A/N: I couldn't help but write a post-ep piece for For Warrick, it was so emotional. All mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything below.
Final Words
His eyes were haunted.
That glazed look that coated those bright blue eyes, the dimness that made her heart ache. The combination of hopelessness and regret that looked all too familiar.
It reminded her of her mother's eyes on the night of her father's death.
"I can sleep on the couch," she said, turning away from him and focusing her gaze onto her beige carry-on, her mind trying to absorb the fact Warrick was dead, that she was in Vegas, that his eyes were haunted.
She expected him to nod, or disagree quietly with her. Instead, he intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her into the dark bedroom. He pulled her into the bed, his hand still wrapped around hers tightly.
Pulled her under the covers – him still in his blue, standard issue Forensics jacket, her in the clothes she had on since that morning – and only let go when her head touched the pillow, their bodies side by side.
She was too tired to change, too tired to even think. When his deep, comforting breathing started next to her, she wrapped her cold fingers around his, her grip so tight her knuckles were bone white, and drifted off to sleep.
If she was still awake, she could have felt him squeeze back, just as tightly.
--
"As crime scene investigators, we meet people on the worst days of their lives. They've just lost a family member, somebody they loved, often in a horrible way. A piece of their heart is gone, and will never be replaced.
The phrase we're trained to offer to them, 'I'm sorry for your loss', as we know now, doesn't offer much."
He couldn't meet Catherine's eye.
"Gil, you have to go home."
"No Catherine, I'm not going to do anything else until Sara is within my eye sight."
She sighed, and gently reached out to touch his hand.
"At least take a break, or a nap. Please."
He looked up from the miniature, his face pale but determined.
"I have coffee."
Catherine was in the midst of forming a sentence when her phone beeped abruptly. With that came several precious seconds for him to analyse the miniature without her immense scrutiny, and he took full advantage of it.
"Brass wants me and Greg at the car park."
He doesn't even look up and nods. He heard footsteps leaving his office, but it stopped suddenly.
"Set your priorities straight. First things first, Gil."
And with that, she's gone.
He continued to work, and only after one hundred and twenty seconds later does he hear Catherine's voice in his head.
First things first.
His hands shook so badly he had to put the miniature down. He wanted to pick up the miniature and treat everything Catherine had said as white noise, but he can't. He knew, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, that Sara may already be dead.
Ignoring the rising nausea, he pulls out a piece of paper and he writes and writes and writes.
After an hour, he stops and forces himself to read his own unusually messy scrawl, his hand shaking.
"As crime scene investigators, we meet people on the worst days of their lives. They've just lost a family member, somebody they loved, often in a horrible way. A piece of their heart is gone, and will never be replaced. The phrase we're trained to offer to them, 'I'm sorry for your loss', as we know now, doesn't offer much."
He felt the tears start, but forced himself to continue.
"Sara Sidle was one of my oldest friends, my student, my inspiration. To put it simply, she was brilliant. She entered Harvard at 16. Graduated from Berkeley at 22. She was smart, determined and enthusiastic. She worked hard and succeeded at almost everything she did – she was a phenomenal CSI, a trusting friend, an ideal companion."
He couldn't continue because the nausea overtook him, the bitter bile that raised up to his throat so fast he barely had enough time to rush to the toilet, the tears blurring his vision.
The eulogy lay on his desk, the remaining two pages unread.
"Warrick Brown was a young boy when his parents passed away, much too young to learn that life can too tragic and short. But I think that it taught him how precious life is and so he lived his life to the fullest as if it was his last day. I was with Warrick, on his last day.
"All the qualities that defined him: his tenaciousness, his deep sense of loyalty, his courage to risk his life for what he knew was right, all those traits were with him on that last day. Just before he died, we were all having breakfast together, our team, his friends, his family. And Warrick was, he was - "
He stalled, choking back the tears as his eyes lingered on the coffin in front of him. He looked back down, four more paragraphs to go.
When they found her, he locked in his desk; the eulogy was kept under his mother's rosary. He didn't throw it out, and he was thankful because he knew that in his current state of mind, he couldn't have written Warrick a proper eulogy if not for the one he wrote for Sara less than a year ago.
All but one line was crossed out, because sometimes, one line is enough.
"I loved Sara Sidle. I loved her so, so much."
His skipped all the words, and summarized his favourite CSI's life and his eulogy in one line, his voice wavering.
"I'm going to miss him so much."
--
The day was warm, but not sunny. A breeze rustled the leaves off a nearby tree, sending brittle brown leaves tumbling over the smooth headstones of the graveyard.
It was just the six of them: Brass, Nick, Greg, Catherine, Sara and himself. Tina had to take care to Eli and the other arrangements, so his only other 'family' watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Brass was the first one to pick up a handful of dirt and tossed it on top of the coffin, Greg following suit. Nick stared down at the shiny coffin, as if wishing he could reach in and pull Warrick out just as Grissom had with him four years ago. He doesn't jump in, and throws a handful of dirt down.
Catherine went next, whispering as the threw one, two, three handfuls of dirt down, her tears falling and mixing with the soil on top of his coffin. With one last look, she walked away towards Nick's outstretched hand without looking back.
The dirt felt cool in his hands, and he tried not to think of the insects breaking down the body that lay six feet below his feet as he picked up a handful of dirt and threw it down. Trying to find an adequate quote to offer Warrick for the last time, he realises that not even words could capture the feelings he had for Warrick, his rock, his favourite CSI.
Brushing against his arm lightly as she walked forward, Sara threw a handful down purposefully, her words the only one heard by them all as it was carried by the gentle breeze, along with the tumbling leaves and stray tears.
"Rest in peace, Warrick."
--
END.