Introspection was a difficult thing to deal with. As simply as it slipped into the mind, it was a bitch to get rid of. One could be stuck on a single topic for years without coming to a real conclusion. One could succumb to the comfort of introspection without even knowing it, second guessing and over analyzing at every turn.

Introspection was often the addiction of scientists and mathematicians, people who couldn't allow the little things to slip by.

Gil Grissom was clearly well acquainted with this tool of the mind. Had it been a person, Grissom would have invited it out for a scotch in a quiet little bar and ruminated with it for hours while they both steeped in cigar smoke and sadness.

Often times, Grissom lost time because he over analyzed things. He would sit down at his desk and ponder the pros and cons of certain ballpoint pens; which wrote smoother, which had the least smudge. Coming to, long minutes later he'd wonder where the time had slipped to, only to find that it had ticked off and he was no closer to finding the superior writing implement.

Frequently, he lost sleep due to his fascination with every facet of a problem, with thinking a problem to absolute death. A personal query about an insect could have him tossing and turning all morning; he'd have himself frustrated and wrapped in the sweaty sheets as the alarm sounded, letting him know that work was imminent, that he was no closer to an answer.

He'd get snagged on her smile; she had so very many of them, different ones for different occasions. Sometimes he'd think about them in the solace of his office, wondering about that one particular grin, the one she had sent his way for no particular reason. What did it mean? Hours could be lent to deciphering her many smiles, the low noises she would make in the back of her throat as she reviewed evidence.

He wondered why he felt so comfortable being a passive observer, watching her from the wings. The shadows hid him as his eyes traveled over her body, delved into the facets of her eyes. A type of gentle voyeur, finding appreciation and reprieve from her simple curves, from the slight lilt of her voice.

He enjoyed watching and then going home to think about all he had seen. The simple pulse point on her throat kept him enraptured under the covers for hours as he formed complex equations based on how many times her heart beat per minute. Sixty-six beats per minute; Grissom wondered how big Sara's heart really was, if there was truly room for his many idiosyncrasies and mood swings in that tiny organ.

His mind liked to form random scenarios. Moments in time where she would challenge him and he would accept, finally allowing himself to feel the cool breeze from the edge as he tossed himself over. In those little skits in his head, he was witty and willing and her mouth tasted like pomegranate and peppermint.

There were so many things wrong with him, he was sure of it. He was wholly sure that his temperamental side would get on her nerves; he was positive that his emotional issues were too much for her to handle. Or was he? That was unfair of him to automatically assume things about her. If he was completely honest with himself he knew that Sara would help him work through his problems. That was what stuck with him-the fact that she was so willing to accept him just as he was without intervention.

Fidelity wasn't something he wouldn't have to worry about as he had in the past. Being normal wasn't something that mattered because neither of them were and he was damned sure that neither of them really wanted to be. It was no longer a question of logistics and timing, but a question of 'why not?'

It struck Gil Grissom then, in a moment of ambient clarity that while Sara Sidle might be willing to wait an eternity for him, he wasn't willing to believe he could actually manage to make her wait that long.