A/N A/N As always, thanks so much for your supportive comments, we writers thrive on those! Special thanks again to smryczko for your wonderfully insightful comments, and as always to Leslie for her advice and for still being there since the very beginning of this project and convincing me to start posting it.

Chapter 7 Questions without Answers

Life settled into a more predictable routine for Grissom. The visiting nurse continued to make his rounds every other day to assist him with personal hygiene. Brass showed up on Monday morning to bring him to his weekly physician's appointment. He also popped in periodically during the week, bringing pizza on his night off.

Catherine called a few times. Their conversations were brief; she seemed preoccupied with work or distracted by personal business. Perhaps the situation with her daughter was worse than he was aware of. He remembered a month or two ago that Catherine mentioned that Lindsay had been picked up for hitchhiking. Although he missed Catherine's friendship and her company, he didn't feel comfortable bringing that up with her. At least he'd get to speak with her more on Friday, when she brought him to his appointment with his orthopedic doctor.

To his delight, Sara continued to visit. Sometimes she'd stop by in the morning after her evening shift, smelling of soap, with her hair damp. Other times she'd drop by later in the afternoon, after having pulled a double or extended shift. Typically, she was wiped out and had low energy, yet she usually ate dinner with him before returning to work. On days she couldn't come by, she'd call.

Several afternoons and her nights off, she stayed to watch movies with him. They were slowly working their way through Hitchcock's massive inventory. It had turned into a contest keeping track of who could find Hitchcock's cameo appearance first. Thus far, Grissom was in the lead, though they hadn't agreed upon the stakes of the contest. More often than not, they'd fall asleep during the movie, since this was Sara's normal resting time and Grissom was still recovering. They'd have to rewind the movie to finish watching it another time. Sara usually crashed on his couch while he camped out in the wheel chair.

The last time Sara was over, Grissom found himself tempted to sit beside her on the couch as they watched the films. It would be nice to be closer to her, to put his arm around her shoulder, maybe feel her head resting against his chest, to smell her perfume. His internal alarm clanged loudly, objecting to these thoughts. He ignored it. Maybe he did need a new couch; it would be difficult for the two of them to cuddle comfortably on his current one.

Despite these welcome distractions, he was having trouble adjusting to his circumstances. He wasn't used to the monotony of his days, the utter lack of tangible achievements. Getting dressed and eating didn't count as significant undertakings in his book, even though they required a major effort on his part. He sorely missed the intellectual stimulation of his job and his varied interests. It irked him that currently he wasn't even capable of handling the dreaded lab paper work. As much as he detested it, if he were able, he would've gratefully volunteered to fill out all the laborious reports at his home, just to do something. His limited options made him feel useless. Each day he accomplished…nothing.

His emotions, generally so stable, calm and predictable, ebbed and flowed wildly beyond his control. His indignation over his circumstances had lessened to an extent, yet he was still overpowered by feelings of despair, maybe even grief that he wasn't the man he used to be.

And the fear, that hideous anxiety that dwelled within him, silently gnawing at his gut, wasn't going away. It bothered him immensely that he felt this way. It didn't make sense. He'd spent hours at messier, more horrendous crime scenes than his bathroom and those violent images hadn't lingered in his head and plagued his dreams. Some of the victims had, but certainly not the actual crime scenes. And all evidence of his ordeal had been removed weeks ago. It was just a bathroom. What the hell was wrong with him that he was afraid of his bathroom?

He struggled to remember his ordeal, for Dr. Walker's words had intrigued him. There might be a grain of truth to them. He'd been contemplating relevant issues; he just couldn't access the details. The only other piece of the puzzle that came to his mind, were images of his collections of moths and butterflies, which were prominently displayed on the walls of his home. He was completely unable to recall any regrets about his former life, especially since he was so envious of it now.

He continued to question why was he still alive. What could he accomplish in such a sorry state? He didn't have any answers. In fact, he reviewed other events in his mind as well. Why had his door been unlocked that fateful day? Sunday night, he'd arrived home from work around 3am. It was his night off, but he'd hung around finishing up some paper work, and then he'd chatted with Jim and Doc Robbins. After he arrived at his townhouse, he'd slept until seven in the morning. Typically, under those circumstances, he would've unlocked his door to retrieve the newspaper from his doorstep. After enjoying his morning coffee while skimming the news, he'd take a shower. Thus the door would've been unlocked when he retrieved the paper.

The only problem was, he'd cancelled the paper since he was going to the conference. So why was his door unlocked?

Why was he still alive?

---------------------------

"So what do you think it all means?" Dr. Walker adjusted his glasses as he settled more comfortably into his leather chair.

Grissom sighed impatiently, slightly disgusted. He'd just spoken about the few aspects he could recall from his near death experience: the unfamiliar photos and images of his moths and butterflies, along with the Mark Twain quote about living life fully, and his inability to discover any regrets about his former life. Why was he telling this guy anything since he didn't appear to have answers?

The doctor wasn't bothered by his patient's reaction, apparently he was used to this. "Be patient. It will come back to you." Trying to reassure Grissom, whose expression was clearly skeptical, he explained, "I know that you're a man of science who is used to dealing with hard-core facts and ideas. But people and emotions don't always work that way. It's a different discipline with subtle differences in the ground rules. While people generally have certain types of experiences and emotions associated with near-death experiences, no two people have the same experience. I have some ideas of what you might've been thinking at that time but ultimately, only you know. Part of my job is to guide you, to help you discover the answers that are within you. Believe it or not, it's much more effective that way."

Grissom nodded half-heartedly.

"During these experiences, many people reach a point where they lose hope and accept that they're most likely going to die. Did you reach that point?" The doctor casually peered over his wire-frame glasses, attempting to gauge his reaction.

He didn't want to talk about it. But he had to. The weight was becoming too heavy. "Yes," Grissom begrudgingly admitted while examining his knuckles.

"So how do you feel about being alive? You've cheated death, isn't that good?"

"I don't know," Grissom muttered. He felt guilty that he couldn't bring himself to lie and parrot the words that everyone else kept repeating, that he should be grateful to be alive. It wasn't true.

"You can do better than that. How do you feel about being alive? Isn't that better than being dead?" Sensing his inner conflict, the doctor challenged him

Grissom stared at Dr. Walker, fully aware of the doctor's tactics. He was trying to provoke him. He'd seen Jim Brass use that technique effectively many times during interrogations. Yet, even though he was conscious of it; it was working, he could feel his suppressed anger starting to well up within him.

His voice became harsher, "Sometimes I think dead would've been better."

"Why?"

Grissom almost shouted, "What do you think? I'm not the person I used to be. I might never be. What the hell can I accomplish like this? What's the point?" He immediately cringed; he was mortified by that messy display of emotion.

Dr. Walker reminded him, "This is most likely a temporary state. Keep telling yourself that."

Grissom didn't appear to be listening. It seemed like no one, not even his doctors, wanted to face the ugly possibility revealed by his test results earlier that week, that he might be permanently affected by his injuries. Everyone seized the lame excuse that time would heal all wounds.

The doctor tried to redirect the conversation. "Do you believe In God?"

Grissom wasn't expecting that. "No. I was brought up to be a good Catholic. I went through the motions for years because I loved my mother but it just didn't seem logical. Religion appeals to people's emotions not their reason. It lacks relevant empirical proofs."

"So do you think what happened to you was just a random quirk of fate?" Dr. Walker jotted some notes on his legal pad.

Unfortunately, although he longed to consent, Grissom couldn't agree. These thoughts had been festering in his head for days. He couldn't talk about this with Brass or Sara; they'd think he was losing his mind. But he was astonished to discover that he needed to voice these thoughts out loud.

Feeling like an idiot, he attempted to explain, "I know this doesn't make any sense. But for some utterly ridiculous reason, I feel like I'm being punished for not believing in my mother's god. It doesn't make any sense."

Dr. Walker assured him. "It doesn't have to, feelings can be illogical and messy. I'm curious, why would a man like you leap towards a non-scientific explanation?"

Once he'd started, his words continued to flow from his mouth, almost of their own volition. "I don't know. There are too many things I can't explain. While I was in that bathroom, I know that I calculated the odds over and over again; there was no conceivable way that I was going to get out of there alive. What on earth would've caused Catherine to happen to drop by my house? She's only done that a handful of times in the years that I've known her. The odds of that occurring are astronomical. And if my door had been locked, she would've walked away. Dr. Walker, I know I didn't unlock that door, I can't explain any of it."

"There are many things in life that we can't explain. It sounds like you're looking for answers as to why this happened to you and why you were allowed to live. I don't have these answers. No one does. People who chose to believe in a god think they do, but no one really knows. You're alive. Instead of torturing yourself wondering why, just accept it and try to move on. You've been given a second chance at life. If you can remember what your past regrets were, perhaps you can make this time even better."

Grissom insisted, "It's hard to let it go. There has to be a rational explanation."

Dr. Walker tried to convince him, "But there isn't. You know that. I'm sure you've had cases that you haven't been able to solve despite your best efforts. You can't carry them around with you, you have to let them go."

While the doctor's words made sense, they were much more difficult to implement.

Dr. Walker suggested, "Perhaps one of your friends might help you with uncovering your regrets?"

Grissom nearly laughed out loud, that was highly doubtful, considering how high he'd constructed his defensive barriers.

"What about your lady friend?" He gestured to the waiting room. "Perhaps she might have some ideas?"

He felt his face becoming warm. He refused to talk about that. "No."

"Okay." He backed off, realizing he'd hit a sensitive area. "Have you been having any other problems?"

Grissom was amazed that while talking about his irrational fears hadn't changed a thing, yet somehow he felt better. It motivated him to bring up another issue.

"Okay, this is really stupid…"

"Feelings are not stupid, they are what they are," the doctor interjected.

Grissom took a breath before finishing, fully aware that what he was about to say sounded ridiculous. "I don't feel comfortable in my bathroom." That was a massive understatement. Waves of nausea still overpowered him while the visiting nurse assisted him with showering.

"Makes complete sense to me. You associate your accident with that room. That's perfectly normal. It'll take time to readjust there. You'll need to formulate more pleasant associations there, which could be challenging."

Grissom decided that he might as well go all the way. "I…um…I don't feel very comfortable being alone in my house."

"Is this abnormal for you?"

"Yes, I prefer solitude. I consider myself to be a private person," he explained.

"So you don't have many close friends?"

"Not really."

"And you're okay with that?"

Grissom shrugged.

The wheels in Dr. Walker's mind appeared to be spinning. "Hmm…maybe you associate your entire apartment with your accident. Or it could be-"

Suddenly the office door opened and Sara rushed in. Apologetically, she hurried over to Grissom. "I'm sorry, I have to go. They need the whole team."

"Okay. Go ahead. I'll figure something out," Grissom answered.

Sara stared at him as if he were crazy. In full protective mode she insisted, "I'm not leaving you here, I'm taking you home now. I'll have to be a few minutes late." She turned to the doctor, finally acknowledging his presence, "I'm sorry for intruding. I can't stay. And I'm not leaving him here alone."

Dr. Walker merely responded, "We can continue this next time."

"Sara, I don't want you late for work because of me." Grissom objected, but she promptly ignored him as she grasped the handles of his chair and proceeded to push him out of the office.

-------------------------------------------------------

"So how do you like being the boss?" Grissom was trying to distract himself by attempting light conversation. He was practically gritting his teeth as every bump the SUV encountered jarred his aching body.

Catherine grinned wryly, "It's not all it's cracked up to be. But I'm doing a damn good job, if you ask me."

"I'm sure you are."

Catherine had grilled him about his doctors and his progress en route to his sadistic orthopedic doctor, whose bedside manner was severely lacking. Of course, Catherine had managed to weasel out of her friend that at his most recent physician's appointment, his CAT scan showed abnormalities that were possibly caused by his head injury or advanced dehydration. Only time would tell when or if complete healing would occur. The two of them managed to gloss over that, with Catherine insisting upon a positive prognosis, and Grissom more than willing to avoid the issue.

Grissom cringed as the Denali hit a particularly large rut. The egocentric surgeon had manhandled his ankle in the process of examining it, so his injuries were throbbing more than usual on the return trip. Despite his discomfort, he recognized that Catherine still wasn't acting normally. He got up the nerve to ask.

"Catherine, are you okay?"

She smiled nervously as she stopped the vehicle at a traffic light. "Yeah, just busy, that's all."

Although it wasn't in his nature to pry, he was concerned. "What about Lindsay? How's she doing?"

Her expression revealed that he'd hit a nerve. Holding back her emotions was foreign to her, yet Catherine was anxious to avoid bothering her friend. " I can't…Gil, you've been through hell. You've got enough stuff to deal with without my adding on to it. I can't bother you with my problems too." Yet, since he'd asked; her tenuous resistance began to melt. "I found marijuana in her room. She's only 13 years old! I don't know what to do. She claimed it was just a friend's but…I'm scared. I'm scared that I'm gonna lose her."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She tried to explain, "I thought if I could bug you more about that day shift position then you'd use whatever influence you had to help me. At least I'd get better hours to keep an eye on her."

Grissom pointed out, "Catherine, I filled out that paperwork weeks ago. Stopping by my place wouldn't have solved anything."

"At least I could've vented my frustrations," she joked weakly, trying not to think about what actually occurred then.

Their conversation lulled as Catherine pulled the vehicle into his driveway.

Anxious for company, Grissom asked, "Do you want to come in for coffee?"

"Um..I better get going." Then she changed her mind. Avoiding issues wasn't her style. And Grissom's condition seemed have improved slightly. "I'd like to talk. But…not in there." She glanced towards his townhouse.

Grissom was confused.

Catherine looked him in the eyes, "I'm sorry. I know you're going through a really bad time. I can't even imagine what you're dealing with, but it's hard for me to go in there. I keep seeing it in my head over and over again."

"Let's talk here." He suggested, at a loss for words. Catherine was usually so unflappable, capable of handing everything.

She confessed, "Your house gives me the creeps."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Me too."

He and Catherine were equally stunned by his admission. He was afraid to ask, but maybe it was time. Maybe it would help him fill in some of the gaps. "When did you realize that something was wrong?" He didn't need to specify what he was talking about.

She took a breath, "Almost immediately. Even though there wasn't a lot at the scene, I recognized that coppery smell of blood, occupational hazard, you know." She blinked back some tears. "I panicked and started yelling for you and searching the rooms of your house. I…thought you were dead at first." Her voice caught in her throat. She had trouble saying, "Your pulse was practically nonexistent. Your pupils were unresponsive." Her tears began to spill over, sliding down her cheeks.

"I rode with you in the ambulance to the emergency room. For a brief moment, you seemed to regain consciousness, but you faded away almost immediately. The doctors didn't know if you were ever going to wake up again. It was a helluva long wait for you to come around. A helluva lotta things go through your mind during a time like that, you know. You scared the hell out of me." She sobbed, and retrieved a tissue from her purse to wipe her eyes.

"I know we do this stuff for a living, but it's not the same when it's one of your own. It was hard enough with Debbie Marlin practically being Sara's double, but this was too much. I'm just so glad you're okay." She impulsively reached over to throw her arms around him.

While he appreciated of the sentiment, his sore ribs were screaming. He winced, "Careful, the ribs. Not too tight."

Catherine gently squeezed his shoulders then retreated to the drivers' seat. "I'm sorry, with Lindsay's problems, more responsibilities at work and this stuff, I feel like I haven't been a very good friend. I'll try to be there for you more."

"You saved my life, what else could a person ask for?" Grissom spoke as if merely stating a fact. Worried about his friend, he asked, "Are you getting counseling for…your…experience?" He wasn't sure what to call it.

"Yeah, how about you?"

He nodded.

Catherine's eyes widened in surprise. "That's good, that's a good thing. I'm proud of you. I know it must be hard for you, heck, it's not fun for me, but it's part of getting better. We really miss you Gil."

He sighed; he missed his old self too.

"I hear you haven't been lacking for company." She grinned mischievously as she teased him.

He strove to ignore her, but her smile only grew broader.

"Use your head Gil, don't let it get away this time."

TBC