Summary: When Sara walks out of Grissom's office in Too Tough To Die, he thinks about what she said. Grissom's POV.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a computer, a cat, a dog, and CSI DVDs. If I owned CSI, do you really think I'd be mooching around writing fanfic?
A/N: I'm sorry for any typos. I have no beta, so it's all my fault. This is my first fan fiction, so bear that in mind. I'd really quite like reviews. Flames will be used to warm my feet up. This is just my take of what Grissom thought after Sara walked out.
"I wish I was like you Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything"
I sit in my office. Tired. Sara was too involved. I knew she had an affinity for the victims, but she's really involved. This has been one long case, and I can't think about anything, my head's swimming with images of Sara crying, of Pamela Adler, of Nick chasing the scent dogs. I smile. In our crazy family, Nick is like the son who's always trying to please his dad, trying so hard not to disappoint him. I hope he knows he doesn't disappoint me. God, I can feel a migraine coming on. I need to get home, take my medication and sleep. But I can't walk out of here. Because if I stay here I can hear what she said, again and again. Maybe I'll work it out.
Does she really think that I don't feel anything? Maybe that's how they all see me. I don't know. I don't relate well with people. That's what everyone says. I can tell my face is blank, devoid of emotion like it always is when I'm thinking. Catherine looms in the corridor. She's walking in. She's saying things. Things that I can hardly hear, even though she has a pretty loud voice. It's probably about her case. The one she reviewed. I remember it. The men fought over a motorcycle, and one ends up dead. I inwardly sigh. "By nature men are alike. Through practise they have become far apart." Confucius. A wise man. Catherine's still talking. I'm not listening. I'm still blundering through a swirling fog of thoughts, blocked off from all sound. And all I can hear is Sara saying it over and over again. "I wish I was like you, Grissom..." Likea child who wants to get their mother's attention. But I'm not her mother? Catherine's realised I'm not listening. She's glaring at me, rather annoyedly. I mumble something along the lines of "I'll sign it now, just give it to me." She smiles and puts it on my desk, walking out. Probably going home to her daughter. Lindsey, a cute kid. Pity she's got such a terrible dad. I ignore the 15th case file thrown on to my desk.
"I wish I didn't feel anything..." She's wrong. I do feel. I feel very much. I feel the pain, the suffering of those cases I can't stand. I don't show it. I remain strong, immovable for my team. Trying desperately to remain standing for when they need to be helped up. I'm no good to them if I'm lying in a puddle of tears and sadness, wallowing in my pain.
I just hold it in. It's not good for my mental health, etc. I've heard it all. From my mother, when I wouldn't talk about my father leaving. Catherine, when she knows a case is bugging me and I won't tell her. Doc Robbins, when a victim's eating me up inside and I won't admit it. Everyone. I just look after my spiders, my cockroaches, my surrogate children. I listen to classical music, do crosswords, letting all the pain, anger and injustice seep out of me. If it gets really bad, I go ride roller coasters. But I still feel. I just don't show it.
She needs a diversion. I told her, but she wouldn't listen. I tried to help, but she just got angry and snapped at me. She needs to get out of her own skin, and stop chasing rabbits. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen. I don't know why. Maybe she doesn't want to admit there's a life out of her job. Maybe she thinks she doesn't have the time or energy. I know that she doesn't sleep much, so she does. I don't know.
But, I do feel. Is the mask of no emotion I've created too thick? That even she can't see through it? Isn't that what I wanted, though? Didn't I want to hide my feelings away? But I didn't want to seem so unemotional that she thinks I don't feel.
God, the migraine's definitely come. I can feel the headache permeating the thick fog of thoughts. I'm going home. I stand. I stagger towards the door, the pain getting worse. I stop, leaning on the door frame. I see the ghost of Sara in my mind, crying at the injustice. I see myself, talking to her. Sara rises. I can see in my face what I felt, still feel. I don't know what to do. Sara says those words, the words that I'm still thinking about, two hours after she's left.
"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."