A/N: Whoa, I realize it's been longer than usual since I updated this fic. So sorry about that! Just call it 'Real Life' butting in again! I hope everyone was able to catch chapter 9 of this fic, which I had put up on Halloween. I know you all were busy opening your doors to the little ghosts and goblins! I realize that this chapter has an awful lot of exposition in it, and I hope that doesn't turn all my faithful readers off. I had to do it somewhere, and it just ended up in this chapter. So, I hope everyone enjoys this one! Just one more to go…

Chapter 10: Constant Companion

The next day, when Sara returned, she was glad to see Grissom sitting up in his bed looking awake and aware. He had a lot more color in his cheeks, and his eyes looked better—the blue was bright and clear, the haze of pain and drugs almost completely gone. His hair was adorably mussed, and the irrational urge Sara got to run her fingers through the unkempt curls brought a smile to her face. "Well, good morning. You look so much better," she said sincerely.

"Thanks," he replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Sara's smile was replaced by a frown. "Don't you feel better?"

"I guess I do—a little. The pain's still pretty intense, but I've been trying to lay off the morphine." He indicated the small contraption that looked oddly like a hand-held quiz show buzzer which released the medication into his system. He had wrapped it around the bedrail, out of his immediate reach; if he wanted to use it, it would require much more effort than when he held it in his palm.

"Well, it's good that you're trying to cut down on the medication, Grissom," she said. "But if you really need it, remember that it's okay to hit that little button."

"I know. Thanks, Sara." He gave her a grin—it was weak, but genuine.

Seeing him improving had an incredible effect on Sara's own mood. She felt lighter and truthfully happy for the first time since the attack. She believed that her visions of blood and her aversion to any shade of red could begin to fade away now. "Maybe this will make you feel even better," she suggested, holding up the paper bag she had brought in with her.

He remembered her promise to return with food, and he asked, "What did you bring?"

She smiled as she explained, "I thought we should start out slow." Opening the bag, she pulled out a plastic container of soup and unwrapped a turkey sandwich.

Grissom didn't have much of an appetite, but Sara had gone to a lot of trouble, and the food was much more palatable than what the hospital served. So he tried to eat at least some of it. Sara seemed satisfied with his efforts. She realized he was still suffering from his injury, and didn't force him to finish the meal. She was glad he had eaten any of it at all, and she promised to bring him something else the next day.

They fell into sort of a pattern after that. Sara would come and see Grissom every day, each time sneaking in some 'forbidden' outside delicacy. The other CSIs, Brass, and even Ecklie once for a very brief visit, came to see Grissom as well, but Sara was the constant for him—there without fail. It got to the point where Grissom began to wonder when she had time to sleep—or if she even was sleeping.

She'd come, and they'd talk—about a lot of different things, but never once about the shooting. Sara enjoyed every minute of it, but was afraid she was overdoing things. But Grissom didn't tell her to stop, or to visit less. And he even seemed to be having fun, too. Sara noticed how he would perk up whenever she came by. So she kept coming.

The frequency of Sara's visits continued, until Grissom was released from the hospital—just six days after he had been brought in. They had gotten him up on crutches as soon as they could, but he was still clumsy with them. He hoped with practice he would get better, since the doctor had told him he'd be on the crutches for a good six weeks or so while his leg healed. There was still some pain as well, and he could barely put any weight on his wounded limb before it became unbearable.

When he was told he was being released from the hospital, Grissom wasn't surprised to have Sara volunteer to take him home. She got him settled, and then continued to stop by and see him—nearly every day. She knew he'd be miserable, stuck there at home, not able to go into work until the doctors gave their okay.

So she spent time with him, talked, watched movies, helped him cook, drove him on errands, and sometimes just say in silence with him. It didn't seem to matter whether they spoke or not, they both seemed to enjoy themselves.

When Grissom started his physical therapy, Sara took him to those appointments as well. She also tried to make sure he did the exercises he was supposed to be doing at home.

The two of them fell into a comfortable routine as the weeks stretched on. Sara would fill him in on what was going on at the lab. She brought paperwork that needed his immediate attention, so he could catch up on some of it at home. They didn't discuss the incident at the parking lot very much. Sara could tell that Grissom was still uneasy about that topic.

In the hospital, one of the first things Grissom had asked was if anyone else had been injured. He could see that Sara made it through all night, but he hadn't been certain about the others. She had assured him that no one else had been hurt by the crazed sniper. He had been relieved to hear that, as well as the news that the police had gotten him into custody with no problems.

There hadn't been much for the CSIs to do on the case. Dayshift had collected evidence from the rooftop, but the cops had caught the guy in the act, gun in hand, and he hadn't protested or denied what he had done. It had seemed to be an open-and-shut case, but as Grissom, Sara, and the others knew well—in the crime business things weren't always as they seemed.

One day, after Sara had taken him home from his physical therapy session, he brought up the shooter. Grissom knew that the man, Everett Atkins, had been scheduled to go before the judge at his preliminary hearing the day before.

"So, what happened with Atkins?" he asked with no warning. "I know his prelim was yesterday."

Sara was taken aback for a moment at his unexpected line of questioning. "Oh," she began when she recovered, "yeah, the hearing went off fine. He's being held for trial. I didn't hear about bail. Brass might know—you could give him a call."

"No, that's okay," he responded. "I just wanted to find out if everything went…all right."

"It was fine, Grissom. No surprises," she assured him, meeting his eyes.

For a second, she thought she noticed his gaze drift away, as if he were looking at something far away and distant. But then he came back, shaking off whatever had had him in its grip.

"Good. I mean, I'm glad to hear it," he said. "We knew it was a cut-and-dried case."

"Yeah, pretty routine." She hoped he would change the subject now. Although the evidence was clear and beyond reproach, they both knew deep down that the Atkins situation was anything but routine and simple.

It was true that the man had been caught red-handed, and that police had taken him into custody without incident. But after that, everything about the case was out of the ordinary. They checked Atkins out, and found he had no criminal record. The man had never been in trouble before; there was nothing suspicious in his past—he had never even gotten a parking ticket. Everett Atkins was clean. He apparently lived a law-abiding, quiet existence as a machinist in a small local shop. He was a native of Vegas, and there was nothing in his history that would even begin to suggest why he would pick up a rifle one day and start shooting up an office parking lot filled with police officers, seriously wounding a CSI in the process, and terrorizing the others for nearly thirty minutes.

The cops' interrogation of Atkins didn't help to shed any light on the situation either. The man hardly spoke, and what he did say told them practically nothing. Atkins appeared to have no motive; nothing in his past explained his behavior. He had no family nearby, and very few relatives. He hadn't even come into contact with the LVPD cops or the CSIs before that day. The public defender assigned to Atkins' case was willing to believe that the man had simply cracked one day and began shooting. She was going to plead insanity, and try to get her client locked up in a mental institution rather than a jail. But Brass and the CSIs weren't so easily swayed.

The police captain knew there was something more to the situation. He had even attempted to interrogate the suspect himself, after he'd already been interviewed by other officers. But Brass didn't get anything out of him either. The man just sat there blankly, refusing to say anything beyond the very basics of what had happened.

What Atkins had done was obviously not the random act of a madman. His shots had been deliberate. No one was sure if Grissom had been the sole target, but after the criminalist had gone down, Atkins had done everything he could to prevent help from getting to him. He hadn't shot into the crowd or hit anyone else. It had all been about trapping Grissom and Sara, cutting them off from any assistance. Were Atkins' actions personally directed against Grissom? Were they aimed at law enforcement in general or the CSIs in particular? These were the answers they didn't have, and the ones Jim desperately wanted. And after the other CSIs had gotten over their shock of finding out about Grissom's injury, they all wanted those answers, too.

After releasing a deep sigh, Grissom brought himself back to the present. He hadn't really wanted to dwell on Atkins and his motives, but the thoughts kept forcing themselves back into the corners of his mind. He hobbled to the center of the living room and said, "I'm thinking of painting in here."

Although Sara had hoped for a change of topic, Grissom's statement about redecorating from out of left field caught her off-guard. "What?" was all she could manage.

"This room," he clarified, moving one of his crutches in a sweeping motion. "I'm thinking of changing the color."

"Ah, so you're no longer a fan of penitentiary gray?" she inquired.

"Actually, it's eggshell," he began, a wink in his voice, "but no, I guess I'm not. I'd do the work myself, but I'm going to be stuck on these things for a while longer, so I guess I'll leave it to the pros."

"What color were you thinking of?"

"I'm not sure. Something deeper—like green or blue. Maybe brown?"

At least he didn't say 'red,' she thought with absurd relief; even though she was getting past the horrors of the attack, that particular color would never be quite the same to her again. "Not brown, Grissom," she told him. "You don't want it to be too dark and imposing in here."

"I guess you're right," he agreed. "So—green, then?"

"I think green would be nice," she said with a smile. Truthfully, she would have preferred blue. If it was possible to create paint the same shade as the striking azure of his irises, she'd be the first one on line to buy it. She allowed herself to revel in that vision for a few seconds before looking back into the very eyes that had caused her flight of fancy in the first place. She was about to be a bit bold and ask if he needed help or another opinion, but he unexpectedly beat her to it.

"Would you…uh…" he began uncertainly. "Would you mind helping me pick out the colors?" He was a little surprised at his own courage, but he went with the moment. "I'd really appreciate a second opinion. I've never been very adept at home decorating, as you can probably tell."

"Sure, Gris, I'd be glad to help," she answered, unable to keep a huge grin off her face.

"Thanks, Sara."

"No problem. How about I make us something to eat?"

"Sure."

To be concluded…