Title: Race Among the Ruins

Author: Cropper

Pairing: GSR

Rating: Mature for Profanity

Disclaimer: Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

A/N: Sincere thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review thus far. Your time and efforts are greatly appreciated. csipal, ligaras and She Who Must Not Be Named? The coffee and donuts are on me.

Summary: Too little sleep and too much sleet.

Chapter Two

Grissom finally bade his criminalists farewell and lumbered away from the lab a little before nine on Sunday morning. As he drove home, sunglasses shielding him from the glaring sunlight, he listened to various denominational church bells summoning stragglers to worship. He was a philosophic man, a deeply spiritual man and on this seventh day, this biblically proclaimed day of rest, Grissom deemed it fitting that all he could muster the energy to contemplate was a blisteringly hot shower to relieve his aching muscles and screaming joints and the soft welcoming embrace of his blankets and pillows. Everything else, including thoughts of mortality, the deeper meaning of life after death, love, loss and the capricious nature of fleeing time would have to wait. He was getting far too old to pull all-nighters. He was getting far too old for a lot of things.

Two and a half hours into his desperately sought after sleep, Grissom's cell phone started blaring. For a moment, as he muzzily tried to shake the vestiges of a half-formed dream from his weary mind, he seriously considered turning off the infernal device and rolling back over, but knew that he could not indulge in such simple fancy. He was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was his job, it was his life. Hopefully, whatever dire emergency had dared interrupt his slumber was something that could be handled from the snuggly sanctuary of his bed. Grissom was in no shape, physically or mentally, to return to work.

The call was an emergency request from authorities upstate near Elko. Weekend adventurers hiking a rather obscure trail had discovered a decomposing body rife with insect activity. The bug guy was needed ASAP, and there was no way Grissom could refuse. He was the bug guy and had to go wherever he was needed whenever he was needed. He had no choice. It was his job, it was his life. The locals had secured him a spot on a commuter flight that left in the next hour and would have a rental car waiting as well. All Grissom had to do was haul his creaky bones out of bed, grab another quick shower, his kit, a cup of really strong coffee and call a cab. He was not sure that he could safely drive. And, he should call someone at the lab to let them know that he was leaving Vegas for an undetermined period of time. He honestly did not think that anyone would necessarily care that he was gone, but he wanted to let them know that if they needed him he would only be available either telephonically or via his omnipresent pager.

Grissom had no difficulty in deciding that Sara would be the one to call. Catherine would just be returning to duty following an eight hour respite and busy relishing in the control of her temporary authority. Lord, the woman could act like a bitch on a stick when handed a little power. Machiavelli must have had Catherine in mind when writing that absolute power corrupted absolutely. Or was it something about the best way to govern rising through fraud and force? Grissom shook his head ruefully as he dialed his cell. He could not think clearly enough to properly cite his sources.

"Sidle." Clearly Sara was at work and her brusqueness in answering proved that she was in full professional CSI mode.

"Hello, Sara."

"Hey Grissom. Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" she asked suspiciously. "Checking up on us?"

"Nag, nag, nag," he shot back humorously. "Yes, I'm supposed to be sleeping but unfortunately a body full of insects up near Elko takes precedence right now. I'm headed to the airport as we speak."

"Elko? That's pretty far upstate."

"Somewhere near there. I think that they said the actual scene was up in the mountains someplace."

"How long are you going to be gone?" Sara's tone was slipping from professional to personal.

"As long as it takes."

Sara could not ignore the absolute exhaustion tempering Grissom's voice. She hesitated just a heartbeat before quietly beseeching,"Can't somebody else do this for once? You just pulled what, a quadruple? Can't you take a later flight or something and get some sleep?"

"Sara, I can't," he began with affectionate exasperation, "you know that. I'm the only entomologist in the area and I have no choice."

"Yeah, well, the body isn't going to get at deader or the bugs any buggier," she saucily responded. Grissom huffed a small chuckle as Sara continued to scold him. "And, you know, you do have a choice. Just say no, Gris."

"I stopped having choices a long time ago, Sara, a lifetime ago. All I have left now are obligations...duties...responsibilities. They're all I know."

A moment, one in which Grissom could feel thick electricity thrumming excitedly through his cell, passed before Sara silkily queried, "Would you like to have choices, Grissom?" Her voice was a low- pitched purr, a sensual grumble that reverberated through his ear and resonated around his heart.

Sara was plunging headfirst into perilous waters, very, very treacherous and tempestuous swirling seas. Grissom would love to have choices, infinite, intimate possibilities where Sara was concerned. Would Sara still be receptive to his bumbling overtures, his awkward attempts at courting? For all of her brash, flirtatious talk of late, for all of her recent pushing and goading, Grissom had the sinking feeling that he was the one who was going to have to toss out the ring in one last desperate attempt to save any foundering prospect of a deeper and more rewarding relationship. Was losing Sara worth the risk of stripping down, laying himself bare one more time in a fruitless search for...love?

"Maybe," he hedged, clearly uncomfortable with the path the conversation had taken. "Sometimes I feel..."

"What?"

"I don't know," he snapped in aggravation before gentling his tone. "That I have no control anymore?"

"Over what?"

Sara was not making this easy for him. However, the honesty rang through his voice as he responded somewhat vaguely, "Things that matter. Look," he continued in a rush, "I'm at the airport and have to go. If you need me, call my cell or page me. I'll see you soon."

Grissom boarded the small commuter flight, settled into the uncomfortable seat and took some time to reflect upon his chat with Sara. He must be more fatigued than he realized or Sara was just getting better at punching through his walls. She was a strong woman and had proved herself quite capable of effectively wielding a sledge hammer. The stone edifice was crumbling quickly and Grissom did not give a damn about reapplying his protective mortar.

Grissom arrived in Elko, picked up his rental car and drove two hours into the wilderness in search of the crime scene. It was raining, it was miserable and the only vehicle Elko's Finest had been able to procure for him on such short notice was a lousy compact with a manual transmission. He was well aware of the fact that his normally less than sterling social skills were more caustic than usual. He was grumpy and short tempered. He knew that the locals were not to blame for the uncooperative weather and sardine can of a car in which he was forced to travel. The locals were not to blame because he was operating on nothing more than caffeine, adrenaline and one badly needed cigarette. Grissom had given up the habit years ago but every now and then the nicotine cravings clawed relentlessly and when he was worn, frustrated and utterly demoralized he caved...bought a pack of smokes and lit up. He knew all of these things in the rational side of his brain yet childishly wanted someone to blame, to accost with an accusing finger jab to the sternum. His internal resources were dangerously close to empty and by the time he started collecting and processing his beloved insects, he was barely functional.

He toiled solidly for the next ten hours, resolutely stowing all emotion and enervation aside to concentrate on the task at hand. Somebody, somewhere, was relying upon him for closure, to solve the riddle and exact some measure of justice for this as yet nameless, faceless loved one. He could not, would not disappoint that anonymous family. He had spent nearly forty-five solitary years in a lonely thankless quest to not fail, to not disappoint. He had stumbled several times and fallen short of the finish line but always staggered to his feet to lurch onward. He fervently hoped that his analysis and rudimentary time line would provide the authorities in Elko with enough clues and hard information to successfully close the file on John Doe #18-06.

By the time Grissom checked into a dismally tacky roadside inn he was operating solely on autopilot. He collapsed on the bed fully clothed, pausing only long enough to unlace and kick off his mud-caked boots before burrowing beneath the scratchy covers. He did not care that his clothing was still damp from the rain, that the knees and legs of his jeans were smeared with rich, black mountain loam or that the bedding he was sprawled across was far from clean and faintly reeked of tobacco. He did not care that his stomach growled noisily and begged for something more substantial and nutritious than cup after cup of wretched Cop Shop coffee. He did not even care that, in a moment of abject weakness, he had given into his loneliness and called Sara on the pretense of updating her on his activities, estimated return to Vegas and inquiries into how the gangland shooting case was progressing, when, in reality, he had just wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice. No, all Grissom cared about was finally closing his bleary eyes and drifting off into a hopefully dreamless and peaceful sleep.

Scarcely three hours had passed before the cell phone once again jarred Grissom into unwelcome wakefulness. Ruthlessly squelching the demonic urge to hurl the trumpeting harbinger of offensive technology against the nearest pastel pink wall, he jabbed the talk button with brute force and snarled, "Grissom!"

"Oh, hey, Gil. It's Catherine. Did I wake you?" Catherine was struggling to sound innocent. She knew without a doubt that she had pulled Grissom from slumber...could hear the think resonance of sleep in his annoyed bark.

Grissom's response was blandly neutral, "mmmmm." If Catherine was calling, whatever news she had to share could not be good.

Before he had time to prop himself against the headboard and arrange the pillows behind his back, Catherine launched into a rabid dissertation of the current lab conditions. "You really need to finish whatever it is you are doing up there and get your ass back to the lab. The Mayor, Sheriff and Ecklie are all climbing the walls and the team has had little or no rest since you took off. I can't rotate the shift because you left us short-handed and quite frankly, we all need a break." Catherine had barely paused to breathe.

Grissom groaned. "Catherine," he began patiently, "you have yourself and four other criminalists Tell Ecklie that you will need coverage from swing or days to process new cases that come in while the five of you concentrate on the gang shooting. Even with a rotation, you should have adequate coverage."

"Well, that's all well and good, Gil," Catherine started, clearly annoyed by what she thought was an attempt to patronize her, "but you are overlooking one thing. When am I supposed to rest?"

Ah! So that was the real reason Catherine was pushing him so hard. SHE wanted a little time off. He should have known. This had nothing to do with the team and everything to do with Catherine; the woman was all about herself, looking out for number one. She was prattling on about Lindsey, her mother and something that sounded like a date she was going to have to reschedule, but Grissom tuned her out. He did not care about Catherine's personal life right then and there. He cared about getting some rest. His annoyance was evident when he all but snapped back at her.

"Look, Cath. Start six hour rotations. You take off three hours into Greg's and Sara's downtime and return halfway into Warrick's and Nick's. This really is not all that difficult."

"In theory, that's a good idea," Catherine spat back. "However, the Sheriff wants a supervisor here at all times. Since you are off God knows where fooling around with your precious bugs, I'm stuck."

There was truly no rest for the wicked. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the one. What was it he had told Sara? That his life was nothing more than duty and obligation? That he had no choices, no control? He was tired, bone tired. He honestly could not remember the last time he felt so weary, so old.

"All right, Cath, you win." Grissom could just imagine the smug smile gracing her lips. "Let me get myself together and I'll start back. I probably can't get a flight so I'll have to drive. I'll call you back and let you know."

Catherine sensed the resignation in his voice and slithered into the quasi-mothering attitude she seemed to adopt when concerned about him. "Gil, have you slept?"

"Not really. A couple of hours. Does it matter?" Grissom hung up without giving Catherine a chance to respond or even bidding her farewell. It was petulant and petty but he was just not in the mood to deal with Catherine and all of her associated drama.

He packed up and headed out, stopping at a Gas 'n Sip for a refill of coffee and a stale bagel. He eased out onto the highway before hitting the speed dial on his cell to call Sara. He knew that he should call Catherine but did not want to, did not feel like expending anymore time or effort on her. Sara, on the other hand, Sara he did want to talk to, even if just for a moment. Sara made him feel young and practically invincible.

"Sidle."

Grissom could not help but grin when she answered. Sometimes just hearing her melodious alto truly brightened his life. "Hey," he responded.

"It's the Bugman!" Her greeting was tinged with genuine warmth and humor. For a quick moment Grissom heard the theme song from the '60's campy Adam West television series with Bugman inserted where Batman should have been pounding between his temples. Only Sara could get away with calling him Bugman. Others might refer to him as the bug guy or something similar but only Sara could actually use the term as a title or nickname and not suffer glowering repercussions. Sara continued speaking, interrupting his bizarre musings and bringing him back to the conversation. "How's it going? You through playing with your many-legged little friends?"

"I finished a couple of hours ago. The locals can handle it now and know how to find me if they have any questions or problems." He took a sip of his lousy convenience store coffee before delving into the real purpose of the call. "Will you tell Catherine I'm on the road? And warn her that I am driving so it will take awhile?"

"Sure, but why don't you just tell her yourself? You two get into a fight or something?"

"No, nothing like that," he sighed tiredly. "I just don't have the energy to deal with Catherine when she's got her knickers knotted."

Sara could not help but chuckle at that outlandish mental image. "Thanks for the visual, Grissom. I so don't need to think about Catherine's unmentionables, twisted or not. There are some places I really don't need to go." There was a delightful pause before Sara continued. "Kinckers? Really?"

Grissom snorted. "I honestly wouldn't know. I've never seen Catherine's undergarments."

"Not even a glimpse? Never walked in on her in the locker room? Never peeked in her laundry hamper?"

"Nope."

A comfortable silence ensued before Sara felt compelled to speak again. The concern in her voice was unmistakable.

"Hey," she started softly. "You sure that you're okay to drive? You don't sound like you've slept at all."

"I'm fine, Sara. I caught a quick nap." Grissom was not about to admit that he probably should not be driving, that his nap had done nothing to relieve the persistent exhaustion dogging his every thought and movement. Sara did not need to know that the idea of returning to see her was his prime motivation, what was keeping him going.

"All right," she replied doubtfully. "Look," she continued seriously, "if you start to get tired either pull off or give me a call. I'll be happy to talk to you and keep you awake."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Gris, I'm not fooling around here. Promise me that you will call if you start to nod off."

"Sara, I know that you are serious, and, you are nagging again. But, I...promise. If I need you, I will call. Goodbye, Sara."

"Bye, Bugman."

He had to smile. Only Sara.

Grissom ended the call and powered down his cell. He tucked the phone, along with his glasses, into the pocket of his FORENSICS windbreaker and carelessly tossed the jacket onto the passenger seat. The unrelenting drizzle that had been his constant chilling companion started to not only increase in intensity but also solidify into spitting sleet as the evening temperatures continued to wane. Grissom did not want an ill-timed summons from his phone to distract or pull his attention away from the road at a potentially inopportune moment. The driving conditions were abysmal and Gris needed to stay completely focused on the highway before him. One minute lapse could prove deadly.

The well-paved path from his tawdry mountain aerie was treacherous and fraught with curves. Visibility was practically nonexistent and the slap-slapping of the windshield wipers could scarcely repel the stinging pellets of ice pinging a relentless staccato rhythm on the roof of the car. Grissom was forced to blast the defroster on maximum heat in an attempt to melt the slush clinging to the singing rubber blades. He had the road to himself. All other travelers apparently had either the common sense to stay indoors or pull off at a greasy spoon truck stop to wait out the storm. Grissom did not have the luxury of stopping and waiting; an angry, hissing Cat flexing perfectly manicured claws impatiently anticipated his return, a Cat that would hopefully be placated with a few well-placed verbal strokes along the stiffly arching ridge of her temper followed by a gentle nudge homeward to relax in the comfort of her tastefully appointed kitty condo.

Grissom quieted his mounting irritation, sternly suppressing his uncharitable thoughts as the road slithered downward and disappeared into a black chasm swallowed by the mountain looming to his left. Glaring headlights suddenly thundering and piercing the icy gloom blinded Grissom. An 18-wheeler grinding with exertion on its uphill trek came churning towards the small rental car, swerving perilously across the sleet-slickened asphalt. Gris could only react, veering sharply to his right in an attempt to avoid the behemoth bearing down upon him. He had no way of knowing that this particular stretch of road provided no wide shoulder upon which to lean, just a rusting guard rail to protect him from an unseen cavern below. The abrupt jerking of the steering wheel combined with a spectacularly uneven grade between the main road and shoulder sent Grissom careening into the guard rail and plummeting end over impossible end down the mountain. The cheap economy car was no match for the rugged terrain through which it helplessly churned like a tiny pebble in a tumbler before slamming to a premature halt against a large boulder.

In the silence of the dreadful aftermath touched only by settling groans of horribly twisted steel and man, the semi continued its gear-stripping journey, blissfully unaware of the tragedy below, oblivious to the peril of a lone wayfarer trapped, bleeding and unconscious a few hundred yards down the slope. For Grissom, it was lights out. Good night, sweetheart. God Bless.

To Be Continued...