and he was starting to slur his words. She didn't kill Thorpe? She had heard another gun? She was trying to come to terms with the news when she realized he was standing in front of her. The look on his face was terrifying.
"His bullet would have kept going until it hit you. Here," he barked. Her breath froze as he brought his pointed finger in front of her face. "You would have died. And I couldn't do a damn thing."
The sound of the falling glass shattering on the floor snapped Sara's attention back to the present. Grissom collapsed on the couch beside her and a strangled cry escaped from his lips. She twisted on the seat, warily touching his shoulder. He was so reserved normally, she wasn't sure he'd want her to hug him.
"You hate me."
The words were spoken so softly Sara barely heard them, but the emotional charge behind them cut straight to her heart. She blinked slowly, her mouth working as she struggled to find words.
"That's not true. Grissom, please, look at me," she urged softly, pushing on his shoulder so he faced her. Her eyes watered when she saw his haggard expression. "I don't hate you. Okay? Don't ever think that. The opposite is true."
"But you're going away. You're leaving me. You gave up on us."
He climbed off the sofa, shaking his head despondently and headed to the kitchen. Sara realized he probably had other bottles in there, so she jumped up to stop him. Her mind was reeling from his statement. His pain was obvious. Her reluctance gave way, and she slid her arms across his back. "Babe, stop. This isn't your fault. Believe me."
"Why?"
"It isn't about you, okay? I wasn't happy. Don't blame yourself, Grissom. I'm serious. I know you … care. And I feel the same for you. But there was no us for me to give up on."
"Does it count that I wanted there to be?"
Sara watched mesmerized as Grissom turned to her, and his hand reached towards her cheek. It hovered over the flesh tentatively, as if he was afraid of being seared if he touched her.
"I wanted to be with you. More than I can describe. To make love to you. To make you happy. I wanted to know how to do that. To know the things to say or do. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Grissom," she sighed, her eyes closing as he finally barely brushed his fingertips along her cheek. When they reached the hairline, he traced around her ear and over her neck, pulling her towards him. A shiver ran down her body when his hot breath tickled her ear as he bent his head down.
"I was trying. The best I knew how. I wanted to be the man you deserved," he whispered, his voice deep with passion. "I wanted to be able to give you everything. I didn't know how, but I was trying to figure it out. Tell me that counts for something."
"I … I didn't know," she stammered, vaguely aware that Grissom was moving them back to his couch.
"You do now."
When his arms wrapped around her, Sara's eyes snapped open in shock. She stood in his bear hug stiffly as her mind tried to process everything that was going on. Questions about what had really happened at the shooting conflicted with her heart's reaction to Grissom's statements.
Her body automatically began to relax in his embrace; the warmth of his body and his words reached her on an instinctive level. All the uncertainties and fears of the past week eased from her mind, and she let her arms twine around his body. A soft mew of pleasure escaped when Grissom began to move his lips across the sensitive flesh of her neck.
Concern washed over Sara unexpectedly, and she opened her eyes. This was moving too fast, and Grissom's admissions and actions were alcohol-inspired. If he remembered this, he'd freak out when he sobered up. It was his hand trying to travel under her sweater that finally brought her back to reality.
"Grissom, what do you think you're doing?" Sara asked, giving her head a shake to clear it. Gently, she pushed his hand away.
"I'm trying to be more available," he answered, giving up on her breast and dropping his hand to her rear.
Her mouth opened in surprise as he began kneading the flesh. She blinked several times indignantly, both at his action and the way her body was reacting to it. Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation overtook her other emotions, and Sara began to chuckle. Once the release started, she was unable to stop the laughter. That halted Grissom's advances, and he leaned back to stare at her with a baffled expression.
"Babe," she said softly, rubbing his shoulders tenderly as she fought to stifle her laughter. "You really need to work on your timing."
"I do?" he asked incredulously.
Grissom's response caused her to grin broadly. Sara bobbed her head, unable to speak at first out of fear she'd start to laugh again. After a minute, she patted his arms and tried to pull away. "Yeah. You do. You really do."
He cocked his head and stared at the wall studiously. His facial muscles twitched as he mentally considered her statement. Slowly, Grissom turned back to her. "I'll work on that later," he said.
Sara's fingers dug into his shoulders as both of his hands went to her backside, squeezing and pulling her tightly against his body.
"Don't leave me. I want to do the right thing," he told her, between pressing kisses along her jaw. "I want to do right by you. Do the right things, say the right things, be what you need. Give me a chance. Don't leave me."
She moaned in frustration as Grissom continued his ministrations. Sara leaned into his body, drinking in his scent, savoring the feel of his skin as the tension left her muscles. After all that had happened to her, the thought of finding release in his arms was very tempting.
It was also wrong. She was taking advantage of him. He may have started things, but Grissom was also drunk. Not too drunk, Sara realized. The thin material of his sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that he was responding to the stimuli.
But he had to get drunk before he was willing to do this.
That realization was enough to settle the matter for Sara. Firmly but gently, she pried herself out of his embrace. He watched her with a hurt puppy dog look in his eyes, and she averted her eyes.
"I'm not that desperate," she said quietly to the floor. Looking up, she tried to give him a kind smile. "Doing dumb things while you're drunk? That's supposed to be my thing. Trust me, Grissom, you don't want to copy me on that."
"I'm not drunk," he said, sitting on the couch with a half-pout.
"Yeah, well, we'll see what you say about that when you sober up."
"I'm trying to do the right thing."
"I know," Sara said, smiling affectionately. On impulse, she bent over and pressed her lips against his softly, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss. "If you were sober, you'd be getting lucky right now."
"I am sober!"
Sara shook her head and held out her hand for him. "Come on, Studly Do-Right. Time for you to go to bed."
Her smile vanished in a huff when he stopped halfway up and grabbed her arm. He pulled her down on the couch, and they landed in a tangle of limbs. "Are you making fun of me?" Grissom asked with a hurt expression.
"No, I'm not."
"Good."
"Come on, let's go. You need to sleep this off," Sara told him, shaking her head when he rested his on her shoulder. "In your bed, Grissom. Alone."
"No."
"Grissom…"
"No. You said you'd wait to see what I said when I was sober."
She laughed softly. "That's not exactly what I said. You need to be in your bed."
"Don't leave me."
Sara was still processing his emotion-packed plea when the soft snoring started. Her head dropped back dramatically , and she rolled her eyes. Her attempts to free herself were short-lived. He effectively had her pinned down. She had limited leverage, and Sara doubted she could get off the couch without sending him flying to the concrete floor or onto the coffee table. Unwilling to take the chance of hurting him, she settled on shifting so she was lying back slightly, holding onto his body as she moved.
A remorseful smile eventually crept over Sara's face. It had been good to finally have Grissom admit the way he felt, but she knew the alcohol was responsible for it. Her fingers ran lightly through his hair, and she took pleasure in the moment. There was something comforting in his weight resting against her body. She expected things to become extremely uncomfortable when he did awaken, but until then she was going to savor all of it.
"You know, I never did get a chance to tell you what I came over to tell you. I hope you don't mind if I use this time to practice. You can be a bit intimidating," she said softly as her fingers ran over his upper back. "Let's see. What would be the best way of starting? 'Grissom. You're a cute drunk.' I don't think you'll find that amusing when you wake up. You are going to be hung-over like hell. You're lucky it's me here instead of Brass. I don't think he'd be putting up with you snoring on him."
She stopped talking when he shifted in his sleep. Sara raised her head and stared at him in annoyance. "I'm warning you, Grissom. You try to resume what you were doing earlier in your dreams, and you are so going to the floor," she growled irritably, lifting his probing hand away from her sweater.
The shrill ring of a cell phone caused Grissom to groan loudly. It stopped the second his brain registered that the sound was being muffled by flesh. And it was too soft and nice smelling to be his arm. His eyes opening painfully, he lifted his head and met a pair of apprehensive brown eyes. Jumping off the couch, he walked into his bedroom muttering some vague apologies.
Sara sat up, willing herself not to cry. His reaction wasn't completely unexpected, but it was still painful. She eyed the door but the crunching sound under her shoe caused her to look down. The glass Grissom dropped earlier was lying on floor. He was lucky he hadn't cut himself. She knew from recent memory that he wouldn't be in the mood to clean it up.
With a sigh, she disappeared into the kitchen. Finding his broom, she carefully swept up the mess. His voice carried from the bedroom, and pain tainted his words. She grabbed a bottle of water from his fridge and was fishing out some ibuprofen from her purse when he came out. Keeping a calm expression, she walked them to him.
"You can relax. Nothing happened," Sara said after he swallowed some of the water.
"Good. I'd really be embarrassed if I didn't at least get undressed before it was over."
Sara's eyebrows went up her forehead. She'd spent the previous hours thinking of how to talk to him, based on his mood. Off all the ways for him to react, making a joke wasn't one of them. He saw her expression, and shrugged slightly before sinking into his couch.
"What, uh, what exactly do you remember?" she asked curiously.
Grissom closed his eyes, and Sara thought he'd drifted back to sleep until he barked out a humorless laugh. "I remember I was trying to forget everything. Did I tell you?" he asked, opening his eyes to peer at her intently. "Robbins found two bullets. You didn't kill Thorpe."
"You told me."
"Did I also tell you how close you came to dying?"
"Yeah," she answered.
"Did I tell you …" he started to ask, opening his eyes before he finished. The anguish was clear, but it left Sara unsettled. Was he sorry that he told her, or about how she responded? About what had happened, or had almost happened?
"You said a lot of things. And I'm not sure you're ready to talk about it now," Sara said, standing up quickly and grabbing her purse. In truth, she was the one who wasn't ready to talk. Both his personal revelations and those about the crime scene had her rattled. She needed time to regroup.
"Sara, wait."
Her hand froze on the door handle. She turned slowly, and her heart skipped a beat. Grissom's face was a mixture of pain, and she knew only part of it was physical. He'd never been so open with her before, and the intensity was unnerving.
"I wasn't kidding, Grissom. Your timing's off. Go to bed. We can talk later. If you want," she added before escaping into the early evening.
Sara stood in the entranceway to her apartment building fighting down her anger. It had been nearly a week since Thorpe's last visit there, but shades of fear continued to haunt her. She wondered how long it would take before she was truly free from his terror campaign. Her counselor told her it was normal after a stalking to have lingering concerns, but she found it irritating.
As far as work was concerned, the case was closed. They learned Thorpe's mother used her job with a towing company to get their home addresses. Bobby's analysis of the shell casing Sofia found matched a gun used in a gang-related shooting. Vega's contacts confirmed the Snakebacks had killed Thorpe after his antics brought unwanted attention on the gang's activities.
Her suspension had been lifted, but she'd yet to return to work. Her vacation was still approved, and Sara had put the time to good use. She continued her appointments with the therapist, even though she understood she hadn't killed him. The experience made her realize she had issues that needed to be addressed before they became problems.
Brass had been true to his word, taking her to the shooting range. It had taken all her strength to fire the gun, and her shoots were nowhere near her normal level of performance, but she'd been able to do it. Afterwards, they'd shared an early meal at the diner near the lab, and he'd regaled her with embarrassing mishaps Ecklie suffered when he first arrived in Vegas.
Grissom had called her that first night, and he'd stopped by after shift was over. He looked and sounded like he was still suffering from his hangover, and Sara hadn't pressed him. She fixed him a mug of tea, and he explained what had happened at work. Neither mentioned what happened in his townhouse. That was the last she heard from him.
"Big surprise," she grumbled to herself. It was his modus operandi, part of what made Grissom who he was. She loved that man, but he still vexed her. She let out a long sigh and squared her shoulders. It was safe to go inside, but her posture was tense. Rounding the corner into her hallway, she mumbled, "The bastard isn't here."
That's when she literally ran into Grissom.
They both stepped back in surprise, and Sara quickly noted Grissom's hurt expression. She moved to heal the damage rapidly. "You're not the bastard I was talking about. I mean, you're not a bastard. Shit. Grissom, you scared me."
"Sorry about that," he said, accepting her apology with a faint smile. "You're here."
"I live here," Sara replied, looking at him in confusion. She opened her door and held it open for him after entering. "Why wouldn't I be here?"
"I didn't know when you were leaving for San Francisco. I wanted to talk to you before you left."
"When the shooting happened, I called to let them know I wasn't able to come out. I figured it was a good time to take a few days off, though. Do you need me back at the lab? I can be at work tonight."
"No. Take the time off," Grissom said. He remained standing by the door as she retrieved a drink, declining her offer. His eyes narrowed once she was on the couch. "Did you cancel that interview or just postpone it?"
"Good question. I don't have a real answer."
"Could you expand on that idea?"
Sara shrugged and twisted on the couch so she was facing him. "I was feeling down. About being in Vegas, work. All of it. I was bored. After seeing exciting, I think I'll stick to bored. It's a lot better."
Grissom regarded her closely. His hand came up to rub his beard as he took a seat beside her on the couch. Sara blinked in surprise, but pulled up her legs to give him more room.
"Do you think you'll still be bored when you go back to the lab?"
"I'm not really sure work was the trouble. Not entirely. Don't get me wrong – this break has been nice, even if the reasons for it sucked. But, I, uh, think I ran out of rabbits to chase," Sara said, flashing him an affectionate grin.
Grissom returned the smile briefly. He leaned against the couch, and Sara could see he was debating something internally. When he sat upright, he let out a determined breath. Facing her, he offered a nervous grin before he snaked his arm around her waist.
"You were correct earlier," he said softly, reaching his other hand up to her close her mouth. His fingers stayed there a moment, gently caressing her skin before moving away.
"About what?" she asked in puzzlement.
"When you said I needed to work on my timing. You were right about that. It is off."
"Are you drunk again? 'Cause this is confusing the hell out of me."
Grissom's tongue peeked from his lips playfully. "You were right. My timing is terrible, but until someone invents a form of time travel, I can't go back and act when I should have."
"You are drunk, aren't you?"
"No. I'm not. I wish I were. You're easier to talk to when I am."
"You really know how to lay on the compliments, Grissom," Sara said, but her words were tempered by an amused grin. "Look, it was a stressful time. People say things they don't mean. I know I did the last time you were here. You really aren't a bastard," she added with a wink. "You just act like one on occasion."
"I don't mean to. There's an expression, 'When you find yourself in a hole, it's time to stop digging.'"
"Yeah, I've heard different variations of that."
"I knew the saying, and what it means, but I never realized it applied to me. About how I dealt with you. By the time I did notice I was in a hole, I was in too deep. I couldn't go back. I was stuck."
"All you had to do was talk to me," Sara said softly.
"You know what they say about hindsight," he sighed, giving her a slight shrug. "I didn't know what would happen it I tried digging to the sides. Would it make things worse? The only thing I could do was keep going the same way I had come. Maybe I hoped I'd come out the other side eventually. But all that I ended up doing was tossing up more dirt and burying myself inside that hole. The harder I tried, the worse it became. I ended up completely lost and in the dark."
"You really give a new meaning to talking dirty."
Grissom lifted his head when Sara's fingers ran lightly over his beard. The look in her eyes brought a smile to his face. The thought of facing her again had been frightening to him. He meant what he told her back in his townhouse, but he understood that his presentation had been anything but graceful. The fact he'd been drunk when he finally told her his feelings hadn't helped.
"Are you going to give me some pointers in that area?" Grissom asked, hoping he wasn't rushing.
Sara let out an abashed chortle, and she rolled her eyes before facing him again. "I'm … rusty myself," she admitted.
"Are we okay?" Grissom asked nervously.
"We're getting there."
"How about you?"
"I'm fine," Sara said. "Well, I will be," she corrected at his raised eyebrow. "I guess I'm still a little jumpy when guys run into me in the hallway."
He gave his head a nod of acknowledgement before easing back on the couch. His arm wrapped around Sara, gently pulling her to his body. Grissom smiled contently when she rested her head against his shoulder.
"Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked.
"Yeah. I had an early appointment. I, uh, I'm talking to the PEAP counselor again. I started when I thought I was hearing things."
"You do know it wasn't your fault?"
"That's really easy to say, but it's not so easy to accept. Are you hungry? I'll fix you something," Sara offered.
"It's okay. Maybe later," he said, pulling her back down. "You don't have to change the subject. Tell me if I go where I'm not wanted."
"You're wanted," Sara said, lifting her head to watch him carefully. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about everything. I haven't told you everything about when I was growing up."
"Am I that hard to talk to?" he asked curiously.
"Sometimes. It's … more like I was afraid. I already thought you didn't want to be with me, and that was before you knew how screwed up I really am." She frowned momentarily and shrugged. "I guess that was a warning. Now's the time to get out if you want. I won't blame you."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here as long as you'll have me. What about work? Are you going to be satisfied there?"
"We'll see. I'm getting the feeling there's going to be a fresh rabbit to chase."
"Well, you know what bunnies are famous for."
Sara snapped her head off his chest and stared at him in amusement.
"What?" Grissom said innocently. "You said I needed to work on my dirty talk."
"This is going to be interesting," Sara said, chuckling happily as she nestled into his chest.
The End
