Title : WHEN THE DEAD AWAKEN
Chapter Seven
Sara.
He noticed her as soon as he entered the room, her falling hair shielding her
face from view. She was leaning over the table next to Nick, her hands lightly
slipping across plastic and wrapped murder weapons. The arch of her back made
her top slide up slightly and revealed skin. His fingers could still remember
the feel of that skin and for a moment, he merely stood, remembering.
He had awoken to think her a dream, had he not been in her bed where the warmth
of her was still on the sheets. She had been there. He had not dreamt her, for
all it had felt as a dream.
He remained in the doorway, just taking in the sight of her, trying to sort out
his confused feelings. What to say now? There was a thousand things he might
say, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them wrong.
And the one which might be right he was not even sure he could say.
I think I love you, but I'm afraid.
"Grissom," Nick said and Sara's back tensed. But when she turned, her face was
composed and he could read nothing from it. Her eyes were dark, but betrayed
very little. Not for the first time, he wished he could read her mind, know the
shadows that lurked in her thoughts so that he may banish them.
"I heard you found a knife," he said, walking into the room at last.
"Yeah. But why is there a knife with Tara's blood on? She was shot," Nick
pointed out, shaking his head slightly.
"She was also stabbed," Catherine replied, entering with a file held high,
Warrick in tow. "Coroner's report."
"Before or after?" Grissom asked, picking up the plastic wrapped knife. The
blood had dulled slightly on it, but the steel glinted as sharply and deadly as
ever.
"She was still alive, so just before or just after." Catherine slipped down on a
chair, giving Warrick an unreadable look as she did.
"By her shooter - or someone else?" Grissom muttered. His brain flashed him
images of the steel plunging into flesh, but he pushed them away. He was good at
that.
"The fingerprints were Victoria's," Catherine commented lightly, but her voice
betrayed her calm.
"I found some fibres that did not match anything Victoria was wearing," Warrick
shot in.
"A third," Sara said thoughtfully. She tapped a finger lightly against the
table, her forehead frowned. They all looked troubled in one way or another,
Grissom noted. This case was like a million others, yet not. Change was swirling
around him and he did not know how to feel abot it all, least of all Sara. Or
himself. Evidence was predictable in its course, analyzed, stamped and
categorized. Life was not, for all he had tried.
"Let us go back to the first victim," he heard his own voice say, sounding
strangely detached. "Why did she die where she did?"
"Frank Jones found her in his yard, but he denied all knowledge of her," Nick
said, flipping through a few papers. "There wasn't anything indicating he was
lying."
"Maybe he knew Victoria?" Sara suggested.
"I'll hear with Brass," Catherine replied immidiately, whirling her chair around
to get up in a heartbeat. She seemed strangely energized, angry and intense all
at once. Warrick followed her after a second's hesitation, the two vanishing in
a whirlwind of energy and Grissom wasn't sure who was the shadow of the other.
A day ago, he might have wondered why. A day ago was not today. And he could
hardly reproach Catherine when he was doing much the same as her. Chasing the
shadows of a colleague, chasing the shadows of passion.
"I'll see how our boy Greg is doing," Nick said casually, but almost too
casually. He gave Sara a look before exiting, one she returned with the same
calm she had approached everything this day. Grissom wondered what her calm was
hiding, what storms were swirling in her mind.
The silence was awkward, but words seemed denied him. He did not know which
words would heal her, if such words even existed.
"Sara..." he started and halted, wondering quietly why her name was such a
caress.
"Don't," she said quietly. She still did not look at him and she seemed even
more distant than before.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he paused again, helplessly. Didn't mean to
what? Seduce her? Kiss her? Come to her?
"You're sorry." Her voice was hard, edged, but seemed strangely emotionless.
Once, he might have wanted her this calm and void of feeling, now he almost
wanted to shake her till the ice fell from her voice. "Why then?"
"I want you to be happy," he blurted out.
"Is that what this is about?" she said calmly, as hard as ice. "Giving me
something to live for? Giving me your body as some sort of offering?"
"No," he protested, but she plunged ahead.
"I don't want to live for you, Grissom." She shook her head slightly, and only
then did he noticed how hard her hands were pushed together, almost as if pain
helped her feel calm.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly and reached for her hands, carefully prying
them apart to hold them in his. She froze for a moment, then let him. He could
not help but let a thumb gently stroke her skin and she let out a slow breath.
Finally, she looked up. Her eyes swirled with shadows and hurt.
"I want you, Grissom. Just you. But you give yourself to no one," she whispered.
"You could... Hurt me," he said haltingly. Every word seemed to struggle against
being uttered, but her eyes seemed to lure them out. He owed her this, at least.
For all done and said. For all that had not been.
"Life is pain, Gil," she said softly, his first name warm on her lips despite it
all.
"It doesn't have to be."
"Yes," she replied, her voice hoarse. "It has to be."
She pulled her hands free and stood up, and he could not stop her. "I cannot do
this, whatever this is. I cannot keep taking one step forwards and two back. Not
on top of everything else."
"I don't want you to walk away," he said quietly, looking down. To his surprise,
he felt her hand on his head, lightly stroking through his hair. But when he
looked up a moment later, she had left and only the vague scent of her lingering
proved she had even been there.