OK - a word of warning. First off, this fic has now officially entered the Alternate Universe, well…universe. And this is probably all wildly OOC, but I've kinda written myself into a corner and this was the best I could come up with…
So just go with it and hopefully it's not too bad…
Other than that, let us all sing hallelujah choruses in thanks to the computer gods, who restored my beta sweet-surrender5's virus riddled machine to its (hopefully) former glory!!
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The Breakdown
"The only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind." - John Allston
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She had hugged his trembling body tightly afterwards, running the palm of one hand up and down his sweaty back while the other stroked softly through his damp hair, messing the greying curls even more.
She'd said all the right things, said everything he so desperately wanted – needed – to hear, whispered that it wasn't his fault, that it would all be OK, that he'd done the right thing.
And – for those few minutes - he chose to ignore the voice in his head that was still screaming accusations at him, that was still insisting on his guilt, that was still flashing images of Catherine's battered face and the boy's lifeless body in front of his eyes.
Instead he chose to believe her murmured words, allowing the soft hum of her voice to soothe him into a fitful sleep - exhausted, drained and no longer able to fight the demons inside him.
But he didn't stay asleep for long.
The dream began innocently enough – he was at the lab, examining evidence, talking to Greg - but it quickly degenerated into a terrifying chase through murky labyrinths and endless corridors, with Sara's screams echoing in his head and Catherine's mangled body sprawled before him wherever he turned.
And blood. There seemed to be blood everywhere – he kept slipping through pools on the floor, kept bumping into great splashes of it on the walls and at some point it seemed to rain from the very heavens, drenching him as he searched desperately for the source of Sara's horrified shrieks.
He was drenched in sweat when he finally woke up, his heart pounding painfully in his chest as he tried to get his uneven breathing back under control. It took almost an hour before he could relax enough to drift back into a restless slumber, but the nightmare kept intruding and after it shook him awake for the fourth time, he stopped trying to fall asleep.
Instead, he spent the interminable hours listening to Sara's steady breathing behind him, concentrating on her warm breath as it tickled the side of his neck, the feel of her arm flung over his hip, her hand resting warmly just below his chest. He lay unmoving as she stirred restlessly in her sleep, mumbled something into the hollow of his neck and clutched at the blanket that covered them.
Later, when the alarm clock screeched piercingly through the dusky room, he felt the mattress behind him shift as she groggily rolled away from him and irritably punched the clock into silence.
"Gris…?"
Sara rested her hand on his arm and he groaned quietly. She couldn't see his face and when he didn't move she assumed he was still sleeping and kissed his shoulder before she got up and went to the bathroom. She spent the next forty minutes getting ready for work and he kept his eyes closed the entire time - even when she dropped to her knees on his side of the bed and pressed her lips to his temple, whispering a quiet goodbye.
It was only after he heard the front door close and the distant roar of her car in the street below that he got out of the warm bed and pulled on the jeans and polo shirt that she'd flung to the bedroom floor a few hours earlier. Then he sank to the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands.
He was falling apart. Of that much he was certain. It wasn't just his bad judgement call regarding Catherine, or even the fact that he'd shot that kid. They were just the final blocks that had made his whole fragile tower come crashing down. This was something that had been building for months – years, even – and now it had finally reached crisis point and he could no longer ignore the signs.
Over the years he'd seen it happen often enough - CSI's, detectives, even the occasional lab tech – sooner or later most of them got to this place. That was the nature of the job – the demon they all had to face.
And now it seemed it was his turn.
Some of them made it through – eventually came back to the lab, picked up where they left off.
Most of them didn't.
He had spent the last twenty years convincing himself that he could stay immune to the pressures of the job – that he was different, that riding rollercoasters and racing bugs would present enough of a diversion to keep everything he saw and dealt with daily at bay.
That his own unique brand of emotional detachment would be enough to protect him from the insanities of the world around him.
That having Sara would be enough.
Maybe it wasn't.
In the last twenty four hours he'd cried in front of her, ignored her, fought with her, drunk himself into a stupor – but despite it all she kept stepping into the line of fire, happily taking the bullets, endlessly patient and understanding.
And he couldn't expect her to keep doing that.
Besides – he had no idea what he was liable to do next. For the first time in his life he couldn't trust his emotions or his responses to them – and he didn't want to keep hurting her with his jackass behaviour.
That's why he had to leave.
He didn't know where he was going to go. Or how long he'd be gone. At the moment he wasn't even sure whether he'd be coming back. The only thing he was certain of was that he needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened - not just in the last few days, but also the last few years.
And if he was going into meltdown, he didn't want to run the risk of dragging Sara down with him.
He loved her too much for that.
So he got up from the bed and sought out the old overnight bag he kept at the back of her closet. He opened a drawer, upending its contents into the open bag, not bothering to fold or pack anything properly. His toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, razor, shaving cream, hair brush - even the towel he had used last night – all of it was dumped on top of the waiting clothes.
In the kitchen he removed the empty whiskey bottle from the trash – not wanting that inauspicious piece of evidence to serve as a reminder of his actions when she came home. And when he saw the empty glass still sitting on the table next to the couch, he dropped that into his bag as well. He was ashamed of his conduct – and even though he couldn't take it back, he could at least remove all indication of it.
He worked quickly – afraid that if he hesitated, he would lose his nerve and stay – and he couldn't allow himself to do that. He was a mess and she deserved more than he could give her - more than he might ever again be able to give her.
So he called a cab, went to his townhouse and spent the next few hours packing. The rest of the night he spent in front of his desk, trying to write a note that he could leave for Sara. Trying to find the words to explain to her what he was doing and why.
Trying to come up with a logical explanation for an illogical act.
He couldn't.
In fact, he found it almost impossible to come up with anything beyond the 'Dear Sara' at the top of each new draft. After several hours he had nothing to show for his efforts except a bin full of crumpled up pieces of paper and a pen running out of ink. By the time the first rays of the morning sun streaked across the top of his desk, he gave up.
He would call her later. Explain over the phone, make her understand.
Oh - who am I kidding. I probably won't. If I can't find the right words while trying to write her letter, why the hell would it be any easier to talk to her over the phone?
With a frustrated groan he left the desk and picked up the bags waiting by the front door. He took one last look around before he slammed the door shut, turned the key and strode to his car.
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His first stop was Desert Palms. He wanted to at least see Catherine before he went, if only to reassure himself that something good had come out of this unholy mess he'd created. But instead he spent nearly twenty minutes in the hospital's car park, unable to find the courage to go inside.
He was afraid of what might be waiting for him in there – afraid that Catherine might be awake and demand explanations he wasn't ready to give.
So instead of going in, he drove to the lab, parked a couple of blocks away from the building and waited.
After almost an hour and right on cue, the four remaining members of the night shift emerged from its shadowy recesses and got into their respective cars. They all headed off in the direction of Desert Palms and he gave a small sigh of relief before he headed into the lab and went to Ecklie's office.
Their conversation was brief – yes, he was on administrative leave pending the Internal Affairs investigation, yes, he could use his built-up leave after that, yes, Stokes could probably run the show until Catherine got back.
He left a hasty note for Nick at the front desk and in less than ten minutes, he was back in his car. The engine sputtered to life and the sun shone glaringly in his eyes as he turned the nose of the car east and headed out of the city.
He still didn't have a clue where he was going, but for now it was enough to simply put as much distance between himself and Las Vegas as he could.
He'd worry about everything else later.
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A/N: So – believable? Not believable? I'm almost too afraid to ask… Feel free to criticise – but please do it nicely…I'm feeling a little fragile myself!!