Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Spoilers: Through season 8 and general spoilers for For Warrick.

So after watching the awesome season 9 promo I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Special thanks to cybrokat and jenbachand for their awesomeness.

Six

6:06pm.

Grissom stared at the digital number with a glaring distain he usually reserved for difficult suspects. He made a mental note to buy a different model clock, perhaps one with a second hand that would not prove positive Einstein's theory of relativity with each glance.

It had been six hours since he sat down with a pen and a yellow legal pad in his cluttered home office. As of yet he'd written no words. Six hours spent sitting, staring at a clock that he now despised.

If he thought about it, the number six had recently become a recurring presence in his life. It had been sixteen hours since their case had staled out. Twenty six leads that had brought them no closer to finding his friend's killer. Six warrant requests denied. Six failed attempts to reach Sara before he finally left her a voicemail. Six months since she left him to find herself in California. Six members on the team before things fell apart.

Just one quick glance.

6:06pm.

Fuck.

Six days since he kneeled on the pavement and watched Warrick die.

Grissom gave up on the clock and rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing a migraine. He'd trade that pain for the current ache in his heart. At this point anything would be more bearable.

He thought about Sara a lot over the past few days. It was a compulsion, he supposed. Replaying the events that almost resulted in her death. Then came the guilt. A bad habit from his Catholic upbringing. Warrick was dead. His friend -- good friend -- was dead, but his thoughts flew back to Natalie's catatonic lullaby.

We caught Natalie. But not Warrick's killer. We failed him.

The front door opened and closed.

Didn't she just leave?

6:48pm.

When he looked up she was standing in the doorway, his dry cleaning in hand.

"Hank wet in the kitchen." She wasn't mad.

"Carpet or tile?"

Why.

"Tile. I got it already."

Are.

"Thank you. I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was ignoring him."

We.

"I put some food down. You switched brands."

So.

"Ah, yeah. The vet recommended it."

Awkward.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose again.

"Migraine?"

I wish.

"No."

"Okay. I'll uh, put your suit in the closet."

By the time he nodded she was gone.

6:52pm.

They'd both been treading on eggshells since she got back. He assumed it was mostly due to the strain of losing a close friend, but there was still the lingering question of their own fragile relationship. This was not the way in which either had pictured their reconciliation, and as a result they couldn't seem to manage more than a politely distant conversation. Except for an emotional hug when she first arrived, they'd avoided each others personal space. He was sure at some point the delicate barriers they'd each constructed would fall. And then thing's are going to get complicated. He pushed that thought away for the time being. The future could wait, as it seemed he was too well trapped in the present.

6:52pm.

Sigh.

6:53pm.

Maybe it isn't so relative after all.

"I ordered some Chinese." Sara was back in the doorway, waiting, as if asking permission to enter.

"I haven't accomplished much." He slid the legal pad forward a few inches.

She stepped in. "I can help." She chewed her lip. "It was good of you to volunteer Gris. It feels right." A sad laugh. "That was stupid. None of this feels right."

"I know." The weight in his chest increased. "Did you get everything taken care of?"

"Yeah. The flowers will be there in the morning in time for the service." She paused. "I called Neil this afternoon.."

Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"I've got two weeks before I need to get back."

He scratched the edge of his beard and broke eye contact.

Sara shuffled past him and plopped onto the floor behind his desk, leaning against an old file cabinet. He imagined the rounded drawer handles were burrowing into her back. That can't be comfortable.

"That can't be comfortable."

She shrugged, but shifted to the right slightly and extended her long legs out in front of her.

"We have a lot to talk about once all this is over."

He nodded acknowledging her statement then let his chair swivel slowly so he could watch her without craning his neck. Eventually he stood and joined her on the floor as gracefully as his sore knees would allow. He leaned against the uncomfortable cabinet, his arm brushing against Sara's every time one of them moved or sucked in a particularly deep breath. The cabinet handles dug into his back and the thin carpet did little to stop his backside from going numb, but he didn't dare move away after she inched closer to lean against his shoulder. Their new proximity caused a few of her hairs to brush against the side of his neck.

He spoke without thinking. "Why did you cut your hair?"

She stiffened at his sudden bluntness then took a moment to consider the question. "I needed to do something drastic."

He stopped himself from mentioning that her unexpected escape from Las Vegas was plenty drastic. Barely. "Sara," he started. He waited, hoping the right words would come to him. None did.

"I know," she said. "We'll be okay."

He could tell she meant it.

Not long after, the door bell rang and Sara left to get the food.

7:16pm. They must not be busy tonight.

They ate on the office floor as Hank circled ready to snatch any unattended spring rolls. Occasionally one of them would slide the legal pad over and write a line down, only to scratch it out shortly after. The process was frustrating. This shouldn't be so difficult. He pushed some food around his plate and jumped when he heard a loud hacking cough coming from Sara's direction. He turned to find her doubled over. For a brief moment Grissom was extremely concerned, that is, until he caught the smile on her face as she attempted to regain her composure.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he gave her a few light pats on the back.

She was making the oddest noise, something between a barking cough and a breathless guffaw.

Eventually she was able to speak. "S-sorry. Chew-ing and laughing d-don't go well together." Her face was bright red from the coughing fit or the embarrassment, or both. She cleared her throat and took a sip of water. "I'm fine now." Another giggle escaped her throat.

"You're sure." He couldn't help grinning. It's been far too long since I heard her laugh.

She took another sip from her water bottle and grinned. "I was thinking about something Warrick said to me once. Do you remember a case Catherine and I took a few years ago? Guy in a truck tire, wearing face pant."

Grissom nodded. "Wasn't that the clown case?"

"Doodles." Sara's grin widened. "We were in the break room talking through our timeline when Warrick came in." She looked dangerously close to another outburst of giggles. "He heard me mention an interview with a mine, so he said… that his… his…" Sara's ability to form words quickly deteriorated as her laughter reached it's apex. She managed to get out a few garbled words before the need for air outweighed her ability to vocalize intelligent thought.

"Sara, honey, breath."

"B-But, Gil it… was so-" she leaned back against the file cabinet, tears streaming down her face.

"Funny. Yeah it sounds like it." For the first time in days his tone was light. He couldn't help but grin at her.

"I-I'm sorry," she said moments later, after another outbreak of giggles, when she was finally able to speak. "It's just a nice way to remember Warrick. But that probably doesn't help."

He took her hand. "It does."

Sara looked down at the pad on the floor. She stared at the yellow page for a long time.

7:52pm

"Pamela Adler."

Her voice was so soft that Grissom wasn't sure she meant to say the name out loud.

"Honey?"

"I was just thinking about something you told me a long time ago." They locked eyes. "We meet people on the worst days of their lives." She paused. "You said that to me when I was taking a case too personally. That if I didn't find a diversion to keep me from empathizing, I'd burn out."

"I-"

"Not on that case, but eventually," she added quickly. "You were right. I never did learn to detach. Warrick was family. To us -- you, me, Cath, Greg, Nick -- everything we've ever learned to say to a grieving family member is meaningless. That's why this is so hard." She ducked her head out of his gaze. "I'm sorry, I'm not making sense."

Grissom didn't have a response.

It was hours later, after Sara had fallen asleep on the thin office carpet -- I should move her to the bedroom -- when he picked up the pen and began to write. When he finished he looked at the clock.

6:06am.

Somewhere Warrick's laughing at me.

The sun was bright and the temperature comfortable. In actuality it was a beautiful day, a fact that Grissom resented. It seemed too pleasant considering the occasion at which they had gathered. Though, he realized, Warrick would have preferred it this way. We've had enough gloom.

The minister finished his remarks and gave a silent nod to Grissom, who rose slowly.

"As crime scene investigators, we meet people on the worst day of their lives. The phrase we're trained to offer them, I'm sorry for your loss, doesn't offer much..."

Fin.