Author's note: Hey guys, sorry about the wait. There has been a lot of stuff going on in my life, plus I'm trying to start a new fic, plus band camp, and school starts in two weeks (it's my Senior year!!), so, I'm trying to get ready for that! So, yeah, I've barely had anytime for this, but here it is!! Yay! Again, thank you for all the encouraging reviews, you guys are SO great!
Dedication: Ok, this chapter is dedicated to my friend Michael. I know we're having a tough time right now, but we'll get through it!
..........
Grissom sat at his desk, his right hand massaging his temple as he fought back a migraine. His eyes were closed and he leaned back in his chair as Tchaikovsky's "Barcarolle" floated through the musty office air.
Catherine walked by the open door, letting her eyes peek in at the supervisor sitting at his desk. Briefly, she let her attention turn back to the hallway in front of her, before her mind registered what she had seen. She backed up and stood in the doorway, and after a few seconds she tapped lightly on the doorframe.
"Hey, Grissom, you ok?"
Grissom's eyes snapped open and he quickly reached back to turn off the music. He sat forward, leaning on his desk, and ran a hand over his beard.
"Catherine... ummm, yeah, I'm fine. I was just... I thought my door was closed."
Catherine smirked and shook her head, "Nope, it was wide open."
Grissom's eyebrows furrowed in thought before he tilted his head and brought his shoulder up in a half shrug. He looked back up at Catherine.
"What was it you wanted again?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Catherine huffed, "You looked... distressed when I walked by. I was just checking up on you."
"I'm fine," he nodded, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Yeah, and pigs fly," she mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
"Something's bothering you. It looked like you were fighting off a migraine, you had Bach or Chopin or..."
"It was Tchaikovsky," Grissom cut in matter-of-factly.
Catherine closed her eyes and shook her head as she continued, "Whatever. The point is, something's wrong, and as a friend, I'm trying to help. Now, are you going to tell me, or do I have to hunt Sara down and find out from her?"
"What makes you think Sara knows?" he asked calmly.
Catherine flopped down in the chair across from Grissom, "Oh, come on Griss, it wouldn't surprise me if the whole lab heard you arguing with her earlier. What's going on between you two?" she paused and added before he could answer, "And don't tell me it's nothing."
Grissom's open mouth quickly shut and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose in frustration. He sighed.
"Honestly? I don't know."
Catherine grinned. Now she was getting somewhere.
"Have you tried talking to her?"
Grissom stared at Catherine in disbelief, "Have I tried talking to her? It's impossible to talk to her without one of us blowing up. I don't know what to..."
The shrill ringing of the phone on his desk interrupted Grissom in mid-sentence. He looked at Catherine, and then answered it.
"Grissom."
"Yeah, Gil, it's Jim. Look, I hate to do this to you an hour before shift ends, but there's been an accident on highway 85. We need a CSI."
Grissom's eyebrows creased, "Accident? How bad?"
Brass' usually cool voice hitched with a hint of sadness as he answered.
"Bad enough to need a CSI."
Grissom closed his eyes and nodded, "Ok, I'm on my way."
He hung up the phone and stood up, searching his desk for his keys.
"Everything ok?" asked Catherine.
"There was an accident on 85. Brass needs a CSI. I have to go," he found his keys and stuffed them in his pocket. He looked at Catherine and added; "You're good on your case, right?"
Catherine nodded, "Yeah, evidence is being processed in the lab. Just waiting for Greg to get me the results."
Grissom nodded, "Good. I'll be in touch."
With that, he walked out the door and headed to the highway.
..........
In all his years as a crime scene investigator, Grissom still could never suppress the chill that ran down his spine every time he entered a potential crime scene or the scene of some horrific accident.
Grissom let his eyes scan the horizon, finding comfort in the first hints of the rising Nevada sun. It helped him gain his composure before he turned his attention to the scene in front of him.
The blue and red lights from the cruisers that sat scattered along the highway mixed with the dim shadows of early morning. Rescuers worked around the wreck, running back and forth between it and the few ambulances on the road. They quickly tried to free the person trapped inside the crumpled piece of tin that had once been a car.
Grissom shook his head sadly as he turned from the scene and searched for Brass. He spotted him talking to a young uniformed officer.
"Jim," he called, setting down his kit.
Brass looked at Grissom and smiled grimly before finishing up with the young man and sending him on his way.
"I'm glad you're here," Brass paused, looking over at the totaled vehicle, "It may only be one car, but it's bad."
Grissom followed Brass's stare, "Victims?"
"One. They're still trapped. Rescuers are trying to get them out, but... it's looking bad."
Grissom's head shot towards Brass, then back to the car, "They're still alive?"
"As of about three minutes ago, yes. They mumbled something as we tried to cut away some of the door, then they passed out again."
"Oh," said Grissom, picking up his kit from the pavement, "I'm going to get started on the tread marks over here. Tell me when the car is ready."
"Gotcha," said Brass.
Grissom stepped away and headed over to the dark marks that stained the sun worn pavement. He brought the camera that hung around his neck up to his face, then focused the lens on the marks and snapped a picture. He let the camera settle, then snapped another from the same angle.
His eyes followed the marks up the road as they curved off and into the dirt. He played the scene out in his head.
The cars driving down the road. Something distracts the driver, something on the road, on the radio, or maybe they were just getting tired. It distracts them enough to where they slowly drift into the other lane. The driver of the semi sees the car, honks his horn, catching the other drivers attention. The car swerves just in time to miss the semi, but goes too far, catching dirt, causing them to fly off the road...
Grissom's eyes rested on the car. He started the scenario again, but was interrupted by the sound of voices yelling.
"Quick, we need a stretcher!"
"Got it! Watch out!"
Grissom jogged over to Brass and watched the rescuers scramble to the car.
"They get them out?" Grissom asked.
"I think so," replied Brass breathlessly.
They stood silently as the rescuers gently pulled the battered body of the victim out of the smoking wreckage. Carefully, they placed her body on the stretcher and started moving it towards an ambulance. Grissom's eyes followed it, his heart sinking as he examined the deep gashes embedded along the woman's arms, face and legs.
"My God, Jim, look at her wounds," he said, turning to Brass.
But he didn't stay looking at Brass for long. Just as quickly, he turned his head back to the stretcher, his eyes wide. For a moment, time stopped.
"Gil?"
Brass's voice fell on deaf ears. Grissom could barely hear his own words as they came out of his mouth when he finally spoke.
"Oh my God... Jim, it's Sara!"
His feet hit the dirt as he ran to the stretcher. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he finally caught up with the EMT's. He grasped Sara's bruised hand as he stared down at her broken body.
"Sir, you're gonna have to back up."
Grissom looked at the EMT as if he had spoken a different language, "This is my CSI. This is Sara Sidle!" he looked back at Sara, "Sara, can you hear me?"
Grissom gasped as Sara's hand twitched in his, and her lips quivered as she struggled to speak.
"Griss?" she mumbled.
"Yeah, it's me. I'm here."
Her hand went limp again as the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance. The EMT climbed in after it.
"Let's go!" he yelled to the driver.
The doors closed. Grissom's hands flew to the door as the ambulance started to pull away.
"Gil, no! She'll be ok, she's in good hands!" yelled Brass as he pulled Grissom back.
Grissom pulled away angrily. Frantically, he searched his pockets for his keys.
"I... I have to go. I have to get to the hospital. Damn it! Where are my keys?"
Brass shook his head, "Oh no. I'm driving."
Grissom stilled, then nodded and headed for Brass's car.
Brass sighed and followed him. He just knew in his gut this was going to be hard news to break to everyone else. It would be even harder if Sara didn't make it.
Dedication: Ok, this chapter is dedicated to my friend Michael. I know we're having a tough time right now, but we'll get through it!
..........
Grissom sat at his desk, his right hand massaging his temple as he fought back a migraine. His eyes were closed and he leaned back in his chair as Tchaikovsky's "Barcarolle" floated through the musty office air.
Catherine walked by the open door, letting her eyes peek in at the supervisor sitting at his desk. Briefly, she let her attention turn back to the hallway in front of her, before her mind registered what she had seen. She backed up and stood in the doorway, and after a few seconds she tapped lightly on the doorframe.
"Hey, Grissom, you ok?"
Grissom's eyes snapped open and he quickly reached back to turn off the music. He sat forward, leaning on his desk, and ran a hand over his beard.
"Catherine... ummm, yeah, I'm fine. I was just... I thought my door was closed."
Catherine smirked and shook her head, "Nope, it was wide open."
Grissom's eyebrows furrowed in thought before he tilted his head and brought his shoulder up in a half shrug. He looked back up at Catherine.
"What was it you wanted again?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Catherine huffed, "You looked... distressed when I walked by. I was just checking up on you."
"I'm fine," he nodded, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Yeah, and pigs fly," she mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
"Something's bothering you. It looked like you were fighting off a migraine, you had Bach or Chopin or..."
"It was Tchaikovsky," Grissom cut in matter-of-factly.
Catherine closed her eyes and shook her head as she continued, "Whatever. The point is, something's wrong, and as a friend, I'm trying to help. Now, are you going to tell me, or do I have to hunt Sara down and find out from her?"
"What makes you think Sara knows?" he asked calmly.
Catherine flopped down in the chair across from Grissom, "Oh, come on Griss, it wouldn't surprise me if the whole lab heard you arguing with her earlier. What's going on between you two?" she paused and added before he could answer, "And don't tell me it's nothing."
Grissom's open mouth quickly shut and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose in frustration. He sighed.
"Honestly? I don't know."
Catherine grinned. Now she was getting somewhere.
"Have you tried talking to her?"
Grissom stared at Catherine in disbelief, "Have I tried talking to her? It's impossible to talk to her without one of us blowing up. I don't know what to..."
The shrill ringing of the phone on his desk interrupted Grissom in mid-sentence. He looked at Catherine, and then answered it.
"Grissom."
"Yeah, Gil, it's Jim. Look, I hate to do this to you an hour before shift ends, but there's been an accident on highway 85. We need a CSI."
Grissom's eyebrows creased, "Accident? How bad?"
Brass' usually cool voice hitched with a hint of sadness as he answered.
"Bad enough to need a CSI."
Grissom closed his eyes and nodded, "Ok, I'm on my way."
He hung up the phone and stood up, searching his desk for his keys.
"Everything ok?" asked Catherine.
"There was an accident on 85. Brass needs a CSI. I have to go," he found his keys and stuffed them in his pocket. He looked at Catherine and added; "You're good on your case, right?"
Catherine nodded, "Yeah, evidence is being processed in the lab. Just waiting for Greg to get me the results."
Grissom nodded, "Good. I'll be in touch."
With that, he walked out the door and headed to the highway.
..........
In all his years as a crime scene investigator, Grissom still could never suppress the chill that ran down his spine every time he entered a potential crime scene or the scene of some horrific accident.
Grissom let his eyes scan the horizon, finding comfort in the first hints of the rising Nevada sun. It helped him gain his composure before he turned his attention to the scene in front of him.
The blue and red lights from the cruisers that sat scattered along the highway mixed with the dim shadows of early morning. Rescuers worked around the wreck, running back and forth between it and the few ambulances on the road. They quickly tried to free the person trapped inside the crumpled piece of tin that had once been a car.
Grissom shook his head sadly as he turned from the scene and searched for Brass. He spotted him talking to a young uniformed officer.
"Jim," he called, setting down his kit.
Brass looked at Grissom and smiled grimly before finishing up with the young man and sending him on his way.
"I'm glad you're here," Brass paused, looking over at the totaled vehicle, "It may only be one car, but it's bad."
Grissom followed Brass's stare, "Victims?"
"One. They're still trapped. Rescuers are trying to get them out, but... it's looking bad."
Grissom's head shot towards Brass, then back to the car, "They're still alive?"
"As of about three minutes ago, yes. They mumbled something as we tried to cut away some of the door, then they passed out again."
"Oh," said Grissom, picking up his kit from the pavement, "I'm going to get started on the tread marks over here. Tell me when the car is ready."
"Gotcha," said Brass.
Grissom stepped away and headed over to the dark marks that stained the sun worn pavement. He brought the camera that hung around his neck up to his face, then focused the lens on the marks and snapped a picture. He let the camera settle, then snapped another from the same angle.
His eyes followed the marks up the road as they curved off and into the dirt. He played the scene out in his head.
The cars driving down the road. Something distracts the driver, something on the road, on the radio, or maybe they were just getting tired. It distracts them enough to where they slowly drift into the other lane. The driver of the semi sees the car, honks his horn, catching the other drivers attention. The car swerves just in time to miss the semi, but goes too far, catching dirt, causing them to fly off the road...
Grissom's eyes rested on the car. He started the scenario again, but was interrupted by the sound of voices yelling.
"Quick, we need a stretcher!"
"Got it! Watch out!"
Grissom jogged over to Brass and watched the rescuers scramble to the car.
"They get them out?" Grissom asked.
"I think so," replied Brass breathlessly.
They stood silently as the rescuers gently pulled the battered body of the victim out of the smoking wreckage. Carefully, they placed her body on the stretcher and started moving it towards an ambulance. Grissom's eyes followed it, his heart sinking as he examined the deep gashes embedded along the woman's arms, face and legs.
"My God, Jim, look at her wounds," he said, turning to Brass.
But he didn't stay looking at Brass for long. Just as quickly, he turned his head back to the stretcher, his eyes wide. For a moment, time stopped.
"Gil?"
Brass's voice fell on deaf ears. Grissom could barely hear his own words as they came out of his mouth when he finally spoke.
"Oh my God... Jim, it's Sara!"
His feet hit the dirt as he ran to the stretcher. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he finally caught up with the EMT's. He grasped Sara's bruised hand as he stared down at her broken body.
"Sir, you're gonna have to back up."
Grissom looked at the EMT as if he had spoken a different language, "This is my CSI. This is Sara Sidle!" he looked back at Sara, "Sara, can you hear me?"
Grissom gasped as Sara's hand twitched in his, and her lips quivered as she struggled to speak.
"Griss?" she mumbled.
"Yeah, it's me. I'm here."
Her hand went limp again as the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance. The EMT climbed in after it.
"Let's go!" he yelled to the driver.
The doors closed. Grissom's hands flew to the door as the ambulance started to pull away.
"Gil, no! She'll be ok, she's in good hands!" yelled Brass as he pulled Grissom back.
Grissom pulled away angrily. Frantically, he searched his pockets for his keys.
"I... I have to go. I have to get to the hospital. Damn it! Where are my keys?"
Brass shook his head, "Oh no. I'm driving."
Grissom stilled, then nodded and headed for Brass's car.
Brass sighed and followed him. He just knew in his gut this was going to be hard news to break to everyone else. It would be even harder if Sara didn't make it.