The 'Situation'

Rating: R
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Category: Angst/Romance
Archive: Please ask first I might way yes.
Disclaimer: All the characters belong to one or more of the following: CBS, Anthony Zuicker, Alliance Atlantis and God knows whom else. But not me. The only profit I get is pleasure.

Author's Note: The first chapter is Tenof10's "From Sara." While beta-reading mine, she noticed that the two fit together nicely, and she graciously allowed me to use it. Tenof10, LSI, and Duckfeat all beta-ed for me, and each had a hand in developing the story. Thank you so much!

Summary: Sara has left Las Vegas, but returns to help the team with a 'situation' that has come up.

---

Grissom retrieved his accumulated messages from the front desk as he unhurriedly walked to his office. Stepping inside, he laid his briefcase on the sofa and the messages on his desk. While he removed his jacket, his gaze fell on the envelope that was propped up on his keyboard. He threw his jacket over to the sofa and reached for the envelope as he sat down in his chair.

His name was typed on the front, leaving no indication of who had left it there. His eyebrows rose as he tried to fathom who had gained entrance to his locked office. He turned the envelope over and slid his finger underneath the flap.

Pulling out the folded paper from within, he noticed that it was a form of sorts and quickly opened it, thinking it was a document from the Sheriff or possibly some other bureaucrat needing information about a case or the lab. As the paper unfolded, what appeared to be a business card fell to the floor. Before he could reach it, his eyes had begun their scan of the piece of paper he still held.

"What the hell?" Grissom started to read the words, but let his eyes dart quickly to the bottom to see her signature written neater than he'd ever seen it before. His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth twisted into a worried pucker. "She can't. She wouldn't."

It appeared she had. Sara Sidle had resigned as a criminalist from the Las Vegas Crime Lab, effective immediately, her resignation filled with words of respect but cold and calculated. "Why? There has to be a reason." Then he remembered the item that had fallen to the floor.

Grissom leaned over in his chair and retrieved the little card, turning it over in his hand. His heart stopped as he read the words.

From,

Sara

* * * * *

"Hello?" she spoke into the cell phone.

"Sara? Hey, it's Catherine. How ya been doin'?" Catherine tried to come across as cheery, but she sounded uncharacteristically haggard and tense.

"Fine, Catherine. How'd you find me?" Sara asked, aware that the question would come across as rude, but wanting to know where she had left her tracks uncovered.

"I lied to your mother," she answered honestly, discerning the reason Sara asked. "I told her we were students together and that I had lost track of you. She didn't tell me where you are, but she gave me your phone number, which was all I really needed anyway."

"I'll have to talk to her about that," Sara said without guile. "So, what's wrong?" Sara asked, cutting to the heart of the matter, never liking the waste of time that idle chit-chat entailed.

"I sooooo need your help," Catherine sighed, a tinge of despondency in her voice.

"I gathered that it wasn't a social call. What exactly do you need?" Sara asked warily, knowing that there was little that she could do for Catherine that she couldn't either do for herself or get someone in Vegas to do for her. She knew everyone in that town, and most of them seemed to owe her a favor or be willing to front her one.

"Before you left just two weeks ago, we had five CSIs on the shift. Now, we're down to three, sometimes two. We desperately need you to come back for just a little while, until we can get some more warm bodies in here."

"You've got to be shitting me, Catherine," Sara snapped. "If I hear just one more time about how the lab  needs me, I'm going to scream. There is no way in hell I'm ever going back. ... And don't even pretend you don't know why," she added in a near-growl.

"Of course I know why, but you don't have to worry about that. Grissom isn't here anymore. He's the other CSI I'm trying to replace, other than you. And, yes, the lab needs you, but more important, Nick, Warrick and I need you."

"He left Las Vegas?" Sara asked skeptically. "Where did he go?" Sara had to find out where he went, if for no other reason than to avoid that place at all costs when she put in her applications for employment.

"He didn't transfer," Catherine replied succinctly.

"He quit?" Sara asked with surprise.

"Sort of," Catherine evaded.

"He wasn't fired, was he?" Sara practically shouted in disbelief. "Now I know you're screwing with me, Cath. Even if he got into it with Mobley or Cavallo, he would just transfer somewhere, not quit. And neither one of them is stupid enough to fire him without giving him the option to move first. It would look bad on them."

"Nope. Not fired."

"Not there, didn't transfer, didn't get fired, but sort of quit? Whatever. Grissom and I are only two CSIs. You said you're sometimes missing three. Who's the other MIA?"

"We take turns," Catherine answered artlessly, not elaborating. She found out long ago that the only way for her to get Sara to listen to her without rancor was to intrigue her with too little information. The curiosity and need to solve the mystery would overwhelm her mistrust.

"What the hell are you talking about? You're down two CSIs and you take turns being gone? I know you're new to supervising full-time, Catherine, but I don't think you'd let anyone take time off when you're short-handed."

"We don't take off full days - just a few hours here and there. We have to. Nick, Warrick and I are working 16 or more hours a day on our cases and the few we have left we get to fritter away eating or sleeping. We can't keep it up, Sara. I need someone who can hit the ground running to give us some immediate relief ... just until the dust settles and we can hire more people. You know how the county employment thing goes. Everything has to be posted forever before you can even begin to interview people."

"Can't Ecklie lend you someone?" Sara asked.

"First of all, let's face facts, there's no one on days who can pull the load you can. Hell, there's no one on any shift who can. No one but Cavallo knows the deep shit we are in, and he is trying to help us keep it that way. He's a politician and a stuffed shirt, but his ass is on the line now, too, so he's actually been trying to help us keep everything as contained as possible."

"Keep what  contained, Catherine?" Sara demanded, starting to grow impatient with the dribble of data she was able to glean so far.

"Sara, it's really not your problem, and I'm trying very hard not to get you sucked into it," Catherine responded. "Cavallo said I could bring you in as a consultant, so we'd pick up the travel expenses - coach, of course - and some meager living expenses while you are here, in addition to paying you a ridiculously low fee per day."

"If I come, it wouldn't be because of the money," Sara retorted.

"It's a good damned thing! I'm just telling you that Nick, Warrick, and I believe - and Director Cavallo agrees - that you could do more to keep us from self-destructing than anyone else - with the possible exception of Grissom, but that's moot."

"Catherine, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm inclined to help. But I'm not doing a damned thing until you tell me what's going on. I'm not walking in blind. Why did Grissom quit?"

"Sara, I understand what you're saying, but believe me, you don't want to know. It's better this way. Just come in, do your thing, go home. Leave the rest to us to handle. With you helping pull the caseload, we might be able to work out the rest with as little long-term damage as possible."

"Damn it, Catherine!" Sara barked. "Tell me what the hell is going on, or find another white knight to ride in and save the day!"

"Not like this. Not on the phone, Sara. Since the number your mother gave is a cell phone, I have no idea where you are. Tell me which airport you will be leaving from, and I will book you a flight here."

"OK, Catherine. I'll bite. I love a good mystery as much as the next guy. Book me a flight from San Francisco International," Sara conceded.

"I'll call you right back with the flight information. And, Sara, I'll never forget this. I'll owe you one ... more than one. And I know that Nicky and Warrick will be happy to see you, even apart from saving our asses. We've all missed you."

"It's going to be really uncomfortable going back under the circumstances," Sara winced.

"Shouldn't be. No one but our little group even knows you quit, and we all understand why."

"What!?" Sara squealed. "No one even noticed I was gone? That's a real ego-booster!"

"Everyone noticed, since you were there all the freaking time, but we told them you had to take a leave to take care of some personal issue."

"Why did you lie?" Sara asked. "You knew it would all come out sooner or later."

"At first, we thought Grissom would take care of doing the paperwork and telling people, but when he left, we decided the best thing to do was to keep up the appearance that you'd be back whenever you could make it. For all we knew, maybe you might come back, under the circumstances ... you know, since Grissom is gone and all."

"Well, your cover story will certainly make it easier. But I'm not saying I'll stay, Cath. There are just too many memories for me there. I think I need to get a fresh start someplace else. But I'll help as long as I can keep it up. Deal?"

"Deal, kiddo. Funny how we always call you when the shit hits the fan around here. You must be our guardian angel."

"Doubt that," Sara snorted. "Listen, I gotta go and pack, make some calls, you know ... Call me when you know what flight I'll be on. When I get in, should I rent a car, take a cab, what?"

"I'll pick you up. You can drop me off and take my Tahoe to use while you're here."

* * * * *

"How was your flight?" Catherine asked at the gate. Sara was shocked at how different Cath looked from just two weeks ago. Normally, she's immaculate - hair just so, nails manicured, makeup perfect, stylish clothes. Sara could tell that she could not be getting more than a couple of hours of sleep every day, if that much. Her hair was limp and unstyled, pulled back with a barrette. Other than a little mascara, much of which seemed smudged as though she had been rubbing her eyes, she had on little or no makeup. Her clothes looked as though she had napped in them, perhaps wearing them for more than one day at a stretch.

"Flight was average," Sara answered, trying to be patient when all she wanted to do was grab Catherine and demand to know what sort of maelstrom was obviously buffeting her, and presumably her other friends on the graveyard shift. She had been suspicious during the phone call that Catherine was overdramatizing the situation, as she was wont to do. Evaluating Catherine's physical state, she was frankly alarmed. If anything, whatever the 'situation' was, it was even worse than Catherine had let on.

Sara threw her bags in the back of the SUV and started for the passenger side. Catherine met her at the door and handed her the keys. "Do you mind driving, Sara? I'm dog-tired and it would suck for you to come all the way here only to end up smeared all over the highway."

"Well, since you put it that way ..." Sara said, chuckling and taking the keys from an exhausted Catherine.

"Where to?" Sara asked.

"You have your choice. The department won't spring for anything more than a decent motel, which is OK, but they are all on the edge of the city limits. Or you can stay with either me, Warrick or Nick, and keep the per diem. We're almost never home anyway, so you'd still have your privacy. It's your call."

"Well, we'll play it by ear today. I'll just keep my bags in the truck until we decide."

"Fine with me. I won't be home more than an hour or so, so you can crash there if you want. Lindsey is staying with my sister until this mess is all over, so no one is home to disturb you."

"OK, Cath, time to spill it. What mess? What the hell is going on here?"

"OK, Sara, I'll tell you what I can, without betraying any confidences. We are trying to save Grissom's job for him, though it's getting harder all the time."

"I thought he quit." Sara retorted.

"Well, he sort of did, but not officially. He's our friend, our mentor, and a damned good CSI, so we're trying to cover for him until he can work through his 'situation'."

"Why did he quit? What does he have to say about all this? Doesn't he care that you're putting your asses on the line for him?" Sara interrogated.

"I don't know if he knows what's going on. Whether he does or not, we haven't talked about it."

"So you guys are working yourselves into an early grave and putting your jobs on the line for him, and no one knows whether he even wants you to. Am I right, so far?"

"That's about right."

"You guys are freaking nuts, you know that?" Sara exclaimed, shaking her head.

"You put it much milder than Cavallo did."

"So you haven't even seen Grissom?"

"I didn't say that. I said he hasn't talked to us about it."

"Stop it, Cath. You are starting to talk like him, and it's scaring me. One of the things I always appreciated most about you was that you didn't screw around with your words. You always said just what you meant. Now you're being purposefully vague."

"You're getting into the part you should stay out of. Grissom's not your problem. Could you just trust me on this one, and let it go?" Catherine asked with a anguish Sara hadn't ever heard in her voice.

"For now, Catherine. But if I think that something hinky is going on, I will expect you to spill it all, or I'll just pack up my marbles and go home. I just want to be honest here."

"OK. Turn left at the next intersection," Catherine directed.

"I thought we were going to the lab," Sara said, but followed Catherine's directions.

"No. You are dropping me off at Grissom's, then you can take the SUV to the lab and get started."

"Why are you going to Grissom's?" Sara asked.

"Not your concern, Sara," Catherine chided her. When they pulled up outside of Grissom's townhouse, Catherine pulled out her phone and called Nick.

"Nick, it's Catherine. Yeah, she's here. Listen, I'm at Grissom's now and Sara will be right in to help you guys out. If you both have to be gone, leave her a note in the breakroom about where to meet you or what to do. Yeah, I'm glad she's here, too, Nicky. Bye," Catherine smiled over at Sara.

"He nearly burst my eardrums! He's so excited that you're here, Sara," Catherine shared, reaching over to pat her arm.

"I miss him, too. I miss all of you, but I was closer to Nicky in many ways than I am with my own brother."

"Yeah, I know," she said, getting out of the vehicle. "See you later, Sara. Thanks again," Catherine called out, walking around the front of the Tahoe.

Sara watched her round the SUV, then looked up at the darkened townhouse with a frown. She shouted out, "Cath, you know you will have to tell me what's going on sooner or later, don't you?"

"Maybe, maybe not," she shrugged.

* * * * *

After digging out her old ID badge, wondering why she had even kept it, Sara logged in, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. She had only been gone for two weeks, but everything was both different and the same. She felt odd walking down the hall to the breakroom, as though she had never left, and yet feeling like she didn't quite belong.

Greg saw her as she passed the DNA/Chem Lab, nearly knocking over an entire rack of samples in his zeal to rid his hands of their encumbrances. He bounded around the bench and shot out of the door, grabbing her in both arms and swinging her around like a rag doll. "Sara! You're back!" he squealed with delight, then set her down and planted a wet kiss on her cheek.

She was startled, then annoyed, wiping the remains of the kiss off her cheek with her sleeve, but her frown morphed to a smile as the feeling of coming home to those you care about began to settle over her.

Hearing the commotion, Warrick and Nick rushed out of the breakroom, temporarily log-jamming at the door, finally forcing themselves through simultaneously. They also sought to man-handle Sara, but at least this time she saw them coming and was prepared.

"God, Sara, I'm so happy to see you!" Nick cried out, alternating between hugging her and pushing her back to look at her.

"Is that why you're giving me a whiplash, Nicky?" she shouted.

"Oh, sorry. I'm just so excited."

"You are easily amused, Nicky. An endearing trait in a man."

"Come here, you," Warrick said in a low voice, pulling her gently from Nicky's grasp. "Can I have a hug?" he asked politely.

"Of course, since you asked so nicely," she said, allowing him to wrap his arms around her for a good squeeze.

"We're so glad you're back, Sara," Greg blurted out. "This place has turned to crap since you've been gone."

Nick and Warrick shot him a "shut up, Greg" look, then turned Sara into the breakroom to fill her in on the cases they had going. She helped prioritize the cases by what was left to do on them, hoping to knock out the simpler ones quickly to allow themselves more time to concentrate on the more complex cases.

After they had settled on a game plan, Sara decided to pump the guys for more information. "Nick," Sara began, "I told Catherine that I'd come help you guys out for a little while until you can hire more people. She said Grissom quit, but she won't tell me why, which is very odd for Catherine. What happened?"

Nick and Warrick passed uncomfortable, slightly guilty looks between them. They hadn't been sure how much Sara knew, because Catherine said she would have to play it by ear. They agreed not to involve her, but it was difficult to purposefully hide the truth from her.

Her words let them know that Catherine did not spell it out, and they were grateful. Everyone recognized that Sara would be a wild card that they could not control, nor could they foresee the effect she might have on the 'situation'.

"I don't really know the details, Sar," Nick lied.

She swung her attention over to Warrick and passed the question to him with a raise of her eyebrows.

"I wasn't here when he left," Warrick stated honestly, though deceptively. "Well, girl, are we going to split up, or work together?" Warrick asked, as much to change the subject as to get on with their work.

"I think we should work together to get the small stuff out of the way. We can split up later, if we need to," she said, getting up, anxious to get back in the hunt.

* * * * *

Catherine lay on the couch, grateful that Grissom was asleep. She had peeked in to see a lump curled up under the covers, turned away from her. He didn't stir when she opened the door, so she returned to the living room to crash on the couch.

She would be able to fit in over two hours of sleep if she could just drop off now, but she was in that strange wired state that sleep deprivation brings on, where one is literally too tired to sleep. Running on adrenaline the past several days had left her unable to take advantage of the time she could rest. She thought about how handy it would be if the body had an on-off switch for things like adrenaline, hormones, and other pesky chemicals that we can't control and seem to appear when you least desire them.

She willed herself to believe that Sara would carry them through at the lab, and smiled contently, allowing the wishful thinking to relax her. Within minutes she began the most restful two hours of sleep she had enjoyed in the last dozen days.

"Cath? It's Nicky. Time to get up," he called to her quietly, then escalated by rubbing her arm.

"Shit, Nicky. I feel like I just dropped off," she slurred, trying to focus on her watch. "What time is it?" she asked.

"It's three."

"Did you get Sara started?"

"More like she got us started. She went over the cases and just sort of took over. It was a relief. We didn't know which way to go without bumping into each other."

"Good. We desperately need someone in charge who isn't ready to collapse. She can just run the whole show for all I care right now."

"I was afraid you'd feel, oh, I don't know, threatened or jealous or something. Like she was horning in."

"Not on your life, bud. I brought her here hoping she'd take the reins. I can't even remember my middle name anymore, I'm so freaking tired."

"Here are the keys to the SUV. Tell Warrick to take his time and not worry about getting here right at six. I'm going to try to fit in some sleep before he gets up," Nick said, knowing full well that Grissom hadn't gotten out of bed except to go to the bathroom in days. He also hadn't eaten, and had been drinking only small amounts of the water that they put on the nightstand.

Catherine could not hold back a sad, wistful smile, listening to Nick's fantasy. "It's going to be OK, Nicky. He'll get better soon. You'll see," she spoke courageously.

"I know. He has to," Nick agreed.

* * * * *

Warrick found that work wasn't as exhausting when he didn't have to make any decisions anymore. He did whatever Sara directed him to do, unthinkingly. She could have told him to step off a cliff, and he would have happily trudged forward, relieved to have someone tell him which direction to move.

Catherine had called him to relay Nick's message, and he felt that he could probably hold out at least until the end of shift. It was only one hour more than planned, but yesterday that hour would have been hell. At least he wouldn't have to lie to Sara about why he was cutting out early.

He handed the phone over to Sara, telling her it was Catherine.

"What do you want me to do?" Catherine asked.

"Catherine, sugar, you are in charge. You do whatever it is you think you should be doing," Sara explained to her, figuring Cath must be groggy from too little sleep.

"Uh-uh. You're in charge, Sara. You're the only one who has a measurable IQ right now. You just point, and we do."

"You neglected to share that little tidbit earlier, Catherine," Sara quipped.

"Oh, did I? Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, what should I be doing?"

"OK, you guys had brought in some evidence from the Burns case that didn't get put into processing yet, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Take the biologicals to Greg and any trace to Hodges, and get them started on the analysis. Call me when you're done."

"OK, boss. You got it." Catherine was finding some mental and emotional rest in knowing that she didn't have to waste precious energy making the constant decisions required to run the team.

"God help us," Sara said to no one in particular as she closed the cell phone and handed it back to Warrick. He smiled and shrugged.

* * * * *

"But Sara, I haven't finished my shift!" Nick argued, relieved he had gotten back to the lab before Sara had returned.

"I'm in charge, and I say you have. I need for you all to work in more rest. You are useless to me if you are exhausted. We're going to schedule this my way. Got it?"

"I didn't know you were in charge, Sara," he said, looking askance at her.

"Well, I am. Ask Catherine. And I say you all start fitting in more rest. I will pick up the slack at work until you can get your heads back into it. It should only be a few days. I can do that standing on my head," she said confidently, hoping to assuage Nick's doubts.

She watched Nick walk off tiredly towards the breakroom. Once he was out of sight, taking out her cell phone, Sara dialed Brass's number. When she heard his gruff voice, she answered back, "Brass? It's Sidle. I'm trying to straighten out the cluster at the lab. Tell me what you know about what's going on," she demanded.

"Hello to you, too, Sara," Brass finally got to say. "I'm glad you're back," he sighed heavily.

"I'm not back, Brass. I'm just helping out for a little while. Now, what's going on with Grissom?"

"I don't run the lab anymore, Sara. You'll have to ask someone else," he spat out defensively.

"Gee, thanks," she said curtly, closing the phone.

She caught up with Catherine in the breakroom, pouring herself a cup of coffee that looked as if it had been brewed from half a can of grounds.

"How old is that?" she asked cautiously.

"Fresh. Just made it myself. Watch out, though. It's got a double-barreled kick to it," Catherine warned.

"So I see," Sara replied, pouring out about one-fourth of the cup, then running some water in it from the tap to cut it down to just incredibly strong coffee. At least she was confident that now it wouldn't dissolve the spoon when she stirred in the sugar.

"Catherine, I'm extending everyone's time-off schedules when I can. I hope you don't mind that I'm changing everything up. You may not realize it, but you guys are all zombies. You can't get anything accomplished until you get more rest."

"Oh, darn!" she said facetiously.

"Wow. I really had to twist your arm on that one," Sara laughed. "That's proof enough that you are exhausted. You would never have let me even suggest that back when I worked here before. You'd have ripped my head off and spit down my neck just for having the gall to change your procedures."

"Am I really that much of a bitch?" Catherine asked, actually appearing to be bothered by that notion.

"Yeah, you are," Sara answered, but smiled and patted her on the arm. "It's just that you always had to be the alpha female. I'm not used to being allowed to be dominant."

"Enjoy it, then," Catherine suggested. "When I'm rested, we may have to fight for the title."

"When you're feeling better, you won't have to," Sara assured her. "You have plenty of time to go home, sleep, eat, get cleaned up, and spend some time with your kid. You look like shit, no offense."

"Revel in it while you can," Catherine snorted.

"I intend to," Sara laughed back. "It's not often that you look worse than I do, Cath."

"That's not true, Sara."

"I'm not being modest. I'm being realistic," Sara opined, holding her palms up to show her equanimity.

"I'm so glad you're here. The tide is starting to turn already. I can feel it," Catherine whispered excitedly.

"Ms. Sidle? May I see you for a moment?" Laboratory Director Robert Cavallo spoke suddenly into the room, causing both women to look up in startled shock.

"Of course, Dr. Cavallo," she answered, looking back in fearful confusion at Catherine, then shrugging.

Cavallo walked briskly back to his office, with Sara almost struggling to keep pace, especially since he had gotten a head start. Once she entered his office, he offered a chair and closed the door.

"I am pleased you decided to consult for us, Ms. Sidle."

"I am happy to be able to assist in any way I can," she answered in her most politically correct tone.

"You left rather suddenly, as I recall, so I wasn't convinced you would be willing," he stated, boring his eyes into hers, trying to gauge the truthfulness of her responses.

"Yes, I did, for personal reasons that have nothing to do with the lab. I value the time I spent here."

"Are you aware of the 'situation' we face, Ms. Sidle?" he asked gravely.

"I am aware that there is some sort of 'situation', though I am not aware of its exact nature. I know that the lab is half-staffed, which is what concerns me."

"Are you satisfied with that level of knowledge?" he asked with curiosity.

"I am," she nodded. "At this point, it is all I need to know. I am only here to help clear the caseload. I am not part of the 'situation' with Dr. Grissom."

"Quite so. How is it going?"

"It's only been one shift, but I think we made some progress. I've done some shifting around to allow each of them to get more sleep at one time. I'll cover the extra work."

"So you are in charge now?" he asked with a tinge of challenge in his tone.

"I am consulting, and that is my professional advice. They have opted to take it."

"I see. Very well. Please keep me informed as to your progress. You may find this difficult to believe, but I really did work in a lab for many years before I became an administrator. I do still know my way around a microscope. If you need me to pitch in, you know how to reach me," he said, offering a handshake to her.

"I appreciate your offer. I hope it's sincere, because we may find ourselves needing all the help we can get," Sara said respectfully.

* * * * *

'Whew!' Sara whistled as she left the office, pretending to be more confident than she felt. 'That went much better than I could have imagined. I always thought he was a complete asshole, but I guess he's got some small speck of humanity left in him after all. Or, it could be that he's got his privates on a chopping block and would do anything to save them. Maybe he got into it with Grissom and that's what started this whole mess.'

Going back to the breakroom, she roused a grumpy, sleeping Catherine. Even the high-test caffeine infusion had been unable to keep her awake. "C'mon, Cath, let's get home and go nighty-night," Sara purred at her, lifting her up by the elbows. Catherine had to put her hand on Sara's shoulder to steady herself, but she shook the cobwebs free and walked out to the SUV under her own steam.

Sara followed, marveling at the spirit she had seen in all her co-workers in the past day, despite their fatigue. She never really realized how much these people loved each other. And she was especially stunned to find out that she loved them.

* * * * *

For the next couple of days, Sara directed all the activities of the graveyard shift, and they were finally able to catch up to the point where they were handling current cases, with only a few stragglers that had evidence pending in other areas of the lab. She really wasn't working that much more than she had in the past, though it was more intense since she had to direct the others and monitor them like they were all rookies.

They began to look and act more like living human beings, now that she insisted that they sleep at least six hours per day and eat no fewer than twice. She also insisted that they bathe and change clothes. All normal activities before, but she still had to remind them to do it each day, as though they were children.

She searched their body language for any hint of resentment at her mothering, but she hadn't seen any so far, except occasionally from Nick, and she expected that. It was a sibling rivalry holdover, and not to be taken seriously.

Leaving the lab after a fourteen-hour workday, she stopped off at the diner down the street for coffee. She wanted the time alone to think about where they were and where she still needed to take them before they would be back on top of things for good.

Cavallo had begun interviewing candidates, so with luck it should be no more than a couple of weeks until they were fully staffed again. She had assured him that she would stay until a permanent replacement could be found for her - and Grissom, if need be.

The last thing she wanted him to do was accept some less qualified person, just to have someone with a pulse. He had thanked her warmly and offered to help her in her own job search when she was done here. She considered that a glowing recommendation from the Director of the second-best lab in the country was nothing to scoff at, and sure beat having him say she left without notice.

She knew that the time had come to make a decision about Grissom, or rather, to allow his decision to become a reality, if that is what he wants. They may need to replace him and move on, just as they were replacing her. People come and go, but life and the lab move on.

She had succeeded in marshalling her thoughts and energies to the task at hand for the past four days, rarely allowing herself to even consider Grissom, much less wonder what the 'situation' was regarding him.

It's so out of character for him to not be at work. She had seen him pout a hundred times before, but he just normally withdrew from human interaction and threw himself into the science. She had suspected that he was having hearing problems for some time. Maybe it got worse and he can't work.

She told herself that it was time to find out more about the 'situation'. She told herself that it now impacted her decisions regarding the supervision of the shift. She told herself that it was strictly business, and that she would not become involved in the 'situation' - just observe what it was and how it should be handled thenceforth. She told herself that this was the only reason she was driving over there right now. And she believed everything she told herself.

When Brass heard the knock on the door, he roused himself groggily from the couch, thinking it was Catherine there to relieve him. He didn't even look at the time, since most of his naps at Grissom's ended with him feeling like they had just begun. He stumbled to the door and opened it without looking, trudging back to the coffee table to gather his belongings.

Sara walked in and closed the door behind her. "What are you doing here, Brass?" she asked him pointedly.

"God damn, Sara! What are you  doing here? Jesus, you've got to go before Catherine finds out. She will shoot me. After she beats me to a bloody pulp." He moved towards her with arms outstretched, like he was herding geese.

"Touch me and die, Brass," she said ominously, holding out a stiff arm in front of her.

"Oh God! I am in ... such ... deep ... shit!" Brass moaned, flopping down onto the couch.

"You didn't bring me here. I came here of my own accord," she reassured him, taking a seat in the easy chair next to the couch.

"I don't suppose you'd leave of your own accord? Now? Before Catherine finds out? If you don't, I may have to kill myself to get any mercy."

"Don't be ridiculous. I will leave just as soon as I know what I need to know."

"What is that?" he asked, not daring to hope.

"I need to know what's going on here. I need to know whether we need to replace Grissom. I need to know everything."

"I can't tell you anything. Cath would have my balls," he intoned glumly.

"I'll have them if you don't. And I will sit my ass right here until she or Grissom shows up. Unless you tell me what I need to know, that is," she offered.

"That's blackmail!"

"You are very perceptive. I guess that's why you're a police Captain," she snarked.

"OK. What exactly do you want to know?" he sighed, not offering his usual exposition.

"Everything. Start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

"You left," he began.

"I already know that. What the hell does that have to do with it? I want to know what happened after  that."

"He came to work as usual for a couple of days, I guess. I don't remember exactly. He wouldn't work with anyone. He wouldn't talk to me or the other detectives on the cases. He shut himself off."

"That's normal for him, whenever he's upset about something. What or who pissed him off?"

"Yeah, we knew that he gets that way. So we weren't too concerned. That is, until he just didn't come to work at all one day," Brass eluded her specific question.

"Didn't he call anyone? Tell anyone what was going on?"

"No. Catherine said she tried to call him several times, and paged him, too. But he didn't call back. At first, we figured he was on a case and didn't want to be bothered. But we didn't see him all shift."

"That's odd, I'll grant you, but he's odd," she quipped.

"That's why we still didn't panic. But then, he didn't come in the next night either. We knew he wasn't working a case, because he didn't log any evidence. We both tried calling and paging, 911. Nothing."

"So then you started to get worried," Sara stated, rather than asked, the uneasiness building in the pit of her stomach.

"Yeah. Catherine and I came over here and knocked on the door, but didn't get an answer. I had already checked, and his car was here, so Catherine let me in. The place was trashed, so I drew my weapon and began to look around, announcing myself and calling for Grissom."

"Had he been burglarized or vandalized? Was he hurt?" she asked in shock.

"I'm getting to that," he snipped, drawing a deep, ragged breath. "I found him in the kitchen, sitting down on the floor, backed into the corner, covered in blood. I asked him what had happened, but he didn't answer me. I asked who had done this to him, to his house." Brass had to stop and collect himself for a moment, the memory becoming as unsettling as the reality had been.

"Look around, Sara."

She had only seen his place once, and that was a long time ago. But she remembered that it housed many of the same items his office did, which included walls adorned with encased insects, most notably beautiful butterflies. They were all gone.

"I remember it had framed butterflies hanging on the walls. And some objects d' art on the end tables. A few lamps. Lots of books and CDs. Where is everything?" she asked nervously, her mind constructing a thousand scenarios.

"Nothing could be salvaged. It took us two days just to clean up the glass and the blood. It looked like a bomb went off in here. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the cops, but I guess it happened during the day, when they were at work," he theorized.

"We tried to get him to let us take him to the hospital, but he said no. We told him we were going to call the paramedics, but he said he would refuse treatment. He yelled at us to get the hell out of his house."

"What happened?" Sara asked, confused.

"I found his service weapon and confiscated it. I tossed the house to make sure he didn't have a hold out. Gathered up all the sharps I could find. Catherine took everything from the medicine cabinet, including his migraine medicine. She told him she would leave one, in case he needed it. He could call her for another if he took it. Then we left so that we could decide what to do and get the boys to come help us."

The meaning of Brass's words began to sink in, gradually filling her with a dread and a horror she could not have imagined. She had been envisioning a grand temper tantrum, or maybe an assault by a resentful ex-con, but apparently that's not how Catherine and Brass interpreted it, and they had been at the scene.

"You set up a suicide watch  ? That's what this has been about?" she asked in stark disbelief.

"Yes," he barely whispered.

"Oh, God! I can't believe it, Brass! No, no, no! It's just not like him! You've got to be wrong. That's all there is to it," she hissed, jumping up to pace off the tension.

"C'mon, Sara. What's he got to live for now? Face it, he doesn't have a life. Work was the only think holding him together half the time, and he couldn't even do that after you left. Put yourself in his shoes. You of all people should be able to understand how he felt," he implored.

"Do you even hear what you are telling me? You're saying this is my  fault? How am I supposed to deal with this? Damn him! Hey, nothing happened to him that didn't happen to me. Do you see me trashing all my stuff? No! Do you see me cutting myself up? No! Do you see me withdrawing from all humanity? No!"

"You're young. You can build another life somewhere else. He's had to go through it one too many times, I guess. It gets to be not worth it, after awhile. Happens to a lot of cops."

"I don't see them having to babysit you."

"Just between you and me, Sara, I've spent more than one evening with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a nine millimeter in the other, weighing my options."

"You're still here," she affirmed.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm just an eternal optimist. Or maybe I'm so cynical that I think that even my afterlife will suck. Maybe I'm just a coward. Who knows?"

"It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem," she quoted.

"Sometimes the problems aren't  temporary, Sara. The dangerous time is when that hits you ... that it's never gonna get better. That the only direction it can go is downhill," he shared with resignation in his voice, as a man who had been there and almost done that.

"We gathered up the guys and came back to start cleaning up. Catherine managed to get him to go to his room and lie down. She bandaged up the worst of the cuts on his arms."

"Did he cut himself on purpose?" she asked, helplessly.

"We don't know," he answered truthfully.

"OK, OK. I'm going to sit down now. Gotta calm down. I've gotta breathe," she said, mindfully drawing air in and out slowly and deeply, trying to concentrate on Brass's words to keep from hyperventilating.

"For the next few days, we went through everything to see if we could salvage anything, but it was hopeless," he told her.

"I don't really care about his stuff  , Brass. Tell me what happened with him  ," she snapped at him.

"His stuff is him, too, Sara. Nothing else happened. He only comes out to pee, and he doesn't drink enough to have to do that very often, especially the last few days. He finally quit yelling at us to get out, but that's mainly because he doesn't talk to us at all. We're not sure he even knows we're here. He didn't acknowledge us, even when we were changing his bandages. The cuts are mostly healed up now. They'll leave scars though," he added as an afterthought.

"Does Cavallo know all of this?"

"Not in detail. He knows he's had a breakdown of some sort, but he doesn't know the severity and he doesn't know it's because you left," he answered, then realizing what he had said, looked down.

Ignoring his accusation, she said, "He should be put on medical leave, not be punished or replaced."

"He would never be able to face a defense attorney again. They would throw up his emotional instability to him every day, if it became a matter of record. That's why everything's on the QT. We've got to keep this quiet until he gets better."

"Is he getting better?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm no shrink. Don't ask me," he answered gruffly.

"Well, is he up more? Or talking? Is he even making eye contact?" she prodded.

"No. Not while I'm here, anyway. Maybe with the others. I don't know."

"We've got to get him some help, Brass."

"We can't, Sara. I told you that," he reiterated impatiently.

"A private therapist could probably be found that would do it off the record. His files would be confidential."

"All it would take is for this to leak out, and he's ruined. We are doing the best we can, Sara," he said, rubbing a hand across his face and sniffing, eyes filling with tears of frustration.

"I know, Brass. It's great what you guys are doing, but it's apparently not enough. There's more at stake now than his job. He can get another job."

"You might be right, but I'm not in charge here, Sara. You'll have to sell that to Catherine and the boys."

"Call her. Tell her I came barging in and you need her here. Tell her anything you want, just get her here. I'm going to check on Grissom."

"No! Don't!" Brass shouted, jumping up to intercept her. "You'll only make it worse, Sara! He's managed to survive two weeks of this. If he sees you now, we'll be right back where we started!"

"It can hardly get worse, Brass!" she screamed back, pulling her arm out of his grasp. "And you know what? I don't appreciate that no one told me this was happening! How dare  you keep this from me! Did you think it wouldn't matter to me? You had no right! You should have called me the minute you found him! If anything happens to him, I will never forgive you for this! Never! Do you hear me?" she shrieked, red-faced and shaking with fury.

"Yes, I hear you. And evidently he heard you, too," Brass gulped, pointing over her shoulder. Turning her head, she saw Grissom slumped against the doorframe into the living room, looking like death personified.

Her body slowly turned of its own accord, bringing her to face him, able only to look at him. She wanted to run to him, but she couldn't move. She wanted to talk to him, but she couldn't speak. She was frozen in place by shock, unable to accept that the creature propped up before her was Grissom.

She could vaguely hear Brass on the phone, worriedly relaying the new wrinkle in the 'situation' to Catherine, then hanging up.


Brass moved forward around Sara and approached Grissom slowly, urging him to go back to his room, but getting no reaction, not even a flicker of recognition. His eyes, hollow and dead as they were, a pale gray in place of their vibrant blue, were riveted on her.

"C'mon, Gil. Let's go back to your room." He tried to turn Grissom around, but he weakly jerked away and held his ground.

"Sara?" Grissom whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, Gil, Sara's here," Brass confirmed. "Now will you at least sit down before you fall down?" he implored.

Grissom started moving unsteadily into the living room, toward the chair Sara had only recently vacated to spew her tirade. Brass held his elbow to keep him upright, and Sara backed up to sit on the couch, her eyes never leaving his.

Seating Grissom in the chair, Brass went to the kitchen to fetch him a drink. He had only taken water so far, but Brass was hoping he was distracted enough to drink some juice. At least he would be getting some nutrition for a change. He brought Sara and Grissom each a bottle of orange juice, opening each. "Have some juice, Sara," he said, getting her attention out of the corner of her eye and nodding back towards Grissom.

Taking his cue, she picked up the juice and took a long, satisfying drink of it before setting it down. Slowly, as though it took all the strength he could marshal, Grissom picked up the bottle and upended it, half-emptying it.

"Good, good," Brass crowed. "Would you two like something to eat? I'm no cook, but I can scramble up some eggs, if you want."

"Sure, Brass," Sara answered for both of them. They sat, not talking, not really thinking. Just looking at the other. Grissom couldn't decide whether she was really there or if this was another delightfully cruel figment of his imagination.

Sara couldn't believe that the pale, gaunt creature sitting in front of her was Grissom. He was obviously dehydrated and malnourished, not to mention the fact that his clothes looked like he had worn them for weeks and he obviously hadn't bathed.

Brass wasn't sure she knew what she was doing, but she had gotten further than any of them had so far, so he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

He put the plates down in front of them, the eggs still steaming, strawberry jam on the toast, a fork balanced on the edge of the plate. He went back to the kitchen, where he could still keep an eye on the 'situation', but give them some sense of privacy.

Sara picked up a forkful of eggs, blew on it, and took a tentative bite. Convinced that Brass did indeed know how to scramble eggs, she took the whole fork's worth into her mouth and chewed it sumptuously, like she hadn't eaten in days. After her third bite, Grissom picked up a small bit and shoved it in his mouth. He made no show of whether he even tasted it, much less enjoyed it. She picked up her toast and he soon followed suit.

Sara wasn't sure if it was purely mimicry, whether it was her actions somehow gave him permission, or whether he was only trying to please her. She didn't have time to analyze it, she just knew that she had to get some food and liquid into him.

Brass heard Catherine at the door, fumbling with the locks, and he went to intercept her. When he opened the door, she looked at him with fury in her eyes, but he shook his head quickly and pointed into the living room. She peered around Brass to see Grissom and Sara taking their breakfast together at the coffee table.

"She's gotten him to eat and drink, Catherine. That's more than we could do! He recognized her and said her name," Brass offered excitedly.

"Yeah, but what happens when she leaves, Brass?" Catherine shot back bitterly.

"I don't want to think about that right now," he conceded.

"Well, you should have thought about that before," she barked at him.

"I didn't bring her here, for God's sake! She came barging in. I tried to get her to leave, but she started yelling and he came out. What was I supposed to do?" he asked, becoming more agitated and hurt that this was all going to be seen as his fault.

"Forget it, Jim. I'm sorry. We always knew it was a risk bringing her back to Vegas. I should have known she would find out and not be able to leave it alone," Catherine said in conciliation.

Walking into the living room, Catherine greeted Grissom and Sara as though nothing were out of the ordinary. She received no response from Grissom, but Sara coolly said 'Hello', even though she didn't break eye contact with Grissom.

Sitting near Sara and leaning over towards her, she said, "I'm surprised to find you here, Sara. I thought we had an understanding."

"Well, geez, Catherine. I'm a little surprised at what I found here. I guess I didn't have enough of an understanding. But that could be because no one saw fit to tell me," she replied acidly.

"We didn't think it was a good idea, Sara. It would only upset you and sidetrack his ability to get over ... it."

"Yeah, I see how much progress he's made, Cath."

"He needs time," Catherine suggested.

"He needs help," Sara corrected.

"We are trying to help."

"Professional help, Catherine," Sara elaborated.

"Sorry we don't meet your specifications, Sara, but we are trying to help him without destroying his career. Since you left, it is pretty much all that he has left now, you know."

"So you're blaming this all on me, too?" She shook her head to reset her thoughts, still tracking Grissom's eyes, which didn't register whether he was even listening to the conversation. "If this career ends, he can start a new one. He's an entomologist. He can train CSIs. He can teach at a university. He's a wonderful teacher."

"If he wanted to teach, Sara, that's what he'd be doing."

"You don't get it, Cath. He's not going to get better by himself. Not even with your help. I think you guys are the greatest friends he could have, but that doesn't solve the problem. I can tell you from experience that time doesn't heal all wounds, especially the ones you can't see."

"What makes you the expert on all of this, Sara? Maybe if you were so good at psychology, we wouldn't be here now. Maybe you could have thought of a more constructive way to bail on him. You could have at least warned him."

Catherine had hoped that she could drive Sara to anger, force her into a confrontation that would make her want to leave now, before any more damage is done. Her words were as hurtful to her as they were intended to be to Sara, but she could see no other way.

"Is this your bid for alpha female, Catherine? OK, you win. You are the queen of everything. But you don't run my life, and I haven't broken any laws. I can be here if I want to be."

"And what happens to him when you leave again, Sara?" she asked pointedly.


Sara saw a flicker of pain across his eyes, and she realized that he was hearing them, comprehending at least some of their discussion.

"I'm not leaving, unless Grissom tells me to," she stated defiantly, raising her eyebrows to him as an invitation to speak.

"Don't," he eaked out, surprising Catherine, but bolstering Sara, who flashed him one of her trademark smiles.

"Let's try something different, Catherine," Sara began in a more moderate tone. "Why don't you four get back to a regular schedule and visit Grissom in your free time, and I'll stay here and take care of him full-time?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Catherine responded.

"Well, I'm not leaving either way, so you do what you please."

"I don't know if Cavallo is going to go for that," she said.

"I don't give a damn what Cavallo thinks. And tell Cavallo to keep his money. I'm here because I want to be, not because he's paying me."

Leaning over to whisper in Sara's ear, Catherine said, "This is a dangerous game you're playing, Sara. Please be careful."

"It's not a game, Cath. It's as real as it gets. But I will be careful," she promised.

Catherine and Brass each patted Grissom on the shoulder and offered to come back to check on him, then escorted each other out the door, presumably back to the lives they had all but abandoned a few weeks ago.

* * * * *

"Feel better now, Grissom? I always feel better after a good meal," she shared. "At least I've met one  of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs for the day. There are always some I never seem to get around to," she trailed off, not specifying which of her basic needs went unmet.

His plate was only half-empty, but he had quit eating quite some time ago, content to just sit with Sara and listen to her talk.

"Come on, big guy, let's go get you cleaned up. You smell like a week-old decomp," she chuckled. She stood in front of him with her hands held out to him. She could easily have reached down to him, but she wanted him to initiate the movement. After a moment, he tentatively reached up and laid his hands on hers, seeming surprised that she was solid, and she pulled him up. Grabbing his left arm to drape across her shoulder, she put her right arm around his waist and guided him back to the bathroom.

She sat him down on the lowered toilet seat and took her place on edge of the bathtub, turning on the water to heat up. She looked over at him and considered how the easiest way would be to do this. He was just too physically weak to help himself in and out of the tub, and she was afraid he'd fall.

Finally deciding on a course of action, she announced to him, "Grissom, today I think we'll have to make do with a Monkey Bath." He looked at her in slight confusion. "It's what my grandmother used to call them, though I never understood or even questioned why. It's essentially the same as a sponge bath, but with a washcloth. My other grandmother called it a 'spit bath', but you know how I feel about saliva. Gives me the heaves just to think about it."

"OK," she began. "Let's get these nasty clothes off. How long have you been wearing these? Yuk! They're practically stuck to you. That's just gross, Grissom. You need to change clothes every day." She peeled him out of his shirt and tossed it in the hamper.

She dipped the cloth into the warm water, worked a little soap into it, then wrung it out. Sara began moving the washcloth over and under his arms, taking care over the fresh, pink scars, forcing herself not to show any emotion at the sight of them. She irrationally wished she could kiss them away or take them onto herself.

His hollowed out orbs peered into her eyes, unspeaking, as she gently began to wash his face and neck. This by far had to be the most sensual experience she had ever had with Grissom, despite the circumstances. It was much more involved - physically and emotionally - than her cheek stroke during the Renteria case, when she claimed she was wiping chalk off of his face.

Shampooing would have to wait until he felt strong enough to get in the tub, but she took the washcloth and tousled his hair for a minute or two, at least freshening it up.

"OK, you're going to have to stand up," she directed, giving him a hand.

In all of her fantasies over more than a decade, this was never how she imagined undressing Grissom. It had none of the fumbling passion she had dreamt of. But neither was it matter-of-fact, like undressing a child. It was somewhere in between a duty and a pleasure, with Sara fighting to skew it away from pleasure.

Her mind told her that this was not the time or the place to think of him in that manner. It seemed voyeuristic and shameful, due to the one-sided nature of the interaction. She could try to control her thoughts, but she had to concede that she could not control her body chemistry, which was reacting strongly.

Even if under the worst of circumstances, the man she had loved and frankly lusted after for years was standing in front of her in nothing but his shorts. It took every ounce of determination and focus to not allow her ministrations to take on sexual overtones, at least for her. He had made it clear before she left that he was conflicted about them starting any sort of relationship. For her to enjoy touching him now, when he's not in a position to protest, would be tantamount to molesting him, a disgusting thought.

When she was done she ran the brush through his hair, smoothing errant curls down with her hands. He didn't really look much better, but at least he smelled better, she noted. She went into his room and got some fresh clothes - a t-shirt and undershorts - delivering them to him.

When she came back a few minutes later, he was still sitting immobile, looking down at the clothes in his hands as though he was unsure how they got there and what he was supposed to do with them. Or perhaps he was just lost in thought and hadn't gotten around to changing yet, Sara hoped.

"Grissom, you need to change your shorts and put on a shirt," she instructed. He looked at her blankly. "OK, I'm going to help you this time, but next time you're on your own," she relented.

Helping him stand, she turned him around to afford him what little modesty was available under the circumstances. She figured it would be less embarrassing to him and less affecting to her if she just did this quick, like ripping off a band-aid. Holding onto the sides of his shorts, she mentally counted 'One-two-three,' then closed her eyes and tugged.

Getting him to step out of them was difficult without tripping him, so she decided to combine it with putting the other pair on so he'd only have to lift up each foot once, with her holding his leg for support and balance. She kept her eyes trained no higher than his knees.

Once she had his feet in the clean shorts she closed her eyes and pulled them up. She was pleased with herself that she had managed to change his shorts without ever looking at anything she shouldn't, realizing at the same time how childish that seemed. She felt she could safely assume he had the same basic set of equipment as any other man she had seen undressed.

She pulled the t-shirt over his head and smoothed back down his hair. She stood back and smiled at him. "There, we've got you a little bit cleaned up. All we have to do is change your sheets. I imagine they smell like you did, and that is not a good thing." She was purposefully saying anything that came to mind, just trying to fill the silence with words. Maybe he would start communicating with her if she just kept talking to him. He had been in silence too long.

Guiding him to the chair in the corner of his room, she stripped the sheets and tossed them into the hallway to collect later. She smelled the set she had gotten out of the linen closet to make sure they weren't musty. Satisfied, she made the bed and turned back the top sheet and comforter for him. "I think that climbing between clean sheets after bathing is one of life's simple pleasures, Grissom. Especially if you just shaved your legs, but I guess you can't relate to that. Here, all ready for you," she said, holding out her hand, bidding him to rise and make his own way over.

She tucked him in and brought the chair over next to his bed. "Do you want to sleep? Probably not. You've already been sleeping for, what, two weeks?" she chuckled. There was a volume of Shakespeare on the bedside table and she opened it up, flipping through the pages until she finally happened on a comedy. "How 'bout A Midsummer's Night's Dream  ?" she asked, then began to read aloud to him until he drifted off to sleep.

She put the book down, marking their place, then went into the living room to rest for the first time in over twenty-four hours. She had worked more than a full shift before she had come to Grissom's about four hours ago. She laid down on the couch, but sat back up suddenly to call Nicky to ask him to bring some of the high-protein shake powder that he used and some whole milk. She also asked him to pick up some fruit and veggies. She could call take-out for the rest. He said he'd be by in a couple of hours, giving her time to fit in a nap. He had the good grace to not ask what she was doing there.

* * * * *

"This stuff actually isn't too bad, once you get used to the texture," she assured Grissom, handing him a glass of protein shake. He took a sip and set it down on the bedside table, not otherwise indicating whether he liked it or not. "You really need to drink that, Grissom. You feel bad because you haven't been eating. This stuff will get you back on track so that you will feel like eating real food," she explained. He dutifully took another drink.

They took turns - Sara exhorting and Grissom sipping - until the glass was empty. "Do you want to go watch TV? Do you want me to read to you again? What do you want to do?" she asked, hoping to get a response beyond a shrug.

Sara moved from the chair to the side of the bed, and reached out to grasp Grissom's hand. "Grissom, you've got to work at this. You've got to fight to get better. I can't do it for you. I'm here to help in any way I can, but you've got to do your part," she encouraged.

"TV," was all he said, but it was the first thing he had uttered in hours and it brought a spark of hope back to Sara. She didn't know how the others had coped with it day-in and day-out, especially as tired as they were. It must have been crushingly depressing to them.

"Let's go, then," she chirped, helping him out of bed. They meandered into the living room and sat on the couch, Sara flipping on the TV and settling on Discovery Channel. She would have preferred to watch the forensics line-up on A∓E, but thought it might be a little too much too soon for Grissom.

Whenever she saw Grissom's attention wane, she would talk to him or to the TV until he refocused. After a couple of hours, she made him another protein shake, telling him, "You should try to have one of these every few hours, Grissom. It's a balanced meal, has lots of protein, and all the daily RDA of vitamins and minerals. You could live on this stuff," she assured him.

After he finished his 'meal', he reached out his hand between them, laying it palm up in the twelve inches or so that separated them, but still keeping his eyes on the TV. She smiled and told him, "Well, since you drank all your shake without me having to hound you ..." and took up his hand. She scooted over so that they could comfortably lay their joined hands on the meeting of their thighs.

'How bizarre, how bizarre,' she thought. 'I'm watching TV with Grissom on his couch, holding hands, him dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. I would have paid money for this a few weeks ago. Hell, I might have killed for it. As soon as I give up on it, here I am. Only problem is he's  not all here. How incredibly bizarre.'

He began to drift off to sleep, and his head lolled to the back of the couch, then over on her shoulder. After a few moments, the hardness of his skull against the boniness of her shoulder became uncomfortable for her, so she guided him as she let him slide his head down into her lap. She flipped over to A∓E to catch Cold Cases  and stroked his hair absently, as if he were a cat curled up in her lap.

At the end of the program, she bent over to see that he was lying there with his eyes open. "That was a good one, Grissom. Did you see any of it? The case was twenty years old, and they finally nailed the bastard with DNA. God, I love DNA. Individual, persistent. I just wish everyone was in the database. I know, Constitutional issues. But wouldn't that make our lives easier? ... A girl can but dream."

"Hey, you up for some real food in a little while? I'm starving, so I was thinking of calling for some take-out. What do you want?" she asked, still stroking his hair.

"Whatever you want," he answered, in the longest sentence he had put together in weeks.

"You've got to start making decisions again, Grissom. Start with the little ones, like dinner. Now, let's try that again. What do you want for dinner?"

"Noodles ... shrimp ... eggrolls?" he said more as a question than an answer.

"There. That wasn't too hard, was it? And, coincidentally I'm sure, all fit for a vegetarian," she said.

"Not a coincidence," he corrected.

* * * * *

After their high-carbohydrate meal, both were almost overcome by drowsiness, and Sara barely managed to get Grissom into his bed. She covered him, doused the light and turned to leave.

"Sara?"

She sat back down on the edge of his bed. "Yes, Grissom?"

"Are you really here?"

She laughed gently, "Yes, silly. I'm really here." She grabbed up his hand and brought it to her cheek. "See? Flesh and bone. You couldn't feel that if I weren't here," she assured him.

"I don't know. I've thought I could feel you lots of times, but you weren't really here," he mumbled, starting to drift off to sleep, lulled by her soothing voice and calming touch.

* * * * *

Sara slept for seven straight hours, which was unusual to say the least. She got up, made coffee, and threw a load of sheets into the washer. She went in to check on Grissom, finding him lying on his back, studying the ceiling.

"Hey, lazy butt, time to get up out of that bed!" she commanded. He snapped his head over quickly, apparently startled to see her.

"You are  here," he said in amazement.

"Of course I'm here."

"You left," he said, slightly accusingly.

"I'm back," she rejoined.

"Why?" he asked warily.

"The lab  needed me," she intoned sarcastically.

"Oh," he said with a hint of disappointment.

"And ... I missed you," she said reaching out to touch his hand.

"I missed you, too," he whispered.

"So I hear," she nodded. "Enough of the sweet talk. You need to take a real bath and we can decide what we're going to do today." She wanted to divert him, feeling it was very much too early for them to delve into their relationship.

She sat down on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water to heat up. "Grissom, would you rather take a bath or a shower?" she asked, receiving only a shrug in response. "I think a bath would be easier. Less likely for you to fall." He nodded his agreement.

She tugged off his t-shirt and turned her back while he divested himself of his shorts. She blindly helped him balance while he got into the tub, settling down into the warm water. She took a washcloth and the soap, and began to move up and down his arms, not rubbing hard, mindful of the new flesh.

She bent him forward a bit and scrubbed his back. Dipping the rag into the bath, she rinsed off all the soap, then began again on his chest, moving up his neck. She gently and lovingly stroked the cloth over his face. She was glad that the suds now coated the top of the bath water, obscuring what she had been fighting to ignore.

She had never washed anyone else's hair before, and she found it to be a strangely disconnected sensation. Grissom evidently found it to be relaxing, because he closed his eyes. She rinsed out the shampoo and sat back to look. "You're starting to look presentable, but unless you intend to grow a beard, you need a shave. Just my opinion now, but I always thought you'd look sexy as hell with some scruff, but we would still need to shape it up a little. Your call. Shave it all or leave the beard?"

"Whatever you want, Sara," he answered agreeably.

"It's your face, baby. Do whatever you  want. I'm just here to help," she said, putting the ball back in his court.

"Leave it," he decided.

"OK, we'll just do the cheeks and neck then. Do you want to do it, or do you foolishly trust me with a deadly sharp instrument poised directly at your throat?" she asked with a smirk.

"Two witnesses saw you here ... fingerprints ... epithelials."

"Oh, Humor Boy now, huh? Amazing what a little food and a hot bath will do for your outlook." She grabbed the can of shaving gel and her disposable razor off the sink. Sara tried to occupy her mind with mundanities as she rubbed the gel onto his neck and his cheeks, finding the direct contact disconcerting. She slowly began to shave his neck, having to mentally adjust to the angle she would use on someone other than herself. She was unbelievably relieved to finish without nicking him even once.

"Oh, yeah. There's a chick-magnet, if ever I saw one," she teased him. "Very distinguished, but sexy at the same time. I'd keep it short, but it's up to you."


If this was a dream, it was a pleasant one, much better than the nightmares that had punctuated his sleep since she left.

"What is it with men like you, Grissom? You get older, you get sexier. We women get older, and gravity reaches out and yanks down on everything we have. It is so not fair."

"You live longer," he replied.

"Oh yeah, with our boobs, guts and asses dragging the ground. That's living."

She caught a slight smile pushing at his lips from the corner of her eye. "Ready to get out? You are starting to wrinkle up like a prune." He nodded and stood up, modesty guiding him to face away from her, earning her gratitude, considering that the back half was bothersome enough. She put a towel across his waist and handed the ends to him to secure at the front. He turned, and showed a smile of appreciation, before gingerly stepping out of the tub.

Sara took the other towel and began to dry him off, trying to imagine him as a car that she had just washed, instead of the man she had thought of doing this to on many a solitary day. The towel became a chamois, and she stroked and buffed to rid him of water spots. Snagging up his brush, she began running it through his hair, watching the wet curls lengthen into waves as they stuck to his head to dry.

Catching her reflection in the mirror, she saw that her face was flushed. Spinning away from him, she covered for herself saying, "I'm going to go get you some clean clothes. Be back in a flash. You might want to reacquaint yourself with that toothbrush. It's starting to get separation anxiety."

She brought him a pair of sweatpants that she assumed to be a favorite, considering the amount of wear on them. She grabbed up a University of Chicago t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and took the clothes into him. "Do you need help with these?" she asked without emotion.

"Been dressing myself over 40 years."

"I'll take that as a 'no'," she said without rancor, handing over the clothes, not reminding him that just yesterday she had dressed him.

* * * * *

Most of the rest of the day was spent relaxing in front of the TV, leaning against each other, holding hands as before. They grazed every few hours on shakes, fruit, or veggies and dip.

Early in the evening Catherine dropped by. "Hey, Gil. Hey, Sara," she greeted them amicably from the door.

"Hey, Cat. Come on in and join us," Sara invited from the couch.

"You certainly look like you feel better, Gil," Catherine said.

"Yes, thanks," he answered, pulling himself up from Sara's shoulder, but not willing to let go of her hand.

"Do you guys need anything?" she asked, feeling awkward, as though she were intruding.

"Cat, we are out of everything. The cupboard is bare. Let's make a list," Sara suggested, getting up to follow Catherine into the kitchen. "I'll be right back," she patted Grissom's leg.

Speaking softly as they examined the empty pantry and refrigerator holding nothing that resembled human food, Catherine asked how everything was going.

"I think he's doing pretty good, considering, but I still think he needs professional help. But I'll let him make that decision when he's able," she compromised.

"Sounds fair," Catherine agreed. "Sara, I want to apologize. I know we were wrong to keep this from you, but we were trying not to ruin your life, too. You were moving on. It didn't seem fair to saddle you with this. I didn't want to guilt trip you into coming back."

"I know, Cat. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It was just such a shock. This is so unlike him," she said, shaking her head. "I'm still having a hard time reconciling that the man in there is really Grissom."

"I guess everyone has their breaking point, Sara," Catherine said. "I'm glad you're here for him. How long are you going to stay?"

"I don't know. I don't have many bills and I have a little savings. But if this goes on very long, I'll need to get a job," Sara said, one eyebrow raised in supplication.

"I think I can arrange that," Catherine smiled.

After Catherine hugged Grissom and said good-bye, Sara walked her to the door. "One of us will pick up the groceries and drop them off before shift tonight. Call if you need anything," Catherine said, squeezing Sara's arm. "You didn't have to do this," she whispered gratefully to Sara when she leaned in for a hug.

"Yes, I did," Sara countered.

* * * * *

"Bedtime, Grissom," Sara announced, turning back the covers. He climbed in and pulled the covers up to his chest, folding them over and lying his arms on top. She turned out the light and said goodnight.

"Wait, Sara!" Grissom pleaded suddenly.

"What is it, Grissom?" she asked, almost maternally, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

"Are you leaving? Will you be back?"

She smiled and chuckled good-naturedly at him, reaching across to pat his hand with hers. "I am not going any farther than your living room. I'm about to renew my close personal relationship with your couch."

"I'll sleep on the couch. You can stay in here," Grissom offered. "The sheets are still clean," he assured her with a shadow of a half-grin.

"No, Grissom. First of all, I'm not going to put you out of your own bed. Second, it's ... I don't know ... just too weird," she told him, not able or perhaps not willing to elaborate.

"Weird?" he asked. "It's a typical bed."

"No, it's not that the bed is weird. Sleeping in it would be."

He lifted an eyebrow and smiled wanly. "Implying that doing something besides sleeping would not be?"

"Hmmm. Maybe that didn't come out right," she laughed. "Don't take offense, Grissom, but doing anything whatsoever in it would seem weird to me, right at this moment."

"If you say so," he shrugged.

"Just close your eyes. I'll stay in here with you until you go to sleep, OK? If you get up before me, don't worry about waking me up."

Grissom closed his eyes as she mandated, but he had a difficult time keeping them shut, always fearful that this was all a dream and he would wake to an empty room, an empty house, and an empty life. Even if she were a dream, she was still there as long as he could see her. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a wonderful dream, right up until you wake from it.

"Sara?"

"Yes, Grissom."

"Are you really  here?"

"Yes, Grissom. You asked me that already, yesterday." She picked up his hand again, and laid it next to her cheek again, this time kissing the palm softly before setting it back down on the bedcovers.

After another few minutes, Sara felt he was safely asleep, allowing her to get up and go to the community bed formerly known as the couch. She tried not to think of how many people had slept there the past couple of weeks, people she knew for a fact were not at their hygienically best.

Lying on her back, with an arm thrown across her eyes to block out the light, she allowed herself to think for the first time in days. So often, she finds herself doing what needs to be done, without taking the time to think about it - which can be a good thing. When she heard and saw what had been going on, she acted, doing whatever needed to be done to put a halt to it before it got any more out of control.

She began by thinking about the near-term - what she needed to do to get Grissom to a point where he could make the decision to get help. All she could really do is help him get his strength back up. She was convinced that much of the problem was malnutrition as much as depression. Lack of food and exercise was exacerbating his problems - problems that she now knew she had a hand in causing.

The main reason she had left was because she no longer wanted to be tormented, loving someone who didn't feel the same way. Now she finds out that her leaving was the catalyst that made him decide his life was not worth the effort. She wasn't sure if that negated the reason she left, or affirmed it. If he felt that deeply about her, why didn't he say something before? Did that mean that he would rather die than allow himself to show any love for her?

She began to feel guilty, not only because of how he reacted, but because she didn't give him any warning this time. Any other time she had wanted to leave, she would tell him and he would be nice for a little while. She didn't want to play that game again. She didn't want to manipulate him into doing anything, so she merely did not show up for work, leaving a voluntary termination of employment form on his desk earlier in the day, when he wasn't in. And there was the card. Maybe it was the straw that broke the camel's back. She had wanted him to experience the same feeling she had - overwhelming disappointment that there was nothing more meaningful on the card, nothing that explained or revealed anything.

She didn't talk to him about it because she didn't want their last words to be an argument or a lie. The last time they spoke was about a case, and she wanted to remember him in that light, as a CSI worthy of emulation. She wanted to forget her romantic feelings, but keep the respect for the man and his accomplishments.

After leaving the form and the card she immediately went to the phone kiosk at the mall and traded in her cell phone for a newer, smaller phone - but, more important, a new number. Her pager belonged to the LVPD, so she had left it with her weapon and badge on Grissom's desk. Before he even knew she was gone, she had cut any means of communicating with her. She had already packed her few belongings, shipping them to San Francisco to stay in a storage facility until she found another job. All she carried with her were her clothes and a few personal items.

She had planned her escape for two weeks, and executed it flawlessly. If Grissom or any male had called her mother, she was sure that her mother would have been suspicious and not given them any information. But Catherine is female and a great actress. She would have to warn her mother to only take names and numbers to pass on - never give out her number again.

She realized that Grissom would have eventually hear about her, wherever she ended up. Even if the lab didn't call him to check her employment history, the likelihood was that she would run into him at a conference, or he would hear about her from a mutual friend. It couldn't be avoided, but by then she hoped he wouldn't be angry anymore. Maybe by then she could settle for just being friends and colleagues.

But now she was back. Not just back in Vegas. Not just back at the lab. But lying on the couch in Grissom's house, a place she had only seen once, for a few minutes, over a year ago. She had gone through a lot of trouble to rid herself of him, and instead she was committed to staying with him night and day until he was ready to make some decisions. She thought it funny how life makes random decisions for you, no matter how carefully you plan. Maybe this was kharmic retribution for how she had left.

Sleep began to tug at her thoughts, pulling them into diverse, disjointed directions, until she could no longer follow them. She began dreaming of the beach, walking along next to the cold water that the Japanese current swept down from Alaska to Northern California's coast. She stopped to pick up a shell that had just been deposited by the tide. She was fascinated by its intricate design, and wondered if anything as random as evolution could produce such beauty.

She heard a commotion in the water and saw a head bobbing and dipping under the surf. Not stopping to think, she slipped out of her sandals and ran into the tide until it was deep enough to throw herself forward to start swimming furiously. When she reached the spot where she thought she had seen the splashing, she could not see anyone. Taking a deep breath, she dove down a good ten feet beneath the waves, opening her eyes to the stinging salt water. The water seemed frigid and she immediately began to shiver from the cold and from the adrenaline rush.

She spied something several more feet below her and she kicked down to see a body sinking helplessly, hair and clothes drifting freely. She grabbed an arm and tried to haul the motionless being up to the surface, but she was cramping and her lungs felt like they were going to burst. She struggled, but wasn't sure she could make it while towing the other. Sara peered up at the surface, sunlight dancing on it, but penetrating very little, then looked down at the dead weight she was holding.

The head bobbed back and she could see that it was Grissom, and she became desperate to get to the surface, to get him safely to shore. As happens in dreams, no matter how hard she stroked, she made almost no headway. Soon, she began to realize that she either had to let him go and save herself, or they would both drown. She saw no means to save him, either way. All that was left was to decide whether to be with or without him.

Sara woke, bolted up and gasped a deep breath. She was covered in a cold sweat, her t-shirt drenched and her hair clumped in wet curls against her head. Slowly realizing where she was and what had happened, she swung around abruptly to propel herself off the couch. She was startled to find Grissom sitting in the chair next to her, a concerned frown painted on his face. "Are you OK, Sara?" he asked with concern.

"Yeah. Sure. Just had a bad dream, that's all. Happens all the time. Don't worry about it," she rambled, wiping the sweat from her face but finding no dry spot to wipe her fingers. "I need to get something from my car. I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, trying to force a smile. Until the panic of the dream subsided, she needed a few moments of distance from the confluence of the image and the reality of a drowning Grissom.


She took her time ambling to the car, trying to calm her breathing. She was mentally unprepared for the difference she felt outside. She had been trapped in a small, dark world for the last 24 hours. She felt unbalanced by how large and open it felt outside.

Opening the car door, she sat down and fished for her cigarettes. She lit one and savored the feeling of anything going into her lungs that was not water. She began to feel the calming effects of the nicotine and carbon monoxide, and the images of the dream began to fade somewhat in the bright light of day.

Taking the pack of cigarettes and lighter with her so she could sneak a smoke whenever he was asleep, she made her way uneasily back towards Grissom's house. Outside it was sunny and hot, the warmth baking away the chill the dream had brought to her bones. She could hear a bird in a tree two houses down the street, and cars making their way down the streets. Out here was life. But in there ... She shook her head and opened the door, trying to prepare for the impending claustrophobia.

* * * * *

"Mind if I use your shower?" she asked, digging through her bags for a change of clothes.

"Of course not," he answered, then asked, "Do you need any help?"

"I've been bathing myself for over 30 years," she answered dryly.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," he said, allowing the corners of his mouth to wander towards a grin.

"Why don't you make us a pot of coffee, Grissom? I won't be long. I specialize in the five-minute shower, and that's with washing my hair." She gave his arm a squeeze on the way by, and made her way down the hall into the bathroom.

He took uncertain steps into the kitchen, looking around as though it were terra incognita, opening most of the drawers and cabinets until he found everything he thought he needed to make and serve coffee. Despite making a pot almost every day of his adult life, it seemed like a complex formula to him now, and he made several false starts until he felt fairly comfortable that he got the water-to-coffee ratio correct. He looked at the buttons on the coffee maker, having to read the labels to find the right one to push to begin the brewing.

Exhausted from the effort, he walked around to the stools on the other side of the breakfast bar and sat down to watch the brown liquid stream into the carafe. Such a simple thing to do, he knew, but it had taken all of his concentration. He felt weak - physically, mentally, and emotionally. The thought of ever going back to work seemed overwhelming, but the thought of not working was depressing. In the few minutes Sara took to rinse the nightmare's sweat from her body, he was starting to sink slowly under the waves.

Sara appeared right on schedule, toweling her hair dry, dressed in black low-cut jeans and a tie-dyed sleeveless tank that stopped an inch or so shy of the top of her pants. She was barefoot and had not put on any makeup. She was the quintessential Bay Area post-modern hippie Earth Mother, but with brains and a work ethic.

Grissom surveyed her, becoming acutely aware of the contradictions that made up Sara Sidle. Not only her appearance, but her personality. She could be brusque, not suffering fools gladly, but she was also amazingly empathetic and feeling. Her normal speaking voice was a bit rough and showed her time in the East, adding a little nasal tone and clipped syllables. But when she spoke softly, it was as smooth and rich as cocoa with cream.

She was brash, irreverent and bristled against authority, but she was also too shy to voice how she felt when it came to matters of the heart. He realized that he could study her every word, her every move, for a hundred years, and still not be able to predict with any accuracy how she react in any given situation. He found it both unsettling and utterly delightful. Sara Sidle was confusing, but she was never boring.

"Coffee's ready," she announced, taking the carafe over to the breakfast bar to pour their coffee. "Where's the sugar?" she asked, looking around, finally finding the right canister and spooning two teaspoons into her cup.

She walked back to the living room side of the bar to take a stool by Grissom. After they had taken a few drinks in silence, she asked, "Do you want to get out for awhile? Maybe take a little walk?"

"I don't know, Sara," he answered truthfully. "I don't feel like I have much energy yet."

"That's because you've just been lying around for so long. It's one of the paradoxes of life that you've got to exercise to get any energy."

"I nearly wore myself out just making the coffee," he said self-deprecatingly.

"Well, that takes thought, which is much more tiring than moving." Seeing that he still wasn't sold, she tried another tactic. "OK, we'll save the walk for some other time. But you've got to do something to get your blood pumping."

She got up and meandered over to the couch and dug in her smaller suitcase, digging out some CDs, taking them over to the stereo system behind the couch. She flipped through until she found some urban contemporary jazz that she often played as background music to read by. Most of it was relatively slow mood music, soft and sensual.

She walked over to Grissom and plucked the coffee cup from his hands, setting it down on the counter. Pulling him off the stool, she said, "Dance with me, Grissom."

He stood stock-still, looking at her with more than a hint of trepidation, but she moved his hand behind her back and took the other into her hand held out to their sides. She smiled and began to move slowly to the music, pulling him along unsteadily at first, until the shock wore off and he fell headlong into the moment.

Where he had held her stiffly at first, as though he had been dancing with a relative, his hands began to find comfort and pleasure in touching her, especially the sliver of skin peeking out between the waist of her jeans and her shirt. He unconsciously moved his hand to raise the shirt slightly, so that his whole hand had contact with the soft skin of her back. He curved his other hand around hers and pulled it gently into his chest, bringing her with it. She laid her head on him, and they swayed in time to the music.

Grissom had spent the past two weeks struggling desperately to feel nothing, so the release from that emotional prison was bound to be gradual, but he became aware that he was beginning to feel tingly, not like fear or being nervous, but more like the excitement of a roller coaster. At first he savored it, focused on it, trying draw it out and experience it. But when his sluggish mind put two and two together to figure out what it was and what had caused it, he suddenly stopped dancing and pushed away from her, turning abruptly.

"I don't want to dance anymore," he said tautly.

"It's OK, Grissom. You don't have to dance with me if you don't want to. I understand," she said with resignation, walking back to turn off the music, but deciding to just change it instead. She put in a CD of Mozart piano concertos, knowing that Grissom loved classical music. She only really liked Mozart and Bach, mainly because the mathematical understructure of their music appealed to her physics background.

He had found a seat in the easy chair, and pulled the coverlet from the couch to cocoon in, hiding himself. Sara refreshed their coffee and brought the steaming cups over, setting his down when he made no effort to take it.

"What's wrong, Grissom?" she asked. "I just thought that dancing would be an pleasant, easy way to get some exercise. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry," she apologized sincerely.

"We've never danced together before," he stated distantly. "It was nice.... Too nice."

"I don't think I understand, Grissom ... but you don't have to explain if you don't want to." Sara was starting to become concerned. When she first started trying to help Grissom, she had thought that it would be a gradual, controllable process. But it seemed to come in fits and starts, and she felt less than competent to know what was helpful and what was harmful. She considered that Catherine might be right after all, that this was too dangerous.

"Grissom, tell me the truth. I promise you won't hurt my feelings. Would you rather someone else be here to help? I can call one of the others, if you want me to go now. It's OK, really."

"If you aren't going to stay, Sara, then I'd rather be alone," he answered darkly.

"I don't think you're quite ready for that yet, Grissom," she confided to him.

"Someplace you'd rather be, Sara?" he asked pointedly.

"Not at the moment. Not that I can think of," she reassured him.

"Where did you go ... before?" he asked, looking down at the coffee cup on the table.

"I went home," she answered simply.

"Home. San Francisco?"

"Tamales Bay, actually," she pinpointed.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it's home."

"No, I mean why did you leave?"

"Grissom, I don't think this is the time to go over that. And besides, I believe that somewhere in there you already know why. It's not important anymore, because I'm here now."

"But you won't stay," he rejoined dejectedly.

"Let's not worry about that right now. Let's just concern ourselves with you getting better. OK?"

"What's the point?" he groaned. "You will just leave again, and I will be alone again. It's all gone, Sara. Everything that meant anything to me is gone," he choked out, unwelcome tears welling up in his eyes.

"Hey! Hey! Don't talk that way!" she cooed to him, moving off the couch to kneel in front of him, taking his hands in hers. "You are surrounded by friends who love you and are willing to do anything for you. You are the best forensic scientist at one of the best labs in the country ... hell, in the world. You are a world-famous entomologist. You are a wonderful teacher. None of that is gone, because it's all in here," she said pointing at his heart.

"None of that is true anymore. I don't have my job, I have humiliated myself in front of my friends and co-workers, and I drove you away," he spouted, swiping a hand at the tears that escaped his eyes.

"OK, I'll admit that last part may have a grain of truth, but the rest doesn't," she conceded. "Cavallo is doing everything he can to hold your job for you. They are logging this as vacation time. Catherine, Nick, Warrick and Brass have been working non-stop to cover for you and come by to watch over you. That's not pity ... that's love."

"I don't think I can do it anymore," he said, shuffling over to the window, pulling up the blinds to look out. "Every day, I see people out there, walking around, thinking they are living their lives, expecting a tomorrow. I look at each face, wondering if it's the face I'll see that night, lying in a pool of blood."

"I know what you mean," she sighed. "I sometimes meet people and mentally rate them as potential victims before I've even learned their names."

"I've been surrounded by pain and death for almost 30 years. I tried to hold on, thinking I was doing something worthwhile, something to take the sting out of death. But I can't even relate to the living now."

"You know as well as I do that most people only last a few years in this job. Then they change careers, teach, or go into administration. It's too hard unless you have something in your life to balance it out. You taught me that."

"I didn't want you to end up like me - empty."

"I know that. I'll admit it seemed hypocritical at the time, but I know that you were just trying to help me. I appreciate it ... now."


He stood staring out at the street, watching the victims stroll happily by, oblivious to their fates.

"Grissom, have you ever thought about just getting out? You are a great teacher, and I ought to know. You're the reason I wanted to do this work. You could train others."

"Why would I want to take any more innocent young people and get them into this work? It could destroy them."

"Not if they have something else in their lives. You have to teach them that, too. And, don't forget that this work is valuable and worthwhile. We seek justice for those who cannot find it on their own. That's a noble endeavor Grissom, and I won't let you invalidate that. It's what I've devoted my life to. I won't allow you to take that away from me, or my life really would be meaningless."

"I'm glad if you have found that balance, Sara. I wish I could."

"You can, Grissom. You just have to be open to it. You've got to quit shutting people out, even if it's scary. Yes, they may die tonight. Or they might leave. Or they might not like you. They may love you. But you need to interact with them while you can. Meeting people, doing new things, having fun. That's what will balance out the dark side we see every night. And, to be honest, I haven't found that balance yet. But I'm looking for it, and I won't quit until I find it."

"Is that why you left?" he pressed.

"In a way, Grissom," she evaded.

"Couldn't you find it here?" he asked wistfully.

"I had hoped I could, but I wasn't able to after all," she answered.

"I'm tired. I think I'll go lie down," Grissom said, feeling the pressure of guilt weighing on him.

"OK, but not too long. You've got to start working towards a more normal sleep schedule. Or what we laughingly call 'normal' on the graveyard shift," she chortled. "What do you want for dinner? I'm going to call for some take-out."

"Whatever you want will be fine."

"We're going to get awfully hungry if you don't make a decision."

"OK, OK. How about pizza? I like everything on mine. No anchovies, though," he said.

"Pizza it is. One supreme, no anchovies. One vegetarian. Now, go take your nap, Gil. I'm going to do laundry and read until you get up."

Grissom couldn't recognize why his still-addled mind registered a sense of surprise. He stood immobile for a second before starting for his room. About halfway there, the thought percolated up into his consciousness. She had never called him 'Gil' before.

He lay in his bed trying to sort out the events of the past couple of days. Strange how he had to be in such a state on the day that Sara first called him by his given name. The day they first danced together. The day she first saw him undressed. So many firsts, and none of them happening the way he had always envisioned them. Maybe none of this was real. If it was, it was certainly proof of God's sense of humor, that he would get so many things he had dreamed of, only to be unable to do anything with them.

* * * * *

"He's taking a nap now, Cath. No, he seems to be getting a little better all the time. We had coffee and talked a little bit. You know, it's not just about me leaving. It's everything. He was getting really burned out. It was just the last straw. It seemed to help for him to talk about it. He's been holding it in, trying to be strong, but it was just too much. ... Come by anytime. We're working towards a normal schedule. Thanks. See you later."

Sara snapped the phone shut and pulled the sheets out of the dryer, mindlessly folding them in half, then half, then half, until they were a foot-wide square. She always hated folding the fitted sheet, because she could so rarely get it to look neat and square like the top sheet.

She began to sing to herself as she pulled the towels out of the washer and put them in the dryer. Picking Grissom's clothes out of the hamper, she began to place them in the washer, remembering what he looked like in every shirt, every pair of slacks. She was filled with a sense of intimacy, handling his clothes like this, imagining him in them, out of them.

* * * * *

Sara convinced Grissom to eat out on the porch with her, knowing that fresh air and sunlight would do him good. They spoke of unimportant things, like which car they had owned had been their favorite, like what flavor of ice cream was the best. They described their hometowns between bites of salad. Sara told him about her dog, who's too old to stay by herself so much anymore, so she lives with Sara's parents. Grissom told her about the disaster that constituted his first date in high school.


Neither of them could remember many times in their adult lives when they felt that relaxed and that comfortable sharing the little things with another person.

* * * * *

Each day built on the preceding, with Sara gradually coaxing Grissom out of his cocoon one step at a time. By the end of the fourth day, she talked him into a walk around the block in the cool of the evening. They strolled slowly, with her often darting forward to walk backwards in front of him as she talked, then falling back in place at his side, allowing her to keep pace with him while working off her pent-up energy.

He agreed to a leisurely drive around town on the fifth day, taking in the gaudy Las Vegas sights, like tourists. They would point out the most extreme examples and laugh to think that people paid good money to come look at such things.

The next day, she literally dragged him to the mall to buy some new slacks. The others were past their prime, and almost two weeks of not eating had trimmed a few pounds off of his midriff. He normally hated shopping with a passion reserved for few other things, but he found that it was bearable with Sara's company.


They went to the food court for lunch and a rest, then leisurely ambled around until they came to a bookstore, which occupied them for at least an hour. They each found several books they couldn't live without, and made their way back home to rest and read for the remainder of the evening.

Grissom was tucked into one corner of the couch, with Sara snuggled up in the other - no room for their legs unless they allowed them to touch and entangle, and they soon gave up the pretense of trying to keep them apart.

These innocent, minor touches brought a sense of relaxed comfort with one another. The closely guarded personal space they normally enforced had gradually collapsed.

* * * * *

"Gil, it's been over three weeks since you left work. You need to start thinking about going back. Just part-time at first, for a few hours. Got to get your feet wet sometime," she ventured over pasta.

"I'm feeling a lot stronger, Sara. But I don't know if I'm ready for that. I don't think I can do the work, and I don't think I can face everyone again."

"You can start off by doing some of the simpler lab work. That's not too draining. And as for the people, they will be thrilled to see you come back. Just a few hours. You can do this, Gil. I know that you can."

"Will you come with me?"

"I will if you want me to. Let's go in for an hour or so tonight, just to get the welcome back out of the way so you can settle in tomorrow."

"God, I dread this. I hate being the center of attention."

"I know, but this is for them, more than for you. I'll call Catherine and let her know."

Sara called Catherine on her cell phone while Grissom was showering. Catherine was excited that he would be making an appearance, but Sara asked her to talk to the guys to make sure it was very low-key. She knew that they would be thrilled, but she also knew that he would feel overwhelmed if they expressed that with much exuberance.

Grissom called to her from the bathroom, asking her to come in for a moment. Looking at himself in the mirror, he asked her whether he should keep the beard, or shave before they went in. "You already know how I feel about it, Gil. I think it looks great. But then, I thought you looked great without it, too. Let's face it - you're a good-looking guy either way. It's your face, so do whatever you want. Won't faze me," she answered non-commitally.

"Well, that was a big help," he retorted. "I never noticed you being so wishy-washy before. You always seemed to have an opinion and didn't mind sharing it, whether it was welcome or not."

She retaliated by snatching the towel from around his waist and bolting out of the room before he could react.

"Now how am I supposed to get into my bedroom to dress?" he shrieked out the door.

"Walk?" she asked facetiously.

"I don't have a robe or another towel in here," he complained.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, Grissom," she teased.

"You took advantage of me when I was in a weakened condition," he accused.

"Advantage? Ha! I thought I showed amazing restraint," she shot back, leaning against the wall with the towel dangling from her hand.

"Restraint would imply that you were tempted," he offered as bait, leaning his head through the door to look at her, careful to hide the rest.

"I might have been tempted, under more propitious circumstances," she answered, nibbling but not taking the hook.

"Sara, be a good girl and bring me my towel," he sweet-talked.

"Come and get it," she laughed.

"That would defeat the purpose, now wouldn't it?" he barked at her, putting on his 'I am not amused' face.

"Maybe your  purpose. Not mine!" she giggled, slapping her thighs and wiping laughter tears from her eyes.

"And what exactly is  your purpose?" he asked.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out!" she said like a child.

"This is truly juvenile, Sara. I had no idea you were so immature," he goaded her.

"You learn something new everyday!" she chirped, flipping the towel back and forth.

"Sara, you are really starting to piss me off," he said, trying to look serious, but barely holding back his laughter.

"I guess that means things are  getting back to normal, then," she countered.

"All right, damn it, have it your way!" he shouted, resolutely walking naked from the bathroom into his bedroom, covering his privates with the wet, clinging washcloth he had used to wash his face.

Sara squealed, "Oh ... my ... God! I can not  believe you actually did that! You are a man of constant surprises, Gil Grissom!" She started giggling again and slid down to the floor, trying without success to stop laughing and catch her breath.

"I'll give you one thing, you've got balls, no pun intended." With that, she burst into another round of giggling so intense that it was soundless, wracking her body with its movements.

In moments, he emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, with a scowl on his face, but couldn't hold it when he saw her splayed out on the floor, writhing in silent laughter and random gasps, face red from the exertion.

"Mark my words, Sara Sidle. This will not go unpunished," he warned, an evil grin gracing his lips.

* * * * *

She practically had to drag him from the car into the building, with him bitching and moaning every step of the way, trying to talk her out of it. He begged, he cajoled, he threatened. She was immune and resolute.

They signed in at the desk, and the receptionist automatically handed him a stack of messages and said in a clerical monotone, "Welcome back, Dr. Grissom. Here's your messages," then turning back to her ringing switchboard.

He flipped through them and absently shoved them in a pocket, ignoring them as usual. As they approached his office, he began to feel safer, less exposed. Sara had arranged for him to have a little time to settle in before they came to greet them.

He sat in his chair and looked around his office, feeling somehow different, though nothing had changed. He pulled the tarantula cage in front of him and was pleased to see that it was still alive, with food and water. He was a little shamed that he hadn't given it one thought while he was gone.

"Greg's been taking care of your bugs while you were out," Sara explained.

"I'll have to remember to thank him," Grissom nodded.

"Are you ready?" Sara asked gently.

"As I'll ever be," he answered, taking a deep breath.

Sara paged Catherine to let her know they were there and that Grissom was ready to see them. They had each called Sara several times in the past week, but since it was going well, no one had felt comfortable visiting for more than a few minutes, not wanting to upset the astounding progress they were making.

After a moment, there was a knock at the door, and Grissom had to clear his throat before saying, "Come in."

Catherine led the way, as usual, and was followed by Nick, Warrick and Greg, who was uncharacteristically hanging back sheepishly, unsure whether he really belonged at this reunion.

An uneven chorus of restrained 'welcome backs' reverberated through the room. Nick and Warrick each stepped forward to shake his hand. Catherine walked around the desk and hugged his neck. Greg stood at the doorway and waved as soon as he was in Grissom's line of sight.

"Greg, I understand that you took care of my spiders and insects while I was out. I want you to know I appreciate that. It was very thoughtful of you," Grissom said, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt that he had so often given Greg a hard time. Grissom stood and held out his hand, and Greg quickly closed the gap to take it in a warm handshake.

"It was no big deal, Griss," he shrugged and faded back towards the door.

"We were just about to go over tonight's caseload, if you'd like to join us," Catherine offered.

"I won't really be involved in field work for awhile, Catherine. You go ahead."

"We'd still like for you to be there when we discuss them, Griss. We value your judgment, and we would prefer for you to make the assignments, even if you don't go out with us yet," she added insistently.

Grissom looked over at Sara with uncertainty, but she smiled and nodded at him, urging him to join them.

"Do you mind if Sara comes, too?" he asked.

"Of course not! The more the merrier!" Catherine agreed.

The five CSIs headed for the breakroom and Greg headed back to his glass-enclosed lab, able to see the others, but separated from them. The glass always symbolized that division between them, and he was acutely aware that he wasn't one of them. They could barge into his world any time they felt like it, but he was not welcomed in theirs. That's why he had applied for Sara's job, hoping they'd give him a chance to be more than a lab rat.

He was torn now, knowing that he wanted that job more than anything he had ever hoped for, but he also wished that Grissom could make Sara stay, and he knew he couldn't have both.

After assignments, which Grissom had to admit to himself that he enjoyed, he and Sara started down the hall to leave for the evening, when Grissom saw Greg working intently in his lab. "Can I have a minute alone with Greg?" he asked Sara.

"Sure. I'm going back to the breakroom to read. Take your time," she smiled.

Uncharacteristically, Grissom knocked on the door, waiting for Greg to look up and wave him in before entering. "Hey, Greg. How's everything going for you now? Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, Grissom. All of the burns have healed. The scars feel funny sometimes, but I'm getting used to them."

"How are your hands? Do you feel less shaky now?"

Looking down to check, Greg was happy to be able to show Grissom that they were steady. "They're like this most of the time now. You were right when you said it would get better."

Grissom patted him on the shoulder and told him, "I'm glad you're better. I was worried about you."

"You were worried about me  ?" Greg asked incredulously.

"Of course."

"I was worried about you, too, Grissom," Greg said, afraid to broach a sensitive subject, but wanting to show he cared as well.

"Thank you, Greg. I feel much better now. Thanks again for helping me out with my bugs."

"I just wanted to help, too. You know, no one would tell me what happened to you. I know it's a secret from everyone else, but I work for you. I care, too," he added with sadness pulling at his mouth. He took a breath and started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and shook his head.

"What is it, Greg?" Grissom asked gently.

The words spilled out in a torrent: "It's just ... it's just that one day everything's fine. The next day, Sara's gone, without a word. I thought we were friends. Then next thing I know, you're gone, also without a word. No one thought enough of me to tell me anything. Then all of a sudden, Sara's back, running the shift. Not a word of explanation to me. Then she disappears again for the last week or so. Now you and she are here again, and everyone's acting like none of this ever happened. And I still don't know what happened in the first place." He looked up breathlessly at Grissom, not really expecting an explanation, just hoping for acceptance that he was human, too.

"Greg, you have every right to be upset. I know I would be. Let's have a seat and I will explain it the best way I can, but even I don't understand it all."

Greg was flabbergasted. He had known Grissom for several years and had always known that he got on his nerves, but he knew that Grissom respected his work, which he assumed was why Grissom let him continue to work there. Never in all of that time had he even heard Grissom offer to explain something personal to anyone. He had never heard him even mention anything personal. And certainly not to him.

"I hurt Sara's feelings at least one too many times, so she left. She didn't tell anyone  she was going, so don't feel left out. I was already on my last leg. I was completely burned out, had been under a year of mostly unnecessary stress because of hearing problems, and ... I was trying to deal with a relationship issue," he sighed.

"With Sara?" Greg asked guilelessly.

"Yes, Greg, with Sara," he admitted. "When she left, it was the last straw. I just didn't feel it was worth it to get out of bed, so I didn't ... for a couple of weeks, I guess."

"So, you were depressed?"

"To put it mildly, yes. Sara showed up out of the blue one day and started helping me to get back on track. But I still have quite a way to go."

"That's when she disappeared from here about a week ago," he affirmed to himself.

"So now you know about as much as I do," Grissom said, shrugging. "More, really, because I don't really know anything about the time she was here before she showed up at my house."

"Is Sara going to stay?" Greg asked, his voice trembling.

"I don't know," Grissom breathed out, shaking his head and shrugging slightly.

"If she leaves, are you going to leave again?" he asked, voice cracking.

"I don't know," Grissom answered honestly.

"Grissom, I really appreciate your honesty with me. I swear on my honor that I won't tell a soul. You have my word."

"I trust you, Greg."

After a brief pause, heavy with shared emotion, Greg told Grissom, "This place was awful without you and Sara. Just awful."

"Did someone mistreat you?" Grissom asked angrily.

"They ignored me for the most part. No, it was awful because it was empty in here and chaos out there until Sara showed back up."

"I can relate to that," Grissom agreed.

"Don't get mad at me for saying this, Grissom. But, I'm a little confused," Greg blurted out, wincing in anticipation. "We all knew you used to have the hots for her a long time ago, but we didn't think you liked Sara anymore. Not like that, I mean."

"Evidently, I convinced everyone but myself about that, Greg. Correction: I even had myself convinced, right up until she left."

"She's hard to forget," Greg agreed.

"Impossible," Grissom sighed, looking up to offer Greg a faint smile.

Grissom laid a hand on Greg's shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. Until now, Greg would have been nervous, no, petrified, to be looked at with such intensity as Grissom was looking at him now. Normally, he only made this kind of eye contact with Greg when he was extremely irritated with him. His eyes were conveying not anger, but acceptance. Greg had seen that look given to very few people before, a few times to Catherine, but mostly to Sara. She always grinned and looked down, Greg recalled, realizing with amusement that he was doing the same thing.

"I'm going to go home and rest now, Greg, but we can talk more later, OK?"

"I'd like that. My door is always open."

Grissom walked out, down the hall to the breakroom and collected Sara, who was deeply involved in the newest Journal of Forensic Science  . In the silence of the evening, Greg could just barely hear Grissom tell her to take it with her, that she could return it tomorrow. Greg found himself set at peace just hearing a confirmation that they would be back.

* * * * *

Sara knew Grissom was tired, but she needed for him to stay awake for a few more hours, continuing to readjust back to the nightwalker schedule of graveyard shift workers. She brewed them some coffee and sat down on the couch with Grissom, where each eventually settled into their reading postures, facing each other with legs interspersed in the middle, shoes slipped off into a jumbled pile on the floor.

He could tell that she wanted to talk about something, and the notion made him vaguely anxious at first, but the trepidation grew each moment that she didn't speak, until soon he felt like he was getting dizzy and slightly nauseous. The longer she took to speak, the more dire he assumed the topic, and he couldn't push back the fear that she was going to tell him that she was leaving now, going back to find her balance.

Sara had been studying him over the rim of her cup, and noticed that he was no longer looking at her. His face initially flushed a little and she saw that his breaths were coming faster than usual. She wondered what he was thinking that was upsetting him, but she waited for him to reveal it in his own time.

The color seemed to drain out of his face and she noted with concern that his breathing was becoming fast and ragged, as though he were about to have a panic attack. She didn't want to push him too much faster than he wanted to go, but she had to know what set this off so that they could deal with it.

"Gil, what's wrong?" she asked, rolling up onto her knees and moving towards his side of the couch in one fluid motion. He struggled to smile and get his breathing under control, afraid to put the words to his fear, words that might speak it into existence.

"Gil, please tell me what has scared you. I want to help, but I can't if you won't talk to me," she pleaded, lightly rubbing his arm, attempting to sooth and distract.

He couldn't speak of it, couldn't give it that much significance, couldn't risk allowing it into his fragile reality yet. So, he looked at her, shook his head and shrugged, as though he didn't know why he had suddenly turned to a quivering mass. But she caught more from the panic in his eyes than the lies his actions tried to tell, and she became afraid for him, afraid that everything he had accomplished in the past week was threatening to come tumbling down.

She grasped his arm and pulled him over into her, one of her arms sliding across his shoulders to hold him snugly and the other holding one of his hands in her lap. His head rested on her chest, like a child's, and she unconsciously began to slowly rock back and forth, cooing 'It's all right' to him over and over, a mantra of hope.

When she could at last feel the tension and fear subsiding, she kissed the top of his head and whispered next to his ear, "Tell me your secrets, and I'll tell you mine."

They pulled apart slightly in distance, but were still connected by hands and emotions. Grissom blinked back tears, but couldn't speak. Sara ventured in a low, soft voice, "I think I know what you're afraid of right now, because I often feel the same way. You're afraid to tell what you're thinking about. Afraid that it will be too much to talk about without losing control. Afraid that the other person won't understand. Afraid it will become real if you let it out. Is that what you are thinking?" she asked.

Grissom didn't answer in words, but looked at her through slitted eyes, his face gathered in a frown that spoke of pain rather than anger.

"I feel the same way, Grissom. But my logical mind tells me that we're wrong, that we need to get that poison out if we are going to feel better. We both have things that we've allowed to fester for too many years, and it's rotting us from the inside out. The best thing we can do is get it out."

He slightly rocked his upper body in tacit agreement.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's OK. But you've got to tell someone. I think it's time that you thought about talking to a therapist, Grissom. Someone you can trust."

"I trust you," he stated simply.

"I think maybe you need to talk to someone who doesn't have a vested interest in you, Grissom. Someone who can be objective."

For once, Grissom was at the receiving end of a statement that he didn't know how to read. He often spoke to Sara in thinly veiled double entendres so that she would get his meaning if she wished to, or ignore it if she didn't. He wondered if that meant Sara still had an interest in him, other than as the good friend she had proven to be the past few days. He quickly dismissed the hope as a vain imagining. She had done nothing in the last week that Catherine wouldn't have done, with the possible exception of the towel stunt, but that was just her offbeat sense of humor.

"What were you going to talk to me about?" he asked suddenly.

"Huh? When?" she started, in confusion.

"When we first sat down. I could tell you wanted to talk about something. But you were holding back."

"I wasn't holding back, Gil. I was just thinking. I was thinking how well you were doing, especially how well you handled going back to work. I was also thinking that you are accustomed to being very private, but have had one person or another glued to you for over three weeks, and that you might be getting to the point where that is annoying to you. If you would like some alone time, I would certainly understand that. I could stay at a motel or with Cath or Nicky. I'd only be a phone call away, if you wanted company."

"How much longer will you be staying?" he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact, but finding the words sticking in his suddenly-dry mouth, coming out hoarsely.

"I haven't really given that much thought. I'm not on a specific timetable."

He nodded and laid his head back down on her chest, letting her rock him gently for several minutes as he thought.

"I'm afraid of snakes," he blurted out suddenly.

Perhaps it would not have seemed like much of an admission to others, but Sara knew that if she were patient and willing to open herself up as well, Grissom might eventually be able to identify and share with her what it was he feared most. She had felt for years that he was often guided more by fear than by rational thought, at least in his personal life.

"Me, too. And bugs that fly. I don't mind the crawlers so much, but I hate the ones that can fly. Especially if they can sting, too," she shared.

She stroked his back softly and allowed him to think and to gather up the courage to speak again.

"I'm afraid I'll make a mistake at a scene, and someone will get hurt. Someone I care about," he released.

Sara waited a moment to allow them both to absorb his statement and all of its ramifications. Then she offered her quid pro quo: "I'm afraid that I'll make a mistake, and you won't respect me ... that you won't think I'm a good CSI. I'm afraid you won't think I'm worthy to work with you."

He moved his arm around behind her back to meet with the arm stretched across her waist and gave her a gentle hug of acknowledgement, appreciating that she wasn't making him expose himself alone.

He found that it was getting easier to tell her the things that had plagued him. She didn't try to explain them away. She didn't argue about them. She just accepted them. Accepting his fears felt like she was accepting him.

"I'm afraid that if people get to know me, they won't like me. It's OK for them to not like me if they don't know me, but it would hurt if they really knew me and rejected me anyway," he said.

"Me, too," she simply agreed after a moment.

He felt almost as if a wall were crumbling and feelings were threatening to pour out unabated. He instinctively tried to hold them all in at first, but he trusted her enough to decide let them come. If she couldn't handle it, he needed to know that now, before this went any further. He decided to try to be honest about how he felt about her, though still obliquely.

"I'm afraid that I don't have anything to give. That no one will ever love me enough to stay with me, because I have nothing to offer," he added, his voice quieting almost to a hush.

She was heart-stricken to hear this from the man she had loved for years. She wished she could say something, do something that could take away his fears, not for what she would gain, but just to give him the peace that had always eluded him. But this wasn't the time for consolation, but rather for revelation.

"I'm afraid that I'll never find a man who's willing to love me unconditionally, who will put up with me," she admitted.

He considered the past few years and wondered how many conditions he had set in place preventing them from sharing and enjoying the feelings they had for each other. He had not succeeded in putting up with her unconditionally, and he felt he had let her down. He wanted to stop now and beg for her forgiveness, but he had more to get out in the open and couldn't afford to lose the momentum he had found.

"I'm afraid that you're going to leave me again," he admitted anxiously.

"I'm afraid that you'll just push me away again once you don't need me anymore," she matched him.

He wondered how could she think a time would ever come when he wouldn't need her? He's always needed her. He always would need her. To him, that was a given. But he agreed that he had always stepped back instead of forward, at every pivotal junction in their 'relationship'.

He knew now, if he didn't before, that things had gone too far for him to live without her anymore. He didn't know when or how it happened, but it did. He could no longer avoid the inevitable - he would have to tell her the one thing he feared the most.

"I'm afraid that you don't feel the same way about me that I feel about you. I love you."

He finally spoke the words she had always longed to hear, words that he had kept hidden, even from himself.

"I am afraid of how much I love you, and how easily you can hurt me," she whispered back to him.

"I feel the same way," he agreed quietly.

Burdens relieved, they sat intertwined, unwilling to break the bond that trust had forged between them. There were still many things they did not know about each other, but those were details. Everything of any significance had been shared and accepted without judgment.

Grissom and Sara each determined in their hearts to spend a lifetime, if necessary, to ensure that the other would never have to face in reality those things which they feared most. It wasn't a commitment either made lightly; it would involve more sharing than either was accustomed to, and constant changes and adjustments to how they interacted with each other. They had spent three years breaking down what trust they had in each other; today they started rebuilding a deeper trust - one they prayed would last.

"Sun's coming up," Sara noted, breaking the peaceful silence engulfing them. "We should get some rest."

Sitting up to look into her eyes, he asked, "Do you want to sleep with me?" the question recalling to both of them a memory from long ago.

Mimicking his reaction back then, she waited several seconds then ran the back of her hand across her mouth, and asked wide-eyed, "Did you just say what I think you said?"

Grissom grinned and stood, pulling her up by her hands into a hug. Holding her hand, he led her down the hall to his room. Once there, he undressed without hesitation, accustomed as he was to her seeing him in his shorts, and slipped into bed. He was amused to see Sara blush with self-consciousness as she began to undress.

"It helps if you turn your back the first time," he suggested helpfully.

She blushed all the more, realizing that Grissom was aware of her discomfiture. She turned around as he suggested and resumed her undressing, instinctively casting a glance over her shoulder to see if he was still watching her.

"I won't look," he promised, turning over.

"This is not at all how I had imagined this would be," she started talking to relieve her stress. "I never thought I'd be embarrassed."

"You know, you don't have to do this at all. It's just more comfortable in here than on that couch. If you want, I'll go sleep on the couch. I'm used to it. I've fallen asleep on it a hundred times," he offered, pulling the covers back off of himself.

"No. I don't want you to do that. I want to be here with you. I don't know, I guess I just feel a little exposed right now. It's all so sudden, and so soon after I... Well, let's just say it was the last thing I was expecting."

"Me, too. A week ago you hated me and today I ask you to curl up next to me. I'm pushing things, aren't I? I'm sorry," he apologized.

"I never  hated you, Grissom. You've got to believe that," she said, climbing over the bed to him, sitting down facing him. She picked up his hand and examined it closely, intent on memorizing every line and curve, but finding out that she already knew them intimately. As though his hand were a separate being not connected to him, she put it to her face, as a hug, then slid it over to her lips to kiss it. She ministered to each finger, kissing, nipping and lightly licking. Grissom was fascinated, watching her, her eyes closed in rapture, making love to his hand.

He felt emotionally aroused, but was disconcerted that he was not becoming physically aroused. He was tired, to be sure. He had had an emotionally exhausting day, between returning to work and the subsequent talk with Sara. He knew he had every excuse in the world for not feeling amorous. But he finally had something he had always wanted - Sara in his bed - and he seemed powerless to do anything to ensure she would ever come back there. He wished now that he had not said anything, that he had not invited her to sleep with him, since apparently sleep was all he would be able to offer her.

"Sara ..." he said hesitantly, wanting her to stop, but not wanting her to leave.

She looked up at him expectantly, bidding him to speak with her eyes.

He couldn't possibly look at her. The humiliation was too great. He threw his free arm across his eyes and sighed out, "I can't."

"Shhhhh," she touched a finger to his lips. "I love you." She worked herself under the covers to lie next to him, her head on the pillow next to his. She kissed him gently and turned over, pulling his arm over her like a comforting blanket. She scooted herself back against his body, molding herself to his shape. "Goodnight, Gil. Sweet dreams," she yawned contently.

While her acceptance of the situation was on the one hand very gratifying, on the other it made him feel all the more inadequate. She was too good for him, plain and simple. Over the years he had flirted with her, and offered her no relief. He had pushed her away, and she had always come back as soon as he relented. He had expected her fidelity, but had openly dated other women. Despite everything that he had put her through, she accepted his invitation to bed, and he let her down once again. Her infinite capacity to forgive him only served to point out how little he deserved her, and how much more she deserved than him.

He watched the hours grind by, steeping himself in recriminations and self-loathing until he could stand it no longer. Trying not to wake Sara, he slipped out of bed and headed to the living room. He could no longer even be in the same room with her without feeling tortured.

Sara woke around noon to find herself alone. She trekked through the house, looking for Grissom, finding him sitting in a chair in the living room, peering out of a window.

"Morning!" she said brightly, walking over to kiss the top of his head. He didn't respond to either the gesture or her words.

"Gil? What's wrong?" she asked, kneeling down in front of him.

"Nothing," he said, still looking outside rather than at her.

"Doesn't look like 'nothing.' Doesn't sound like 'nothing'," she said gently.

"I think maybe I would like some time alone, Sara," he said stiffly.

"Ooooo kaaaaay," she drew out tentatively. "Are you mad at me?" she asked.

"Why should I be mad at you?" he asked tensely.

"Well, I'm not really sure, but then again I'm often not sure of why you're mad at me," she answered back, more tersely than she had intended. "Do you mind if I get a shower and some coffee first? Then I'll get out of your hair."

"No. I don't mind," he answered evenly, still staring through the window, but focusing on nothing.

* * * * *

Catherine had just returned home from the grocery store, surprised to find the car Sara was using parked outside of her house, Sara sitting on the hood with her head in her hands.

"Hey, Sara," Catherine greeted her. As she neared her, she could see that Sara was upset - no, 'distraught' was a better word. "Hey, honey, what's wrong?" she asked, pulling her down off the hood into a hug.

"I ... I ... don't know," Sara blubbered between sniffs. "I don't know what I did wrong."

"Is Gil all right?" Catherine asked.

"I don't know. He won't talk to me today, other than to tell me to find another place to stay. I don't know what I did wrong!" she wailed, burying her head into Catherine's shoulder.

"Come inside. We'll get this all sorted out. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," Catherine assured her, leading her into the house.

* * * * *

"I should have expected this, Cath. Hell, I did  expect this. Every time I let down my guard, he pushes me away."

"Tell me what happened," Catherine coaxed.

"I wish I knew!" Sara fairly shouted.

"Tell me what you do know. When did it start?"

"This morning. Last night was great. This morning was hell. Nothing happened in between."

"What happened last night that was so great?" Catherine asked. "Did you ...?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sara waved her off. "We just had a really good talk. We actually managed to share our feelings with each other without getting defensive or arguing. It was wonderful. We felt so close that we slept together. Uh ... I mean that literally, not figuratively," she hurried to correct.

"I'm only asking to try to help - what feelings did you talk about?" Catherine asked.

"Our fears, at first. And we finally told each other that we love each other. It was unbelievable, Cath."

"Then what happened?" she pulled.

"Then he asked if I wanted to sleep in his room with him and I did. Then this afternoon when I got up, he was cold and distant, and asked me to find another place to stay. He wouldn't tell me why." She had been struggling to stay in control over her emotions, but she had hit a weak spot and started to tear up and sniffle again.

"So you just each got in bed and went to sleep?" she asked, feeling that there was more that Sara wasn't telling, not to be duplicitous, but probably not seeing the significance.

"Pretty much," Sara answered uneasily.

"You've got to tell me everything, Sara, or I can't help you," Catherine warned.

"I kissed his hand a few times. ... I love his hands," she started drifting off into the memory of it.

"And what did he do?"

"Nothing," she answered.

"The fog is starting to lift now, I think," Catherine nodded. "Think hard. Did he say anything?"

Sara took a moment to think, then recalled, "Yeah, he said 'I can't'. I understood that he didn't feel like kissing or anything after the day he had. I didn't think anything of it. I wished him goodnight and went to sleep."

"Oh shit. This is not something I can fix, Sara," Catherine shook her head.

"What did I do wrong?" Sara asked honestly.

"Nothing. It wasn't what you did. It's what he couldn't do."

"I told you. I didn't push him to do anything," Sara defended herself.

"I don't think you get it," Catherine couldn't help but laugh.

"Obviously not. Maybe you should spell it out for me," Sara admitted.

"He wanted to make love to you, but was physically unable to," she blurted out.

"Oooooooh! Shit! Oh shit! I didn't think about going that  far! I was just thinking about snuggling and maybe kissing. Oh shit!" Sara kept repeating.

"You know how sensitive guys are about that sort of thing. They have a hard time separating their egos from their penises," Catherine explained.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sara asked in a panic.

"There's not much you can do, other than be supportive and loving anyway. Let him know you understand and that you aren't pushing. I think it's time for him to see a therapist," Catherine agreed.

"Good luck! Maybe you can talk him into it. He avoided it every time I brought it up. Do you think he'll see me again?" she asked, lips quivering.

"Of course," Catherine breathed out, gathering Sara into a comforting hug. "Just give him a little time. He's embarrassed right now."

"Should he be alone?" Sara wondered, worried.

"I'll check on him later," Catherine offered.

"Don't tell him you know," Sara said.

"Don't worry. I can act," she smiled.

* * * * *

The scenery outside of the window had not changed in the past several hours, other than the shape and direction of the shadows cast by the harsh Nevada sun. Grissom had not moved. He could now add his latest rejection of Sara to the long list of sins he had committed against her. Through no fault of her own, he had pushed her away again, and he wondered if he even had a right to think of how to pull her back.

'No,' he told himself. 'I can't keep doing this to her. She doesn't deserve it. She revealed herself to me, body and soul, and I sent her away, just because ... because ... Why would she stay, anyway? She's young. She's got needs like any other young person. I can't fulfill those needs. How long until there's another young stud like Hank? One who won't shit on her,' he tortured himself.

He heard the knock at the door, but since there was no one that he wanted to see or talk to, he ignored it. He had a lot of practice at ignoring people and their attempted intrusions into his life.

Catherine let herself in and called for Sara or Grissom, acting as though she didn't know Sara was gone. She stepped in further and saw him by the window in the living room. "Grissom?" she called again. "Where's Sara?" she asked, looking around.

"Gone," he answered simply.

"Gone where?" she asked, approaching him.


He shrugged.

"What happened?" she asked gently, pulling a chair up at an angle to his.

"I don't want to talk about Sara," he said dismissively.

"Did she do something wrong? Make you angry?" she pressed.

"I told you I don't want to talk about it," he replied angrily.

"Is she coming back?" Catherine queried.

"I doubt it," he said, shaking his head.

"Gil Grissom, you tell me what happened right now!" Catherine demanded. "Everything was fine between you when you were at the lab last night. Now she's gone. What the hell happened?"

"Absolutely nothing," he chuckled sarcastically.

"Oh, so she just gathered up her things and left, for no reason what-so-fucking-ever? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Catherine, she's better off without me," he sighed.

"Does she have any input? Or is this a decision you're making all on your own?"

"Well, if she didn't know it before, she should know it now," he answered cryptically.

"All I know is that every time she has left or has threatened to leave, it was because you rejected her and pushed her to do it. Now she's gone again. I have to assume you are up to your old tricks, my friend. What happened? You did OK at work for a couple of hours so you decided you didn't need her anymore? Isn't that how it usually works with you? You're done with her, so you throw her away?" Catherine shouted, becoming more agitated than she had expected to.

"I wasn't using her, Catherine! I didn't ask her to come here!"

"No, she came because she was worried about you. She stayed because you needed her, and because you asked her to  . She always does whatever you ask her to. Must be quite a power trip to know that you can control someone's whole life with just a few words!"

"Get out! Get out of my house! I don't need you to come in here and tell me how to live my life! I don't need you, and I don't need her!" he screamed, pointing at the door.

"That's right, Gil. Send away all the people who actually give a damn about you. You are so predictable," she said, standing over him. "But I've got news for you. You may not need me, but you damn sure need her," she spat out, then twirled on her heel and stormed out.

* * * * *

His cell phone rang, but Grissom didn't pick it up, didn't even look its way. A moment later, there was a knock on the door. He ignored it. He was getting to be accomplished at ignoring things. If he kept practicing, maybe he could learn to ignore his own feelings.

"Grissom! It's Nick! Open the door!" Nick shouted, steadily pounding on the door. "Open the door, damn it, or I'll bust it down. Open the door, Grissom!"

Realizing he would be able to rid himself of Nick faster if he just let him in, Grissom opened the door, and walked back to his chair without a word.

"Grissom, I've come to pick up the rest of Sara's stuff," he said gruffly.

Grissom lifted his hand, palm up, and waved his assent.

"I don't know where all it is. Is it too much to ask you to help me?" Nick asked, short-tempered.

Sighing his displeasure, Grissom got up and began to scan the room for articles that most certainly did not belong there. He pointed out shoes under the coffee table, her ID badge on the top of the table, then he shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. Digging through the hamper, he pulled out a few articles of her clothing and tossed them Nick's general direction.

Nick was starting to fume, but knew it was counterproductive to vent right now. Grissom led him to the last place he expected anything of hers to be, his bedroom. "Oh, this is way too much information for me," he said, turning. "Just bring it out to me."

Nick waited impatiently in the living room while Grissom gathered up the clothes that Sara had self-consciously shed as the sun was coming up that morning. He sat on the bed holding the clothes, looking at them, seeing her through them. He lifted her shirt to his face and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of Sara. A smile involuntarily crept to his lips when he thought of her blushing while she was unbuttoning it. 'Sara,' he gasped, the name catching in his throat.

He shook himself free from his reverie, took a deep breath and stood, looking around for any more evidence of her having been there. Seeing none, he walked out to Nick, handing him her clothes. "How is she?" he asked weakly.

"What do you care?" Nick answered, turning to leave.

"I care, Nicky," Grissom answered to his retreating back.

"You've got a damned funny way of showing it," Nick lobbed over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

* * * * *

It struck Grissom suddenly that there was no reason to continue to sit and look out the window. There was nothing for him out there.

He got up to make his way back to his bedroom - the only sanctuary he had known for several weeks. The walk seemed endless, and as he collapsed on his bed, he could feel that he was sliding back down the slippery slope into depression, but he didn't feel like fighting it.

It didn't scare him. He had been here before and he knew that he would eventually come to a place of relative peace, a place that had no feelings, no problems. For a brief flicker he was angry with Sara. He had already found that nothingness before and she had rudely snatched him back.

He rolled over to his side and was instantly struck with the smell of her hair on his pillow. His instinctive smile melted into a frown, he slung the pillow off the bed and pulled the other under his head. 'She cannot leave me in peace, even when she's gone,' he complained bitterly.

Sara. Her name kept bubbling up unbidden into his consciousness. Sara. He knew he was hurting her, but what's a little pain now compared to so much more later? He hated hurting her. But sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind; isn't that what they say? He loved her too much to allow her to settle for a dysfunctional middle-aged man who couldn't satisfy her emotionally or physically. She might love him anyway, but what kind of life could he give her?

'No, no! I won't allow it! I have to be strong and make her see that I'm no damned good for her. It's not enough for her to be banished from my life; she's got to be freed from the ridiculous notion that she loves me,' he told himself.

Hearing the door open, he told himself that before he became too far gone, he needed to call a locksmith. Seems like everyone and their brother must have a key to his house, and they all let themselves in without his consent.

"Gil?" Catherine called out. He followed the reverberation of her voice through his house, disappointed that she was honing in on him.

"Gil?" she called again from the door to his room.

"What do you want, Catherine?" he barked out.

"I just want to talk to you," she replied soothingly, trying to calm him down.

"I'm tired of talking. If you came here to make sure I know what a shit I am, the effort is wasted. I already know that," he pushed out, his words like a wall forming around him. "Please tell her ... please let ... let her know ... it's not her. Tell her to forget me and move on. She's got to, Catherine. I'm just dragging her down," he confessed.

"Gil, I think it's too late for that. You should never have brought her to Vegas, if you didn't want her in your life. You should never have asked her to stay. It's too late now," she said gently, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"She told me that one day it would be too late. She meant too late for me to show her how I feel, but it turns out to be another kind of too late entirely."

"Gil, I talked to her. I think I know what the problem is, but bless her heart, she was clueless. You didn't have to put yourself or her through all this. She may have seen more than most her age, but she's still very naïve when it comes to men. She honestly didn't know what the problem was."

"Oh, and I guess you do," he shot back acidly.

"I think so, and I think you are being too hard on yourself and incredibly cruel to her."

"I'm trying to do what's right for her. Why can't anyone else see that?" he screamed helplessly towards the heavens.

"Because you're wrong. It's not what's best for her, or even what's best for you. You are just wrong. Do you really think she's that shallow?" she asked incredulously.

"No, I don't. That's the problem, can't you see that? It's precisely because she's not that shallow. She'd stay anyway, giving everything, getting nothing, until she wasted away to an empty shell of a human being. I can't do that to her," he argued vehemently.

"Damn it, Gil. You aren't giving yourself or her a fair chance. Less than a month ago we found you in a pool of your own blood. Do you honestly think that you're suddenly supposed to be all cured just because she came back to you? Her leaving wasn't the only problem, and you've not done everything you could to address the problems. You're giving up too easily," she admonished him.

She had hoped that she was making headway, especially since this time he didn't immediately argue with her. She watched his eyes dart imperceptibly back and forth, registering that he was thinking about what she said. Thinking instead of reacting was a positive step, she knew.

"I don't want to hurt her anymore," he breathed out desperately.

"Then don't," Catherine retorted.

"I don't know what to do, Catherine. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to hurt her," he cried softly, allowing the tears he normally kept under lock and key to escape unfettered.

Catherine grabbed his hand as though she were offering a lifeline to a drowning man. "Gil, we've got an Employee Assistance Program. Talk to them. If they can't help, you haven't lost anything. If they can, you can quit hurting yourself and her. If you won't do it for yourself, will you do it for her?" Catherine asked, blatantly manipulating him, but feeling no remorse.

"OK," he relented in a whisper. "I'll try."

Not willing to let him change his mind, Catherine pulled out her phone and dialed the number printed on her insurance card. "I'd like to schedule an appointment for a friend," she said to the receptionist. "It needs to be as soon as possible. Any time is fine." Catherine smiled down at Grissom and patted his arm. "That's good. The name is Grissom. Gil Grissom. I'll make sure he's there. Thanks," Catherine told her, snapping the phone shut.

"You have an appointment tomorrow morning at 10:00. I'll be by the pick you up."

"OK. Is she still in Vegas?" he asked, mournfully.

"So far," Catherine answered honestly. "She'd probably already be gone if she weren't so devastated. She needs to be around people who love her right now. I've asked her to come back to work with us. It will help distract her and we can keep an eye on her."

"That's good," he acknowledged. "Where's she staying?" he asked.

"With Nicky," Catherine answered, expecting him to bristle.

"Good. He'll take good care of her. Too bad she didn't fall in love with him. She'd be happy. They'd probably already be married and have a couple of kids by now," he told her wistfully.

"She loves Nicky dearly, but she's not in love with him and will never be. We don't always have a choice about who we fall in love with, Gil."

He pondered the unfairness of that, especially for Sara.

"So ... when are you going to talk to her?" Catherine asked pointedly.

"I've got to get my act together first."

"It could be too late by then, Gil," Catherine warned.

"If I don't, I'll just end up hurting her again."

"You're hurting her now."

"Can't you talk to her? Explain to her what's going on and that I'm going to get help," he said, hoping that Catherine would be able to smooth things over.

"I could, but I don't think that will help much. Who's she going to believe, me or you? I can tell her you're sorry and are doing what needs to be done to get better. But then you will avoid her, which tells her something entirely different," Catherine argued.

* * * * *

True to her word, Catherine arrived at 9:30 to take Grissom to his therapist appointment. He was sullen and quiet during the ride, which suited her fine. Had he been more verbose, she was sure that she would have had to listen to him justify why he didn't really need to go. As it was, the therapist would be seeing him as they had been seeing him.

* * * * *

"What brings you here today, Mr. Grissom?" Gene Russell asked kindly.

"I've been having problems lately. I haven't been able to work for almost a month," Grissom answered vaguely.

"What kind of problems?" the therapist asked.

"I have a very stressful job, and it can be depressing as well," Grissom began.

"What do you do?" Dr. Russell interrupted.

"I'm a criminalist," Grissom answered.

"Yes, I can see why that would be stressful," the therapist concurred. "Anything else stressful going on?"

"I've been having a problem with a relationship. Well, not actually a relationship, but a ... I don't know what you'd call it," Grissom fished for a way to describe the situation with Sara.

"Anything else?" the therapist prodded.

"Isn't that enough?" Grissom asked.

"Yes, that's enough," Gene answered, chuckling. "I just want to make sure I understand what made you decide to come in. I would assume these stressors have been in place for some time?"

Grissom nodded.

"They why come here now? Today? What made you decide to seek outside assistance at this time, rather than any other?" the therapist queried.

"It's gotten worse. If I don't do something, I'll lose my job and my ... uh," Grissom shrugged, "... relationship. If that happens, there's no reason to go on."

"Have you ever thought about 'not going on'?" the therapist asked, concerned.

"Sometimes," Grissom answered honestly.

"Have you ever done anything like that?" Gene asked non-judgmentally.

"Once," Grissom breathed out, looking down at his sweating hands, then wiping them on his pants.

"How long ago?"

"About a month."

"Tell me about what happened that made you feel like doing that."

"Sara left. Then everything fell apart at work. At first I was very angry and destroyed everything I could find in my house that reminded me of my worthless life. After that, I felt empty, like I had nothing left that I cared about."

"Obviously you didn't ..." the therapist began.

"No, some friends came by to check on me and they found me. Sometimes, I wish they hadn't," he mumbled.

"Your friends took care of you while you healed physically?" Gene asked.

"For awhile. Then Sara came back and helped me," Grissom answered.

"So Sara's back in your life now?"

"She was. But not anymore," Grissom sighed.

"Is that why you're here?" Gene elicited.

"Yes, I suppose so," Grissom nodded.

"Did she leave again?"

"I sent her away," Grissom said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Why?" Gene inquired.

"I ... she ... we seemed to have worked a lot of things out. We felt closer than we ever had before."

"But?"

"But I couldn't ... you know."

"No, I don't know. There could be a thousand things that you would be unable to do if you had been that depressed. You will need to tell me specifically what you are talking about," Gene said evenly.

"She wanted ... well, at least I thought  she wanted to ... um ... sleep with me. But I couldn't."

"You're saying that you couldn't get an erection?" Gene asked plainly.

"Um, yes. This is very embarrassing for me. I'm not used to talking about myself at all, and I find something this personal to be unbelievably uncomfortable," Grissom admitted.

"You're a scientist, Mr. Grissom. Look at this scientifically. Depression changes the balance of chemicals in the brain. Arousal is initiated in the brain. Ergo, depression inhibits the ability to achieve and maintain an erection. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's just simple chemistry. We just have to get your chemistry right again," Gene explained.

"How long will that take?" Grissom asked anxiously.

"There is no set time, unfortunately. However, you surely are aware that it is not necessary for you to be aroused to satisfy your partner, in the meantime. It might even help you by removing the additional burden of performance anxiety."

"I've thought about that, believe me. I just don't want her to think I'm not interested in her. I've spent years trying desperately not  to be aroused by her! Now that it's OK, I can't. I don't want her to take it as a rejection. She's beautiful and she's sexy," Grissom said, allowing himself to drift into reverie.

"That shouldn't be a problem if you tell her."

"Oh, God! It was hard enough telling you, and I don't even care what you think - no offense."

"None taken," Gene laughed.

"I ... I ... I just can't! That would be so humiliating," Grissom moaned, hiding his face in his hands.

"Don't you trust her?"

"Yes, but ..."

"I'm not saying to call her up and just announce 'Oh, by the way, I'm impotent'. You need to tell her why you sent her away, so that she doesn't assume she did something wrong. It's OK to tell her how embarrassed you felt. Let her see how this is affecting you. If she loves you and if she truly can be trusted, I think you'll find her to be understanding and supportive."

"Rationally, I understand what you are saying, Dr. Russell," Grissom said. "But it took me years to work up to telling her I love her, and that's a good thing. Now you and my friend Catherine want me to tell her this right now, and it's a bad thing."

"Mr. Grissom, this is a temporary problem. Don't allow it to cause permanent damage to your life. It's important that you tell her."

"OK, that's addresses the problem of Sara, but what about the ... other?" Grissom asked hesitantly.

"I'm going to prescribe you an anti-depressant. You will no doubt read every line of the package insert, so I'm going to go ahead and acknowledge that one of the possible side effects is a reduced libido."

"Great. Just what I need," Grissom sighed.

"Well, it can hardly get worse, can it?" Dr. Russell asked. "But you will find that as the medication starts working for you, your libido will return. And hopefully you won't be on the medication all that long. I also want to see you every week for the first month or so, then we can scale back if all is going well. At some point, I will ask you to bring Sara with you."

"Oh, this just keeps getting better," Grissom groaned.

"Mr. Grissom, you aren't the first person this has ever happened to. And a lot of the people I see have no friends or loved ones to support them. You are indeed a fortunate man," Dr. Russell asserted.

* * * * *

"Catherine, how do I get her to even listen to me now?" Grissom asked suddenly, after at least fifteen minutes of profound silence in the car.

"Hmmmm. Have you thought of calling her and asking her?" Catherine quipped sarcastically.

"I bet she'll just hang up on me."

"I doubt that," Catherine rebutted.

"Might as well get it over with," Grissom sighed. He took out his cell phone and called Nick's house. "Nick? May I please speak to Sara?" Grissom asked politely.

"I'll see," Nick grunted.

"Hello?" Sara asked hesitantly.

"Sara, it's Grissom. I'm sorry about yesterday. I want to see you, to explain."

Catherine shot him a smile and a thumbs up.

"I don't know, Grissom. I don't know if I'm up for another round of 'why I can't see you'."

"That's not it at all. I want  to see you. I want you to understand what's going on. It's important to me. You're  important to me. Please?"

"OK, Grissom. But if this gets to be a beating, I'm out of there. I just can't take anymore," she sniffed.

Grissom felt a lump appear in his throat and closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I promise that it's nothing like that. I love you," he choked out, trying to push back the empathetic pain he was feeling for her.

"Catherine can drop me off at Nick's within 10 minutes. We can talk there, or we can go somewhere else. Your choice," he offered.

"OK," she said quietly. "I'll see you in 10 minutes. Bye." The line went silent.

"Catherine? Will you drop me off at Nick's?" Grissom asked.

"Of course. And by the way, I think you handled that quite well. I'm impressed. I didn't know you had it in you," she smiled.

"Let's hope I didn't just use up all my people skills," he cracked.

* * * * *

Nick opened the door and eyed Grissom suspiciously.

"Is that Grissom?" Sara called from the background, coming out of the bathroom still brushing her hair.

"Yes," Nick shouted back tersely.

"You're a good friend to her, Nick," Grissom offered in conciliation. "I promise I'm not here to hurt her."

"You never mean to, Grissom. You just sort of do," Nick retorted. "If you hurt her again, I'll hunt you down like a dog and put you out of your misery," Nick swore.

"I'll hold you to that, Nick," Grissom said, "since I am apparently unable to do that successfully by myself."

Nick was frankly shocked into silence at Grissom's tacit admission. In the month since Grissom's world had first collapsed, the "accident" had never been discussed with any of them, including Catherine.

"Hey, Grissom," Sara said too brightly, a tense smile plastered on her face.

"Hi, Sara," he said, smiling disingenuously.

"Want to go for a walk?" she asked.

"Sure, that's fine. But not too fast. I still am not 100 percent," he reminded her.

* * * * *

"Sara, I want to apologize again for yesterday. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You could have told me that yesterday."

"Yes, I should have. It was just too embarrassing. But Dr. Russell helped me see that I have to tell you, so that you know that I'm not pushing you away like before."

Though Catherine had already shared her theory with Sara, she felt that she still needed to hear it from him, if it was true. If he could trust her with that ...

"Who's Dr. Russell?" she asked.

"He's my therapist. I'm seeing him for my depression."

"Good. I'm glad you decided to see someone. But, why did you send me away?" she asked shakily.

"I was upset and embarrassed. I felt like I had let you down, and I couldn't stand it."

"Let me down how?" she coaxed, acting oblivious. "We had a wonderful evening, then in the morning you kicked me out. When was there time to let me down?"

"In bed," he answered obliquely.

"We were sleeping, Grissom," she stated in frustration.

"Because  we were sleeping, Sara," he said in exasperation with himself for not being able to be clear.

"I still don't understand, Gil," she said.

He stopped walking and pulled her around in front of him, grabbing both of her hands. He looked deeply into her eyes, willing the hurt he saw there to disappear. He knew there was only one way to do that, no matter how difficult it may seem. It wasn't nearly as difficult as the thought of living without her.

"Sara, I've dreamed a thousand times of the day when I would be able to coax you into my bed. I wanted so very much to be able to show you how much I love you, how much I need you, and how much I desire you. But I couldn't. I couldn't get an erec ... couldn't get aroused," he finally blurted out, relieved for it to be over, but then worried about her reaction.

"Is that all?" she asked incredulously.

"I didn't want you to think ... I couldn't tell you because I was embarrassed, and I didn't want you to think that I don't desire you. I do. I just can't do anything about it right now."

"Isn't that normal when you're depressed?" she asked openly.

"Well, yes, I guess so," he answered, a bit surprised at her matter-of-fact attitude. "But I didn't think you should have to settle for that. Sara, I feel so damaged, so ... I don't know ... unworthy, I guess. You're young and beautiful. I'm middle-aged and have too many problems for you to have to deal with. It just didn't seem fair to saddle you with all that. You deserve so much more."

"And you are  so much more, Gil. Just because you hit a bump in the road doesn't mean you're finished. Get up, climb back on and go like hell. But, please, take me with you this time," she pleaded.

"Oh, God, Sara. What did I ever do to deserve you?" he asked, taking her into a hug.

"Hey, I've got my issues, too, you know. One day you may be asking that same question, but with a totally different tone of voice!" she quipped.

"Sara, please come back home. I miss you," Grissom pleaded.

'Home. He said come back home, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to say,' she thought to herself. "OK, Grissom, but if you put me out again, I'm never coming back, do you understand that? So you better be sure this time," she warned.

"I'm sure. Please come back home," he repeated. "Only one condition," he said, holding up an index finger.

Sara raised her eyebrows at the audacity of him  having a condition. "And just what is your condition?" she asked haughtily.

"You  have to tell Nick," he laughed. "He doesn't like me very much right now."

* * * * *

Nick helped them pack Sara's things in his car, then drove them back over to Grissom's house. The atmosphere was a bit strained, with Nick periodically turning his black eyes to the rear vision mirror to catch Grissom's eyes with a cold stare.

When they arrived, Grissom handed Sara the keys to the door and sent her ahead. He took the bags from the trunk and told Nick, "Thank you for taking such good care of her, Nick. I really mean that."

"I really meant what I said, too, Grissom," Nick said darkly.

"I know, Nick," Grissom conceded. "Wish me luck?"

"Grissom, I really do hope everything works out for you two. I love Sara like my own sister, and she loves you. I want her to be happy. If you can make her happy, well then, I'm all for it. If not ..." he left hanging ominously.

"I'll do my best. I promise," Grissom swore.

The two men shook hands, and Grissom set off, bags in hand, to start his life anew.

* * * * *

Sara drove back to Grissom's house after work, thinking about the night's work. She was glad to be back on at the lab, though it would still be some time until Grissom was able to come back full time. She had driven him home during her lunch break. He was exhausted, but happy, to have spent the entire four hours on a blood spatter reconstruction. Though it wasn't really all that complex, he justified to himself that he needed to experiment, and spent hours setting up and conducting a beating to a disembodied head, filled with simulated blood.

Sara felt an unusual pleasure, almost maternal, in listening to him talk about how much he had enjoyed it. She was beginning to truly believe that he had turned the corner, though she knew he still had a long way to go. He not only had to regain the ground he lost in the last month, but deconstruct the damage that burn out and stress had wrought over the past three years since he was put in charge of the lab. Though she had resented Cavallo's being recently appointed to take that position, pushing Grissom back down to just being the graveyard shift supervisor, she was grateful for it now. He needed to be free to get back to the science that fed him emotionally.

Arriving home, he turned silent, feeling a twinge of anxiety over the brief separation he would have to endure. "I'll call if I'm going to be late," Sara promised, leaning over to kiss him goodbye. He realized with a start that for all of their goodbyes, this was the first one to be graced with a kiss, the first to have a promise of the transience of the separation. When they pulled back, he turned suddenly to get out, not wanting her to see that it had affected him. At least these were tears of happiness instead of grief.

Now she was returning home after a hard night's work, anxious to cocoon herself. How little he knew her if he didn't understand the value of just sleeping in the same bed with him. That one morning she had shared with him was the first sleep not filled with nightmares. She felt secure wrapping herself in him.

It felt strange to put a key in the door and unlock it without knocking. Even when she had been staying with him before, she only left the house alone one time without him, so she hadn't gotten used to it. But once she entered and saw him standing in the kitchen preparing breakfast, all her reservations dissolved. She was home.

"I'm not up to cooking anything fancy yet, but I have managed to not burn fully half of the pancakes I've attempted," he said in mock-pride.

"Oh, that's what that smell is," she teased him, wrinkling up her nose. She walked up behind him and slid her arms around his waist, peeking out around his shoulder at the pile of hotcakes. "Ummm, I'm starved."

"Good. You may have to be really hungry to enjoy these," he said, self-deprecatingly.

"I'd eat anything right now, if you'll just pour some syrup on it!" she asserted.

"I'll have to remember that for future reference," he said suggestively.

"Hmmm. I've never tried that," she admitted with a wink. "Whipped cream, yes. Chocolate syrup, yes. But pancake syrup, no."

"I think that falls into the realm of too much information, Sara," Grissom said, pretending to be jealous.

"I'm just teasing you, silly!" she chirped, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Now, are going to eat, or what?"

After their breakfast, which Grissom had to admit wasn't his best effort, but was more palatable than he had feared, they snuggled on the couch. Grissom played with her hair, pulling strands of it loosely between his fingers, while she told him about the case she was working on. She was like a bloodhound following a scent, excited and vocal. Sometimes in the past her intensity had frightened him, but now he drew on it, trying to recapture his own love of the hunt.

He had to consciously fight back his nervousness when she suggested that it was time to rest. "Come on, Grissom," she said, standing and drawing him up with her. "I'm not going to bite. That is, unless you want me to," she grinned.

This morning, she started to undress with her back to him, but she forced herself to turn around. She still felt a little self-conscious, but she reasoned that her embarrassment was nothing compared to his, so the least she could do is face it. Grissom had started to turn away, but she had asked him not to. Watching her undress brought about the same sense of wonder to Grissom as watching a flower bloom or a butterfly unfurl its wings for the first time.

Grissom's wonder turned to worry when she continued undressing, taking off her bra and underwear as well, then got into bed without putting on anything else.

"Grissom, don't worry," she cooed. "I don't want anything other than to be able to feel you against me, all the way from my head to my feet. Is that OK?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, having to clear his throat first.

"Would you mind undressing, too? So I can feel your skin against mine, everywhere?" she asked gently.

Grissom looked into her eyes, for a moment succumbing to the temptation to wonder whether she was going to do something that would embarrass him further.

Sensing his unease, Sara spoke, "I promise I'm not going to do anything but enjoy the feel of you next to me, Grissom. You can trust me."

He smiled in capitulation and removed his t-shirt and shorts. Rolling back over towards her, he pulled her back into his chest and molded himself to her all the way to her feet. She moaned her appreciation and settled her head on his arm. She tried to stay awake for awhile so that she could take in the incredible closeness that she felt with him. Feeling him this way was almost like afterglow. She allowed herself to drift into the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, feeling loved and secure.

This was not the first time Grissom had ever laid next to a woman undressed. But it was the first time he could remember that he actually felt someone along every millimeter that touched him. The physical sensation melded with an emotional one to become an experience that was truly sensual in the purest meaning of the word. He could see her, feel her, smell her skin, hear her breathing more deeply. The only sense he was missing was taste, and he could no longer tolerate its absence. Trying not to wake her, he lifted his head and moved around to her shoulder, first kissing it. Emboldened by her not seeming to wake, he ran his tongue along the ridge that the scapula pushed up under her skin.

He was intoxicated by the taste of her, and ran his tongue lightly up her spine to her neck. She shuddered slightly and Grissom stopped. She pushed herself even closer into him and slightly rolled her head so that more of her neck was exposed, inviting him to continue his feast.

No longer worried that he would wake her, he began to explore the area available to him, alternately kissing, nipping and licking her skin softly, as though with a feather. In his thoughts and over most of his body, he was aware that he was incredibly aroused, though he couldn't evidence it. While there was a fleeting moment of frustration, he soon found that it was actually very liberating, allowing him to concentrate solely on experiencing her and pleasing her.

He pulled her over and began to rain kisses on her face, finally settling on her lips. She gently held a hand to his hair as he began to move his lips and eyes over the remainder of her body, literally head to foot. Never had a man spent so much time exploring her, getting to know every centimeter of her. She was swept away by the sheer romance of the moment. At first it was much more sensual than sexual, but the balance began to shift when he had moved back up her legs with his ministrations.

As he approached her center, she involuntarily pressed herself against him, but pulled herself back. She was determined that he would decide what would and what would not happen today. She didn't want him to feel pressured, even though what she wanted from him right now did not require any equipment that wasn't already functioning quite well.

He looked up towards her face and his gaze bore into her eyes. He could see the desire, no matter how much she tried to hide it. He was unbelievably gratified that he could make her feel this way, especially under the circumstances. Maybe this was even better, because she would know he was making love to her, not merely having sex with her.

He concentrated solely on her, paying attention to every minute detail, every breath, every twitch, cataloguing the information to use sometime when he might be more distracted. He would repeatedly bring her to the edge, then retreat slightly, allowing her anticipation to build until she literally begged him to keep going. When she seemed like she could take no more, he became more forceful and shoved his fingers back into her, drawing a scream of release. He held himself there until she stopped pressing into him.

Wordlessly, he crawled back behind her and pulled her to himself, again forming himself along her lines. Now they could sleep.

* * * * *

"You should be adjusted to your medication by now, Mr. Grissom. It's been a month. How do you feel?" Dr. Russell asked.

"I feel much better, thank you. I'm back working full time now. Sara is still hanging in there with me. Everything's looking pretty good."

"Excellent! Now, don't feel like you're losing ground if you still get a little down, now and then. It's normal. I think you should stay on your current dosage until I see you in a month. Then we'll re-evaluate. If everything is still going well, we'll start gradually reducing your dosage."

"Dr. Russell, I'm still having the libido problem. When will it get better? Sara's been very supportive, but it's frustrating the hell out of me!"

"I'd like for you to be patient, at least until you come back next month. If it's not any better by then, I can prescribe medication that will boost your libido. I'd prefer not to do that, unless we have to. As you know, all drugs have potential side effects. It's better to let nature take her course, whenever possible."

"Another month! That's easy for you to say! I'm all for letting nature take her course, as you say, but she seems to have gotten lost along the way!" Grissom complained.

"OK, I'll compromise. Two weeks. Sound fair?"

"Two weeks," Grissom mulled over. "OK. I can stand almost anything for just two weeks ... I think," he added uncertainly.

"Relax, Mr. Grissom. You've made amazing progress, and this will get better, too."

"I hope you're right, Dr. Russell. I hope you're right," Grissom said as he took his leave of the therapist.

* * * * *

Grissom and Sara had just finished their dinner and were lounging on the couch, listening to music and reading. The CD changer popped in a random CD and as it began to play, Grissom lowered his book. "What is this?" he asked. "I remember it from somewhere, but I can't place it."

Laying her journal across her chest, Sara listened to the melody. It was one of her CDs, she knew. But she was trying to think of where Grissom might have heard it. Remembrance dawned on her and she reminded him. "This was the CD playing the second day I got here, when I tried to get you to dance with me," she said.

"I'll take your word for it. My recollection of the first several days is kind of fuzzy," he shrugged.

"You haven't danced with me since then, Grissom. Come on, dance with me," she pleaded, tugging at his hand.

"Maybe I'm not a very good dancer," he argued.

"You seemed like a perfectly good dancer to me. Come on, Grissom. Dance with me."

With a smile and a sigh, he relented, allowing her to pull him up. He slid his arm around her and held her hand to the side, joining in with her movements. Feeling more like déjà vu than a memory, he pulled her hand to his chest and slipped his other hand under the edge of her shirt so that he could feel the soft skin of her back.

She laid her head on his chest, lulled by the sound of his breath and his heartbeat, which seemed to be in harmony with the jazz, a slow, sensual song.

When the song ended, Grissom lifted her chin and kissed her, seemingly with all the passion he had denied himself for years. Sara had been the beneficiary of thousands of kisses in the last month, of every variety on every square inch of her body, but none could compare one-to-one with this kiss for sheer emotional intensity.

As they began to pull their lips apart, Sara looked up at him in something akin to confused surprise. "Uh, Grissom," she said, looking down at the cause of her surprise.

"Yeah, I know," he acknowledged with a smile. "But I don't know how long it will last."

"Well, we better not waste any time then," she said excitedly. "The couch is closer than the bedroom."

"This might be a good time to discuss birth control," Grissom gasped out between forays of kisses to Sara's lips and neck.

"Handled," she huffed out between moans, as she stripped away Grissom's shirt and began on his pants.

Neither pretended this was about making love, as they had been doing for the past month. It wasn't even really about pleasure. Or even sex. It was about Grissom reaching yet another a milestone in his recovery, one that signaled the beginning of the end of the 'situation'.

"Don't even think about holding on, waiting for me," Sara said huskily. "Let me enjoy pleasing you today," she smiled, relieving Grissom of the worry that he might either outpace her or lose the arousal altogether before she climaxed.

"I love you so much," he breathed into her ear as he experienced her for the first time. The shock of the sensation numbed his mind, precluding anything but guttural communication until they lay entangled and spent.

"How do you feel?" Sara asked piercingly. She stroked his arm and ran her fingers lightly over the now-hardened scars, allowing herself to let go of some of the guilt that they represented to her.

"I feel like it was all worth it. If the depression and 'these' hadn't happened," he said, holding out his scored arms, "you wouldn't have come back to me and I wouldn't have gotten any professional help for my problems. I would gladly go through it all again, just to be here with you."

Raising her hand to his cheek, she said wistfully, "You never needed to anything but ask."

- The End -