Disclaimer: CSI still isn't mine.

A/N: GSR still isn't my ship. This is my first cruise on the SS Geek Love.

"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
- George Eliot

Sara blinked once, twice, and the world came back into focus. She was looking at the ceiling. Not her ceiling, or the ceiling at the lab. The crime scene, she recalled, frowning. She hadn't bothered to look up at the ceiling earlier. There were little rust-brown stains on the white stucco. The missing blood spatter, she realized, pleased with herself, and turned her head to tell Grissom. She was rewarded with a sharp shock of pain and the terrible sight of Grissom crying. She'd never seen him cry before. His hands, she realized with no small amount of surprise, were on her body, tugging at her thick gray peacoat.

"Sara," he whispered, his eyes meeting hers, and the pain in her chest doubled at the agony she saw there. "I'm so sorry."

He'd never apologized before. She wondered what he'd done this time, even as she knew that no matter what it was, she'd forgive him. She always forgave him.

"It's okay, Gris."

He choked on a sob at her words, still fumbling with the buttons on her coat, still cursing himself for not realizing how much she meant to him before she was lying on the floor at a crime scene with two bullets in her chest.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he breathed, finally managing to open up her coat and steeling himself for the sight of blood staining her light blue shirt. "God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry –"

He froze. Instead of the shirt he'd been surreptitiously admiring before the start of shift in the break room – it flattered her curves to the point that he'd been almost glad it'd been so cold at their crime scene, so she'd wear her coat and he wouldn't be distracted by the urge to ogle her and miss some important piece of evidence – he was confronted with a solid column of black. Over the all-too-well-fitting shirt, she was wearing her CSI vest. Her bulletproof CSI vest.

"It's okay," she repeated, following his gaze down to the two dime-sized metal circles now embedded in the vest: the bevel-base remnants of the bullets. The sight triggered the memory she'd momentarily misplaced when her head connected with the hardwood floor.

She'd started to tell Grissom there was a shooter outside, and then something had hit her, knocking the air out of her lungs and her body to the floor. Shooter. Bullets. The breaking window…and pain.

She sucked in a deep breath and instantly regretted it, her ribs protesting violently. The vest had stopped the bullets, but her body had absorbed their momentum. The laws of physics could be a bitch sometimes.

"Sara?" Grissom demanded, his voice tight with fear, and she knew he'd seen her wince.

"I think I cracked a rib," she told him, careful to keep her breathing shallow. "Maybe more than one. It's hard to breathe."

Grissom's hands moved to the velcro straps of the vest, pulling them apart and gently coaxing the heavy Kevlar off of her body, relieving the weight that was constricting her chest. As he set aside the unwieldy vest, the front door slammed open. Keenly aware of how vulnerable Sara was, Grissom had his gun drawn and pointed at the newcomer before he realized who it was. If he hadn't been so worried about Sara, he might have taken a moment to be amused that, in his twenty-year CSI career, the second person on whom he'd ever drawn his firearm was Jim Brass.

"Hey, are you two – Jesus." Brass cut himself off, taking in the tableau before him. Sara Sidle was lying on the floor, her body sprawled awkwardly on the dark wooden planks. Grissom was kneeling next to her with a horrified expression on his face and his gun pointed directly at Brass. "Sara –"

"I'm okay," she said again, noticing that the words were becoming more of a lie as the adrenaline started to wear off and she became hyperaware of the pain in her chest. "I was wearing my vest."

"She's not okay," Grissom contradicted sharply. "She was shot."

In response, Brass pulled out his radio. "This is Captain Brass. I need you to rush a bus to 873 Weston Road in Summerlin. We've got an officer down. Repeat, 422, officer down."

"I'm not 'down'," Sara muttered as Brass knelt by her other side. He snorted, darkly amused by her protest.

"You look 'down' from here," he informed her, reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling it unceremoniously up, exposing her torso to see the injuries she'd suffered.

Grissom stared wordlessly at the expanse of pale flesh, marred by two quickly-darkening bruises where her chest had absorbed the bullets' momentum. One of them sat on the inner curve of her ribcage on her right side, and the other was higher, starting about an inch below her left breast and disappearing under her kilted-up shirt. Brass probed the bruises with gentle fingers to the limit that propriety would allow, checking for spongy areas that might indicate broken ribs. When Sara winced, Grissom felt his own chest twinge in sympathy.

"How bad is it?" Sara asked, afraid to hear the answer, and Brass gave her a reassuring smile.

"Maybe a few hairline fractures, but I don't think it's serious."

"You don't think it's serious?" Grissom repeated, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears. Sara frowned at him, puzzled, but one look at the other man told Brass exactly why he was so upset. Grissom had finally gotten the wake-up call he'd needed where his feelings for Sara were concerned. It was a pity that it had to come in the form of her being shot, but at least it looked like Sara would be all right.

"Regardless of how serious I think it is, she's going to stay perfectly still until she's been x-rayed at the hospital," Brass reassured Grissom. Sara looked as though she might protest, and Brass shook his head at her, giving her a conspiratorial wink. "If you've got a broken rib and you manage to puncture a lung with it, I'm gonna be filling out paperwork on this until I retire. So do a guy a favor and just play along, huh, Sweetheart?"

"Sure."

There were more footsteps in the doorway. Brass turned away to deal with the newcomers, and in the heated discussion that followed, Grissom recognized Warrick's voice. Brass was apparently refusing everyone entry, keeping them from contaminating the crime scene any further than the unidentified shooter already had.

Sara ignored the commotion and the side conversations, focusing on the fact that Grissom was still holding her hand.

"Gris?" she said softly, and when his eyes met hers, she wondered at the emotional turmoil she could see there. "You okay?"

He shook his head in disbelief, squeezing her fingers. That was typical Sara, concerned for everyone but herself. "Don't worry about me, Honey. Just keep breathing. Try not to move."

Honey, she thought to herself, resisting the urge to let a dreamy smile cross her face. I love it when he calls me that. For now, she let herself forget the fact that he'd only done it twice, and both times she'd been injured and in need of medical attention.

The sound of glass crunching under shoes gave them early warning that someone was approaching them. Grissom looked away from Sara reluctantly to find that Warrick had gotten past Brass and was headed their way. Grissom gave him a curt nod, and both men turned their attention to Sara.

"Hey, girl," Warrick greeted her, and the false cheeriness of his voice made Sara cringe.

"Hey," she replied as he came into her field of vision, kneeling down in the spot Brass had vacated. "Hope you're wearing your vest. Tough crowd out here tonight."

Warrick grinned, and this smile had a little more honesty to it. "I guess the bullet missed your sense of humor, huh?" he teased. Grissom's expression turned thunderous, but Sara's hand tightened on his and he realized that gallows humor, however offensive he might find it, was a needed release mechanism for the two younger CSIs.

They traded quips for another few minutes, Warrick keeping Sara's mind off the pain while Grissom watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her breathing was still fast and shallow, but she wasn't gasping or struggling for air, and the pain wasn't bad enough to keep her from talking. Slowly, he allowed himself to hope that she might really be all right, but with that hope came fear of a totally different kind. He'd been so afraid that he'd lose her that he hadn't considered what he'd do if she survived. How could he tell her he loved her after what he'd put her through? Two weeks ago she'd asked him to dinner and 'to see what happened'. She'd laid all of her proverbial cards on the table and he'd folded without hesitation. How could he convince her now that he did want to see what happened, that he loved her and wanted her and needed her? What reason would she have to believe him?

"Hey, the paramedics are here," Warrick said, distracting Grissom from his thoughts. Sure enough, two men in the standard medic uniform were entering the room under Brass's watchful eye, carrying their kits and rolling a stretcher between them.

"Anybody we know?" Sara asked Warrick, but he wasn't the one who answered.

"Sara?" The voice was familiar, and she closed her eyes, suddenly weary. Of all the paramedics in Vegas, her cheating ex had to be the one they called out when she was injured. "God, Sara, what happened?"

"She was shot, that's what happened!" Warrick snapped, narrowing his eyes at the other man. Sara had refused to talk to him about her breakup with Hank, but Catherine hadn't been nearly so tight-lipped, so he knew Hank had been two-timing Sara. "Stop asking stupid questions and get over here and do your damn job!"

Grissom was confused by Warrick's unusual show of temper until he finally recognized the paramedic who came over to take Sara's pulse. He'd only met Hank once, but Catherine had constantly reminded Grissom of the man's relationship with Sara, trying to spur him into admitting his feelings. It had the opposite effect; Grissom had tried to be happy that Sara had found someone who wasn't afraid to love her, and he'd withdrawn even further. Catherine's revelation that they'd broken up after the other man cheated on Sara had left him even more unsure of how to proceed with her.

"She's stable," the still-nameless other paramedic declared, and Hank nodded his agreement.

"We're going to shift you over to the stretcher. It might hurt a little," Hank told Sara, who responded with an eye-roll that spoke more eloquently than words could have. He cradled her head with one hand and lifted her torso with the other. With his partner lifting her legs, they shifted her as gently as possible over to the stretcher.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't hold back a whimper as the two paramedics moved her, jostling her ribs in the process. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. It was quickly forgotten as Grissom brought her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her palm.

"Hang in there, Honey," he murmured, sounding as though he was in as much pain as she was. "You're doing great."

Behind them, Warrick and Brass exchanged a look, Warrick's puzzled and Brass's amused. Warrick's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He'd known about Sara's crush on Grissom – everyone knew about Sara's crush on Grissom – but he'd had no idea that their boss returned her feelings.

"Sara?" Hank said softly, and Grissom frowned at him. Hank held up his hand in response – the hand that had guided the back of Sara's head onto the stretcher. The fingers of his latex glove were smeared with blood. "Did you hit your head when you fell?"

Grissom looked down at the floor where Sara's head had been, and his heart seized when he saw a small pool of blood. They'd been so careful not to move her, and she hadn't complained about her head hurting, so they'd assumed…

You know what they say about people who assume, the little voice in his head reminded him snidely, and he clenched his jaw. He should have known better. He should have checked.

"I…think I did," Sara said slowly, opening her eyes again, and Hank counted the seconds between when her eyes opened and when her pupils constricted to accommodate the bright lighting in the room. Concussion, he concluded. It couldn't be too severe, though, or she'd be complaining about the pain. Not that he'd ever heard Sara Sidle complain about anything. Even when she'd found out he was using her to cheat on Elaine, she'd merely smiled weakly and told him she'd see him around. Unfortunately, 'around' happened to involve her getting injured at a crime scene. Of the two of them, he knew she wasn't the one who deserved it.

"Did you black out?"

"Maybe. For a second."

"It couldn't have been any longer than that," Grissom added, giving her hand another squeeze. "She was awake and talking to me by the time I got to her."

Hank nodded. There wasn't nearly enough blood for it to be a substantial head wound, but it still needed to be checked out. He'd done Sara wrong once; this time, he'd make sure he did right by her. He owed her that much.

"Let's get her to the hospital."

When it became apparent to Warrick that his boss had no intention of letting go of Sara's hand, he cleared his throat.

"You want me to call Catherine?" he offered, and Grissom nodded after a moment's hesitation, obviously having forgotten the rest of the world even existed.

"I want everyone on this shooting," Grissom replied over his shoulder, still walking next to the stretcher, still holding Sara's hand. "Nobody works any other cases tonight. And anybody who shows up without a vest on is fired."