The sea was calm that night. Stars filled the sky in a way you could never see in Vegas, and he challenged himself to name a few constellations as he sat there in silence. After a long day at sea, Sara had quickly fallen asleep, but he was lost in his thoughts. For the longest time, he'd put aside the dream of spending his life with her, and instead focused on being alone. Missing her. Now they were together, and had spent almost six months at sea. And every second felt like home.

The phone in his pocket interrupted his thoughts, and he frowned when he saw Catherine's name in bright letters on the screen. "Catherine?" He said as he pressed the phone to his ear.

Ten minutes later, he hung up and felt himself stare out at the open sea in front of him. The air in his lungs felt too thick and his body shivered when he tried to exhale it. "Gil?" He heard Sara's voice behind him but he had lost all strength to turn towards her. He felt her hand on his shoulder, but couldn't look up at her. She knelt in front of him, her eyes filled with concern.

"It's Heather," he then said. "She's dead."

Sara instantly wrapped her arms around him and held him for what felt like hours. The boat rocked them gently, and all he wanted was answers. "Lets go to Vegas," he heard Sara say against his neck and he admired her for knowing him so well. There was no reason for him to go back to Vegas, there was nothing he could do for her now. But he didn't care. He had to be there.

The trip back felt like it took weeks, but in reality it only took a day. During that time, he'd gone over everything he'd ever known about his friend. He'd tried to recall his last conversations with her on the phone, but somehow his thoughts drifted to her face. He saw her so clearly, calm and beautiful, he remembered every moment they had shared together.

He felt old and worn out when he opened the door to the morgue the next day. David greeted him, and then showed him to where he would find his friend. She was covered by a light blue sheet and he hesitated to lift it. Hoping this was only a dream or a lie. But it wasn't. Pulling away the sheet, he saw his beautiful friend. Her skin was pale, almost white and her lips were blue. Her hair framed her face and he reached out to touch it. It was just as soft as it had always been, but when his fingers brushed against her cheek, he shivered. Even though he was used to touching dead skin, feeling how cold she was affected him badly.

David reached in under the sheet and pulled out her right hand, showing him the delicate but deep cut she had made across her wrist. No hesitation marks, he saw that she'd been sure. She had wanted her life to end. "Oh, Heather," he said, shaking his head. Why had she done this?

He left his friend and decided to go to her house, knowing that Catherine would be there to collect evidence. As he drove there, he realized that it was for the very last time. Parking his car outside, gazing up at her impressive house, he remembered the time he had stood on that porch, shaking in the rain. Turning to her when nothing else helped ease his heartache. He realized that he had often been selfish, and that she never had been. And maybe that was the dominatrix in her, the stronger one. She had never asked for his help, and he had often asked for hers.

Catherine was labeling some evidence she had collected when he stepped inside Heather's home. She instantly hugged him the way only Catherine did, throwing her arms around him and pressing her cheek against his. "I'm so sorry, honey," she said and looked him in the eyes, "Are you okay?"

But he wasn't sure. Physically, he was fine. He wasn't dead and cold on a stainless steel table down at the morgue. But mentally, he was confused. Hurt. Heartbroken. "I'm not sure what to make of this," he decided to say, "It's so unlike Heather to give up."

But Cath shook her head. "I don't think she gave up," she said, handing him the evidence bag she had been labeling. "With everything she lost. Her daughter, her granddaughter, her practice. You. I think she was just done."

Turning to read the label she had filled out, his heart sank when he read what she had written there. Suicide note. "I wanted you to read it before I close the seal," Cath said and then turned to collect her kit. "I'll be outside when you need me."

Watching her leave, he took a breath before taking out the note. The paper felt heavy in his hand, a strange kind of heavy, as if the words on it weighed a lot. It was folded once and on the front, Heather had written one word. Grissom. He wasn't ready, he wasn't ready, he wasn't ready.

He unfolded the paper.

A pity beyond all telling

is hidden in the heart of love.

He couldn't help but smile softly. Even in death Heather was profound, and he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. And then it hit him. Yeats. After all this time, he still remembered that morning, that breakfast, how fascinated he had been with her the night before. And how she had quoted Yeats then too.

He took a breath and then looked around him. Soon this house would be someone else's, soon the pool house would be an actual pool house and not a place where dominas ordered their slaves around. He smiled to himself as he walked out of the front door for the very last time, meeting Catherine's eyes as she stood leaning against his car.

"Did it make any sense?" She asked, referring to the note.

And he nodded. "Yes," he said, looking at it again. And then he looked back at Catherine, and said, "but I hope she knew that I loved her."

"She did," Cath said. Simple as that.

His friend was gone, but it had been her own choice. Before he left, Grissom made sure that she was buried in a nice corner of the cemetery, under a willow tree that would cast a shadow over her stone where elegant letters spelled her name in gold.

"Oh, Heather," he said quietly. "I'll miss you."

For the rest of his life.