Fandom: CSI Rating: PG Pairing: G/S Summary: Post-ep for the Season Seven finale. Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All other characters are my invention, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. Spoilers: through "Living Doll" I'm so glad people are enjoying this--it's been a while since I've posted a chapter fic.  Thanks for trusting me! ********* It was not one of his team who interrupted him, but Brass.  The captain rapped sharply on the doorframe, not stopping until Grissom looked up.  “Gil.”   Grissom pulled off his ALS goggles.  “You have news?”   Jim’s grim expression did not offer hope.  “Not from her.  We’ve got three different shrinks working on her, but she’s giving up bupkis.”   Grissom cursed softly, fury welling up at his own clumsy handling of Natalie.  He thought briefly of the girl’s first foster mother.  “I broke her, didn’t I?”   Jim shrugged.  “My opinion?  She wasn’t stable to begin with.  She got what she wanted from you and now she’s shut down.”   Grissom sighed and set down the ALS.  “We don’t have a lot of time, Jim.  If Sara’s even still--“   His throat closed over the word.  Jim rubbed tiredly at his face with the palms of both hands.  “We’ve got everybody working on this one--PD, S&R, even the local Feds.  The Sheriff doesn’t want another PR disaster like Nick’s.”   “There’s twenty-two thousand square miles to search,” Grissom said softly.  “The odds…”   He trailed off.  Without clues, it was blind searching, and only random chance could lead them to the actual scene.  They had to have more data.   “Look, everyone’s doing everything they can,” Jim said.  “You know that.  Dayshift’s been called in to follow up any leads on Davis’ actions the past few days, and Sofia’s looking over their shoulders to make sure they do it right.  All other cases have been put on the backburner.”   The fury grew, and burst, and Grissom swatted the goggles off the table with one hand.  They flew across the room and bounced off the wall.  “It’s not enough, dammit!”   Brass let out a breath, and when Grissom looked up he could see the misery in his old friend’s eyes.  “I know, Gil.  I know.”   Every fiber in Grissom’s body strained to be out searching for Sara.  His heart wailed, demanding action, insisting that he give up on the miniature and go out into the dark; that by the time they found something to go on, it would be too late.   Too late.   Grissom gulped in air and braced his hands on the table, closing his eyes until he could exhale calmly.  Haste was dangerous; he could overlook something vital.  When he opened his eyes, Brass was holding out his goggles.   “We’ll find her,” Jim said softly.  It was as much prayer as promise.   “Yeah.”  He jammed the goggles back on and switched on the ALS.   It was the only thing he could do.   Sara woke all at once, remembering with a terrifying clarity exactly where she was and why.  Her head was pounding and her ribs were a band of agony, but the panic receded slightly as she realized that she could breathe--not deeply, but she could breathe.   That was about all she could do, however.  The crumpled roof of the car held her pinned precisely in the depression--one hand reaching out from underneath, but all other limbs trapped in a narrow range of movement.   Shit.  Sara tried to squirm out of the confinement, moving slowly as every effort sent fresh pain shooting through her head and chest, but there was no place to go.  Her shoulders and hips were cradled by metal, pressed against the ground.  She couldn’t even see her prison--and she couldn’t reach the handlight in her vest pocket.   She couldn’t even turn her head.   It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic.  The grim thought held very little humor, but waking to find herself still alive had been a bonus, at least.  Either her captor had made a mistake, which Sara doubted, or she was meant to live.   At least for a while.   Sara took stock of her situation.  The ground was hard and cold, but not cold enough to leach too much heat from her body; summer nights in the desert didn’t get chilly enough to be dangerous.   Daytime might be a problem, but Sara wasn’t sure; the bulk of the car above her might provide enough protection from the heat for her to survive the day.  I won’t get much more time than that, though.  Already her mouth was dry; stress and the drug had begun the dehydration process.   Her headache was easing slightly, but her ribs were not.  On reflection, though, nothing felt actually splintered; they were probably just cracked.  And her spine, much to her relief, seemed intact; she could feel her toes.   All in all, I’m glad I hit the bathroom right before I left the lab.   The most immediate hazard, Sara judged, would probably be from whatever came to take refuge from the sun once it rose--snakes and scorpions making the top of her list.  However, they aren’t likely to attack if I don’t move.   Her only option, it seemed, was to wait.  The best team of CSIs in the country--possibly the world--was looking for her.  There was no such thing as the perfect murder.   Gil will find me.  She held onto the thought.   There were so many things she hadn’t understood about the enigmatic scientist who’d captured her interest so long ago.  They recognized each other on some very basic levels, true, but it wasn’t until he’d finally reached out to her that she had learned just how shy and insecure he could be.  Not always--and it wasn’t as though she didn’t have her doubtful moments too--but she came to realize, eventually, what he had always known: that once he let her in, she could destroy him.   She’d made a silent promise to the both of them that she would not.  But some things just weren’t under her control.   The gates of her mind opened, and memories tumbled out, all the more precious because they were few.  The sound of his voice; the gleam in his eye when he grew mischievous; the feel of his sleeping breath against her shoulder; the last time they’d made love, an episode full of slow heat and silly giggles.  Their first argument.  Their first date.   Their first kiss.   She could have pounced him any number of times, but Sara had been determined to leave it up to him; pushing had got her nowhere in the past and he was a touch old-fashioned to boot.  So she had waited, not terribly patiently, and wondered....   And he had caught her off guard after all, leaning in while she was folding a dishcloth and his hands were full of soapsuds.  His lips catching hers had been neither tentative nor passionate, but a firm, gentle rightness; an acknowledgment and an asking both.   Sometimes she liked to think that he had handed her his heart with that kiss.   God knows he already had mine.   If she hadn’t been able to leave him when he was being distant, his full attention had her helplessly enthralled.  Even his month at Williams, and his rather annoying insecurity about supporting Heather, had not lessened her feelings.   Occasionally Sara wondered how someone as deliberately strong and independent as she’d made herself could be so captivated, so captured, by one person.  It went against all the strengths she’d tried to instill in herself.   Eventually, she simply had to give up.  Maybe it’s just because he’s my match.  We...fit.   And now, pressed under thousands of pounds of steel and fiberglass, she shivered at the thought of what losing her would do to him.   He’ll break.  I know he will.  Her heart cried out at the image, his eyes empty, the spark gone from him.  I love you, but please, Gil, don’t give up!   Her eyes stung in the dark, and Sara sniffed back tears, fighting for control and angry with herself.  You can’t afford to lose any moisture.  Get a grip.   Sighing, Sara forced herself to relax a little; instinct had her tensing against the roof of the car, as though she could keep the weight from pressing harder.  Now she understood why the ground had been disturbed--her captor had made a place for her to lie, rather than squashing her flat.   She held still for a long while, trying not to think about water, or bugs, or the hopelessness of her situation.  The desert night wasn’t entirely silent, but the sounds were all little or far away; the faint rustle of some small creature passing by, the tiny tick of contracting metal above her, the lonely sound of a coyote.  Sara had the sudden horrid thought of a pack of the critters finding her exposed hand, but with some grunting, painful effort she found she could draw it in just enough to get it out of potential tooth reach.  The position was uncomfortable, though, so she stretched her arm back out again, idly rubbing at the sand beneath her fingers.  I wonder if I could spell something out.   She snorted at the thought, then started thinking about her location.  Obviously it was off the beaten track, but it had to be somewhere that a car could reach, and an ordinary car at that.   There was no more hope to be found in her calculations, however.  I could have been out thirty minutes or three hours in that car.  Hell, I don’t even know how long I’ve been under here.  And this killer is slick; look how long it’s taken for her to make a mistake.  Nobody’s going to stumble across me.   Unless she’s planned it that way.   Sara considered the idea, then reluctantly rejected it.  It didn’t fit, and there were too many variables involved.  No, either her friends would figure out where she was, or she would die there.   Probably the latter.  Leaving her alive was apparently some refinement, but the young woman’s goal had always been death.  Death and mockery.  Maybe that was it; maybe the CSIs were meant to find her too late.   Sara squeezed her eyes shut tightly for a moment, then shuddered and flicked the fingers of her free hand as something multilegged walked over them.  And then she froze.   She’d heard something--something that wasn’t a howl or a chirp or a slither.   The sound came again, and for a soaring instant she believed it was a helicopter, Search and Rescue flying over the desert with an infrared scanner.  Then her hope crumbled to ash as she realized it was thunder.   And from the ash rose fear, and the memory of one of Nick’s more bizarre cases.   How can somebody drown in the desert?        “Take a break,” Catherine said, leaning one hand on the doorframe.   Grissom did his best to ignore her, but she strode into the room and snatched away his magnifying glass, ignoring his glare.  “Take a damned break, Gil.  You’ve been at this for hours.”   “I don’t have time for a break,” he snapped, making a grab for the tool and missing as Catherine stepped back a pace.  “Sara doesn’t have time.”   “Sara doesn’t have time for you to burn out trying to focus your eyes.  I’ve been watching you for five minutes and I don’t think you’ve seen a thing.”  She put her free hand on her hip and gave him a mother’s glare.  “Get a cup of coffee and something to eat, and I’ll give this back.”   Grissom clenched his teeth, but he knew she was right; his vision had started to blur a while ago, and his eyes burned and stung.  With ill grace he gave in.  “All right.  Just a few minutes.”   Catherine nodded without triumph, and Grissom saw lines of strain on her face.  She and Sara were not friends, but he knew that Catherine would do everything--was doing everything--in her not inconsiderable power to find her colleague.   He followed her out of the room and down the quiet corridor.  Personnel were still silent, though extra urgency dogged their steps as they went about their tasks; as they passed Layout 2, Grissom saw Greg and Nick bent over supplies taken from Natalie’s workroom.  Both men looked grim.   The breakroom smelled of Greg’s best, and someone had ordered in a deli tray of sandwiches.  Grissom filled a cup and would have bypassed the snacks, but Catherine tightened her lips and forced one into his hand before picking up one for herself.  “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”   Grissom didn’t have the mental energy to argue.  He let Catherine lead him back towards the front doors, sipping absently at his coffee and thinking over the dismantled miniature waiting for his return.  He had found no bleach and no doll, not this time; he was still hoping against hope for some clue as to Sara’s specific location.   There were two police officers standing guard at the doors, a perfect example of post-theft barn locking.  Catherine ignored them magnificently, sweeping past them with Grissom in tow, and they found a bare spot along the outer wall to lean and eat.   The night was cooler than normal for a late spring in Vegas, with a restless moisture-laden wind that told of rain coming.  Grissom squinted at the sky, and felt fresh fear building under his breastbone.   Rain in the desert was rare but copious when it came.   Sara was trapped against the ground.   All the flash-flood victims he’d ever processed surfaced from Grissom’s memory, sending ice up his spine.   Did Natalie take rain into account?   Grissom dumped his coffee blindly into the bushes and half-ran back inside, leaving Catherine gaping after him.   The first drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. By the time the lightning got close, Sara had managed to scrape out a shallow depression under her cheek, by rubbing her head back and forth in its limited scope.  Her skin was abraded and probably bleeding, judging from the fiery pain, but at least it was a place for water to go.   For a few minutes, anyway.   It was hard to judge the declination of the ground, but she seemed to be in a relatively level spot, with the slight curve of the shoveled-out bowl cradling her body.  She didn’t know if it would be enough to keep the water from her nose and mouth.   Cloudbursts in the desert generally didn’t last long, but they dumped a lot of water in a very short time, and the hard ground could take a while to absorb the moisture.  In the meantime, it was sure to run under the car.  It was quite possible that she could suffocate in water or sandy mud.   Look on the bright side, Sidle.  There aren’t any fire ants here.    The rain began almost as though someone had turned on a huge faucet overhead, going from a few drops to downpour in seconds.  The crack of lightning made Sara flinch, and she realized with a new surge of horror that she was currently pinned under a big hunk of metal on what looked to be a fairly flat plain.   Electrocution may not be pleasant, but it’s faster than drowning or dehydration... pointed out the sardonic voice in the back of her brain, but that didn’t stop her from flinching at each whip of light.   Within minutes, though, the water sliding under the car distracted her.  Icy wetness invaded, soaking up through her pants and shirt, and Sara shivered and then hissed with the renewed pain in her ribs.  She hadn’t really thought about hypothermia, but realized grimly that for one thing, there was nothing she could do about it, and for another, the rain itself was a more pressing worry.   At first it was just a seeping, but as she’d feared the water came in faster than the ground could absorb it.  Sara felt the patch under her head become soggy, then splashy, and in a burst of claustrophobic terror pressed her head as hard against the car above her as she could, ignoring the fire around her chest.   Her exposed hand was drenched, the skin almost numb with the water pounding down on it.  She scrabbled with both hands for a little more purchase, trying to lever her head further from the growing puddle beneath it, and when her free hand closed over mud, her panic suddenly stilled as a revelation as bright as any lightning strike flashed through her.   It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, racing against time and her own agony in a space smaller than a coffin.  But there was no question of even resting.  Sara dug away at the ground with both hands, scraping and burrowing, ignoring the dig of sand and tiny stones under her nails and trying to ignore the fury of her ribs.  Moving her free arm back and forth in the softened soil wore it a hollow space, giving her more room to move it; at the same time, she did her best to shift her legs, to slide them as much as possible as though she were trying to create a snow angel.   It was a gamble, she knew; her actions might just bring the car down more firmly and crush her for good.  Or, worse yet, crush her halfway.   But there is--no damned way--I will just--lie here--and wait!   The water was rising despite the spaces she was clearing, and soon Sara was sputtering, trying to keep her mouth and nose out of the water as she worked.  Frantic, she dug harder, taking a precious moment to pull in her free arm and scrape a little more depth beneath her cheek.  She didn’t notice when the thunder lessened and the heart of the storm moved off.   She did notice when the car above her creaked.   For a second Sara froze, wondering if she’d just killed herself.  But despite the noise, nothing moved, and she took another shallow breath and kept working.  The ground was gloppy now, almost liquid itself in places, and both her arms had a lot more movement.  Sara had managed to tuck the trapped one further in and work some of the sand out from under her chest, while her free hand kept scraping away at the space between her body and the outside air.   The rain kept pouring down.  Every breath she took burned, but Sara refused to slow down, racing the water as it continued to build under the car.  Success was slow, but definite; she could feel her torso settling gradually into the space she was making, leaving a tiny, precious gap between her spine and the car roof.  Her hips were still pressed against the metal, but if she could just get enough space for her top half...   Her next inhale was half water.  Sara choked, coughed, and gasped, cranking her neck around for air and trying desperately to keep breathing against the renewed agony of her ribs.  Can’t pass out can’tpassout--   The spasm finally eased, and she spit sand and realized that it was now or not at all--any longer and she really would drown.  Dragging in a breath that felt like it was laced with gravel, she held it--and started pushing.   It was a nightmare, panic and anoxia beating at her brain as she struggled to wiggle out from under the car.  There really wasn’t enough space for her, but she made it be enough, dragged herself forward and to her right until her head poked out from under the roof and the rain instantly soaked her.  Her spine was kinked at an unnatural angle, her feet were cramping as they shoved for purchase, but she gasped as she lifted her head and took in untainted air.   Slowly, slowly, in what seemed a parody of birth, Sara pulled herself free of the steel trap, squirming through the mud and water until even her boots were free.   For a long time she just lay still, panting shallowly, her head resting on her abraded arms; the rain drumming on her back and soaking her was welcome despite its chill.  Eventually, she pushed painfully up to a sitting position, shivering and exhilarated and aching, and tilted her face up to let the drops wash her face and mouth clean.   I did it.   Chapter 1     Chapter 2     Chapter 3     Chapter 4 CSI Home Feedback