A/N: We had to do it at some point--our story of Heather Kessler and Sara Sidle; and Gil Grissom, of course. He's the reason! Maybe this happens in season 10 and we never see it on screen.

We don't own CSI or any characters mentioned or played on said series. Too bad!!

An Acquaintance of Two Chapter 1

HKHKHK

Heather Kessler thought she knew the underbelly of Vegas until she began counseling; her former work had prepared her to show no shock or surprise, but even that experience had limited her exposure to what people actually did to others—all in the name of "family life". She was happy she had no conventional family if her patients indicated ordinary or average, which is what most would say.

She walked around the empty room, moving a chair back in place, trying to rid the air of the screaming, the sulking, the sadness of the couple who had left the space. The newspaper was folded, carelessly left on the table. She picked it up to throw it away.

Another crime scene photograph from the never-ending cycle of violence occurring daily in Las Vegas caught her attention at the top of the fold. She surprised herself by reading the lines underneath the headline; usually she did not want to add another layer of disrupted life to what she heard in this office. A gang related murder victim lay in the doorway of one of the mass-produced housing projects that had sprouted as weeds in a sidewalk.

She looked at the picture again, holding it a little further from her eyes, thinking she recognized one of the people standing in the small yard. It couldn't be, she thought— who it appeared to be. Quickly, she searched for a name, finding police officers names and the name of the victim, but nothing else. She put the newspaper on her desk.

She finished her notes, made several phone calls, and checked on Alison before another patient arrived in the office. The young woman had been abused, sexually molested by a family friend as a child. She would never have a fulfilled or satisfying life, not even a life without extreme loneliness and shattered dreams of a victim who placed trust before knowing what trust meant. Heather had been talking with the woman for months and believed the only positive outcome was the postponement of more self-inflicted harm.

Another hour passed before she turned again to the newspaper. The dark hair, the slim build, the posture seemed to fit her memory. She had seen Sara Sidle once, no twice—once in person, once on a computer screen. She remembered what she had heard one rainy night about the woman Gil Grissom loved.

SSGSSGSSG

Her feet were propped on an open drawer; from the noise in the hallway, she knew the ball game that started across desks had migrated to include more than the two sharing this office. She closed her eyes—slow night.

…Sara never expected to return to Las Vegas except to pack up the contents of the condo she and Grissom shared. At one time, she considered telling him to do it and put her things in storage. When she was depressed and burned out, when she wanted never to see another sunrise or sunset in the city she had called home, where she had loved a man with all her heart.

Not until she left with intentions never to return did her life change. On a ship bound for a destination below the equator she realized that she was living again; she was able to smile and forget the hurt, the dark days of her life, the ghosts that filled her waking thoughts. Of course, she did not forget him—if she lived to be one hundred years and a day, she could never forget the only man she would ever love. He had moved on, taking part of her soul, her heart, and all of her love with him; withered, he called it.

And it was easy for Sara to believe. No one had ever loved her for long. As a child, she learned to observe her surroundings, always guarded, ready to hide, or dodge a hand or some object, because there was no love. So, as she heard his words, said about Pam Adler, she knew he meant "them", not Pam. That day, she closed off her heart, sealing what she felt for Grissom into that same chamber she kept for those ghosts she tried so desperately to forget. But she did not forget—most days she thought of him every hour, and some nights, she lay awake on the small research ship, and remembered his voice, his touch, his eyes, his smell—everything about him returned as if he were lying beside her on the narrow cot.

A month into the voyage, she managed to send a short video, saying she was happy, telling him he was right, this was the best way, saying words to a camera that repeated what he had said to her in his office. She was happy; that was no lie. She loved learning and working with the researchers; and she had found her meticulous note taking was appreciated, even envied, as she freed hands to work on projects.

As she had no plans, it was easy to find a land based research group who took volunteers into Costa Rica. Again, she found her forensic skills useful with plotting grids, collecting specimens, photographing monkeys, taking notes, and dozens of other assignments. She had found work that did not involve death, dying, bloody footprints, or deadly bullets, and she was happier than she had been in months. She thought less about Grissom, less about the ghosts, good and bad ones, in her past—most of the time. Yet, she was lonely; at night, in her tent, her heart ached for one person and she cried herself to sleep in the noisy rainforest.

A/N: Let us know something! Thanks!!