Fic: The Road Not Taken - Part One
Title: The Road Not Taken- Part One
Fandom: CSI Las Vegas
Author: nicky69
Summary: AU. One possible outcome from the babysitter ordeal in Nicks past.
Characters: Gil Grissom, others
Rating: 15. Warning of adult themes.
Warning: Death of a canon/major character. Mention of sucide. Angst.
Author Notes. This story should be seen an neither an endorsment nor condemnation of suicide.
Acknowledgment: Betaed by the lovely,
elmyraemilie . Any mistakes you find are my own.
Disclaimer. I don't own CSI, CBS does. I'm just playing in their sandbox.
Split into two parts because LJ's being a B***h
“Albert.”
With an accompanying nod of acknowledgement, Gil Grissom entered the cool, sombre room that was the coroner’s domain. In his hand he held a copy of the meagre file that corresponded with his current case, a case related to the as yet unidentified body that lay on the autopsy table.
“So what can you tell about our John Doe? Do we have a positive COD yet?”
Accustomed as he was to Grissom's sometimes rather brusque manner, Doc Robbins smiled wryly and pushed himself to his feet, he moved to stand beside Gil. In the quiet room the soft thump of his crutch, as the rubber tip hit the pristine floor, seemed over loud and intrusive. For a moment they simply stared at the partially covered remains before them, each of them in silent contemplation. Then it was back to business.
“What we have here is a caucasian male in his early to late thirties, who before his demise was in relatively good health. There are no apparent outward signs of injury, the subject is well nourished, if a little on the thin side, and does not appear to be the victim of any kind of assault. My first thought was that perhaps he had suffered an aneurysm or similar event that resulted in death, however, on closer inspection of the body I discovered these.”
Robbins lifted the sheet that covered the lower extremities of the corpse, exposing pallid flesh. One latex covered hand pointed towards the thigh area and Gil leant in a little closer to see what he had discovered. On the upper thigh a multitude of slim white scars about three inches in length were clearly visible. To someone in his line of work their presence spoke volumes, and was a lasting testament to one man's suffering, endurance and shame.
“He was a cutter?”
There was no condemnation in Gil’s tone, only an abstract professional curiosity, and he leant in again to gain a closer view of the scars.
“Yes,” said Robbins. “I found similar scarring on his other thigh, upper arms and stomach. Some of the scars are decades old, others more recent, say within the past six months.”
Once Grissom had finished his inspection, Doc Robbins replaced the sheet, re-covering the scars in an effort to afford the deceased some small measure of dignity.
“I also found these.”
Robbins moved to the head of the table and lifted one lax hand, turning it so that the wrist was facing outwards. Gil followed in his footsteps, seeking a closer inspection, but he was sadly confident of what he would find; he was not mistaken. Blending in with ashen skin the scars were almost indiscernible. Faded with age they seemed almost innocuous, but their placement and orientation showed that their owner had been serious in his desire to die. Gil’s gaze rose to meet steadily with Al’s.
“When I saw those,” Robbins said, “I decided to send his blood work out for a full tox screen. I’m still waiting on the results, but considering the lack of conflicting evidence, I’m going to make a tentative preliminary ruling of suicide.”
Gil didn’t seem to be surprised by his conclusions, just intensely saddened.
“Did you send his prints to Wendy?”
It would be nice to have a name, an identity to go with the face. It wasn’t simply that it was his job to identify the victim; it always seemed wrong to him that what was once a living, feeling human being could be reduced to nothing more than an anonymous number in a cold, impersonal data base.
Whatever course this unfortunate man’s life had taken he deserved the courtesy of a name; his family, if he had one, deserved to know of his passing, painful as that knowledge would be. In Gil’s eyes he was more than just a collection of scars and circumstances, more than a statistic and a file on his desk.
They all were; the lost ones, the forgotten, the unclaimed dead.
In the end it didn't matter to him if they were rich or poor, innocent or deserving of their fate, though he was honest enough with himself to admit that children held a special place in his heart. What it came down to is that they could no longer speak for themselves; it was his duty to give them a voice, an identity. So often neglected in life, in death they finally found an advocate. It is a bitter irony, one of which Gil was all too aware.
“Sure did, sent them up with David an hour or so ago. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a hit.”
“Maybe,” was Gil’s only answer as he turned to leave. “Thanks, Al.”
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard the sound of a sheet being raised, and a few sorrowful words.
“Damn shame. What a waste.”
Gil couldn’t agree more. . .
Fandom: CSI Las Vegas
Author: nicky69
Summary: AU. One possible outcome from the babysitter ordeal in Nicks past.
Characters: Gil Grissom, others
Rating: 15. Warning of adult themes.
Warning: Death of a canon/major character. Mention of sucide. Angst.
Author Notes. This story should be seen an neither an endorsment nor condemnation of suicide.
Acknowledgment: Betaed by the lovely,
elmyraemilie . Any mistakes you find are my own.
Disclaimer. I don't own CSI, CBS does. I'm just playing in their sandbox.
Split into two parts because LJ's being a B***h
“Albert.”
With an accompanying nod of acknowledgement, Gil Grissom entered the cool, sombre room that was the coroner’s domain. In his hand he held a copy of the meagre file that corresponded with his current case, a case related to the as yet unidentified body that lay on the autopsy table.
“So what can you tell about our John Doe? Do we have a positive COD yet?”
Accustomed as he was to Grissom's sometimes rather brusque manner, Doc Robbins smiled wryly and pushed himself to his feet, he moved to stand beside Gil. In the quiet room the soft thump of his crutch, as the rubber tip hit the pristine floor, seemed over loud and intrusive. For a moment they simply stared at the partially covered remains before them, each of them in silent contemplation. Then it was back to business.
“What we have here is a caucasian male in his early to late thirties, who before his demise was in relatively good health. There are no apparent outward signs of injury, the subject is well nourished, if a little on the thin side, and does not appear to be the victim of any kind of assault. My first thought was that perhaps he had suffered an aneurysm or similar event that resulted in death, however, on closer inspection of the body I discovered these.”
Robbins lifted the sheet that covered the lower extremities of the corpse, exposing pallid flesh. One latex covered hand pointed towards the thigh area and Gil leant in a little closer to see what he had discovered. On the upper thigh a multitude of slim white scars about three inches in length were clearly visible. To someone in his line of work their presence spoke volumes, and was a lasting testament to one man's suffering, endurance and shame.
“He was a cutter?”
There was no condemnation in Gil’s tone, only an abstract professional curiosity, and he leant in again to gain a closer view of the scars.
“Yes,” said Robbins. “I found similar scarring on his other thigh, upper arms and stomach. Some of the scars are decades old, others more recent, say within the past six months.”
Once Grissom had finished his inspection, Doc Robbins replaced the sheet, re-covering the scars in an effort to afford the deceased some small measure of dignity.
“I also found these.”
Robbins moved to the head of the table and lifted one lax hand, turning it so that the wrist was facing outwards. Gil followed in his footsteps, seeking a closer inspection, but he was sadly confident of what he would find; he was not mistaken. Blending in with ashen skin the scars were almost indiscernible. Faded with age they seemed almost innocuous, but their placement and orientation showed that their owner had been serious in his desire to die. Gil’s gaze rose to meet steadily with Al’s.
“When I saw those,” Robbins said, “I decided to send his blood work out for a full tox screen. I’m still waiting on the results, but considering the lack of conflicting evidence, I’m going to make a tentative preliminary ruling of suicide.”
Gil didn’t seem to be surprised by his conclusions, just intensely saddened.
“Did you send his prints to Wendy?”
It would be nice to have a name, an identity to go with the face. It wasn’t simply that it was his job to identify the victim; it always seemed wrong to him that what was once a living, feeling human being could be reduced to nothing more than an anonymous number in a cold, impersonal data base.
Whatever course this unfortunate man’s life had taken he deserved the courtesy of a name; his family, if he had one, deserved to know of his passing, painful as that knowledge would be. In Gil’s eyes he was more than just a collection of scars and circumstances, more than a statistic and a file on his desk.
They all were; the lost ones, the forgotten, the unclaimed dead.
In the end it didn't matter to him if they were rich or poor, innocent or deserving of their fate, though he was honest enough with himself to admit that children held a special place in his heart. What it came down to is that they could no longer speak for themselves; it was his duty to give them a voice, an identity. So often neglected in life, in death they finally found an advocate. It is a bitter irony, one of which Gil was all too aware.
“Sure did, sent them up with David an hour or so ago. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get a hit.”
“Maybe,” was Gil’s only answer as he turned to leave. “Thanks, Al.”
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard the sound of a sheet being raised, and a few sorrowful words.
“Damn shame. What a waste.”
Gil couldn’t agree more. . .