A/N: So, last chapter guys... I know it's short, but I hope you all liked it anyways... thanks for the reviews! They're greatly appreciated...
Chapter 3: 'Love Grissom'
When Grissom woke again it was to darkness, the soft breathing of the young boy that shared the room with him, and an intense pain that sent fire raging through his chest. He couldn't breathe for it; the icy finger of fear that slid down into his gut did nothing to quench the burning inferno.
"Sar… Sara," he gasped, tears coming to his eyes as he tried to find the nurse call button but failed in his panic. "Oh God," he moaned, feeling the sweat running down his neck, "Oh, God."
And then suddenly a light came on, and a nurse rushed to his side. She said something, but he wasn't listening; all he knew was the pain.
It seemed like hours passed before the pain began to disappear, and the nurse smiled and patted his arm gently. Her lips moved, but again he heard nothing, and he watched through half-lidded eyes as she rearranged the blankets around him, tucking them in firmly, and then disappeared out the door. The light flicked off behind her.
For a long time afterwards he lay awake, drowsy from the pain meds but unable to sleep, staring into the murky darkness above him.
The next day, when Grissom woke for the third time, he tensed, waiting for the pain. None came, though, and as he relaxed he released a small sigh of relief. It was only then that he noticed he was rather stiff and, lifting the blanket, he discovered that he was taped tightly from armpits to hips.
Broken ribs, he thought to himself. Already he was exhausted from the little bit of exertion. Sighing, he let the covers fall back into place, and shifted his left arm experimentally.
To his dismay, he found it wouldn't move. He tried again, more determined, and his arm lifted about a centimetre from the bed covers before flopping back down as pain surged through his shoulder and wrist. Panting and gasping, he bit his tongue to stop from groaning aloud.
"Mr. Grissom, that's quite enough exercise for you today, I think," a voice rang out from the doorway, and Grissom glanced over to see a doctor and a nurse striding into the room. The doctor looked disapproving, to say the least.
"Just testing," Grissom mumbled by way of explanation.
The doctor shook his head and pulled up a chair, slouching into it as though into a recliner. His gaze held a warning. "I'll be the only one doing the testing around here, Mr. Grissom, you can count on that."
Grissom didn't respond to the jab. Instead, he did his best to relax. "So, what's the prognosis?" he questioned, feeling better almost immediately as he took control of the situation.
"Fairly good, for what you've been through, actually. You've got a slight concussion…"
Grissom frowned, interrupting. "If I have a concussion, why did I sleep through the night?"
"You didn't," the doctor responded, raising an eyebrow. "You were woken every hour. You don't remember?"
Slightly disturbed by this Grissom let out a soft 'no,' and then fell silent as the doctor pulled out a small light and inspected his pupils.
"Well," he murmured after a moment, replacing the light in his pocket, "Does your head hurt?"
"Not really… just feels fuzzy."
"That's not uncommon. Do you know your name?"
Not at all impressed at the sudden question, Grissom nevertheless responded without complaining. "Gil Grissom."
"Where are you?"
"Las Vegas, Nevada, Desert Palms Hospital."
"When's your birth date?"
"August 17, 1956."
"Who's the president?"
"George W. Bush," Grissom grunted, "And I think you've made your point."
The doctor grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and Grissom wished he could smack him. "Fine, fine, take it easy. Just testing…"
Grimacing, Grissom didn't respond, and the doctor became serious again.
"It's fairly normal for there to be memory loss in the hours surrounding the head injury, so I wouldn't worry too much. There's no bleeding so far as we can tell."
"So everything's normal?"
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "quite normal. But we'll be keeping an eye on your for a few more days, anyways; everyone's different, and we just need to make sure."
"I understand," Grissom murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. "What about the rest?"
"The rest, yes… the poor shoulder you were brutalizing a moment ago was dislocated; we've popped it back into place, but it's still going to ache. Not to mention the fact that you've torn the rotator cuff. You're going to need…"
"Physical therapy…" Grissom interjected wearily.
"Yes, yes… and your ribs. You've…."
"Broken…"
"Five ribs and bruised and cracked an assortment of others. I imagine it will be quite painful for a while."
"Lungs?"
"A rib punctured the right one; we drained it and patched it up and got you breathing again easily. It was fairly clean. Why; are you having trouble breathing?"
"Just… aches…"
For the first time, the doctor smiled kindly, and patted his arm, just like the nurse had the previous night. It was the trademark move of health care workers everywhere. "You can thank the pain meds for that, Mr. Grissom."
Getting the hidden meaning, Grissom grimaced. "Mmmm…"
"I get the feeling you'd like to get some sleep, so I'll leave you to it," the doctor grinned. "You'll be woken every hour by the nurse, just like last night. Please do be cooperative."
"Mmmm…" For a moment he hung suspended in darkness.
"Have a good rest," a far away voice whispered, and then it was gone.
When Catherine came to visit that morning at twelve o'clock, she took one look at him and burst into tears.
"Grissom, you son of a bitch, don't you ever do that to me again! I thought you were dead! I thought… no, you were dead! You… you… if you ever do something like this again I'll kill you myself, God damn it! I'll skin you alive and boil you in oil and all that great stuff, and then I'll give your head to Sam as a trophy! I'll… damn you Grissom!" she sobbed, burying her head in his chest so he had to bite back a groan of pain.
"Cath," he gasped, "Catherine, I'm ok. And I'm sorry I caused you so much grief."
"Oh, Gil," she muttered a moment later when she had regained her composure and pulled back, dabbing carefully at her mascara with a tissue.
"Oh, Catherine," Grissom mumbled sarcastically in response, staring down at the black smudge that now adorned the front of his hospital gown.
Giving him a stern look, Catherine sniffed again, and continued dabbing. "Gil, Sara… she was devastated. She thought… well we all thought you were dead. Sara was just so…"
"Catherine," Grissom interrupted, trying to sound as authoritative as was possible while lying on one's back in a hospital bed, "I don't really want to…"
He trailed off as he realized, with some shame, that Sara was standing in the doorway looking awkward and slightly hurt.
Feeling like an idiot, Grissom avoided her pained eyes and Catherine's disapproving glare and fumbled for something to say.
"Sara, I wasn't… I just meant…"
But before he could complete the mangled apology, Sara had pulled up a chair beside Catherine and was silencing him with her own death glare, though it was hardly as scary as Catherine's had been.
"Shut up, Grissom. We'll put this down to the drugs and leave it at that, ok?"
Grissom blinked up at her in confusion for a moment, processing what she had said. "But I was only…"
"And if you don't like that," Sara broke in threateningly, "I'll steal Sam's trophy and give it to Lady Heather."
At that Grissom flushed, and he wished desperately he could disappear – at the very least get up and walk out of the room. But of course neither of those scenarios was an option, and Catherine and Sara were sitting there looking smug; they wouldn't be leaving any time soon. They were enjoying his discomfort too much.
And yet despite those feelings of confusion, embarrassment and irritation he was relieved, too; Sara was laughing off his screw-up. That was something that hadn't happened in a long time – his fault, he admitted it.
But knowing things were starting to work out gave him a good feeling, and suddenly he found himself relaxing, slipping into a comfortable, warm cocoon as the two women made small talk. Every once in a while he would nod, or make some sound of agreement, but for the most part he was silent, soaking up the sound and sight of them; Catherine, one of his best friends, and Sara, his… whatever the heck she is, he finished lamely, his calm disturbed momentarily as he contemplated that.
She was more than just his student or his colleague, he knew that for a fact. It was just a question of whether he acknowledged it at the important moments. He knew he rarely, if ever, did. He often left her hanging, even if all she was doing was making polite conversation. Bitterly, he remembered her words from the other morning.
"Too bad we couldn't get a chopper, at least for the body; then we could hitch a ride."
He had ignored her. And why? It was an innocent comment; just bit of conversation.
Sometimes, he thought he knew why he did such things; but then other times, he was beyond even his own understanding.
Remembering that morning, he suddenly couldn't seem to think of anything else, despite his best efforts to ignore it.
Really, if he were the sort who laid blame, he would be angry with Dean Jamieson for panicking, and Nick and Sara for not being ready for such a reaction. But rather than anger, he felt only sick shock at Jamieson's death, and relief so strong at seeing Sara alive and well that it hurt.
In his mind's eye he could still see her falling; could still feel the ground sliding away underneath him as she slammed into his chest. His body trembled, and his heart thudded hard and fast, his palms wet with fear. Don't think about it, he told himself, just don't think about it. You can't think, remember? The morphine doesn't let you think…
"Grissom, you ok?"
"Fine," Grissom mumbled, "I'm fine."
"No," Sara responded worriedly as her gaze flicked from the wildly beeping heart monitor to his trembling frame, "No, you're not ok."
"I'll get the doctor," Catherine said tersely, hiding her fear behind a purposeful, urgent mask.
"I'm fine," Grissom gasped insistently, struggling to breathe, "I'm really fine." But the pain was back; the morphine was just about out of his system, and the agony and fear were blocking out everything.
"Grissom," Sara whispered gently, pressing her own trembling fingers to the hammering pulse in his neck.
Unsure what she wanted, and still struggling to free himself from the desperate emotions that clutched at him, Grissom stared up at her as though he would die if he looked away.
They stayed that way for hours, it seemed, with the only sounds those of Grissom's harsh breathing and the heart monitor beeping like crazy. Then, finally, Sara moved, reaching forward to touch his cheek. It was then, as his heart rate sped even faster, displayed on the monitor for the whole world to see, that he realized she was wiping away tears – his tears.
Slightly shocked, Grissom lifted his own hand, and their fingers collided.
"Gris," she said, grasping his hand and squeezing gently, "Its ok. Everything's ok. Catherine's gone to get the doctor…"
"Sara," he said hoarsely, painfully, as more tears cascaded down his cheek, "Sara…"
"And Nick's ok," she soothed, "He's going to come visit in an hour or two. He's just got a bandage on one arm; that's it." She smiled. "You guys can trade signatures."
"Sara…"
"And I'm fine, too. You know, you saved my life, Gris, and this whole thing… I thought I had things under control… sort of… but then this… like setting free an ocean of emotion… shit, that sounded stupid… I didn't mean to rhyme… it's corny, really, like that stupid Celine Dion song… you know, show some emotion… set free an ocean… all that crap…"
"Sara, you're babbling," Grissom interrupted, his voice weak and slightly watery.
"Yeah, I know," she laughed, tears now sliding down her own cheeks. "Over-talking."
"Under-talking," he countered with the best smile he could summon in his weakened state as he reached up to return her gesture, wiping away her tears.
"Maybe we should trade," she whispered. "And then everything would balance out."
"Maybe," he returned, swallowing the pain and forcing his eyes to focus on her.
By the time the doctor arrived with Catherine, Sara was sitting with her head resting on Grissom's shoulder, and their clasped hands rested over his heart as she did her best to sooth him and ease the pain.
As the doctor strode forward, snapping out questions, Catherine gaped in shock.
"Are you feeling any pain Mr. Grissom?"
"Yeah… my whole body hurts," was the strained reply.
Yeah right, Catherine thought, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. You've got Sara practically lying on top of you. How can you even think about pain, you big oaf?
"I'm going to give you another shot of morphine, ok?"
"Fine…"
Ha, you don't need it! You're probably high as a kite… on Sara…
She couldn't help but smile, though, as the doctor adjusted the drip and the lines of pain on Grissom's face slowly began to ease. Sara shifted closer to the scientist, leaning forward to whisper something in his ear.
You go Gil, you finally did something right…
Still smirking, Catherine went to lower herself into the visitor's chair that was still parked by the door, but was grabbed and swept out into the hall by the doctor.
"Hey!" she protested loudly.
"He's going to be asleep in a few minutes anyways, Ms. Willows, and they need to have that time to themselves."
"Hell no," Catherine sputtered, "I want to see this! I've waited to see this for years! You couldn't possibly understand!"
Smirking, he kept his hold on her arm. "I think I do, Ms. Willows. Come on. I'll buy you a coffee."
"Damn it!" Catherine complained as she trailed after him, "If I'd known all I had to do to get them together was almost kill Grissom I would have done it years ago!"
"'S Cath gone?" Grissom mumbled, with his eyelids drooping as the morphine began to work.
"Yeah," Sara smiled, "Though she didn't go willingly."
"No surprise…" His mouth quirked up in a smile. He felt wonderful. The pain was gone, his team was safe, and Sara was holding his hand. What more could he ask for?
"Be here?" he slurred.
For a moment she was confused. Then she smiled as she understood. "Yeah, I'll be here when you wake up."
"Kay."
As he drifted off, he smiled. Sara's fingers ran through his hair rhythmically as she pressed a kiss to his temple.
"I'll be here when you wake up," she whispered again. "Are you gonna be here?"
Even flying on pain medication, he knew what she meant, and clumsily gathered her free hand to his chest once again.
"Mm-hmm," he mumbled, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Buy you… whole bunch of… plants…"
"And sign them with something more eloquent than 'from Grissom?'"
"Yup…"
"All right then," she smiled. "I'll definitely be here."
"'Love Grissom.'"
She blinked. "Huh?"
"'Love Grissom.'"
"Gris," she whispered. But he was asleep. And then she was crying again; crying and laughing. "Yeah," she said softly, into his ear, "Yeah, 'love Grissom' sounds a lot better than 'from Grissom.' But you still have to write a message, buddy. I won't let you get away with anything less."
The End