Everything on Sara was wet, and it made the experience of helping her to find shelter quite uncomfortable. He did not complain, but when he took her hand and looped his other around her waist, supporting her, it did not escape his attention that she was utterly drenched. Her hands were slick with cold water, her clothes dripping. Nevertheless, he pulled her toward him, and prepared to take some of her weight, to help her hobble forward.

"Come on," he said. "Lean on me."

"Just a second."

She broke free, and held up a hand, before bending over from the waist. She grasped one knee, and for a second he wasn't quite sure if she was about to vomit or was simply dizzy – and she certainly gave no clues.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

He put his hand to her back, worried, and saw her eyes were clenched closed, as if in pain. After a second, she let out a long breath, as if meditating her way through it, and then emerged.

"You okay?" he repeated.

"Yeah," she said, bluntly. "Let's go."

He was not convinced for a second that she was okay, but another gust of wind came, and she shivered hard as it rippled through her, and it became imperative that they got out of the wind. He looped her arm around his shoulders, and grabbed her waist with the other, but he had barely helped her hobble a single step before she winced sharply, jerking to a pained stop.

"That hurts," she complained.

Her faced was contorted in pain, and he had to quickly revamp his plans. If she couldn't walk, the obvious thing was to carry her, but it limited how far they could go. He spotted a rocky outcrop nearby, one that was sheltered from the direction of the wind, and abruptly changed his plans.

"Come on," he said, "get over my shoulder."

"You can't carry me," she said.

"Let's try."

He gave her no room for argument, not in a mood to work his way through minor protestations, and bent over to lift her in a fireman's carry. She was right; she was not light, but after a second he found his balance and could at least manage. As he carefully trudged ahead toward his target he half-expected a witty remark – experience had taught him that Sara took pleasure in keeping him slightly off-balance, when they were alone – but the moment passed in grim silence. It said something about the amount of pain she was in.

At last he reached the rocks, and put her down at the base, carefully setting her back on her feet. She was still dripping wet, and the air here was no warmer, but at least they were a little protected from the wind gusts surging up the landscape.

"Do you have your bag?"

He looked around, realising as he did that it was probably a stupid question, but it was nowhere to be seen.

"It must be up river," Sara replied.

She put a bracing hand on the rock, and sank awkwardly to sit down, her face twisted with pain. She almost looked like a woman in labour, and the sight alone worried him.

"Did you have a change of clothes in there?" he asked.

She nodded, briefly. "A small one."

He had no idea what that meant, but knew now what to do. He threw his own bag down, next to her, and withdrew the one thing that he did have – a space blanket. The safety supplies, for logistical reasons, had been divided evenly among the team. Nick had the radio, Warrick the tent, but it was Grissom who had volunteered to grab the space blanket. He was glad now that he had. He withdrew it and handed it to her, and then prepared to dash back up river.

"I'll be right back," he said.

He did not wait to ascertain her agreement, but took off, and was sure that as he left, he heard her give a pained sigh. Whether it was because she was injured, or disputed the plan, he wasn't sure, but he had no time to worry about that. Instead he dashed back through the wet grass and past the gushing stream, back uphill a mile to where they had ventured off track. Sara's backpack was still in the mud by the bank, and he snatched it up before retreating to head back to her. It was quite a jog, and he was out of breath when he returned, but was surprised when he did to find that the space blanket still lay neatly folded in its wrapper, ignored on the ground.

Sara sat leaning against the rocky cliff-face behind her, eyes scrunched up, huddled and shivering.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but shivered again, as another ripple of cold went through her.

He was immediately suspicious.

"Is there any injury you haven't told me about?" he pressed.

"I'll be okay."

It was hardly an answer, and she didn't even open her eyes to look at him properly when she gave it, but it would have to do. He put her backpack down, and tore open the zip. If they had been in other circumstances, he certainly would never have dived into her backpack himself – such things were more tactfully handled by another female – but Catherine wasn't there, and nor was the team, or any kind of diplomatic help. So he took a peek inside, but saw only the scantest change of underwear, and a spare shirt. There was nothing warm, nothing bulky to protect her. Clearly she had not anticipated a change in weather.

"Change," he said, pushing what she had toward her. "You can wear my jacket."

He had a fleece jacket in his own bag, prepared for any eventuality, and pulled it out and added it to the pile.

But still she ignored him, seeming entirely focused on something inside, on some mental battle.

"Come on, Sara," he urged, impatient with her delay. "You need to change. You're becoming hypothermic. Your temperature's plummeting."

Her eyes fluttered open, but she didn't move.

"Strip, Sara."

He did not mean to say it with such impatience, but she was moving too slowly. But at last she heaved a sigh, one riddled with temper, and tugged her things toward her. At that point, he turned around, though still kept close. He was reassured as he heard her extract her things, but it was a full minute before she regained any sense of humour.

"You know, that's not the most flattering seduction I've had," she commented, tone flat.

"It's not a seduction," he replied.

He did not know why his voice was so tense, other than that his heart was thumping in his chest with a galloping panic, but something told him that she was not well – something related distinctly to her body language. Her sense of calm about the matter was concerning at best. But at last he heard her ease to a pained standing position, and after several more winces and gasps she seemed to get the job done, and gave him permission to turn back around.

When he did she was wearing a fresh pair of short shorts, her long legs nearly bare, and a fresh grey T-shirt with his fleece jacket. Her hair was still dripping wet, but the focus of her eyes was clearer.

"Come on," he urged.

Relieved, he tenderly urged her to sit back down, and sat with her facing him, his body shielding her from the weather. He tugged open his space blanket, ripping it from the plastic, and unfolded it to wrap it around her, and tugged her toward him, urging her into his arms.

She tucked her head into his shoulder, forehead leaning there and immediately he felt another shiver ripple through her body.

He held her tighter.

"Stay close," he said. "You'll get warm."

He felt rather than heard her sigh. Buried against his body, he urged her legs in closer to his, folding them there, and then wrapped his arms tight around her.

"I can't promise I won't throw up on you," she said, honest.

There was a small note of apology in her voice, but Grissom ignored it.

"Just give me warning," he said. "It'll be okay."

I have to confess, that I'm finding that the advantage of writing short chapters is that it's much easier to update. While mammoth stories like The Silver Lining and others I've done are probably more rewarding overall, it's certainly easier to write short fics, when I'm so short of time these days. Thanks to all those who are reading and especially to those who so kindly reviewed - you made it worthwhile and I really appreciate it. :)