"Lorazepram," ordered Freya, her gaze on the monitors as Gil stood pressed against the wall, sidelined as the professionals waded in to help Sara.

"Her lungs are compromised," argued one of the nurses. Freya spun to glare at her and the nurse shrank away in discomfort.

"She's already ventilated," Freya was remarkably calm, despite the urgency of the situation and opposition from her subordinate. She injected the drug into the IV port and stood back slightly, scribbling notes before turning to talk to Gil.

"Why did this happen?" he asked, not even realizing he was clutching his inured arm protectively against his chest.

"Probably because of the fever," she replied, taking in his gray pallor and the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, as well as they stiffness of his posture and the grimace of pain marring his face. "When was your last dose of pain meds?" she asked him, reaching to take his pulse.

"No idea," he replied, distractedly. "What happens now?" he wanted to know, eyes on Sara who was still seizing.

"If there's no effect in ten minutes, we give her another dose, and if that doesn't work, I'm calling the anesthesiologist down here to change the level of sedation." Freya moved across the room and picked up the phone, calling up to Grissom's ward to enquire about pain killers, receiving a promise from Joan to be down in a minute.

…

Two doses of Lorazepram turned out to be sufficient, and calm returned to the room. Joan appeared bearing the promised pain relief and dinner. She said nothing about him returning to his bed, instead tucking blankets around him and leaving again with a gentle hand on his shoulder and an understanding nod.

As the sun slipped below the horizon and night fell, Gil stayed in the chair, Sara's hand in his, dozing on and off, never really sleeping or waking, just lost in the in-between world of semi consciousness. Nurses bustled about their business and doctors came and went, measurements were taken, exams conducted and reactions monitored; all testament to the twenty-four hour nature of the hospital business and its unending demands of round the clock patient care. The hours wore on gradually, and Gil found himself laying his head down next to Sara again, his back twisted at an impossible angle so he could press his lips to her temple. His eyes closed as he drank in her warmth and proximity, eventually succumbing, in the early hours of predawn haziness, to something akin to real slumber.

…

Greg spent the evening in the hallway outside the ICU. Having spent the majority of the day calling insurance companies, the university, the local police department and more, he had arrived late in the afternoon to disaster. Jenni, about to go off shift, had filled him in and left, tears in her eyes. They wouldn't let him in the room, so he stood outside, watching the seventeen terrifying minutes of convulsions and then, as Sara settled back down, alternating between laying along the length of a row of chairs, and getting back up to peer through the window again.

Around seven he woke with a crick in his neck and a craving for coffee. A quick check on Griss and Sara told him they were both still sleeping, so he drove back to the cottage to shower, walk the dogs and feed the menagerie. He sat at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to brew, munching his way through a bowl of cereal and watching the fish swim circles around its plant. Last time he'd been here, he had seen Sara sit for half an hour watching her fish, entranced by the tranquil nature of its lazy swimming. He had to admit, Shakespeare was pretty, and very calming to watch. It was too bad he couldn't take the fish and put him in Grissom's room, he mused. His former boss could certainly use help relaxing. His moment was shattered when Juliet scrambled up beside him and stuck her nose in his bowl, intent on stealing the milk.

"Hey you," he scolded, "get down or I'll get accused of letting you develop bad habits." The cat sat back and looked up at him, the very picture of a sad, pitiful, deprived little thing.

…

Gil sat up and let out a loud groan before he could stop himself. All of his muscles were stiff and sore, and his head was fuzzy. He may have slept a little, but in no way had it been restful.

"Here," said a gentle voice, and a cup of something steaming hot was pressed into his hands. He took a tentative sip and sighed in gratitude, blinking blearily as he focused his gaze. Freya was back on shift, as was Jenni, who had given him the tea. She also had his morning medication cocktail and breakfast.

"What time is it?" he croaked.

"A little after nine," she replied. "Look," she pointed to the monitors. He squinted at the numbers, suppressing a yawn and then gasped. Sara's temperature had fallen to 103.2. His gaze swiveled to his wife, who appeared to be peacefully sleeping, and then to Freya, who grinned at him.

"It worked," she practically crowed. "The fever is still falling, though it has slowed a little in the last couple of hours, but the antibiotics have taken hold. There's slight improvement in her oxygen saturation, and we're giving her less insulin to combat the hyperglycemia." He stared at her, speechless. Jenni smiled at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement before giving him a gentle one armed congratulatory hug.

"I told you she would fight," she said.

"I agree," nodded Freya, "Sara dear, you are one tough lady." She turned to Gil. "The respiratory team will be back later, to assess her progress and determine any changes in treatment."

"I'll be here," he promised.

"Yes," agreed Jenni, "but in the meantime, you have a meeting of your own with physical and occupational therapy to evaluate where you're at in terms of your freedom. So, eat up and I'll be back in half an hour or so to get you. You need a shower and shave; Thistle is coming to see you as well!" Grissom gawked at her sudden bossiness. She laughed and pointed at his breakfast.

"Gil, as pleasurable as it's been looking after you, I'd like to see you get out of here," she told him. Freya chuckled at his expression.

"I'd like to transfer Sara up to Jenni's care in a couple of days or so," she told him. "Once her fever is gone and she's off the ventilator."

"Thank you," he murmured, overcome with gratitude, "both of you, for everything." Jenni rolled her eyes and handed him a spoon. Freya turned back to Sara, walking through the remainder of her morning checklist, a smile shining in her eyes.

…

"Grissom, good morning!" Thistle swept into his room and nodded approvingly at the sight of him washed, dressed and sitting in a chair with a crossword on his lap.

"Hello," he replied. "This is Greg, he's here visiting and helping out for a couple of weeks," as he spoke he indicated his friend, sprawled in a chair on the other side of the room. Greg raised a hand, waved, and promptly went back to his nap.

"Very good," approved Thistle. "Now, let's see that shoulder. The last set of images looked excellent." She watched with a hawk's eye as he removed the sling himself and then slid one arm out of his zip up hoody. She poked, prodded and manipulated, her long fingers probing for any sign of trouble.

"Excellent," she said at last. "The wounds have healed beautifully; I would expect the scars to fade within a year. You can forgo any bandaging now, but I want you to wear this at all times." She produced a new sling which fastened diagonally across his chest as well as around his waist, providing more support. She demonstrated how to put it on, adjusting the straps patiently until she was satisfied with a perfect fit, and then made him put it on and take it off twice, until she was satisfied with his ability.

"Very good, I'll see you again in six weeks to check your progress. I dare say I shall see you in the meantime though, in relation to Sara's care." He nodded, slightly startled, having forgotten in the wake of all the drama of the last few days that Thistle had operated on Sara also.

"I can't tell you how glad I was to hear this morning how much better she's doing," she said kindly.

"Thank you," smiled Gil. "Me too."

"And Little Bug," continued the surgeon, a look of fondness on her face. "I went to see her last night at the end of my shift, she's absolutely adorable." Gil gaped at her and she laughed.

"Nearly all of the staff here are following the story of your family," she explained. "It's an unusual situation; there are a lot of people rooting for your recovery."

"I don't know what to say," he murmured, touched. Thistle put a hand on his good shoulder, her penetrating gaze settling on his.

"You don't have to say anything," she said. "We do this because we care, and because the biggest reward any of us could ever hope for is to see our patients go home happy and healthy."

Moments later he watched her walk out, feeling a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with mending ribs.

…

An hour later he was waiting impatiently for the physical and occupational therapists to leave so he could go and visit Rowen, and then Sara. Greg, now awake and fully refreshed, watched with amusement as Grissom squirmed in his chair while the two women sent to assess him chattered and scribbled on clipboards. When they left, he sighed loudly in frustration, anxious to get to the NICU.

"Want to sneak out?" asked Greg, feeling sorry for him. Grissom nodded and together they sidled out of the room and down the hallway; passing the nurses' station Greg mouthed their destination to Hannah behind the desk, with whom he'd had several conversations in the last few days. She winked and nodded, struggling not to grin at the determined look on Gil's face.

When they arrived, Alice was talking to Shawna; both women looked up at the same time and nodded greetings.

"Is everything alright?" Grissom asked as soon as they were within earshot.

"Absolutely," answered Alice. "I'm actually up here to speak with another patient's parents. I just had a quick look at Little Bug, and she's doing great." She spoke with them for a couple of minutes, and then excused herself to her meeting. Shawna filled them in on a couple of small changes, all signs of improvement, and left them to sit with Rowen.

"Hey Little Bug," cooed Greg, his fingers on the plastic.

"Not you too," sighed Gil. Greg glanced over at him.

"It's very catchy, and very apt," he shrugged. "She is your daughter, and she's so tiny I have to agree with them. She looks like a Little Bug."

Grissom studied Rowen, considering. Today she had on a white cap with a rainbow of happy ants crawling around the fabric. Maybe they were right, he mused, feeling the name grow on him.

The two of them lingered over the incubator for a long time, chatting softly, or sitting in companionable silence, imagining what the future held, until Greg glanced at his watch.

"Griss, we should head back. It's lunch time, and Jenni will be mad if you don't eat." With a sigh, Gil pushed himself out of his chair and they trudged back to his ward. Jenni saw them coming and stood with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed disapprovingly at his escape. He smiled contritely and slid past her into the room.

"How was Little Bug today?" she asked, following him and watching as he sat down and began to eat his lunch. Greg snorted with laughter at her use of the nickname, and Grissom shot him a look.

"She's doing ok," said Greg as Gil chewed a mouthful. "Shawna and Alice are happy with her progress."

"Good," Jenni was pleased. "I have more news," she continued, still looking at Grissom. "You get to go home tomorrow."

"All right," cheered Greg. Gil swallowed and smiled happily.

"Finally! No offense," he glanced at Jenni, "but I was starting to get sick of this room."

"None taken; I'll be glad to see you go! It means I've done my job right." She turned to Greg and began to give him a list of instructions about everything he would need to know and do.

…

That evening he sat with Sara again, staying beside her with her hand in his long after Greg had gone back to the cottage. His thumb made idle circles on the back of her hand as he spoke softly about the day. Her skin was much cooler to the touch now; during the day her fever had continued to drop to the present 101.9 and the dialysis machine had been removed, leaving only two small dressings on her arm where the needles had been as a reminder. One of the nurses had given her a sponge bath and applied moisturizer to her dry skin. She was still sedated, and ventilated, but the room held a much calmer atmosphere and outlook. For the first time in days he felt peaceful and able to relax, knowing imminent disaster wasn't lurking around the corner. He simply sat, enjoying her presence and the lack of fear. It was well after eleven when Joan came to shoo him back to his own bed. With the crises averted, she told him, it was high time he had a decent night's sleep.

…

Ten am rolled around briskly, despite his colorful dreams and constant waking to check the time. The promise of freedom, and the ability to visit his girls as he pleased was inducing fervent impatience. Greg leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he listened to Jenni lecture Grissom yet again on the do's and don'ts of his release. Finally the discharge paperwork was presented and signed, and prescriptions handed over, along with the standard post hospitalization care sheets and injury specific take home information. Above all else, he was told, rest was the key to recovery.

Walking out of the room felt strange, as though a binding of some sort had just been stripped away. The first stop was the NICU, to sit with Rowen and daydream about what it would feel like the first time he and Sara were able to hold her. He watched her sleep, studying the tiny complexity of her perfect fingers and toes, right down to the minute nails and clenched knuckles.

They sat with Sara next, telling her about his release, and the promise that she would soon be moved back into Jenni's care again. They spent the day alternating back and forth between his girls, and Gil found himself longing for the moment when the three of them could finally all just be in the same room together.

It was shortly after seven before Greg was able to convince Grissom it was time to go home for the evening; he could tell exhaustion was setting in from the slight tremor of Griss' fingers and the way his shoulders hunched forward. With resignation, Gil agreed, kissed Sara on the cheek, and followed him out to the car. Stepping out into the warm evening however, he paused, looking around.

"What's wrong?" asked Greg, concerned. Grissom stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head.

"Nothing; I was just thinking that it's been fourteen days and something like eleven hours since the last time I was outside. It feels strange. I'd forgotten what a breeze feels like on my face, and what summer smells like."

…

By the time they made it home Gil was truly drained and ready to sleep for an eternity. Walking through the doorway he was assaulted by the feeling of what life was supposed to be like. The comforts of the cottage, and the hints of their marriage that were spread around in the little accents Sara had added here and there, like framed photographs and plants decorating the surfaces. He caught a glimpse of Socks curled on the sofa but then his senses were impaired by the thunder of paws on the floor and the hysterical barking of two overexcited dogs.

He negotiated his way into a chair, and leaned forward to greet them both. Hank stuck his nose straight into his hand in glee, craving an ear rub. Lucy, absolutely beside herself, climbed up onto the chair and into his lap, sniffing him from top to toe. He laughed and wrapped an arm over her back and around her chest, holding her firmly to stop her moving and make petting her easier. Her tail wagged madly, thumping his back over and over. Hank shuffled as close as possible and dropped his head down on Gil's knee, staring up at him in that way only a dog can stare at its favorite person.

Eventually Greg shooed the pair of them out into the garden in order to give Grissom a chance to breathe. When he returned, he found Romeo and Juliet had taken up the assault instead. Romeo was perched on his good shoulder, paws on Grissom's head, sniffing his hair, and Juliet's back legs were balanced on the chair arm while the rest over her had vanished inside the sling. Greg roared with laughter and pulled out his phone, snapping a photo of the chaos before heading to the kitchen to get some dinner.

Mrs. Wallis, the neighbor who's truck Sara had fixed on their first day in New Hampshire, had been following Gil and Sara's progress through Greg and, upon hearing of Grissom's return home, had gone into culinary overdrive, filling the refrigerator with home cooked readymade meals and snacks. Greg heated two bowls of pasta bake and slices of frozen garlic bread and carried them through into the family room, where Grissom had managed to coax Socks over to sniff his fingers.

They ate quietly and then Grissom excused himself to go to bed.

"Nope, not yet," insisted Greg. He rooted in the bag they had brought home with them and pulled out several bottles. "Meds first," he ordered. Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"I told you I was here to help you," smirked Greg. "That includes looking after you if needs be." Grissom opened his mouth to protest then shut it, thanked Greg and took the offered pills before bidding the young man goodnight and retreating to his room. He showered slowly, washing away the hospital and the pain and indignities of treatment, not emerging until he felt much more like himself. He stared into the mirror, studying his reflection with a frown.

He looked much the same, and wondered if he had expected something else. He needed a haircut, and the bone deep exhaustion he felt was clearly evident. There was something else though; his eyes were the giveaway, he decided. They told a story of emotional upheaval and vast change in a man who had resisted change for so long. They spoke of loss, sorrow and struggle. There were hints of pain and worry, of enduring despair. But there was also love; an overwhelming desire to love and be loved.

Overcome with exhaustion and emotion, he slid into bed and pulled Sara's pillow to his chest. Though neither of them had slept in the bed for two weeks, he breathed the scent of her deep into his lungs and pressed his face to the fabric, his eyes squeezed shut at the sudden onslaught of tears. He made no effort to stop them, instead letting the last two weeks roll away from him, cleansing his soul as the shower had his body. When the last drop of emotion left him, he slept; a deep and dreamless sleep, the kind that restored the body and refreshed the mind.

...

...

So Sara's on the mend...

Please, R&R

hugs, Got Tea?