A/N: This is the sequel to Mens Rea, a story I wrote a little over two years ago in response to a challenge from CSI Forever Online. This sequel has been a while coming and I hope that despite the subject matter you'll give it a try and enjoy it. You don't have to have read the original story to follow this one, but it would help set the scene (Or maybe just read the first and last two chapters so you can soak up Sara's overall mood and where we're at).

I haven't written angst in a very long time, and I'm rusty and a little apprehensive. So as always, reviews, ideas and suggestions are greatly welcomed and appreciated, and a great source of comfort, inspiration and encouragement.

A Guilty Mind.

"A guilty mind can be eased by nothing but repentance; by which what was ill done is revoked and morally voided and undone."

-Benjamin Whichcote, Moral and Religious Aphorisms (1703).

"Grissom, visitor for you."

Breathing hard, Grissom nodded at the correctional officer that had interrupted his training. The words the officer had spoken were so unexpected that for a moment he struggled to catch his breath. Glancing at Manuel, his boxing buddy and cell mate watching the scene with interest, he silently pulled off the battered gloves and swapped them for the already sweat-and-dust-smeared towel Manuel was holding out to him. Playing for time, he wiped his dripping face with it, then the back of his neck, while his mind raced with the possibilities.

His first thought was of Sara, and that somehow she'd found out his most shameful secret. It had to be her, waiting at this very moment with the rest of the women – mothers and daughters, sisters, wives and girlfriends – coming to see their loved ones. The thought of her presence so near filled him with panic. She didn't belong in a place like this, full of the criminals she dedicated her life to putting behind bars. He wouldn't be able to stand a visit from her; seeing the disappointment and reproach on her face, the hurt and heartache in her eyes, the anger in her heart, more than he could bear.

And then he thought, no. It couldn't be Sara. How could she know? Jim would never have told her; he'd promised. And if Sara had found out his whereabouts, God forbids, then the police captain would have got a message to him to let him know. He knew his old friend had gone to great lengths to keep the accident and the consequent incarceration secret and out of the Vegas media. Brass had promised to save him the shame and humiliation to be seen in such a place, and he had no reason to doubt the captain wouldn't have kept his word.

A visit from his attorney, however last minute, would have been pre-arranged and he would have been told in advance. He'd have known, and not been allowed in the yard for exercising, been taken straight to the prison's visiting area ready for the 8.30am start. This visit had been arranged at the last minute, and against his will, a fact that filled him with dread.

It had to be Brass himself, turning up unannounced. Something must have happened to Sara – or to his mother, he thought belatedly – and the police captain had come all this way to tell him in person. They hadn't seen each other since the trial; as per Grissom's anxious pleas Brass hadn't once visited in fifteen months. Whatever had happened back home must be serious and desperate – or too heart-breaking for him to be told over the phone or by email.

The guilt, the constant and unyielding guilt that tugged at his heart and ate at his core, manifested itself again and once more he felt disgusted with himself for what he'd done, but also for what he was deliberately putting his loved ones through. Disappearing without a trace as he had done was cowardly, unforgivable, but he'd felt so down in the aftermath of the accident, so ashamed of himself that cutting all ties with everyone – even Sara – had simply been the only option.

How could he have told her that he had killed a woman when he could barely come to terms with it himself? How could he have faced her pain, her disappointment and shame when he could barely cope with his own? Watching her sit in that court room while he was being convicted and sent down would have been more than he could have withstood, and he didn't think he could have recovered.

He felt faint suddenly, standing there in the recreation yard. His vision blurred, and everything began spinning around him, a consequence of the hot sun beating down on him or of his unexpected state of panic, he didn't know. He closed his eyes to quell the dizziness, only to feel himself go weak at the knees.

"Yo, Grissom, you all right?" Manuel exclaimed with concern, propping him up by the elbow as he wavered forward. "Didn't I say you were overdoing it?"

Grissom quickly recovered, tried to conceal his lapse and growing disarray as best he could. He jerked his arm free. "I'm fine. I―you're right. I must have pushed myself too hard."

"Come on, Grissom," the officer said. "They're waiting for you."

Grissom didn't move. "I don't have visitors," he argued. "I didn't agree to having anyone come. Are you sure―"

"Do I look like your secretary?" the officer retorted gruffly. "Come on. Get a move on. You got five minutes to clean yourself up."

"You sure you're alright?" Manuel asked, the gentle hand he placed on Grissom's shoulder a sure contrast to their surroundings. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Grissom gave Manuel a weak smile, then swallowed the constriction in his throat. "I feel like I'm about to see one." Turning away, he reached down for the canteen from the dusty ground, and slowly uncapping it took a long gulp of tepid water.

"You know you don't have to do it, right? Agree to the visit. They can't make you." Manuel brightened up. "Hell, I go instead of you. Is that alright, Riley?" he went on, addressing the officer. "I wouldn't mind a change of scenery."

"Shut up, Ortega," the guard said. "So, Grissom, you coming or what? I haven't got all day."

His mind made up, Grissom nodded his head resolutely. "I'm coming." And to Manuel, "You keep the gloves warm for me."

Manuel was staring at him with surprise. "You sure?"

Grissom gave another nod. "It's time I was a man and faced up to reality, rather than a coward keeping sheltered behind these four walls."

Manuel clasped Grissom on the shoulder. "Only you, man," he laughed, "could see this hellhole as a shelter."

Grissom handed Manuel the canteen and dirty towel they'd been sharing and, while his companion put on the gloves, ready to resume his training, he followed the officer indoors and back to his cell. Without wasting time, he pulled off his dirty prison-issued khaki shirt over his head and headed to the shared sink. He looked at his trembling hands, and taking a deep, calming breath made them into fists to stop the tremor. The feelings of foreboding and trepidation wouldn't leave him.

Hurriedly, he turned the water on, took the bar of soap and thoroughly washed his hands, carefully cleaning around his wedding band, then his face, neck and chest. Using the towel nearby, he dried himself and reached inside his locker for a clean shirt. Pausing suddenly, his eyes landed on the cardboard box under the small pile of clothes and the stacks of letters folded inside he'd written his loved ones over the months, words of love, apology and regret he never mailed.

His gaze drifted to the small photograph of Sara he'd tacked to the inside of the locker door. The picture was creased and faded from handling and exposure, but it was the only one he'd had with him when he'd been sent to jail and he cherished it. His hand lifted to it, and gently, reverently, he traced his fingertips over her features. Losing his freedom was nothing compared to losing her love, but the memories of that love were what kept him going. He missed her so very much and hated himself for treating her so badly, but it was part of his penance and he accepted it.

"Grissom?" the officer called impatiently, startling him out of his thoughts. "We got to go now. Or your visitor will have come all this way for nothing. They can't delay proceedings any longer."

Grissom gave a nod, padlocked his locker and as he walked out of the cell slipped his clean shirt over his head. He was ready. Come what may, he had no choice but to face up to his worst fears.

At the last security gate before they left the unit, Grissom stopped, stepped aside and staring straight ahead held out his hands. The officer reached for the plastic handcuffs, fixed them around his wrists, then pressed the intercom, calling for the door to be opened. As it did every time, his heart sank at the humiliation of being restrained, a daily reminder of the fact that he was a criminal and no better than all the other inmates locked up with him.

"I wish the rest of the inmates were as compliant as you are, Grissom," the officer remarked quietly, as they stepped through the security door. "This place would run much better then."

Grissom gave a quiet scoff. "Officer Riley," he said, as they stopped at the next security door, "will you please tell Officer Perkins that I probably won't make it back in time to help at the library?"

Officer Riley looked up at a video camera in a corner of the ceiling, and the door buzzed and opened. "Sure."

Grissom gave a nod of thanks, then moved through to the next security point.

"You know they made an exception for you, right?"

Grissom glanced over his shoulder. "This visit?"

Officer Riley nodded.

Grissom sighed. He didn't have anyone on his list of approved visitors so someone had to have pulled a lot of strings to get granted a visit without his agreeing to it in the first place. "I wish they hadn't."

The officer laughed. "Come on, before they have a riot on their hands at the delay. And I'm not talking about the prisoners."

As he preceded the officer down more corridors toward the visiting area, Grissom's levels of anxiety continued to rise and keeping his hands clasped together on account of the cuffs he touched his fingers to his wedding band. It was this ring, and the love and devotion that it symbolised, that carried him and kept him sane and from despair through the tough times, the long and lonely months until he served his time.

Finally the cuffs were removed and he was allowed in the holding room, adjacent to the visiting room, where a dozen or so men were already restlessly waiting. He didn't make eye contact with anyone. His name and inmate register number were checked against the list, and after one final count and a quick recap of the strict visiting rules more electronic locks turned, releasing yet another security door.

He prepared himself for the worst.

As he followed the line of men in, he scanned the room for Brass's face but instead his eyes locked on Sara's hunched body sitting at a table at the back. His breath caught at the sight, and he could only stare dumbstruck and tense, the unexpected surge of love through his body so intense and so sudden as to root him to the spot.

He felt tears rise, tears he did his utmost to curb and hold on to. He didn't want her to see him in this place, bruised and broken, a shadow of his former self. Feeling a hand on his shoulder brusquely push him forward, he turned toward the guard who nodded for him to go through. He opened his mouth to argue that he wasn't feeling well, that he'd changed his mind and to take him back to his cell, but he couldn't get the words past the thick lump in his throat.

Instead, he blew out a slow breath, straightened up his shoulders and made himself face up to his responsibilities, responsibilities he'd shirked for far too long. His eyes once again locked to hers tracking his every move, as trying his hardest to conceal his limp he set off toward her. He couldn't help noticing how tired and gaunt she looked, how troubled and conflicted too, as though still uncertain whether she'd made a mistake in coming.

And yet, as his wife, she had every right to be there. He could imagine that if she'd come all this way to see him, it was because she was angry and wanted answers. He realised too that if she was there now, it was because she'd found out the truth. He thought back to Brass's last call some three weeks previously, informing him that Sara wasn't doing so well, and then to the last contact he'd had with her the same evening, a moment of weakness precipitated by Brass's message when he'd put an anonymous call through to their house.

Was that how she'd tracked him down? She'd sounded so sad and angry when she'd picked up the call, distraught even as she asked the silent phone if he was on the line. How could she have known it was him when he'd been too distraught to speak? The sadness and anguish in her voice had haunted him for days afterwards. Had Brass given her the letter he'd written to her just after the trial, the one he'd left with the captain lest she found out and where he explained his motivations for severing all ties? Could this explain why she was here now?

The expression on her face softened suddenly, and he glimpsed at relief and compassion in her eyes, but also sadness and pain and pity. What did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the old, tired and broken man that he was? Did she glimpse at his shame, self-loathing and despair? The tears that formed, shimmering in her eyes, spoke more words that grand gestures ever could, and it took all his resolve to keep walking toward her and not turn back.

Her hand, which she'd raised to her mouth to cover her shock, lowered from her face, making way to a small, trembling smile that broke his heart all over again. There was love in her eyes now, love he didn't deserve. Never once dropping his gaze, she stood up as if making to go to him, but the nearest guard stepped forward and shook his head, stopping her in her tracks, and she sat back down uncertainly. This environment was foreign to her. She wasn't here to meet a prisoner she'd had a hand in convicting, but her husband put behind bars for a crime he could have prevented.

Tears he couldn't keep in any longer welled in his eyes as he reached the table. She'd come for answers, and he would do his utmost to give them to her. Even if their love was lost, he owed her that much. He hesitated briefly before pulling out the chair and sitting down across from her. What would he give to hold her in his arms, but it was against the rules and probably against what she wanted too. With his eyes, he tried to convey what he couldn't with words, how sorry he was for what he'd done, for what he'd put her through, how much he loved her still and hoped she could find it in her to forgive him.

Sara lifted her hand onto the edge of the table and, her gaze unwaveringly holding his watery one, slowly, hesitantly, slid it forward toward him. His eyes lowered to it uncertainly, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, his heart almost stopping on noticing she was still wearing her wedding band. He looked back up to her face, surprised, amazed, while his hand moved too, of its own accord coming to meet hers.

"For better, for worse," she said, in a fraught whisper, looking back up too as finally their fingers touched.