He was beyond tears now; he had died inside and would never, never heal.
The body was on top of a slightly sloped hill, a cold morning. He had been taking pictures of the man, well defined and in his thirties, death by a bullet. But what bewildered him beyond anything else was the smile on his face, fixed there and yet it looked... forced?
Sara called to him, bringing his attention to the man's knuckles. Defense wounds. He snapped a picture, tilting his head to the side. Did he hear something?
We got a shoeprint here. Size... 10? He stood up from his crouch, face to the ground when he heard it again... closer...
He heard her gasp, and his head snapped up to a man standing tall behind her. His face was hidden by the shadow of a hat, but he could see the shining smile. Smile. Seeing Sara's wide eyes he looked, and he saw it: The knife held tightly to her throat. She struggled, her movements caused by pure fear.
Her fingers were prying at the knife, doing anything to get it away, cutting her fingers as she did so. Blood was dripping, smearing... with a sharp intake of breath the knife pricked her neck, ever so slightly, drawing a drop of blood, bringing a wave of panic.
Cursing himself for standing there he lurched, screaming her name. He heard the shot before he felt it, the excruciating pain as he collapsed, hand on his leg.
Help me Greg, she said, quietly, between choked breaths. Struggling to keep his eyes open and breathing steady he said, with an urgency he didn't know he could feel, I love you Sara. And her face softened, just a bit, as her eyes welled with tears, and his heart skipped a beat.
He was fading, but he reached for her hand, to pull her down, help her... something. He had momentarily grasped her shaking fingers when he heard her cry out, heard the slash of skin, and looked to see her fall to the ground, her face frozen with pain. Blood on her, on the ground, on him... He struggled to stand when he caught a glimpse of the gun, swinging at his head...
He was on the ground now, barely conscious, when he faintly saw the cop running toward him, yelling. Eyes shut by pain he heard, heard the voices and the struggle, and his mind kept screaming You're too late! You're too late!
He slowly opened his eyes, blinking and adjusting to his surroundings. White... a white room. Was that Grissom? And Catherine? He strained to sit up but Catherine gently pushed him down, No, just relax, rest.
He leaned into the pillow and sighed, when it came to him: all the memories of what happened, the pain. He was in a hospital. He shuddered. Looking from Gil to Catherine he asked, voice breaking, Sara?
Catherine bit her lip and looked at her hands as she sat there, and Grissom sighed, straightening himself from leaning against the wall. With sad eyes he looked at him and said just what his heart had feared; She's dead Greg.
Something inside of him broke, and he cried, hot tears that would not be stopped. Grissom turned and quietly left, and Catherine leaned forward and took his hand, holding it as he sobbed.
He barely remembered how he'd gotten to work. He felt numb, and he had hardly been able to focus. He knew he shouldn't be there, not yet, but he wanted to start his routine. Wanted to forget all his pain...
Hearing footsteps he turned from the coffeepot, hoping to see her slim figure, beautiful face. But it was Nick. Holding back the tears he stared ahead, not hearing his co-worker.
Sara had died, and with her, his soul.
Summary: Sometimes you can never, never heal. Never be afraid to say "I love you".
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