Author's note: To everyone who reviewed chapter one - thank you so much for taking the time to respond to this! Contrary to what it seems, it really does inspire me to keep writing. I had every intention of updating this story long before now, but real life got in the way. I plan to update soon, and would so appreciate any feedback!
drakien - thanks for the tip about Albuferon! I'll have to look into it!
Moments of Truth
Chapter Two
Gil Grissom had always loved books.
He preferred books to online research.
Truth be told, he also preferred books to people, more often than not.
Today books weren't enough. It might have been that he had an emotional investment in Hepatitis C now, and it was clouding his mind. Or maybe it was just that his books were outdated. Whatever the reason, he found himself needing more than his books could give him.
And so he turned to an old friend.
"I'll tell you what I can, Gil." Dr. Robbins offered. He looked expectantly at Grissom across the empty autopsy table, waiting.
"I've been doing some reading on the subject," Grissom said evenly after a moment. "I think I'm clear on most of the details. I've brushed up on the symptoms and the treatments…" Dr. Robbins' eyes narrowed, intrigued, when Grissom paused briefly.
"Is this about the Branston case?" Dr. Robbins asked, curious.
"No." It was simple and direct. Grissom's tone conveyed a subtle 'don't ask', and Dr. Robbins didn't. "What I'm not sure I'm entirely clear on is the transmission of the virus."
"The virus is transmitted through blood. It's nothing particularly complicated or unusual, Gil. What specifically is puzzling you?"
Grissom looked over at Dr. Robbins, wondering how exactly to phrase his questions. It wasn't that he didn't understand how the virus was transmitted, but rather that he wasn't sure how it might apply to Sara.
"I'm just looking for confirmation on a few things," Grissom explained. "For starters, most commonly transmission is through blood transfusion or drug use?"
"Well, admittedly I haven't read any recent studies, but generally yes to the drug use. The sharing of contaminated syringes is the number one cause, but if memory serves that includes tattooing. Blood transfusion transmission hasn't been prevalent in about fifteen years, thanks to extensive screening."
"But the virus often presents no symptoms, quite possibly for years," Grissom pointed out. His working theory was that a never-mentioned, long-ago blood transfusion was the culprit and the disease had simply gone undetected over a long period of time.
"Something like four out of five patients don't experience any symptoms at all. Of course, if the disease progresses or contributes to cirrhosis or liver cancer, that can all change. Abdominal pain, weight loss, nausea, fatigue, blood clotting problems --"
Grissom held up his hand to stop Dr. Robbins from continuing.
He knew only too well.
"So in theory, then," Grissom pushed on, forcing himself to at least appear detached. "A patient experiencing symptoms now could have had a transfusion several years ago, before the screening processes were in place."
"Sure. It's possible. Certainly not the only explanation, though. There are rare cases of mother to child transmission, and very rare cases of sexual transmission."
That caught Grissom's attention sharply, and he slowly shook his head, in confusion rather than disagreement. He had ruled out sexual transmission.
"Hep C is transmitted through blood," Grissom stated simply.
"Right."
"Not semen."
"Well, there are studies that would like to contradict that. But generally I'm inclined to agree with you."
"Then…?" Grissom left the question open-ended, his mouth hanging open slightly.
Dr. Robbins reported the rest in his usual impersonal way. As far as he knew they were talking about a case, or perhaps a theoretical victim.
Not one of their own.
Not Sara.
"The sexual activity would have to be unusual," Dr. Robbins informed Grissom. "Rough, violent, to the point of an exchange of blood."
Grissom swallowed hard.
"Rape."
"Likely."
…
It made so much sense that it hurt.
Alone in his office, Grissom mulled it over, staring miserably at everything and nothing.
He'd told himself for years that Sara reacted strongly to rape cases because she was a woman.
But Catherine was a woman, too. And he'd worked with other women.
Sara was the only one he'd ever seen in tears over a rape case. Sara was the only one who identified with the victims so intensely that it threatened to break her.
Pamela Adler… Suzanna Kirkwood… Both cases came to mind immediately, though they weren't the only ones. Both had haunted Sara.
Maybe a lot of things haunted Sara.
Grissom rubbed his eyes tiredly for a moment, trying to ignore what felt like a pit of acid rolling around in his stomach.
He wouldn't interrogate her about this. She didn't deserve that.
But he couldn't just sit there, either.
Before long he found himself locking up his office and heading out to the parking lot.
And when he pulled out of the lot and onto the street, he turned toward her place rather than his.
…
Sara slowly swung open the door. Grissom didn't have the words he needed.
It was a familiar feeling. He'd never had the words, particularly when it came to caring about her.
"I'm doing okay," Sara said quietly, answering an unasked question, letting him off the hook like so many times before.
For just a few seconds, she watched him watch her. His face betrayed very little.
He was taking in the sad little smile she gave him, the pallor of her skin, the silence and stillness of the moment as they stood there on opposite sides of her door.
And he was wondering if maybe, just maybe, somehow the gut instinct that told him how she'd acquired the disease could be mercifully wrong.
"Do you want to come in?"
"Yes."
He waited for her to turn and go into her apartment before he followed.
"Can I get you something? Coffee? Water? That's really all I've got."
Even her voice was tired, and they both heard it.
"I'm fine," he told her softly, and they fell into silence again.
She stood leaning against her desk, and it occurred to him that she was too proud to let him think she was too tired to stand, and so he sat down hoping she would follow suit.
Sara took the other end of the couch.
"May I ask you something personal?" Grissom asked after a moment, and Sara tensed.
"You can ask, but I make no guarantees about answering." Her tone was light, but there was something wary underneath.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
She watched, waited, prepared to build up defensive, figurative walls at record speed if he went there.
"Do you have any family nearby?" He asked, settling on something less intrusive and personal than how she acquired the disease, for both of their sakes.
"No," she answered him, breathing a little bit easier. "But that's been working for me for years."
"Friends in the neighborhood?"
Sara smiled a wry little smile.
"My sunshiny personality doesn't exactly attract friends in droves." She left it at that, but something made her continue, to clarify again. "Like I said, it's been working for me."
"I want you to feel free to call on me," he said very seriously. "I want to be…" Grissom searched for the appropriate word, something that meant enough but not too much. "Available. To you."
"I appreciate that," she said, nodding slightly as she spoke, in a way that emphasized what she was saying. "I do."
Their eyes locked, and when it was too intense he tore his gaze away.
"How are you doing?" He finally got around to asking the obvious question, and she shrugged her heavy shoulders and turned a thoughtful gaze on the floor.
"I'm still here. This still sucks. My head really isn't in a talking-about-it place just yet. Work helps." The truth was that work was hard, physically, to get through. But mentally, it helped. It filled her mind in a familiar and distracting way, and that was a blessing.
As if on cue, both of their pagers started screeching simultaneously, hers on an end table nearby and his attached to his belt.
"419, triple, Summerlin, all hands on deck" she read aloud, automatically filling in the words for abbreviations. The address flashed on her pager screen, and she looked up to find Grissom's eyes were worried. (Or was that concerned?)
"I can do this," she told him firmly, understanding the question in his expression immediately.
"I could cover for you with Ecklie, if you want to keep all of this to yourself for a little while longer," he offered.
"What I want is to work," she told him pointedly, and he gave her a slightly incredulous look. "What? I'm doing okay today. I can handle printing or swabbing some -"
"Summerlin? Triple? The press will be milking it for all it's worth and more, and the interference of the Sheriff and -"
"All of which you can handle! Or, better yet, have Catherine handle!"
"I don't know if it's a good idea."
"She's good with the politics -"
"Sara, you know what I'm talking about -"
"Look, Grissom, I didn't have to come to you with this!" Sara nearly yelled, panicking a little bit at the thought that her precious career could be slipping away even sooner than expected. "I could have just kept working!"
"We're talking about hours working the most grueling kind of case -"
"I can handle it! I can do this, Grissom, I promise you I won't screw up, I -"
"I'm just concerned -"
"You don't need to be! I would remove myself before I ever let the evidence be compromised! You should know that about me by now -"
"I do -"
" – and I came to you as a friend, so pulling rank on me right now with a call like this is just -"
"Sara!" Grissom finally raised his voice, cutting her off sharply, and she quieted and took a deep breath.
She fixed a stony look on him, but when tears pooled in her eyes the defiance disappeared, and all he could see was a silent plea – don't take this away from me!
"I trust you," he said softly but emphatically, and he leaned in just a little bit closer when a lone tear rolled down her cheek. "I do know you better. I'm worried about you. Not the case."
"That's a first," she nearly whispered, a little bit thrown, her eyes studying his.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and gently brushed the trail of her tears with his thumb.
"No it's not."
…
"Catherine?"
"Hmmm?"
"Have you seen Sara?"
"Printing," Catherine answered distractedly, staring intently at the blood drops on the floor in front of her.
"She was printing," Grissom told her. "Now she's M.I.A."
"Washroom break?" Catherine suggested without looking up, and Grissom sighed and looked around the room.
He had relented and let Sara make the decision for herself, and he'd left her working the interior with Catherine and Warrick after securing a promise from her that she would stop if she needed to.
Of course, he had hoped she wouldn't need to.
"Sara? She was dragging," Warrick offered from his place by the door, tweezers in hand.
"Dragging?"
"Looked real tired. Working kind of slow. Said something about going to find Greg."
"Thanks," Grissom told Warrick over his shoulder, and then he was off to find Greg himself.
Greg found him instead, as soon as he stepped outside.
"Everything okay with Sara?" Greg's voice asked from somewhere behind Grissom, and Grissom spun to face him.
"Where is she?"
"I don't think she's feeling so good."
"Greg, where did you see her?"
Greg pointed, and Grissom turned to look. From his vantage point all he could see was her legs hanging out the open door of their crime lab on wheels, which was thankfully all but hidden from the press across the yard. He quickly approached and found her sitting on the floor of the vehicle, her right hand pressed firmly against the right side of her abdomen, and her jaw clenched.
It seemed she was waiting, quietly enduring something foreign to him, and his voice was tentative when he spoke.
"Sara?"
She looked up, but said nothing.
"Can I do something?" he asked.
Sara just shook her head, indicating 'no'.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment, her eyes on the ground, and he sat down next to her.
"Don't be. I'll get Nick to run with your prints."
"I'm okay, I just needed a minute," she protested, but there was no insistence in her tone, no fight left in the empty words.
He sat with her, close to her in the small space, with their legs nearly touching and his warm hand covering hers.
It occurred to him that never in his life had he been so distracted from his work. Even more surprising was the fact that he barely noticed, barely even cared.
He chose his words carefully, and let them hang there in the air between them.
"I would really like to take you home."
She wasn't sure what to do with that at first, but she opted to ignore the tenderness of his tone… just for the moment, just until she was sure it was really there.
"You've got a triple homicide to deal with."
"Catherine would gladly take over."
"If you want me to go home you can have Greg or a uniform drop me at my place," Sara pointed out meaningfully, watching him.
He waited a beat before answering.
"I'd rather take you myself."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see for myself that you're there and you're okay and you're getting some rest."
"Why?"
She was gently testing him, intentionally pushing him, looking for a reaction, and they both knew it.
So many times she'd done that and he had backed off.
But things were different now.
Up was down and down was up and priorities had changed and consciousness of time passing and time slipping away ruled his thoughts.
And so he said it.
Nothing elaborate.
But enough.
The moment's simple truth.
"Because I want to be with you right now."