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Author’s Notes: All of the reviews have been amazing, so thank you! Hope you enjoy what’s next. )

Chapter Fifteen

Disorder

After blinking a few times, you realize you’re on the ground, lying on your back. Thankfully, you’re still breathing. You can still move. You’re still alive. You roll your eyes around, just to make sure the image of a darkened sky is real, then breathe in deep to smell the dry earth around you. You almost smile at the tranquility of it all, but then you remember why you’re out here in the first place.

How did you end up on the ground? Were you shot? You don’t know, but you do know that whatever trouble you’re in, lying around won’t help you.

You stand up, cautiously. Peeking out over top wispy strands of grass, you survey your surroundings and slowly recollect the past few minutes. You chased a guy out here, thinking it was Jonas but you were dead wrong. It wasn’t Jonas and he had a gun. You both fired off a round at each other, probably out of self-defense and anxiousness. The next few moments are fuzzy after that.

Not that it matters. It’s plain to see he’s gone now.

You look around anxiously, wondering if you shot him. Maybe he fell over in the grass somewhere and that’s why you don’t see him. You doubt he got away. There’s no way you missed.

As you begin to advance slowly, searching, you hear the bustle of boots running up behind you. The calvary.

“Sara!”

It’s Jim. He’s pissed. You’re not surprised, but you won’t acknowledge his pissed off state. You’ll play this off as cooly as possible.

As the other officers run past to search for the mystery suspect, he grabs you by the arm to hold you back. He forcibly makes you look at him as he scolds, “That was stupid and you know better. It’s my job to chase armed suspects, not yours.”

“I had him,” you argue weakly.

“No, you didn’t,” Jim says angrily. “Listen to me, Sara...Hey, Sidle.”

You look at Jim.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that on me, I’m writing you up for insubordination or something, you understand?”

You almost feel he made a similar threat like this before and that this time, technically, should be the time he writes you up, but you’ll keep that to yourself.

“I understand,” you say absently.

“I’m serious, Sara!” Jim bellows.

“I got it, Jim,” you almost snarl back. You have to watch your tone. He’s livid and admittedly, chasing a man (who turned out to be armed and dangerous) was moderately stupid. Okay, not moderately. It was absolutely stupid.

Jim grows uncharacteristically quiet as you both watch the team ahead, but they can’t seem to find anything or anyone in this thick, dry grass. In fact, you notice for the first time a cluster of vegetation and trees not even a few yards ahead of you. The trees seem a bit unnatural and out of place, considering where you are. You wonder if the Wright family planted them years ago; an attempt to liven up the property. You wonder if there was a time when this house didn’t look so gloomy. You wonder if the family was ever happy.

“Check in those trees,” Jim says quietly into his radio. He’s probably followed your line of sight, noticing how hard you’re concentrating on them.

The air is far from clear between you and Jim, but you feel safe in speaking again. “It wasn’t Jonas, Jim. I thought it was Jonas, but it’s not. . .”

“Yeah, we know. Jonas is critical. He was inside the house and the guy you chased shot him,” Jim says, still seething. He does try to be somewhat equanimous, his words taking on a less threatening stance. “Look, just back off. Go back to the house. Focus on your job. We’ll find him.”

There’s nothing you can say to appease Jim, so you do as he says. The walk back to the house would be a long, shameful one, but Catherine is rushing toward you to meet you halfway. If you thought Jim was a tad scary when angry, the look on Catherine’s face is downright frightening. When she is less than a few feet from you, she yells angrily, “Sara! What the hell were you thinking?”

You look down at your feet. “I. . .I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

“Well, shit, Sara,” Catherine huffs out. Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are narrow slits. She repeats angrily, “Shit. “

“Cath. . .,” you begin to say.

“Shut-up,” she growls at you, then unexpectedly pulls you in for a hug. You sorta expected her to hit you, or yell some more or something, but not a hug. You don’t deserve a hug. She whispers in your ear, “Don’t you ever run away from me like that again.”

If you felt stupid after Jim yelled, you feel like a total jackass now that Catherine is on the verge of tears.

“Never, I’m sorry,” you promise. “I’m sorry.”

“You better be sorry,” Catherine mumbles into your neck.

She squeezes you tighter and that’s when you feel it. You moan aloud at the sudden pain shooting up from just below your collarbone and grind your teeth to keep from crying. You mutter,”Cath. . .let go, please.”

Catherine pulls back, clearly concerned by your anguished tone. You put your hand over the spot where it hurts, then notice the indentation on your vest. Uh oh. You look down, just as Catherine confirms what you feel.

“You were shot,” she barely whispers, then reaches for the radio clipped to her belt. She’s going to call for more help, but you don’t think she has to.

“Catherine, wait, wait,” you tell her, rolling your shoulder a bit. You place a finger over the hole in your vest and feel around. “I don’t think I’m seriously hurt. I can still feel the bullet . . .”

She stops, produces a flashlight from that handy belt of hers and shines the light at your shoulder. She confirms, clearly relieved. “Yeah, it’s still there. Embedded in the vest. It saved your life.”

Hmm. So that’s why Jim made you wear this bulky thing.

You go to say something but you don’t even have to ask, because Catherine is already leading you to the Tahoe. She retrieves her kit. She’s going to collect the bullet from your vest.

You lean against the truck, the adrenalin high you were just on is finally wearing off. The vest saved your life. Now you have to wonder, what saved the mystery suspect’s life? You’re not a bad shot. Your gun was trained on his chest. You know you got him.

“Ah, don’t push so hard,” you tell her. Catherine is digging into the vest roughly (probably on purpose), then pulls the bullet out. She places it in a bag and holds it up for you both to see. You have to grin at the treasure just collected. “Bobby will have to confirm this, but that looks like a .22.”

“Yeah,” Catherine agrees. “I think you chased down both Mrs. Wright’s murderer and the murder weapon.”

Pride involuntarily creeps in as it would seem your idiotic move to chase after an armed man is proving to be fruitful. Then you see medical personnel roll a gurney out the front door and down the porch steps of Termite House. It’s Jonas and he’s obviously had better days. The fiery young man you interrogated not even a night ago is very pale. You watch as he’s rolled into the waiting ambulance.

“Catherine!” Jim is running back. “They found blood. Sara got somebody and by the looks of the blood pool, she got him good. Our guys can’t find him, yet. He probably won’t get far on foot. I’ve called in for more units and a helicopter to start canvassing the area.”

“And hospitals, Jim,” you say, almost shyly. You know he’s still angry with you. “If he manages to get away, he might go to a hospital.”

“I’ve already got security personnel on stand by at all the local hospitals,” Jim says. Then he looks at Catherine, his voice pleading, “And collect her gun, please.”

“With pleasure,” Catherine nods, watching Jim hurry away.

You reluctantly hold up your weapon for Catherine to take. She does so without uttering another word and you sigh. “Cath. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run after that guy.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she says. She presses her lips together tightly, something you know she does when she’s trying not to cry. You didn’t want to make her cry. She forces a smile, then says, “But if you hadn’t, he wouldn’t have shot . . .We wouldn’t have this bullet.”

You nod, rolling your shoulder again. You push off the truck and suggest, “We can take this back to the lab? Call out Nick and Warrick to process the house and the blood out in the field?”

“Good idea,” Catherine agrees. “I want you to see a medic too, Sara. You might have some bruising from. . .from when you. . .”

Her reluctance to finish the phrase strikes you hard and your heart suddenly feels more pain than any other physical trauma you may be suffering from. You ask quietly, “Did you see me. . .did you hear the gunshot and see me fall?”

“I knew you were hit, if that’s what you’re asking,” Catherine says, her voice steely cold. She’s trying not to cry.

“Catherine, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to. . .”

“You didn’t mean to what, Sara? Scare the shit out of me?” Catherine retorts. She walks past you, putting both her kit and the collected bullet in the back of the truck. She bags your gun and orders, “Remove your vest as well.”

You slowly take off the vest, hand it over to her. You say somberly, “I’ll wait in the car. . .”

“Sara,” she says, before you walk by. You look at her, see one tear trace a line down her cheek. She wipes it away, erases any evidence that it ever fell. “Sara, you ran out there, I heard a gun shot and then I couldn’t see you. All I kept thinking was that I killed you. I brought you back to this God forsaken house and killed you.”

“Hey, I was the idiot who ran out there. That’s on me,” you say quietly.

Catherine chuckles, the mirthful gesture dark and cold. “You know? Greg joked that Termite House was cursed.”

“It’s not cursed,” you immediately protest.

She goes on,” All of our evidence had been washed away or eaten through by termites.”

You interject again. “The water was weird, yeah, but the termites were just doing what they do naturally. Doesn’t mean the house is cur. . .”

“You fell through the floor, you could’ve died,” Catherine says, another point you quickly counter.

“I didn’t survey the room thoroughly enough before entering, Cath,” you say as gently as possible. “The house is not cursed.”

Catherine won’t hear you and you doubt she ever will. “Sara, say what you want, but the facts are this: The owner of the house was later found dead. Jonas is being carted away to a hospital for gunshot wounds, you were shot and now the killer is on the loose somewhere. I don’t usually put much stock in superstition, but this place. . .”

“Is not cursed,” you say firmly. “I’m just stupid. It was stupid.”

“You’re stupidly brave,” she says, a small bit of sunshine in the words that makes you believe you’re on the road to being forgiven. It’ll be a long road, sure, but at least you’re on it.

“And you’re not a cop, Sara,” she goes on.

“I know,” you reply.

“I mean it. I’m not dating a cop,” she pushes. “I don’t want to date a cop. I don’t want to date someone who I have to worry about chasing armed men through open fields, okay? You’re not a cop.”

“I’m not a cop,” you repeat strongly. You lean over, plant a soft kiss on her cheek to seal that promise. You don’t care if anyone sees you either. You need her to know you won’t ever do that again. You pull back and let her finish packing up. You climb into the passenger side of the Tahoe and sigh deeply. You repeat to yourself, “I’m not a cop.”

Catherine climbs into the car a few minutes later. She looks at you and you look at her.

This is something else you’ll have to consider now. You don’t live on your own anymore. You have people in your life that actually care where you go and what you do. From now on, you have to be adamant about leaving the more dangerous side of law enforcement to the cops. Your ghost would never forgive itself if you left Paul or Catherine behind.

Paul. Paul will freak out when he hears this.

You look out the window, a decision made. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Paul.”

“Sara,” Catherine warns.

“Please. Don’t tell him,” you beg. “I scared him enough the first time I was hurt.”

The ride back to the lab is suddenly longer than any other trip you remember. You do take a brief peek at your shoulder, lifting the fabric of your shirt slightly. Catherine is right. You are bruising from the impact. Damn it. When she takes a left turn, instead of a right, you worry less about the bruise and more about where she’s taking you.

“Cath, lab is in the other direction.”

“I told you, you’re seeing a doctor.”

“Hey, you forget that I have to take Paul to see Lisa in a few hours?” you say. “Going to the hospital now and I won’t get out for another several hours. I promise, I’ll get this looked at after the session with Lisa, okay? I promise.”

Catherine sighs, merging into a lane that’ll enable her to make a u-turn. She says, “You’ve just made me quite a few promises in the last hour.”

“And I intend to keep them,” you say unwaveringly.

Catherine glances at you briefly before saying, “You better.”

Catherine was still a bit chilly with you for the remainder of the shift, which in the past might’ve pissed you off. Now that you are in the very early goings of a relationship, that frosty nature of hers stings the heart more than it offends your ego. Clearly, she’s happy you’re alright and you sense more relief than anger. Unfortunately, after the stunt you just pulled, getting back into her good graces will take a bit of time.

And frankly, you don’t really like to call it a ‘stunt’. You knew what you were doing, mostly. You just didn’t think of the repercussions of your actions. Hmm. Maybe that is the very definition of a ‘stunt’.

You look at your watch. You’ve decided to keep this incident from Lisa. You don’t know her well enough yet and despite what you discussed last time, there are still some things you’d like to keep to yourself. It’s not like your sessions with her are official. It’s okay to keep some things to yourself.

The door in front of you opens and out bounds Paul. You smile at him. The bounding. That’s a good sign. You stand up, look at him, “Went okay?”

“Great,” he replies happily. He plops down in a waiting chair. He gestures toward the door and Lisa, “Your turn.”

You force another smile at him, then turn to Lisa with skeptical eyes. She grins and repeats, “Your turn.”

You step forward, then look over your shoulder at Paul. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Wait here till you’re done.”

“I mean it, Paul,” you say, taking another step toward Lisa.

“Sara, alright,” Paul whines. He shoos you and you sigh. When you turn to Lisa, her grin only widens.

The moment Lisa shut that door and you sat down was the moment you started counting down the seconds till you could go home. The first talk with Lisa was somewhat on your terms. Today, this talk will be the real deal. Lisa will be in control.

The first few minutes are a rundown of basic questions. Were you abused as a child? You give sparse details on your childhood, mostly pointing out that Paul took the brunt of whatever abuse transpired in the house. Other questions included, how often do you feel depressed, if ever? Has your appetite changed recently? How are you sleeping? Boring questions, all of which you answer reluctantly and succinctly.

“So, I know you said I shouldn’t just sit in here and pretend to talk to you, but maybe today we could just not talk about me,” you suggest.

Lisa ignores you. Something you’re still not quite used to.

“Catherine called me,” Lisa announces randomly, absently flipping through a text on her desk. “She told me to remind you to see a doctor.”

You suck in some air between your teeth, before responding,”She did what?”

Thus the real session begins. No more boring questions. No trying to escape early. Lisa is going to hit you with the tough stuff. Catherine may have or may not have mentioned what happened earlier that night at Termite House, so now your guileless stupidity would be the topic of discussion. Absolutely fabulous.

“I’m sorry. When exactly are we going to talk about Paul?” you ask, your voice sarcastically sweet.

“I’ve only had one session with Paul, there’s not much to say and whether you like or not, you still have another 35 minutes with me. So, back to my question: You’ve purposely gone after suspects before. Once after a lab accident in which you were injured in an explosion and last night, when you revisited the same crime scene in which you fell through a floor. Yet another accident. Why do you think you put yourself in that situation not only once, but twice?”

You shut your eyes tightly, praying the next 35 minutes pass quickly. You actually like Lisa and that’s what makes talking to her about yourself so difficult. It would be easier to blow off a psychiatrist you don’t like, but unfortunately, Lisa is charming and persistent and witty and you almost like talking to her. You like that she listens. You like that she doesn’t give up on you and you like that she cares about Paul’s well-being. Damn it, why the hell is she so likeable?

“I hate you,” you mutter.

“No you don’t and stop avoiding the question.”

“I don’t know why I did it. The first time, I guess I felt vulnerable and exposed. I thought the lab was supposed to be safe and it wasn’t.” You shift your gaze to a far wall, eyes landing on a bookshelf and you read the title of a book: The Other Side of Eden. You sigh and repeat, “The lab was supposed to be safe.”

Lisa nods. “But it wasn’t. You were hurt and so was . . .Greg?”

Lisa has done her homework on you and even though this session isn’t official, you feel she’s putting in more effort than she should. With another deep sigh, you confirm, “Yes, Greg was in the hospital for a while. He had the shakes for weeks. He dropped some crucial evidence once, almost lost it.”

“And you?”

You shrug. “And me?”

“It’s not in the official report, but pretty much everyone heard. You went into an apartment before it was cleared by the detective in charge. Greg wasn’t the only one on the verge of ‘losing it’.”

In some ways, you’re happy Grissom recommended Lisa to you. She works within the department, talks to cops, criminalists and detectives alike. She knows the hazards of your job, but that knowledge can also be a curse. She works within the department and just like any employee, she hears things. You’re afraid no secret will ever be safe from Lisa and with these sessions being treated more like ‘a friend helping a friend’, she won’t be afraid to expose your secrets. She won’t be afraid to call you out.

“Sara?” she asks. You must’ve gotten lost in your thoughts, the way she’s looking at you now. Her eyebrow raised, perplexed expression. “Still here, Sara?”

“You want an explanation? I don’t have one. When I followed Jim to that apartment and drew my weapon. . .,” you pause, looking back on that day. You drop your gaze down and away from Lisa’s, the shame you felt then creeping back now. “I guess I wanted to feel invincible again. If I got that guy by myself, I would feel I was in control of . . .”

“Your destiny?” Lisa suggests.

You sigh, thinking that word is a little strong, but you agree. “Sure. Destiny.”

Lisa nods. As she promised, she doesn’t write anything down, but you feel like she should anyway. “Okay, so what about this time? Last night? Why did you chase that man out into the field?”

“Well, technically, I saw him before anyone else did and I was the closest,” you recall. “It was just Catherine and myself. One other officer taking cover by his car, but he was further away. . .I just knew I had the best shot of running the guy down.”

“Mmhmm,” Lisa nods again. “Okay, so strategically, you were the closest “officer” on the scene.” She uses her fingers to quote the word ‘officer’, a gesture you find to be a bit unnecessary.

Lisa continues, “But you mention something about having control. The crime scene you were returning to had claimed your control, it literally took the floor right out from under you and you were injured. Run me through how you felt after the fall.”

“Why?”

“Sara, trust me. Just run me through it. Close your eyes.”

You roll your eyes before you shut them.

“I saw that.”

You smirk, before you force yourself to remember the fall. You begin,”I was face down after it was all over. I couldn’t really hear anything for a while, then I made out one voice distinctly.”

“Who?”

“Catherine,” you answer. “She was already downstairs. She put her hand on my back, but pulled it back. I guess she thought that maybe I had a spinal injury or something. I remember that she was afraid to move me.”

“Keep going.”

“I. . .I wanted to move but she wouldn’t let me. I guess if I were honest, I really couldn’t move. My chest hurt, as did my wrist. I couldn’t breathe after a while. . .”

You slowly open your eyes. “I thought I was dying.” You add quickly, “Of course I was told later I was fine. I was panicking, not dying.”

“But the point is you thought you were dying. So now, Sara, you return to the crime scene, the same one where you strongly believed you were going to die. You see this man race out of the house and you run after him. You’re back in control, making your own decisions. If you die here, it’s not because of some random accident but because of a choice you made.”

If you die? So, you’d rather be able to say ‘It’s cool! It was my fault I died!’ to whatever deity you meet in the afterlife?

You have to smile uneasily. “So. . .I have some disorder, right? Normal people don’t purposely throw themselves into dangerous situations just to feel alive. That just happens in movies.”

“High stress circumstances make even the most ‘normal’ of people act out in uncharacteristic ways,” Lisa tells you. “You’re not abnormal, Sara. You’re just not apathetic to the fates. When destiny loses sight of you, you run out and catch it before it disappears. You have an idea of how life should be for you and it’s not weird to dream. In this case, you occasionally like to act out the fantasy of chasing down a perp and shooting him with your gun.”

“I have that fantasy?”

“Apparently so.”

“You’re just saying all that to make me feel less of an idiot,” you say.

Lisa grins. “Maybe.”

You chuckle. “Lisa, you are seriously too honest for your own good. You know, I was feeling better.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, before Lisa says softly, “Sara?”

You look up at her again.

“When I say you’re not apathetic to the fates, I mean that,” Lisa says gently. “Your behavior, from what I have learned is indicative of that. You’re strongly independent, self-willed and completely oblivious to your own needs. The only time you matter to yourself is when you feel you’ve lost control.”

You swallow hard. “Is that so?”

“I think so, yeah,” Lisa says. “You couldn’t fight back as a child, you couldn’t protect Paul. Now you can fight back. You don’t let outside forces control you, or at least, you try very hard to control them. Paul is a good example of this. You literally placed him somewhere away from you, took him out of your life. You took away chaos and enveloped order. Life was simpler.”

“Of course, it turned out, life got more complicated,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “You make me out to be a cold person. I’m not cold.”

“No, you’re not,” Lisa agrees. She doesn’t elaborate as to why she suddenly agrees with you. She just leans back in her chair now, smiling slightly. “Welp, that killed ten minutes. We can discuss Paul now. Oh and Sara?”

You look up.

“You ever scare Catherine like that again, I might kill you for her,” Lisa warns, her friendly smile belying the intentions of her threat.

You squint your eyes suspiciously. “Uh, how exactly do you know Catherine, again?”

“I met her through Grissom,” Lisa answers, then stands from her chair.

“That’s it?” you ask. “Just met her through Grissom?”

“That’s it,” she nods, looking for a text on one of her many bookshelves.

“Why do I seriously doubt that?” you ask aloud before you can stop yourself. Lisa doesn’t answer, but you do notice an almost undetectable smirk as she pulls a book off the shelf.

Lisa returns to her desk and sits down, starts flipping through the pages. For once, she does reveal a bit of herself to you, speaking without looking up from her book. “We’re colleagues, Sara.”

“Colleagues,” you repeat. That wouldn’t be weird, of course. Lisa works for the LVPD, she has to make friends at work. She met Catherine through Grissom. Simple, yet highly dubious. You try to pry for more information because you just feel there’s more to the story. “You’re not close, then?”

“Not really. Her call today was the first one in nearly. . .four years,” Lisa says, actually pausing long enough from her book to think about the answer. “Satisfied yet, or would you rather know if I slept with her too?”

Shit. Your face is turning all shades of red, seeing how you forgot who the hell you were talking to. She’s a psychiatrist, damn it. Did you really think you could pry into her life without getting burned? You stammer out, “No, no, no...that’s not what I was getting at. I was just. . .”

“Curious. I get it,” Lisa finishes for you. Then she taps a page in the book, announcing, “Ah, here’s what I was looking for.”

Oh. Wow. She found what she was looking for and thankfully, that diverts all attention back to Paul and away from Catherine.

You try to relax because this is what you wanted. You wanted to discuss Paul, but you’re frightened. You’ve never had one psychiatrist be straight with you. You’ve never had anyone say ‘this is what I think you should do about your brother’. Lisa is about to help you with something you thought you’d never have help with.

Lisa’s eyes soften. “You ready to talk about this?”

“Honestly, no,” you say. “But this isn’t about me.”

to be continued. . .