“Where are you taking her?”

Catherine had to yell over the chopper’s loud, steady whooshes, squinting out the shiny sunlight.

“Desert Palm!” one of the paramedics called back, hoisting the gurney into the waiting doors of the helicopter.

Immediately, he told the guys to move over, he was getting in, ignoring the frown etched onto Catherine’s disapproving face.

As the pilot maneuvered the chopper, the EMTs got started on her; a needle here, an ice pack there. His gaze swept up and down her body, bruised and battered.

Please, Sara, wake up, wake up, wake up.

He found himself reaching over the gigantic first-aid kit to grasp her hand in hers. Squeezing her hand tight, he took in the sling she had made from her shirt and the rearview mirror in her hand. Thinking back to the trail of rocks and pebbles he had pursued, he realized Catherine was right.

Sara was a survivor.

A furious jolt from the airborne mode of transportation caused him to grab onto his seat. As he turned to make sure she was alright, he thought he caught a glimpse of brown beneath those eyelashes.

Please, Sara, wake up, wake up, wake up.

Squeezing her hand even tighter, he leaned in her direction and scanned her scarred, but still beautiful, face for a sign that she had gained consciousness.

Another flash of brown.

Sara Sidle was gazing at him, her eyes full of exhaustion, confusion, and joy.

But what mattered the most was the fact that those mesmerizing eyes did not carry the hollow look of cadavers, but a sparkle of life.

He felt her squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back, knowing it was all going to work out.

They smiled at each other. Her, through the oxygen mask the EMTs had slapped on; him, through the now depleting haze of worry that had hung over the entire lab for a day.

As Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom smiled at each other, the chopper headed to Vegas, its blades cutting through the air, maintaining a steady rhythm.

A beat.

A heartbeat.

A pulse.