7. Unbound
Sara sat on the sofa, a fresh tissue in one hand, a dirty one in the other, breathed in the scent of stale beer and sweat and tears while Nick showered. Her throat burned and her head ached, the pressure behind her eyes almost too much; if she were to go through another bout of tears, she imagined that her eyeballs pushing out of their sockets from it would be perfectly plausible.
It had been a night like any other, solve a murder and then go home. Well, aside from the go home part. Normally Sara would have driven herself but when Grissom offered her a ride she took it, still not precisely certain as to why she had. She supposed pity was a part of it, curiosity a part, anger at Nick another…there were lots of pieces in the eight year puzzle of her life in Vegas; she still found a piece in some hidden place beneath her heart from time to time. One here, one there, one over there next to her boss, one behind that beer bottle…the pieces were strewn everywhere, far and wide, near and close. Sometimes she told herself that she didn't want to find them all, didn't want to finish the puzzle, and laughed at the idea of her life at its end, her face smiling down, a picturesque Picasso. But it was a lie. She'd searched her entire life for meaning, for a reason, for answers. For hope. And the one man she was sure of having all of those things, after so very long and having just come around to the acceptance of his own feelings, was fighting for each breath in a cold, sanitary room on the top floor of a hospital that seemed, at the moment, a million miles away.
You could lose him. And you never really even had him, Sidle.
Wouldn't that be something?
That little voice, the one who doubted her every thought, every move, the one who stopped her from saying or doing what she thought or felt; more often than not, that little voice had been right, she reckoned, but just once, she thought, it'd sure be nice to make it shut the hell up for a change.
Nick turned the water off, dried and dressed quickly. He left the door ajar, the steam escaping into the rest of the apartment, the fresh, warm scent fighting with the acrid, cold ones. He brushed his teeth (tried not to notice his reflection), hesitated before opening the door. His mind had raced all morning: Why are you wasting time when you could be there? What difference would it make anyway? Stop wasting time and get there! Does it matter? I'm sorry. Shut up and go, Nicky! God, I'm sorry...
He swallowed hard and opened the door, glanced toward Sara. He grabbed his jacket and keys, pulled on his shoes, headed for the door. He said her name, brought her from her daze and she followed, out of the cold apartment into the warm sunshine.
The blue sky, the white clouds, a soft breeze; a brand new day.
Nick started the engine and clicked on his seatbelt. Once Sara had shut the door he sped off. Sara fastened her own seatbelt, as if her safety mattered much, anymore, and they headed toward the hospital a million miles away, to a cold, sanitary room on the top floor, now housing their boss, their supervisor, their co-worker, and friend; Nick's father figure, mentor, the person he most admired and respected; Sara's meaning and reason, her answers…her hope.
They had stopped to get gas. Grissom got out and she sat in the passenger seat, waited with a smile, curious, nervous, not sure of what would happen next if they were to end the night together. She thought of Nick and felt a kick in her gut, slow at first and then more forceful, that little voice echoing hatefulness, and then pity and shame, and the realization that once he was back in the car, and if the moment came to it, that she'd politely decline and go home. If, of course.
And then she heard the shots, and then he didn't come back.
Gil Grissom, a brilliant scientist who'd made a career of following evidence and chasing bad guys and solving crimes and dealing with death on a day to day and night to night basis, had been shot in an armed robbery attempt.
Neither of them had carried their weapons. By the time she'd gotten inside, past the screaming people, the robber had gone, leaving a young store clerk dead, and Grissom down.
Grissom down. Down for the count. Tick, tock, Sidle. Tick, tock, tick. Down.
There was blood everywhere. Someone on a cell phone, then sirens and police tape and questions. Ambulance, gurney, coroner, glass, shell casings, blood. Everywhere. And no one could tell her anything, it seemed.
She managed to grab his hand, cold and limp, before they shoved him in the back of the ambulance. He smiled an odd smile, and right before they closed the doors and drove off, she heard him say, "Such is life."
Nick pulled into the hospital parking lot and she followed him inside, past the receptionist's desk, down the hall, around the corner, and into the elevator. Up, up, forever up, and then down the hall, around the corner.
Warrick and Catherine were there, talking to Brass. Warrick had his arm around Catherine, no wedding band on his finger; she leaned on him, teary eyed, red nosed, sniffling, nodding, answering the best she could.
Brass stepped back when he saw them coming, Warrick and Catherine turned around. Warrick nodded to Nick and Sara, then walked away with Catherine, probably taking her to a waiting room, or to get some fresh air. Nick stormed up to the room, looked through the glass, and froze when he saw him. Sara followed slowly behind, and Brass patted Nick on the shoulder, bypassed him to talk to Sara again. She'd told him everything, already. God help her, she had. Everyone together, Warrick and Catherine, Brass investigating, Greg on his way, Doc by the phone, lab techs already ordering flowers and balloons, and as of yet, no status report. Live or die? Would he be okay? Would he make it? Was he awake? Could they see him? Did he talk to Brass? Did he see the robber (as if it mattered, now)? Live or die? Life or death? Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…
Live or die, such was life.