A/N: This story is an accompanying piece – a sequel of sorts – to Married Love and A Love Worth Fighting For, both trying to explain THE breakup. You don't need to have read either story to follow this one but it will help with understanding some references/quotes I will make and my thinking as I write this, especially as regards Grissom's behaviour.

I tried; I really tried to stick to oneshots as I am a little wary of embarking on another multi-chaptered story but, well, this idea has slowly been taking shape in my head and I know it won't leave me alone until I tell the full story. This addiction is a compulsion; I just can't help it, much to the chagrin of everyone around me. I hope you'll be interested in reading. We must be reaching saturation point for post-FMN stories soon.

As always, reviews, ideas and suggestions are greatly welcomed, cherished and appreciated, and a great source of comfort and encouragement.

Thank you.

Coming Home.

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

-William Shakespeare, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Lulled by the unvarying drone of the plane's engines, Sara felt herself drift off only to be sharply pulled out of her slumber when her shoulder got jostled by a passing passenger. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared sleepily at the blank television screen on the back of the seat in front of her for a moment. Before long her eyelids grew heavy again, closing all by themselves, and she let sleep once again wrap its snug blanket around her.

Shifting down on her seat with her hands loosely clasped on her lap, she stretched her legs as far out as they could go in the crammed space and gave out a deep sigh. Thoughts of her and Grissom in happier times soon filled her dreams, but it wasn't long until that changed and she was taken back to the moment her world had come crashing down around her.

"Is this a good time?" he'd said, his voice cold and so distant on the phone that tears had immediately filled her eyes.

There had been a moment's hesitation when Sara had contemplated saying that, No, this wasn't a good time, that there never would be a good time for what he had to say. She had looked around DB's office uncertainly, blinking away her pain as she tried to steel herself for what she knew was coming, what she knew had been a while coming, before finally replying in the affirmative. She'd been dodging his calls long enough. Like peeling off a Band-Aid, she thought, the quicker you do it the less painful it is.

He took a breath and after what felt like an age to Sara said in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper, "Sara, honey, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come for your birthday."

That's right, she thought bitterly, go back to form, take the coward's way out and let me down gently. She'd been hoping they could rekindle things between them during his visit for her birthday, but he obviously thought differently. Hot tears pricked her eyes but she wouldn't shed them.

"Something's come up," he went on softly, "which I can't get out of."

"Something's come up?" she repeated, her voice rising in disbelief at how pathetic his excuse was.

"I'm sorry," he said again and cleared his throat. "I know the timing's bad, but it can't be helped."

The rising anger made her tears spill, and she brushed at them briskly. "It can't be helped?" she almost shouted, then glanced fearfully toward the closed door, checking her tone.

"It's to do with the course. I―"

"Gil, you promised me. You said you'd be there for my birthday." She hated the edge of despair in her voice, the pleading whine, but couldn't help it. "You already cancelled Christmas at the last minute knowing full well I wouldn't be able to get a flight out to you."

"That's not true," he defended weakly, and his voice had never felt as distant as it did then, his denial never as feeble. "That was different. I explained Sara. I came down with that bug and―"

"It's my birthday, Gil," she insisted. She could hear the fresh tears in her voice before she felt them slide down her face. "You promised me."

The silence at the other end, the lack of a response spoke volume. She felt very tired all of a sudden, drained of strength and with no fight left in her. Why should she fight to keep them together if he couldn't be bothered?

She took a couple of deep breaths, schooling her features and her voice back to neutral. Like a Band-Aid, she thought again, quick and painless. "You know what?" she said in a small, bitter laugh, "I've had enough. This is just too much. I'm tired of your excuses, of this long-distance crap. You over there, six thousand miles away, and me over here. That's not a life. That's not a marriage."

"Sara―"

"I can't do this anymore." Her tears were flowing freely now, and she paused to catch her breath. "You promised me, Gil," she cried, her voice pleading, beseeching, because in her mind this birthday reunion would have made all the difference. "We made all the reservations."

"Sara, please. You're angry and frustrated. I am too."

Not enough, she thought, or you would do something about it. But she was on a roll now, her anger blinding, putting words in her mouth she didn't really mean. Her voice was cold, devoid of emotion as she said, "I'm going to make this easy for you, Gil. Either you come home for my birthday, as we planned, or we're done. Over, simple as that."

There was a pause, a lengthy silence that stretched like the distance between them, and she'd wondered whether he'd hung up on her. And while she still hoped and prayed for a happy ending for them she knew they were done for. She was lowering the phone from her ear, ready to disconnect the call, when she heard him come back on the line.

"You're right," he said resignedly, and so quietly that for a moment she wondered whether she'd heard him right, "I can't do this anymore either. It's for the best."

She'd closed her eyes and walked round Russell's desk, sinking into his chair, the crushing wave of despair that coursed through her making her feel weak and numb. "Best for whom?" she'd queried in a breathless whisper, "You, or me?"

She never expected him to reply, but he did. "For both of us. You're not happy, and neither am I. I'm sorry I wasn't a better man for you, Sara. Or a better husband. I'm very sorry." The words had caught and he'd sucked in a breath before the line had gone silent.

And she had sat there with the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of her life. It had taken four months, four long months and a chat to Heather Kessler to finally understand.

Sara woke with a start, her heart thumping in her chest and Grissom's sad and resigned voice telling her he was sorry echoing in her head. Blinking uncertainly, she looked all around her, and it took her a second to find her bearings and remember why she was on an aeroplane. Her mouth was dry, her ears blocked, muffling the quiet chatting around her and the sound of the plane's engines. She tried swallowing to release the pressure, and when that didn't work tried yawning wide until she heard the satisfying pop.

She rubbed a sleepy hand over her face, pushing strands of hair back from her eyes before checking the corners of her mouth for drool. Then straightening up in her seat she rolled the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. Her legs ached from being folded in the same position for too long and she needed to pee.

She looked over to her neighbour, a man of about seventy, who was reading an article in Le Nouvel Observateur – a French current affairs magazine Grissom sometimes bought – and offered him a small, apologetic smile if she'd used his shoulder as pillow. The old man glanced at her, then dismissed her concern with a casual wave of his hand and a wide smile. She saw kindness and amusement in his gaze. The woman on the next seat on from him glanced over at them uninterestedly before returning her attention to her well-thumbed paperback novel.

The seatbelt sign was on. The flight attendant was collecting trash and in-flight magazines two rows down and generally making sure that seats were in the upright position, armrests lowered and blinds opened. Air France flight FR 310 from JFK was beginning its descent toward Paris. Automatically, she reached for her seatbelt, pulling at the strap to tighten it. Her chest felt tight as though her lungs weren't getting enough air and she wasn't sure if the feeling was due to altitude and cabin pressure, or her lingering anxiety.

She reached down into her purse at her feet for her bottle of water and thirstily drank from it. As she replaced the bottle, her hand brushed against the padded envelope containing the copy of The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared she had bought for Grissom and never mailed. She hoped the hand-delivered gift could be an olive branch of sort, a peace offering, a small, very small and silly, token of her love for him. She pulled her hand out of the bag, her head shaking at her idiocy. What if this trip was a mistake?

Heather's words had kept playing in her head long after their chat had ended. Yes, what she and Grissom had was worth fighting for and saving. Her marriage and her love for him meant everything to her, and it had taken too long for her to realise that truth and do what she should have done in the first place. Packed up her bags and gone after him, demand an explanation and not just accept that their life as a couple was over.

And soon afterwards it dawned on her: Grissom hadn't actually called to break up with her, he had called to say he couldn't come home for her birthday. Disappointment and anger had made her give him an ultimatum, eventually putting words into his mouth. Her, or his work, she'd said, and thinking back now he had never really given her an answer. He'd merely jumped on her bandwagon. But why? Why had he been so quick to give up on them?

She had taken two weeks leave - all the vacation time she had left - which wasn't much. She wasn't sure what she hoped to achieve in that time. She had no plan as such, except to turn up on his doorstep, give him the book and go from there. She would know from his reaction if a future was still in the cards for them, wouldn't she?

Grissom loves you, Sara, Heather had said. God, how she wanted these words to still be true. I simply don't believe that he would just fall out of love with you.

Tears rose, prickling the back of her eyes. She looked down to her hands on her lap and the bare ring finger. It still felt strange, even after three months of not wearing her wedding band, not to have it on. It didn't feel like it was her hand she was staring at. She had brought the ring with her, of course, and wondered now whether she should put it back on. Maybe if he knew she still loved him, that she hadn't moved on...she sighed, not daring to finish her train of thoughts lest she jinxed any chance they had at a reconciliation.

"C'est votre première fois à Paris?" the man next to her said.

Wondering whether the question was addressed to her or the woman on his other side, Sara turned a casual expression toward him. He'd removed his glasses, revealing two very clear and piercing blue eyes. His whole face was creased in a smile as he stared back at her expectantly, and Sara found herself returning the smile brightly.

"No," she said, automatically replying in English before repeating her answer in French. This wasn't her first time in Paris. She took a moment to form the rest of her answer in her head before relaying it, hoping the man would understand her pigeon French. "Mon mari travaille là. Je vais lui rendre visite." I'm visiting my husband who works there.

"Ah," the man said, a look of understanding flashing across his eyes as he nodded his head enthusiastically. "C'est une surprise?"

A surprise? "Oui," Sara replied, her expression saddening despite herself.

"Je suis sûr qu'il sera très content de vous revoir," the man said in a solemn tone, picking up on her sadness.

I hope so, Sara thought, I hope he will be happy to see me.

The plane landed twenty minutes early, the pilot was happy to announce, to temperatures of 25 degrees Celsius and bright June sunshine. Sara picked up her purse from the floor and stood up as soon as the seatbelt sign came off, happy to stretch and in a hurry to disembark. She was standing in the aisle, reaching up into the overhead compartment for her carryon when the old man touched her on the hip.

"You forgot this," he said in heavily accented English and smiled, his stare penetrating as he held up the white padded envelope with Grissom's name on it.

Sara's heart skipped a beat at her oversight. "Merci," she said, taking the envelope gratefully. She unzipped the side pocket of her carryon and quickly slipped the book inside it.

The old man bid her a "Bon séjour", a nice stay, as pulling her carryon she began to file out toward the front of the plane, and looking over her shoulder she tossed him a shy smile and "Merci" followed by a quick, "Goodbye."

Fifty minutes later, she had recovered the rest of her luggage and cleared customs. She could take the bus or the RER into central Paris and then the métro and walk the rest of the way, but with her heavy bags opted not to. She looked at the time on her watch and added nine hours, making a mental note to set the watch to French time later. It was exactly 2.35 pm on a Thursday. Parisian traffic should be relatively fluid at this time of day.

Pushing the cumbersome cart, she followed the signs to the taxi ranks out of the busy Charles de Gaulle airport and quickly snagged an awaiting car. Tiredly, she watched as the driver picked up her bags and stowed them away in the trunk, before climbing in the back of the Peugeot.

"Where to?" the driver asked in heavily accented English as he got behind the wheel.

Sara almost gave him the address to Grissom's apartment out of habit, but didn't. She didn't have a key and besides she doubted he would be there at this time of the day. Instead she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and read out the address of the cheap hotel she'd made reservation for before she left. She'd have time to check in and freshen up first.

Glancing at her through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver nodded his head and pulled out into the traffic. As she sank back in the seat, idly watching scenery flash by and then familiar landmarks as they neared their destination, she couldn't shake her growing sense of foreboding about what the future held in store for her.

And more importantly, what it held in store for them.