"Eat," Grissom ordered, pushing a cup of pudding across the coffee table at her after he'd ushered everyone out an hour later. "You're not supposed to take this medicine on an empty stomach."

Sara groaned. "No, please. I'm not hungry, plus my stomach feels a little iffy. Food is not a good idea."

"Sara..."

"No."

"You want me to force-feed you?" he threatened.

"Please, Gris."

He shook his head. "Trust me. You have to eat or else your stomach will feel even worse." He pulled the plastic cover off of the pudding and handed her the cup and spoon. "Come on, just this little cup of pudding."

"I thought you said you cook," Sara said, reluctantly taking the food. "This isn't my idea of gourmet."

Grissom rolled his eyes. "Eat, Sara."

While Sara ate tiny spoonfuls of pudding, Grissom puttered around her apartment, evaluating her kitchen's stocks and facilities. He had just started to inventory her pantry when he heard a choked, "Uh...Grissom..." from the woman on the couch. Alarmed at the strange tone, he whirled around and looked at her just in time to see what little pudding Sara had swallowed hit the floor.

In a quick reaction he would have sworn he was years past being capable of, Grissom grabbed the nearest bucket-like receptacle and got it under her head in time for a second bout of retching.

Tears dripped down Sara's nose, which was running, and fell into the garbage can he'd put at her side. Wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she swallowed tentatively. "I'm...sorry," she managed. Staring at the damaged floor, she added, "I can't believe I did that."

"It's okay..."

"I'm so sorry," she repeated, covering her eyes as if she could wish it away.

"Hey," Grissom said, his own distress pushed aside in the face of hers. "It's ok."

"My god," Sara muttered. "I can't believe...I haven't had something like that happen since I was six."

"I told you the medication could mess with you," he said, kneeling by her head and pushing her hair out of her face. "It's not your fault."

Sara just groaned and put her hand to her mouth.

"You need the trash can again?" Grissom asked hastily.

"No," she said, wiping at her mouth with the hand she'd raised. "Actually, I feel ok now. No more nausea." She sighed, "Figures. Now that I've embarrassed myself..."

"Stop," he commanded over his shoulder as he went to search her kitchen for paper towels. "I promised to clean; this is part of my job now, remember?"

She moaned and refused to look at him. "You can't clean up my puke!"

"I can't not clean it up, either," he pointed out, placing a box of tissues next to her on the couch. Pulling a spare pair of nitrite gloves out of his pocket and donning them, he added, "It's the lesser of the two evils. Besides, I've been sick before, I know how it is when your body refuses to obey."

Oh yeah, he knew how that could be - and what popped into his head as he said it did not involve sickness.

Well that was less than appropriate, he scolded himself as he gathered up a wad of paper towels and dropped them over the mess. The poor woman was injured and sick, and he was sitting there thinking dirty thoughts instead of taking care of her! Hoping she hadn't noticed his pause, he focused back on the task at hand.

"I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life," Sara said. "I don't lose control of myself like that!"

"Shush," Grissom ordered. "You have free rein for the next week to lose control of yourself if you need to. That's why I'm here: to take care of things so you don't have to."

She pulled a tissue out of the box he'd given her and wiped her eyes. "I hate throwing up."

"Don't we all? Stop worrying, this was hardly anything to clean up anyway. You ate what, four bites of pudding?"

"Guhhhh," was all Sara could manage as she laid her forearm over her eyes, trying to block out the light and the sight of Grissom mopping up her vomit. At least he wasn't preserving samples, she figured after a few seconds of trying to think of a positive angle on the situation.

"Sara, come on," Brass wheedled two days later. He was sitting on the edge of Sara's couch, holding a glass of water and the bottle of Vicodin, trying to convince her to accept them.

Grissom had called earlier in the day and asked him - well, 'begged him' was more like it - to come work on Sara. She wouldn't listen to a word I said, Grissom had sighed. You play a better authority figure than I do; maybe she'll do it if you ask.

He'd arrived at Sara's apartment half an hour after his shift had ended and walked directly into a disaster. Sara was sulking on the couch and refusing to be moved, while Grissom was sitting at the breakfast bar clutching her medication and looking like he wanted to hit Sara with the pills, rather than feed them to her. "Do something with her!" he barked before the detective was even over the threshold.

Brass, who hadn't been told the reason for this command performance, had taken one look at them, noting the set jaws and narrowed eyes of both combatants, and sighed. "What's going on in here?"

"She," Grissom said flatly, pointing an accusing finger at the woman on the couch, "refuses to take her painkillers."

Brass looked at Sara, then back to Grissom. "Maybe she doesn't need them," he attempted, although he doubted his own statement.

"Look at her hands."

Brass, confused, had walked to Sara and waited for her to show him whatever it was. She kept her arms folded across her chest and her hands well-hidden, and alternated glaring between him and Grissom. "Sara," he said sternly, holding out his own hand expectantly. "Show me."

With a huff and an overdone roll of her eyes, Sara had finally acquiesced and held out her right hand, palm up. A row of crescent-shaped scabs, each about half an inch across, ran along her palm. Brass had seen similar injuries before and knew that they were caused by digging one's fingernails into one's own hand, usually as an attempt to relieve stress or pain; however, he was used to seeing such cuts on those involved in violent crime, not accidental broken legs, and he found himself somewhat surprised to see them on Sara.

"Ok," he said, releasing Sara's hand and turning back to Grissom, "she's in pain. Why'd you call me?"

"Because she won't take the damn pills! Every time I try to get her to swallow one, she tells me she feels just fine and doesn't want opiates in her system unnecessarily. Then ten minutes later I see her digging into her palms again!"

Grissom was definitely agitated, and Brass knew he was not an easy man to upset. Being with Sara constantly must have been getting to the guy, he decided. And, well, Brass had promised Sara that he'd visit and try to keep them from killing each other. Still, refereeing this argument was not something he was looking forward to.

"Why won't you take the pills?" he asked Sara, trying to ignore the look of death that Grissom was giving her.

"It doesn't hurt than much!" she insisted. "Honestly, I don't need them!"

"Ok," he said, and her face relaxed as she decided he believed the story. His next words, though, made her tense up again: "And what's the real reason?"

Sara considered screaming, then decided that it would hurt her more than it would help her cause. She settled for a long "Arghhhh!"

"That's not an answer," Grissom cut in from his position across the room. "Answer the damn question."

That made two curses from Grissom in the past few minutes: another sign that things were very, very far from going well in this apartment.

"Sara?" Brass had prompted, raising his eyebrows. "He's right."

"For the love of god, they make me throw up!" she blurted out. "I'd rather be in pain and not puking, thank you very much."

Brass looked over his shoulder at Grissom, who gave him a shrug and a nod, confirming both Sara's statement and his own helplessness. "But Sara," Brass said, trying to sound logical, "even if it does make you throw up, that lasts what, 10 minutes? Whereas being in pain is pretty much constant, I'd expect."

"You try throwing up on your own floor in front of another person and then having to watch them clean up your vomit, and then tell me which is the better option."

"Sara," Grissom said, sounding tired, "we've been over this. That's what I'm here for."

Impressive, Brass thought. He's willing to clean up the girl's vomit, it must be love. He was silent for a moment, waiting for something, anything, to break the tension; when nothing did, he looked at Sara and shrugged. "You heard the man. He doesn't mind."

"I mind," she retorted, in a tone that made it clear that she wouldn't be swayed.

"Jesus!" Grissom stood up and threw the bottle of pills at Brass, who caught it just before it hit his chest. "You deal with her; I'm taking a shower." With that, he retreated into the depths of the apartment and disappeared.

Brass had sighed, gotten a glass from Sara's kitchen, and filled it with water. Two minutes later, he had been reduced to begging her.