A/N: A new story-enjoy!
I Keep On Loving You
Sara lay on the high white bed and stared at the ceiling. It had taken a while for her to wake up; her vision had finally cleared. Her mind was trying to make some kind of order to her situation. Flat on her back, encased in something unfamiliar—a bed with shiny bars and a different kind of mattress that made her feel as if she were floating on air—had made her conclude she was in a hospital.
From the shadows, she had deduced it was night—otherwise, the room would be brighter. Somehow, she knew there was a window that she could not see. And, even while her eyes were trying to focus, she recognized the antiseptic smell of a hospital—a hospital, she thought—how'd she get in a hospital bed. She thought she was alone but the whirring and humming of machines around her could be disguising a human presence.
Moving her head slightly caused her head to hurt—moving her eyes caused her head to hurt. She licked her lips—her throat was sore—and attempted to make a fist with her right hand before realizing her arm did not move as it should. She tried her left hand with similar results.
Shifting her eyes again, she attempted to look at the foot of the bed but some kind of tent made it impossible to see beyond her abdomen. She found a clock on the wall; concentrating, blinking several times trying to clear fuzzy eyes, she finally decided it was three-thirty—or was it six-fifteen? She was confused—and her thought process muddled.
Hospital—what had happened to put her here? Concentrating on the last thing she remembered—her head hurt so much, she closed her eyes.
Crime scene, early morning, she remembered. One of the young detectives had called to her—but she remembered returning to the lab and talking to D.B. But then her memory became a jumble as her brain scrambled with recollected noise. Maybe she had not returned to the lab, but what had happened to put her in a hospital bed, hooked up to quietly purring machines.
She tried to move—and nearly fainted. She could not construct a reasonable thought because of unexpected pain. She heard a sharp cry—and realized it was her own voice.
The next voice she heard she recognized as one she loved. "Sara, Sara," he said softly.
Her first thought was that she was dreaming. Her husband wasn't living with her; not officially separated, they remained in an undetermined state of limbo. But she knew his voice.
She attempted to say "Gil" but it came as out a guttural groan. Then his hand was on her cheek and in the same instant, a faint fragrance, a nostalgic breath of recognizable soap teased her nostrils and swarmed about her brain, overriding the antiseptic-antibacterial-bleach smell of her surroundings, over-coming the confusing sounds swarming in her mind.
Her brain calmed.
Sara turned her head as her husband bent over the bed. He wore a soft red shirt, his long hair was tousled, and, she thought, he was as handsome as the day they married.
"Hey, honey," he whispered. His soft fingers touched her brow; he smiled. "You're going to be okay."
She tried to form words but her mouth did not want to work.
Grissom seemed to read her efforts. He said, "You had an injury at work—you've had surgery."
Over his shoulder, another person appeared. "Our patient is awake!" The young woman announced as if she was presenting some kind of award.
"She's in pain," Grissom said.
"We'll fix that," said the nurse as she stepped out of Sara's vision for a few seconds. "Can you nod your head, Mrs. Grissom?" she asked.
Sara attempted to nod.
"It will take a few minutes for the pain med to work. We can give you a few ice chips."
Sara nodded again. The nurse moved to the side of the bed and Sara thought the small-built woman impossibly young to be a nurse but the way she moved with an easy self-assurance around the bed, at ease dealing with Gil Grissom, who did not leave his place at the side of the bed, showed a confidence of experience.
The nurse and Grissom exchanged questions and answers in a comfortable manner giving Sara reason to believe the two had already had several conversations. She heard the rattle of ice and a small cup passed across the bed to Grissom.
"Honey," he whispered in a voice reminiscent of a darkened bedroom, "ice, just a little." He held a small piece of ice between a finger and thumb.
She opened her mouth and accepted a miniscule chip of ice, letting her tongue push the sliver across her dry lips. She managed a smile when he offered a second chip.
"Not much at one time," young nurse suggested—or ordered.
The third time Grissom's finger touched her lip, he said, "Lip stuff—moisturizer." He spread a thin coat across her bottom lip before he stretched his own mouth into a straight line. She followed his unspoken directions as he smeared moisturizer on her top lip. And then he gave her more ice.
The ice seemed to give some relief to her aching throat. "More, please," she said and her words were actually recognizable.
Grissom smiled. "You are talking!" His voice was soft, hopeful—a sound she had missed, had longed to hear for months.
And with his words, Sara realized two things: she could move her head without piercing pain shooting around her body and her husband had returned from—from some faraway place she could not bring into her foggy brain.
The young nurse had disappeared for a few minutes and when she reappeared, she moved to the foot of the bed and lifted the sheet.
Quickly, a sharp pressure against her foot caused Sara to jerk her foot—or she thought she did.
"Good," young nurse said, "You are responding!" Same thing to the left foot, with "That's great!"
Sara's eyes went back to Grissom, pleading with questions. "What?" She did not know if she said the word or thought it.
She watched as her husband glanced at the nurse. "Sara wants to know what happened."
The nurse came back to the side of the bed before she asked, "Would you like one of the physicians? Or you can—I can help with some of it."
Grissom nodded, saying, "We can—she needs to know."
"Briefly—we don't want to tire you out, Mrs. Grissom." It was another order that was presented as a suggestion.
Grissom's hand cradled her head; his thumb moved gently back and forth across her forehead. Quickly, he told her:
"You were working a crime scene, early morning, when you stepped on a manhole cover that wasn't a cover at all—it was—it was fake—and thin plastic. The real one had been stolen—no one had noticed—until you stepped on it and fell into the hole. You fell nearly fifteen feet."
He stopped and glanced at the nurse before he continued, "You've got a fractured pelvis, multiple fractures of your right ankle and foot, and your right arm." Again, glancing at the nurse, he gave a slight nod of his head.
The young nurse said, "You've had surgery to stabilize your pelvis—there is a—a contraption to hold everything in place. You've got a cast on your ankle and foot and one on your arm." She pointed to Sara's foot and arm. "You've got several monitors and multiple lines for meds and fluids, a catheter for urine." The young woman's serious face showed concern that surpassed professional interest. "You've been sedated for—for four days." A quick smile crossed her lips, "and this guy has been driving us crazy waiting for you to wake up."
"Four days," Sara whispered. She had no recollection of anything—of falling, of arriving at a hospital—four days had simply disappeared. And her husband had returned. An almost forgotten lyric leaped suddenly into her thoughts—"Our love is the best thing I've ever known…"
A/N: Thanks for reading. Thank you for reviewing! More to come.