Part A of The Drawbacks of Breathing can be found here at Geekfiction.

The Drawbacks of Breathing, Part B

-- 

The second part of her curiosity is answered outside a warehouse.
The air is tense,
and she feels
like she’s going
to overheat or freeze.
Seconds trickle by…
and then comes the
                                   blast.

                                                             She is mute.

Brass holds her back,
as she struggles and
fights her way into the
warehouse.
Her eyes smart,
her mouth is dry,
and the world is
                                   still. 
                                                            She is deaf.

Catherine rushes in,
and she wriggles free
from Brass’ grip and into
a different world.
No Grissom;
dust floats around like
dirty glitter and the money
is suspended in the air;
                                    lingers.
                                                            She is blind.

We need a paramedic!
Catherine cries out, and
her body becomes jelly.
There is blood everywhere,
and the thought of some
belonging to Grissom
makes her vision swim.
She can stand all of this
for how
                                    long?
                                                            She is paralysed.

Grissom is in one piece,
thankfully,
with just minor scratches
and a large bruise on his
forearm; unaffected eardrums.
She stands by his side,
near enough to smell the
rubbing alcohol but far away
enough to be concealed. 
He sees her though, and shakes
his head.
We still don’t have Nick. Let’s get
back to work. 
She nods, watching him re-enter the
warehouse, the wooden tomb.
Blast still lingers long                       
                                    after.
                                                            She is still in love.

She has her answer, and along with it is the realisation she is still
hopelessly,
desperately,
horribly,
wonderfully
in love with Gilbert Grissom.

--

Dull silver                                            water fountain,
stark white                                          walls and
blinding                                               florescent lights.

Someone she loves is fighting
for his life behind anonymous
walls and here she stands,wrecked with guilt.

And she stands, rooted to the
linoleum floor, not as CSI Sidle,
but as six-year-old Sara.

Somewhere behind her,
a door swings open, and
a voice speaks.
“He’s going to be all right.”

Grissom.

CSI Sidle returns,
professional, fatigued and
muddy, trying to hide
scared little Sara. 

She doesn’t think she’s
fast enough because
brilliant blue eyes
flicker.

I want to see him.

He shakes his head.
Visiting hours end in
twenty minutes;
Catherine and Warrick
are in there.

Tomorrow?

A nod, and she
finally notices the
sheer exhaustion
behind
glacial blue eyes.

Glacial blue eyes,
pale complexion
and a fine red
gash on his left cheek.

You could have died.

We all could, he says
wearily, and she walks
over to the water fountain
with her mind working overtime
trying to cope with the idea of losing
Grissom. 

What do we do now?

She lowers her head
to taste ice-cold metallic
water from the water
fountain, just to keep her
awake. 

His footsteps stop
next to the fountain,
and he murmurs something
that almost makes her choke.

“We go for coffee.” 

She steps into the car
and settles on an expanse
of creamy leather, nerves
prickly.

He eases out from the
parking lot and onto the
highway. Drives for fifteen
minutes, then turns right.

Where are we going?

For coffee, he explains,
taking a left. The hum of
the engine makes her
fight sleep for control of her
eyelids. 

Frank’s is near the Strip,

referring to the team’s favourite
coffee house.
Coffee at my place, he says
and everything starts making sense
but not all at once.

Oh.

Grissom’s townhouse is
muted grey and littered with
framed butterflies and
high-end appliances, from
sound system to kitchenware. 

Wow.

He gives her a shadow of
a smile as she perches on
his immaculate couch.

“It’s brewing,”

he sits down next to her.
Near enough to talk,
too far away to
touch.  

Grissom—

she starts, stutters, because
she doesn’t know what to say.
He’s looking at her, puzzled,
and she reaches over and runs
a palm over the gash, allowing her
heart to speak. 

I’m not very good at words.

She pulls back, but he catches
her wrist and leans in,
closer and closer and closer,
until their lips touch. 

“Me neither.”

And
Gilbert Grissom
kisses
Sara Sidle.

One kiss makes two,
two kisses make four,
four kisses make eight,
and eight kisses make a
journey across his home.

“Bedroom,”

he breathes into her neck,
but she can’t reply because
her fingers are busy with his belt
and her mind is in
overdrive.

He pushes her onto his
king-sized bed and slips off
her shirt; fumbles with her bra.

She pulls his shirt, streaked
with soil, off his body and focuses
attention on his boxers.

By now, he’s worshipping ivory
skin with his lips.
Touching, exploring,
tasting. 

Enough,

she gasps, removing
the final layer of
clothing but
stops just short of
pleading.

More.    

He understands, and
adulates her body with
caresses, thrusts and   
moans.

She wants to say she is in
control, but her hips seem
to work to a different rhythm,
as with her voice box.

It’s pleasure, pain,
raw desire and
pure ecstasy.

Sara, he says with
clenched teeth, fighting to
be in control.
It’s useless, because a groan
from her bruised lips shows
them who’s in control.

“Sara!”

She’s as good as done,
first mind,
now body and soul.
She does the only logical thing:
she lets go.

Forever and an hour later,
she rouses next to Grissom,
his rhythmic breathing making
the blanket rise and fall in the
silence.

She eases out from the bed
and walks over to his bathroom.
Sun has drenched the place, and
she stares at herself in his wide
mirror.

Eleven-year-old Sara
is appalled.
Where’s the picket fence,
the kissing in the rain and
the flowers? 

Thirty-five-year-old Sara
is sated.
There’s no need for all that
when here she stands,
naked in Grissom’s bathroom,
thoroughly fucked.

Skin glows                             Harlow gold,
cheeks flushed                      fiery pink,
and bruises                            blooming purple.

--

TBC.

--

A/N2: This piece was very much inspired by Ellen Hopkins and the prose she writes in, especially in Crank.