Initially, Sara slept well. She listened for a while to the comforting sounds emanating from downstairs – the soft creaks of floorboards and distant murmurs of conversation like a lullaby to her ears – and feeling tucked in her cosy cocoon of home, she let herself drift, and slept so deeply that she did not even wake when Grissom slipped in to join her, sometime afterward. All she knew was that when she did wake, he was there, nestled in beside her like a familiar pocket of warmth, and when she nudged down the covers to get a peek at the room, she knew from deep darkness that it was late.
She lay there a second, enjoying the restful silence, until she realised that her brain had woken her for a reason; and that the stifling heat she felt was not just from snuggling with Grissom. She felt a light sweat on her forehead, and a similar matching dampness on her back and in her groin.
She grimaced as a nausea rose in her stomach; she felt disgusting. She looked briefly to Grissom beside her – just able to make him out amongst the shadows – but decided against waking him. She could go downstairs and get a glass of water and some medication, and then change her clothes and slip comfortably back in bed without him being disturbed, and she had pushed back the blankets and moved to swing her legs out when she felt it – wet flannel clinging to the inside of her thighs.
She froze; the fabric was warm, and with a sense of dread she suddenly realised that the nausea was not from impending sickness, but from a dull cramping ache in her abdomen. It was just like period pain – except that she wasn't menstruating.
"Shit," she whispered.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and tentatively reached down to feel her crotch – and immediately drew her fingers away. Even in the dark she knew the feel of blood; she had been a CSI for far too long.
She was miscarrying.
The thought paralysed her, and for a few long seconds all she could do was heave deep breaths, the world suddenly going topsy-turvy, until she realised that she had to get it together. It was too late; by the size of the damp patch in her pants it was already too late.
She swallowed.
Keep it together, Sidle, she thought. Don't panic.
Her heart felt otherwise, and already she felt it hammering in her chest, but she fought to keep her breaths calm – just as Catherine had trained her to do – and reached out a shaking hand in search of her partner.
"Griss?"
He did not stir, but he had always been a deep sleeper, and he had not slept now for nearly two days.
It occurred to her to go wake Catherine, but the pain in her gut held her still.
"Gil …"
She shook his chest, and felt his muscles wobble as he woke.
"Not tonight, honey," he teased, only half joking.
Evidently he was exhausted, and had no intention of greeting anything but a long string of dreams, but Sara was in no mood for humour.
"I don't want sex, I need your help."
Stay calm, she thought. Do not freak out.
She took a deep breath.
"Gil, I'm bleeding."
That roused him. He had probably been half awake anyway, thanks to her incessant shaking of his chest, but suddenly she had his attention. Like a phone call announcing a new case, the mention of the word 'blood' had woken his brain. Coupled with her tone of voice, and suddenly he was pushing back the blankets, heaving himself up from the pillows.
"Bleeding?"
"I'm wet," she answered. "There's something here."
She felt his hand pass briefly over her sweat-drenched back, but then there were a few jiggles of the mattress, and she heard tell-tale noises of him sorting through items on the bedside table.
"Hold on, I have a light –"
There were a few more bumps and skittles, and something went flying onto the floor before he found it, and he clicked on the flashlight. The soft light bathed the room, and he immediately shone it in her direction.
Sara turned to let the beam fall onto her groin, and she froze.
There was blood everywhere. It had soaked the groin of her favourite grey pyjamas, warm and wet and clinging unpleasantly to her skin, and worse still – there was a matching stain on the white sheets where she had lay.
She saw Grissom's face crumple; a thousand shots of pain flying through his eyes.
"My God," he said.
He reached for her, scrambling across the mattress like a young man again, and with an ease of command that she loved about him – he instantly took control. She saw him flit momentarily on the edge of sheer panic, his eyes wide as he took in the blood, but then his eyes caught hers, and he swallowed it down, holding it back for her sake.
"Stay calm," he said. "Don't panic."
It was useless advice; Sara had already told herself that, and was failing miserably by the minute. Nevertheless she heaved another deep breath; she couldn't afford to hyperventilate and faint on the floor like an idiot.
In a second Grissom was around her side of the bed, and reaching to help her up.
"You need the bathroom," he said. "Stand up, hold onto me."
She welcomed the support; her legs shook like a newborn lamb. His arm was firm around her waist as he escorted her from the room, and Sara had to work hard to ignore the feeling of wetness between her legs as they travelled down the hall to the bathroom. He creaked the door open, shining the light in for her, and helped her straight over to the toilet.
There was no time for modesty; if she stayed on her feet a moment longer she would collapse, and she lowered herself down onto the seat and dropped her pants with a mere feeling of gratitude that it was only Grissom there. He had seen her from every angle already, and loved her enough to be able to handle it.
Her soiled clothes pooled around her ankles, and already he was crouched there, unhooking them from her legs.
"Clean yourself up, but don't touch yourself," he instructed. "We can't have any risk of you getting infected."
She nodded; she had no intention of touching herself, it was hardly a time for masturbation.
She tried to look away from the soiled clothes as he placed them on the bench, and she had remind herself again to hold steady.
Deep breaths, she thought. Don't freak out.
She rested her head on her hand, feeling a slick of sweat on her forehead, and Grissom then took her face between both of his own hands, looking gently into her eyes.
"I'm going to go get you some help. You stay here, and keep taking deep breaths. Remember what Catherine taught you."
"Deep breaths," she said, nodding.
Her chest felt as if it was full of snakes, and she struggled to wrestle it under control. Catherine had shown her, several weeks ago, what to do with her panic attacks, and central to the lesson had been to think of something calm, and breathe steadily.
"I'll be right back," Grissom said.
Sara counted the breaths, staring at a corner of the ludicrous green tiles and focusing there, struggling to retain control exactly as Catherine had taught her to do. She ignored the feeling between her legs, and thought instead of the oak trees outside, and of the grass rippling in the wind, until she heard a few dull thunks up the hallway, and a series of footsteps followed by hushed voices.
"What's up?" Catherine asked.
Evidently the two were stopped outside her door, and Sara had a terrible sense of déjà vu.
"Another panic attack?" she went on.
"A miscarriage," Grissom answered.
There was a horrible silence, broken by further information.
"She woke up bleeding, she has a fever, and she needs a sanitary pad but she doesn't have any. She hasn't used them in months. I thought –"
"We have some," Catherine interrupted. "Hold on –"
There was another ghastly silence, and Sara thought for a moment that she wouldn't make it until they got back, but she steadied the feeling with another deep breath, and a moment later she heard brisk footsteps signalling their return.
Catherine entered first – evidently she had seized control – and she walked in without a scrap of embarrassment, carrying a fresh packet of pads and kneeling down to help before issuing instructions over her shoulder.
"Get her some fresh clothes," she told Grissom.
He disappeared to obey her, and as Catherine crouched in front of her, knees parted, it occurred to Sara that clothes was something that Catherine could have done with too. Though she was regularly undressed in front of them, she wore now only her black lace panties and a grey t-shirt which had obviously only been thrown on for Grissom's benefit. There was no outline of a bra beneath, and she had evidently gone to sleep in nothing but her panties.
Still, Sara was unbothered, and as another cramp took her she let out a long, slow breath, trying to breathe through the pain like a woman in labour.
"Stay calm, breathe through it," Catherine coached, holding her knee. "We'll go get you some painkillers in a minute, soon as Grissom gets back."
It occurred to Sara faintly that she should feel embarrassed, sitting there half naked bleeding in full view of Catherine, and yet she didn't. She felt too sick and nauseous to feel shame; there was simply no room for it. And in any case the ice had already been broken when she had seen Catherine naked the previous night; none of it mattered now.
"Deep breaths, I'm here," Catherine said, stroking her hair as Sara sank her forehead on her knees. She felt impossibly hot and sweaty; if she'd had any energy she would have wanted a cold shower.
She rested there a few seconds until Grissom returned, a fresh pair of pyjamas and underwear slung over his arm, but he had barely had time to look awkward – his eyes passed hesitantly over the sanitary items before Catherine sent him on his next task.
"Get her some painkillers," she said. "And take these to the laundry."
She passed him the scrunched up pile of soiled pants, and he looked momentarily grateful for the reprieve before he disappeared from sight again.
Sara did not begrudge him the act of fleeing; she knew full well that the task at hand was more Catherine's territory. While Grissom often took her clothes off, he rarely put them on again, and he had certainly never had to help her with feminine hygiene. She heard his footsteps go down the stairs, and then Catherine stood, reaching for the fresh clothes.
"Can you manage?" she asked. "Want me to wait outside?"
"You might as well stay," Sara admitted.
She hated to admit that she felt woozy on her feet, and in any case Catherine had already seen it all. She had seen that many things over her lifetime in Las Vegas that a naked body was not even a blip on her radar, and in the nine months since their arrival in their alternate universe she had become a highly professional medic.
Sara was grateful for that now, more than ever.
"If you feel faint, take it slow," Catherine advised, moving to help her up after Sara cleaned herself. "Take it easy."
Sara managed to pull on her underwear herself, and the bits that went with it, but she had to hold onto Catherine for balance to get her new pyjama pants on, and then had to rest for a moment by the sink, as the pain only grew in momentum.
"He'll be back in a sec'," Catherine said, holding her. "I know it's bad."
Sara nodded; she was fast losing interest in talking. She felt ready to throw up or collapse, and she was unsure of the order.
She was relieved when Grissom returned, and he knocked tentatively on the door before handing over a box of painkillers that they had previously set aside for Sofia. Catherine grabbed at them and popped two into her hand, and Sara gulped them straight down with a glass of water. She hoped to God that they would help.
"You want to come lie down?" Catherine offered. "We'll have to monitor the blood loss, but we can make you comfortable."
"Our bed has blood in it," Grissom said, looking doubtful.
"You can use mine. Let's go."
The next half hour passed in a haze of torment and agony. The pain was worse than any period pain that Sara had ever experienced, and she bled far more heavily. Catherine offered her her bed, but Sara felt only worse when lying down, and settled instead for sitting on the floor in front of it, knees arched, steadily losing interest in everything around her. Catherine was an efficient nurse, and made up a cold compress for her head, stripped Grissom and Sara's bed of the bloodied sheets, and made it up all anew again, but even still there was little they could do but wait it out.
After a few minutes Sofia woke, roused by the commotion in the room, and after learning what had happened a look of tortured helplessness crossed her features, and she sat with her a while to help. Nevertheless the only practical thing she could do was to fetch some of Grissom's handkerchiefs for him when Sara started crying, her face buried in her knees as the tears began to slip out, and the reality that she had lost her baby sank horribly in. At that time, when she could no longer stop the saltwater from leaking from her eyes, she began to wish that Sofia and Catherine were not there; as despite her powerful love for them she only wanted Grissom, and he was the one who did not budge from her side for the entirety of the hours which followed.
He sat there with his arm around her, holding her and wiping her tears with the scrunched up hankie, and after a while she saw too, tears in his own eyes. Catherine seemed to sense that they did not want her around – at least not the whole time – and she gave them distance while at the same time doing what had to be done, flitting in every so often to check on the blood loss, to offer more painkillers or a fresh cold compress, and once or twice she followed it up with a kiss to Sara's forehead, reminding her that she wasn't alone.
Sara bled heavily for several hours, in so much pain that she was barely able to move, and when something came out which she guessed must be the cellular beginnings of a baby, she collapsed solidly into sobs on Grissom's shoulder, and he held her, equally miserable, for a long time. It was a painful turning point in their relationship, and after sitting there for a while and knowing that they couldn't flush it, or throw it out, it was Catherine who, tears in her eyes, suggested they bury it somewhere beautiful outside. Sara only learned a long time later that it had been Warrick who had been given the macabre task of digging the grave, Catherine solidly by his side as she helped him, and yet at the time all she knew was that in the morning there was a pretty little grave under Grissom's favourite oak tree, a makeshift cross planted in the soil, and hours later that evening, when Sara was finally back on her feet (weak, but standing), she accepted Nick's offer of saying some prayers over the grave. She sat there for a long while after with Grissom, feeling as if her heart had been torn out, and yet feeling for the first time in her life the importance and value of family, and the extreme value of everything they had carved out in their little patch of life.
It was then that Grissom vowed they could try again – when things were steady – and over the following days a small part of the agony was dimmed by a realistic realisation that to proceed with the pregnancy would have probably cost her her life. She knew then that the rest of the team had never been in doubt about that much – even Grissom had looked at her emaciated figure with fear – and though they suffered right along with her at the loss of the baby, it was accompanied by an unspoken relief that she was going to be okay, and that they had her back amongst them. She had dodged a bullet, and she was still young enough to try again, and it was those logical assessments which allowed her to deal with it.
It was the strangest thing of all that such a day of misery was soon followed by one of the happiest of her life – and that everything she had ever wanted would soon be coming her way – but at the time they did not know that, and they settled in to a few days of much needed psychological rest, oblivious to what was to come.
Nevertheless it did come, and yet again, everything changed.
Hope I won't get shot for what I wrote here, but to anyone concerned, rest assured I am planning a happy ending.
Nevertheless writing is a funny thing; on some occasions I can draft the same chapter ten times and still never get it right, and on others it all pops out perfectly on the first attempt. One day I'll figure it out. Some days it's there, and some days it's not. That's part of the fun, I guess.
Feedback, please? ;)