Title: And The Cross You Rode In On

Author: Spike Speigel

Rating: PG-13

Classification: Grissom/Sara

Disclaimer: As usual, these characters don't belong to me. Just taking them for a joyride.

Spoilers: Nothing substantial.

Summary: Grissom does some soul searching.

Status: Finished

I think I'm drunk.

Vision's slightly blurred. My mouth feels like I just gave a cat a bath. My head's pounding as though I've gone the distance with Muhammad Ali in his heyday. And, oh yeah. There's the bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand.

I want to take another mouthful of the God-awful stuff, but for some reason my arm doesn't respond. Instead, it just remains by my side, my footsteps echoing through the empty building.

No one here except for me and the big man. I'm guessing that's the case since I haven't been thrown out yet. Father's probably in the back. Hell, it's not like anyone in their right mind would even come in a place like this at this time of night.

What time is it?

I look down at my watch, turning the back of my wrist toward me, glancing at the face for a moment before I realize I'm spilling the contents of the bottle onto my shoes.

"Shit."

Almost three. Which means she's been in the… Damnit. Why the hell am I even here? I should be with her.

"And do what?" I hear myself say to no one in particular. "You're the reason she's even there. Stupid old man. Can't even protect yourself with a gun on your hip."

My legs begin to feel like rubber as I notice them going out from under me. I'm not sure how I do it, but my arm reaches out to the nearby pew, my forearm slamming violently, wood crashing against flesh and bone.

And I'm on my knees, cursing once more, this time the profanities more forthcoming as I register the pain radiating through my arm up to my shoulder. I'm about to take a swig to dull the pain, but as I arch my head back, the light falls into my eyes, and I finally remember why I'm here.

"This is a big fucking joke, isn't it? Huh?" I'm pushing myself to my feet, my jacket sleeve sliding against the smooth wood as I lose my balance, my side coming down hard against the end of the pew. The pain's worse than before, but I push it back now that I finally have my wits back. "What? That's the best you can do?"

I manage to somehow pull myself up, the new pain beginning to mingle with the old until I'm not sure where one ends and the other begins. I take a shot of liquid courage, wiping my mouth hastily before continuing.

"I know how you work. Oh, yeah. I've figured you out. You get people to come into here in herds not because they love you. Oh, no. It's because they fear you, you son of a bitch. It's because of that 'what-if'. It's because they're covering their asses just in case you might exist. But I know better."

No response. What the hell was I thinking would happen? A choir of angels from up on high? But I know better.

"You don't exist. Because if you did, you would have taken my life instead of hers! You hear me you son of a bitch! You had no right to take her! She still had life to live! And just like a snotty kid, you take her away because you what? Because you can? What kind of loving God works like that!"

Vision's blurrier than before. That's not right, is it? I lift a hand to my face, wiping it across. Okay, I guess that makes sense.

I'm crying.

Jesus, I must be drunk if I can't tell whether I'm crying or not.

I don't hear my sobs as I continue to vent my anger at the only party deserving of it.

"You're a vicious bastard, aren't you? Like when you took my mother's hearing from her? Or when you took Holly on her first day on the job? And, like the son of a bitch you are, you're gonna do it again, aren't you? You're gonna take her too? You motherfucker!"

I don't realize what I've done until I see the bottle fly out of my hand, spinning end over end, the contents spilling over the floor until the bottle shatters against the immaculate cross hanging in the center of the wall.

I fall to my knees once more, the sobs now reverberating in my ears. I'm huddled in a pile of helplessness, my hands pressed against my thighs, my whole body shaking in terror. My voice is a weak plea, my sobs rending my words.

"Just…don't take…her. Please. Don't…don't take her. Please. Please."

I have no idea how long I remain huddled on the floor, but I quickly stir from my stupor upon hearing my cell phone chiming throughout the empty hall. I fumble with my jacket pocket, anesthetized fingers clutching at the cold plastic. I can't see the number through the tears, so I just flip the phone open, lifting it up to my ear.

"Yeah?"

It's Brass on the other end, his voice one of concern upon hearing the tone in my voice. I alleviate his worries by telling him that I've been asleep, even though sleep is the last thing on my mind. Then, I listen as Brass conveys his message, asking me whether or not I need a ride to the hospital. I tell him no even though I'm in no shape to drive at the current moment. I'll take a taxi. There are always taxis near the Strip.

After a few minutes, the line goes dead before I slide the phone back into my pocket. I struggle to get back up on my feet, managing to do so in only two tries. As I stand there, looking up at the cross now stained with cheap alcohol, I find myself at a loss for words. So, I don't look for any.

Instead, I turn around, taking myself as fast as my body will carry me out of the church, praying to God that I haven't just imagined that phone call.

Praying to God that Sara's okay.

Fin