Author's Notes: I was going to wait and draw out the suspense, but I figured with all the anticipation of tonight's and next week's eps, I'd spare y'all any more on my end. Thanks for reading, as well as the incredible feedback on the last chapter:)
Someone Else's Star
by Kristen Elizabeth
Security is when everything is settled. When nothing can happen to you. Security is the denial of life. – Germaine Greer
The modern bullet had been invented by Major Rubin in 1883. Unlike its predecessors, it contained a copper jacket which allowed for a much greater velocity before impact. The jacket also kept the heat of the bullet down.
Not that the heat of a bullet really mattered when it slammed into your shoulder.
The first shot, fired from Matt's gun, hit the wall, five inches to Grissom's side. Grissom watched with a fascination he almost felt ashamed to have, as a second shot, the bullet Brass had fired upon entering the house, made contact with Matt's body. He jerked; blood blossomed over his shirt. Grissom's gun slipped from his hand. Matt landed on his knees next to it.
"Oh god! Matt…" Sara dropped down next to him and guided him onto his back. "Call 911," she shouted.
Brass was one step ahead of her. "Dispatch, send a bus to 854 North Imperial Drive. Shots fired. Man down. Officer already on the scene."
"Copy that," a static-laced voice replied.
Grissom felt more helpless than he had while at gunpoint. Sara was already applying what aid she could; her hands were stained with Matt's blood. Her capacity to set aside circumstances in favor of saving a life amazed him. And frightened him. Because he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to do the same if it had been Sara on the wrong end of the gun.
"Gil." Brass jarred him out of his thoughts. "Are you okay?" When he said nothing, his friend went on. "I came to check up on you. The door was open. He had you at gunpoint…and then he fired."
He understood Brass's need to recount the facts, to assure himself that he'd made a good call. To help his friend who had too many bad memories associated with this scenario, Grissom forced himself to nod. "Thank you."
"He's losing a lot of blood." Sara's statement was full of fear. "We need to keep him warm."
"I'll get a blanket."
When he came back into the living room, she was holding Matt's hand as she leaned over him. He was whispering something in her ear. When she straightened up, there were fresh tears in her eyes. "It didn't have to be this way," she told him so softly that he almost couldn't hear her. "But I forgive you." She pressed her lips to his cheek. A look of utter peace came over the man.
Peace that Grissom wasn't quite sure he deserved.
He cleared his throat and held out a spare blanket from the linen closet. "Here. Cover him completely or he could go into shock."
Their fingers briefly touched as Sara took it from him. She looked away quickly, returning her attention to the man lying bleeding on his floor.
A minute later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics swarmed around Matt, and everything became a blur of vital statistics and life-saving measures. But Grissom's attention suddenly came into focus when one of the EMTs asked, "Will anyone be going with him?"
Sara glanced at him, but he couldn't read the look in her eyes. Not that he needed to. There was little doubt in his mind that she wouldn't leave Matt alone, even now.
But he hadn't counted on Brass. "I'll go," he said, resigned. "You guys can follow."
With that decided, the paramedics loaded Matt up and rolled him out the door. Brass walked beside the gurney. And then they were gone, leaving Grissom and Sara alone.
Day shift was coming off duty. Swing shift was already tapped out. So Nick and Warrick found themselves heading to Desert Palm to process an officer-involved shooting. Neither one of them was particularly eager to get in the middle of another politically-charged investigation that could pit PD again the crime lab, but an assignment was an assignment, like it or not.
Upon inquiring after the nameless victim, they were directed to the OR waiting room. They were met there by a very quiet Brass.
"You got pulled for this, too?" Warrick asked as they approached the older man. "Is the officer involved already crying for his union rep?"
The smile that touched Brass's face didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "I am the officer involved." A moment passed. "Here's my piece. I fired one round." Brass pulled the weapon from his holster and set it on a hard, plastic chair. He started unbuttoning his shirt. "You'll find GSR and victim blood."
Nick was first to move. He pulled a pair of gloves from his kit and worked his hands into them, confident that whatever Brass had done would be justified by the circumstances.
Warrick was a little slower. Nick had already started swabbing Brass's hands by the time he donned his own gloves and picked up the gun. A quick count of the live rounds told him that Brass was telling the truth about shooting once.
After sealing the weapon into an evidence bag, Warrick was able to ask, "What happened?"
As far as Nick was concerned, the answer Brass gave was all the justification necessary. Sometimes being right really sucked.
His house had become a crime scene. And they were both evidence.
A congealing pool of Matt's blood spread out between them like a river that neither one of them was brave enough to cross. With a sinking heart, Sara realized that they couldn't stay in this state of suspended animation for very long. Eventually, they'd both have to give statements and be processed; even if it had been a good call by Brass, a man had been shot. Matt. Matt had been shot. After he'd shot at Grissom. And missed.
Oh, she'd never be able to thank god enough that he'd missed.
She hadn't even noticed she was trembling, but Grissom did. "Honey...do you want to sit down?"
"Can't," Sara replied numbly. "We need to…be processed." For the first time, she looked down at the reddish-brown stains on her hands. "Now I know how Lady Macbeth felt."
"None of this was your fault," Grissom insisted. "You can't believe that it was your fault, Sara."
"Why can't I? I drove him to this. The guy I knew six years ago never would have done this. Never." She blinked. "There's something about me that turns ordinary men into killers…cheaters." Looking up at him, she added to that, "Cowards."
He deserved the pained look that her words gave him, but Sara felt no satisfaction from causing that pain. "If you documented my hands, do you think I could go wash up?" she asked.
Grissom considered this for a moment before he walked over to the kit he always had prepared and ready to go. With his camera and an identifying marker, he took several photos of her hands. "Okay," he said, finishing up. "Bathroom's…" He stopped. "You know where it is."
At least he was acknowledging that she'd spent some intimate time in his house.
She washed Matt off with plain Dial soap and cold water, and dried off with a dark green hand towel. In the past, she might have taken the opportunity to look around Grissom's bathroom. You could tell so much about a person by what they kept in their bathroom. But she just didn't have the energy. Maybe not even the inclination.
Yet on her way back to the living room, Sara couldn't keep herself from stopping in the open door that led into his bedroom. Rather than dwell on the bed, ground zero, she looked around with an investigator's eye. His dresser drawers all lay open, as if they'd been searched through. But that wasn't the only evidence of Matt's intrusion.
"Grissom, come here." He was there, behind her, in a matter of seconds. Sara pointed to what had been a window, but was now a jagged mess of broken glass and mangled Venetian blinds. "Point of entry," Sara whispered.
She wasn't even aware that her knees gave out until he caught her and kept her from sinking to the floor. The warmth of his body was too much to resist. Turning herself around in his arms, Sara buried her face in his shoulder.
It was too soon to talk, and Grissom knew this. So for once, it was okay that he said nothing and simply held her.
Judging by the desperation in his embrace, he needed the contact as much as she did.
To Be Continued