From Afar...

Rating: PG

Spoilers: None

Archive: Please ask via review. I will try to contact you.

Disclaimer: Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS Television and Alliance Atlantis are the owners of CSI: New York, not me.

He always came home. And I was always there waiting for him.

Now things are different. He doesn't come home anymore. And I'm not there, waiting for him. The apartment we shared is dusty, near abandoned. Not because we gave up and decided to go our separate ways. Or because I said it was impossible. Or because he decided that I deserved someone better. Or because someone said we couldn't make it and we believed it.

No. None of that.

It was something much more difficult than that. We weren't given a choice. We were torn apart, unwillingly, unprepared. In a single moment, both of our hearts were shattered into fragile shards, a million pieces of glass that cut the soul each time we touch it. But I hope he'll find the strength to piece his heart back together again. I know that I don't, nor do I need to. I have already found my own way of healing.

Don't get me wrong, I love him, I love him with all my heart and soul, but it's not possible anymore, for the two of us to be together. And sometimes, sometimes, love is just that, learning to let go.

When we first met, we caught love in a gentle net and held it close. It spun its delicate and beautiful web around us, protecting us from the world. Even through the nightmarish days and nights, that love supported us, held us, and brought us through, together. Now that it's over for a while — and I hope for a long while — I want him to spin the love that we caught all those long years ago into a spool of thread, with me holding one end, and him holding the other until we can weave a tapestry of love again.

I can't count the number of times I've regretted going to work early that day, how I took holding him every day for granted. It's amazing how I overlooked the little things that made me love him as we settled down into our lives, the sacrifices he made for me, for us.

It isn't hard to recall the memories now. Funny how things fade once they become familiar and taken for granted, and how they suddenly snap back to crystal-clear clarity after they're lost. I still remember the first time we met; the place where we shared our first kiss and, later on, where he proclaimed his love for me. I remember those rare days when both of us got a day off, and I could drag him away from a case, and we'd walked in Central Park holding hands like newlyweds, spend a night on Broadway watching a spectacular performance that pushed the shadows away, attend a dog show and I'd hear his playfulness as we bet on winners and losers, or even go to beach during the summer to relax by the Atlantic in a seaside cabin. Every night, we would hold each other as we drifted off to sleep. I miss those days.

I know that he gave or threw away most of my belongings, but I know he kept the beach ball, the one that I blew up and hit him with so he'd play a game of beach volleyball with me. He won, of course. I just laughed.

Ever since that day, he rarely leaves his office, rarely sleeps. Sometimes, I don't know if he's lost the will to live. He's told me that it was the thought of me that brought him back from war torn lands, gave him the strength to stand the onslaught of violence that he saw and still sees. I've watched him struggle to move on without me and I wish that I could comfort him. How often I wish it, but always in vain. If he could rest, if his demons will cease to haunt him, then perhaps, I could. But he does not rest, and I worry. I know that one second of inattention, of carelessness, of weariness, is all it takes in his line of work.

I know the nightmares that haunt him in his sleep, the ones that keep him from rest. How many nights had he, the strong Marine, woken up in a sweat, his breath coming short, still hearing the echoing screams of his comrades of bygone days in faraway lands? And I was there, always there, to calm him and coax him back to slumber. How many nights had he, the tough detective, fruitlessly chased sleep as victims called for justice in the darkness, moaning quietly and thrashing, fighting against unseen demons? And I was there, always there, to reassure him that he was doing his best and justice would eventually be served, if not here on this mortal plain, then elsewhere. How many nights had I cradled him, keeping his ghosts at bay? How I wish I could lie next to him again in our bed, take him in my arms and soothe his cares away. How I wish I could hold him and tell him it's all right to cry for me, all right to miss me, all right to mourn his loss.

I shadow him every night on his walks, warning malicious spirits to leave him alone. He's mine to protect and to guard, even as he protected and guarded me and the city he serves. I've seen the patterns he walks through the city, even if he doesn't realize it himself. He always makes his way to The Place, and I don't know whether I want to cry with grief that I can't be with him or scream in frustration that he can't let me go. Do you know that he only cried three times since that day? Once when he heard the news, once more when he came home the night he realized that I wasn't there and would never be again, and finally, the day he saw me one last time before the door between us closed. He needs to cry. He needs to let go of his control.

I understand that he loves me so much. I know that. I've always known that and always will. But I also see what it's doing to him, that the grief is overwhelming him, and I can't stand it. I love him so much, but if he has to forget me in order to live again, I want him to do it, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Love sometimes means sacrifice, saying goodbye because it's better in the long run. He needs to say goodbye to me, because we can no longer be. He needs to move on, to finish what he has to do. I want him to know that I will wait for him. For him, I am willing to wait centuries.

Every day, when he walks the streets of New York, the badge of the Finest on his belt and his gun nestled against his side under his suit jacket, I keep watch over him. This is my way of keeping more than a broken vow. I am his second pair of eyes, watching the shadows anxiously for any threat or criminal that might harm him or his team. They are, after all, his family. They are the only people he is close to now. And I feel that they may be the only ones who can save him.

I watch him encourage his young protégés, Danny Messer and Aiden Burns, teaching and advising, scolding them if necessary. Those two hit off quite well with each other, reminds me of when I first met Stella Bonasera as she teased my husband at work. Both make him smile, if only slightly, with their wisecracks and antics. I know his guidance will make them fine CSIs, perhaps the best New York has to offer. They will only be a part of his legacy. The other part will be the unseen, unknown inheritance of justice served by his hard work. But I wish he didn't throw himself into his job to drown the grief. I console myself that at least it isn't the drink or drugs, but it comforts me only slightly.

I watch his best friend, Stella, encourage him, trying to coax him out of his shell, force him to leave his office after seven o'clock at night, every night. Call me a hypocrite if you wish, but I'm cheering her on every time. He needs a friend to drag him out of the woodwork, to bring him back into life, to show him what he's fighting for, like I did. He needs someone who isn't afraid of standing up to him and who won't be afraid to tell him, for me, that it's time to cry, say goodbye, and learn to live again. If she teaches him how to love again, who am I to stand in their way? I want to see him happy again, to see him smile, to hear him laugh freely. Let me be honest, I've always thought that if he hadn't already married me when he met Stella, and she hadn't made it clear that she was more interested in a career in the New York Police Department than a family, the two of them might be more than just friends. But knowing him, and his integrity and honesty, I know he would have never cheated on me, and knowing Stella's strong spirit and fierce pride through our years of acquaintance, she wouldn't have tolerated it either. I know that I will always be first in his heart, but I'm not there anymore, and frankly, Stella knows just as well as I do how to draw a smile out of the man we both love. If she makes him happy, so be it. She has my blessing.

I hope one day, he will let me go. He will know that I will always love him and that I know that he loves me, even if he gives his heart to someone else. He will move on with his life. One day, the memories of our good days will return to him. One day, the horrors of that fateful day will subside in his mind. How will I know when that day comes?

I will know when I come home and I see the lights on. I will know when he finally cries and says his last goodbye to me. I will know when I see him smile without shadows. I will know when I hear him laugh with joy. I will know when I find him sleeping peacefully at night. I will know when the visits to The Place come to an end.

He will come home. And when he does, I will be right here, waiting for him. Until then, I will watch over him and love him with all of my heart.

After all, I am his wife.