Different Shades of Blue

By: 47th Spirit

Disclaimer: Any characters related to CSI are sadly not mine.
Spoilers: None at the moment.
Summery: Sara finds herself in a desperate situation... (GSR)

A/N: Thank you Ace for the much needed Beta-ing, couldn't have done this without you!

Prologue

Sure, she thought about doing it before, in those single brief moments when everything was just too much, when the pain reached so deep she thought it would eat her up from the inside, when she found no comfort in reasoning and rationalizing what seemed to be an already lost cause, when there was no escape, no alternate paths, no plan B's, when the logic disappeared and the hope ran out, leaving her with the only feeling she was finding too hard to cope with - the feeling of emptiness.

Everything else was routine for her, desperation, depression, and loneliness. She had always been lonely; she was never anything but alone in her entire life. The fog of loneliness had always surrounded her and enveloped her in a familiar way, so she never had to learn how to live with it, she was already living with it, she was married to it. She didn't have any other choice but to accept it and embrace it as the only consistent thing in her life.

Even when the fog became darker and darker as time passed, so dark that it was all she could see, she knew it was there to stay. She knew there was nothing she could do to make it go away, no matter how hard she tried, and it's not like she didn't.

That undeniable hollow feeling of nothingness, that was something else, something new, something that couldn't be fixed with work, or beer, or Grissom. She used to think he could; she used to imagine how he would show up at her door one night, say that he's now officially emotionally available, say he's sorry for treating her the way he did, for what he's done or hasn't done, for everything. He would say he's ready to change to whatever she needed him to change into, he would look into her eyes with his deep blue eyes and his all-too-familiar baffled expression on his face, and with three words he would fill up all of her holes, erase all of her scars, break all of the walls she worked so hard to build, and not only penetrate the thick dark cloud of misery that encircled her, but he would manage to vanish it completely.

She then imagined how she would look back at him with her big brown eyes that would be filled with tears and longing, and she would forgive him, tell him that she doesn't need him to change for her; he only needed to be with her.

Not anymore though, she didn't think he would, so she told herself he couldn't anyway, even though somewhere, in some hidden little space in her sub-consciousness, she still hoped.

As the nights passed and the weeks, months, and years followed, her dreams and expectations for a better future were replaced with the grim realization that nothing would ever change, that everything would stay the same, and that the ropes of stillness she was tied to would never allow her to move forward and beyond.

She found herself having those brief moments that were no longer brief and no longer rare. Those moments came often, and they came hard. The victims from her heartbreaking cases would sneak their way into her dreams, turning them into nightmares, their gut-wrenching screams making her ears bleed, their pleading hands trying to reach her, to grasp her. Sometimes they did, holding her so tightly that she couldn't breathe, their fingernails embedding themselves into her delicate skin, making her bleed, and she bled, in those nightmares she bled. She would bleed and bleed until she would feel her life fading away, and she had no choice but to wake up, and when she did, those moments came.

They came when she was at work too, when she had to deal with those flesh and blood victims that were either dead or alive, those victims that she would undoubtedly meet again when she couldn't avoid sleep any longer.

They came when she saw him, when she spoke to him, when he smiled to her and had given her his praises, and when he accidentally brushed his hand over hers, or patted her casually on her back. She was painfully reminded again and again of what she couldn't have, of what she would never have.

They came when she was doing her laundry, when she was reading or showering.

They came randomly and without notice.

There were times when they didn't just come to her but instead struck her like lightning. She awoke in horror from the nightmares where the victim was her, and she was the one holding onto someone else for dear life, begging for help, screaming, yelling, fighting, and praying for it all to stop, praying for silence. They struck her like a fist so fast and hard that she became breathless and had to run to the bathroom and puke her guts out.

They struck her at the least expected locations, at the most uncomfortable times.

They struck her when she never wanted them to.

It's not like she had any saying in the matter; she didn't control those moments, they controlled her.

She wanted to blame him for those horrible moments; she wanted to pin the blame on him so she would be able to hate him, stay away from him, look at him and not want him and his approval, his acceptance, his comfort - his love.

But she couldn't. She blamed herself instead, she hated herself for allowing it to go this far, so far that she needed someone, anyone to fix her, to fill her void, to save her from herself.

She hated herself for having those moments.

Then came the time when those moments were no longer just moments; they were a disease, a disease that kept spreading and spreading until it infected every brain cell in her brain, every vein in her circulatory system, and every artery in her heart.

It was a disease that slowly consumed her without her knowledge, without her acceptance.

It was a disease that became so much a part of her that she was gradually becoming unaware of its symptoms, unaware of its long-term consequences.

So, sure, she thought about doing it, putting a stop to those moments, curing her disease, ending the darkness that filled every inch of her exhausted body for so long, for too long, ending that cold feeling that was more powerful than her urge to live, ending her hell.

She had just thought about it, and when she did the sense of self-loathing grew stronger, and the feelings of guilt built up to a point where they became too overwhelming that she had to chase the thought away. She then felt selfish for having such thoughts. She felt selfish because people out there were fighting for their lives, struggling to stay awake, taking every obstacle life threw at them and making it their way of growing stronger. She felt selfish for being such a coward, for wanting to take the easy way out.

What bothered her was that she didn't feel selfish for the people who knew her, for the people who cared for her, for the people who were her friends. She knew they would be disappointed, even disgusted, and maybe sometimes they'd even miss her, but they'd get over it, and so would he.

It stung her to know that he would be fine without her, that he would go on with the job he cared for more than he did her, that he would even be relieved. Yes, she was willing to accept that he would care; he would, she was sure of that. But he'd move on, and that thought stung her so much that if that stinging sensation could have manifested itself into the physical realm, it would have appeared as third degree burns that would cover one hundred percent of her body.

So yes, she wanted to, but she could never bring herself to do it, not for the fear of physical pain or the fear of the unknown, but because of the little invisible corner in her mind that held her last shards of hope, the little corner that held her last voice of reason. That voice told her not to, told her to hold on for just a little longer, told her that she needed to keep going, and that everything would be okay if she did; it told her to have faith.

So she listened to that voice, or at least she believed she did.

How did she end up in here? She wondered…

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Miss, can you hear me?"

"Miss, open your eyes for me please."

"Sir, can you tell me her name?" Dr. Miller asked.

"Sir?"

"I… I don't know… I don't know her name, I just found her like this," the dazed man mumbled.

"Okay, let's check her pocket for ID."

TBC…

A/N: This is my first fic, so I'd really appreciate any feedback, good or bad.