DISCLAIMER: They are not mine, they belong to the almighty CBS. I do love them, though.

Caught.

Coming home was harder than anything else. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she were afraid of something spilling over. She allowed them to help her. Someone carried her bag, someone else opened doors. She just went through them. Her eyes felt heavy, but she was wide awake, feeling disparate, unable to fully connect with who and what was before her. Grissom stayed out of the way. He had come to the hospital the night before, and he had said that he would. The others wanted to fuss over her, and he wanted to let them, didn't want to brow beat them with the new dimension to their group that was still sinking in. She didn't mind, and as Nick drove them towards her apartment she felt glad of their attentions. It distracted her from thinking back or looking forward.

Catherine did the practical things. She changed the sheets, ran the bath, heated the soup on the stove while Sara soaked her aching limbs. She felt detached, still. The water felt so loose around her, not holding her, not tight as she would like, not safe. She could hear them talking in her kitchen, could hear Greg turn on her tv and unpack things into her fridge. Their proximity was some comfort, but nothing was enough, and as she towelled dry she felt vacant, unsettled and short of breath.

It had been a week, and she had felt safe in the hospital. Somehow the clinical uniformity of it, the reassuring sameness of it, had achieved that. It was so far from the real world, and no-one slept the lonely night through. She was always interrupted by a checking nurse or a busy doctor, or one of her colleagues who was there on a case. They always found time to stop by, and being nocturnal, didn't fret about waking her. They usually found her awake, anyway. They had been so good. Warrick had brought flowers. Greg had brought cookies. Catherine had brought clean clothes and had helped her brush her hair. Although, generally, they were not close in that way, within the confines of this event, Catherine had rallied, and had stepped into Sara's personal space without a second thought. Usually reticent at letting anyone in there, Sara had surprised herself by not minding, and actually feeling relieved, because what Catherine did not do, Grissom might feel obliged to do, and she felt humilation at the thought of him having to lift or dress her as though she were helpless. She wasn't, of course, an invalid, and had grown stronger in that week, but her cracked ribs were slow healers. She couldn't tie her shoes, or carry a bag.

She had felt at ease in her metal framed bed in the hospital ward. She had felt cocooned within the larger zoo of the hospital, busy and always at work. Here, in her own bathroom, things felt decidedly wrong. The floor was colder than it ought to be, uninviting. The walls were darker than she remembered, and the creeper outside the window looked oppressive and eery rather than rambling and beautiful as it used to. For a moment she stood, naked but for the towel, and even that did not smell right. Her home smelt wrong, like someone else's, like a hotel, like she didn't live there. She stood and looked around her, the walls threatening to close in. Uncertain that she could move, she breathed deeply and told herself off. Reminded herself that she was strong and closed and had friends and Grissom and that gradually this feeling would go. There was a knock on the door as she exhaled, and her eyes snapped open.

"Sara? You okay?" It was Catherine. Sara gathered herself, remembered that she was not alone and that she ought to placate their fears if not her own, and steeled herself.

"I'm fine," She said.

Seven hours later, Sara lay on her couch, tucked warmly and tightly into a clean comforter, full of something Catherine had coaxed her into eating, and dozing. She couldn't say she had slept, but she had certainly been resting, and as darkness began to set in, she was happy to let her fatigue overcome her, if only for short bursts. The others had stayed until early evening, before going their separate ways to get ready for the night's shift. She remembered with some regret Catherine's parting words.

"For what it's worth, Sara, you could have trusted me." Sara had looked away, guilt setting in. A strange sensation, too, one of being exposed. She had closed her eyes with her life an unknown, and awoken to it being front page news. All of her friends suddenly knew everything, and knew that she had not been honest. She hoped they knew why.

"It wasn't just my decision, Catherine." Catherine looked at her, half kindly, half angrily, and Sara knew that she didn't like being out of the loop. "I meant both of you. I would have respected your choices." Sara had emplored her with her eyes, hoping Catherine could see that this was honest, genuine. "Then I hope you do now."

Happy now to be alone, although still unsettled in her own home, Sara knew that if she lay there until morning something would be different when it got light. She would feel better, or stronger, or her apartment would look friendlier and more like it used to. Or Grissom would be there, she thought, as she heard a key in the lock. Despite her jitters, she didn't flinch. She knew he had the night off. It could only be him. She had no one else in the world to whom she would give a key to her home. She was almost proud of that, and wondered if he knew that. Wondered if she was the only one with a key to his.

She wanted to see his face close to hers in this darkened room, but she was afraid of what she'd say to him. The last week had stripped her of the ability to be aloof. She was a victim now, vulnerable, and everyone knew about it. He would look at her differently. She didn't know how. She had no idea what he had said, or done, or thought, when the realisation had sunk in. Just how distraught he had been when she was certified missing. Had he played it cool? Had he not worried too much, assuming her capable of taking care of herself, safe in the knowledge that she had a weapon? Had he put it out of his mind and thrown himself into the science? Or had he gone out of his mind, publically and unashamedly, fighting for her? She doubted it. She didn't know, and he hadn't said. In the hospital he had spoken little, just held her hand softly, made small talk about the lab.

This not knowing was different to the usual guessing game she played with him, but it made her feel equally out of the loop. He showed his affection, gave her his time and his home and his body. They shared many things, and he never asked for space. But he said nothing, and she knew nothing, she could only guess at his heart, and she hated the inexactness of that science.

She had felt precarious for a little while before what happened (she still wasn't sure what to call it.) After the initial infatuation, the physical spell they were under remained but the fog began to clear and the time approached to start fathoming exactly what it was they were doing. She asked her roundabout questions and got her roundabout answers, and whereas at first they tantalised her lately they had worried her. What if that was all he wanted. What if he didn't want to cement things for her, lest she convince herself he was here to stay. If that wasn't enough, the hazy aftermath of Heather lay scattered around their feet, threatening to trip them up. And now this.

The door swung shut and she picked up the remote control to mute the television set. She heard him set down his keys and go into her bedroom, looking for her. Eventually he found her on the couch, and knelt down by her head.

"Are you okay?" He looked concerned. He didn't touch her at all. Fragile, his eyes said. Too fragile, don't touch.

"Yeah." She said, quietly.

"You should be in bed." He said, lightly scolding. She shrugged.

"I am." He gave her his mock disapproval face, and stood up, taking her hands and pulling her up out of the comfort of her nest.

"Come on." He held her hand lightly, and she could tell he didn't want to frustrate her by over-helping. Actually she'd have been quite happy for him to carry her, she was so exhausted. She felt impatient and demanding, and she wanted to know whether he longed to put his arms around her. She didn't want to assume, not today, not in this state.

He lead her to the bed and helped her get in. He covered her over and disappeared. Sara listened to the water run and imagined him in her cold, unfriendly bathroom. Already it seemed less ominous than it had that morning, and she wondered if it made him feel that way. Her eyes were closing, as sleep tugged at her last resolve. She stayed awake long enough to feel him climb into bed next to her. She waited, wanting, for him to pull her close. He rested one hand on her hip, the lightest touch. Afraid, she thought, of hurting me. Afraid that I'm hurt and that those cracks won't heal. There was a cold distance between them, and she fell asleep unhappy.

Her relief was temporary, and she awoke in the early hours, wide awake immediately. Feeling as though she had been in bed for months, she quickly got up. Putting a sweater over her pajamas she padded through to the dark kitchen and made some tea. She felt confrontational. Carrying the steaming mug, she went to the back door. The night air was comforting, revitalising, and made her think of normal times - times when she could work and this would be her midday, when she could pass Grissom's office and feel him watching her and how that would send her cheerfully about her business. She wanted to turn the clock back, because now, and here, things felt all askew.

She sat there for a long time, letting the beautiful night wash over her and disguise her. Her ribs ached less now, painkillers doing their job, giving her the relief that ought to afford her sleep. Instead she had wakefulness and questions, and no-one to fire at.

She knew that she ought to feel scared and traumatised by what had happened to her, but it was too soon. She had not processed it. She was stuck on things that had come before. She would get to it, she felt sure, one day, probably soon, it would hit her, and there would be no stopping it. For now, she was doing an excellent job of blocking it out and she would do so until she broke. What she wanted to figure out first was what would happen, who would come, when she did.

She didn't hear him get up. The first she knew of his waking was a gentle hand on her shoulder. She froze, reminiscent of another hand on her shoulder in another life, or ten days ago, or never, as her mind played tricks and she could no longer be sure.

He didn't speak, but sat down next to her, taking in the dark night. He was barefoot, and the remnants of his cologne washed over Sara as he got comfortable. Her stomach contracted as she realised just how terrified she was of ever losing him, of losing this, the quiet storm of togetherness that made up everything she'd ever wanted. She was burgeoning with words, resigned to speaking them and aware that they would send him sprawling back towards the cliff edge of his comfort zone. She ran a hand through her hair, and turned, looking straight into him. His eyes were dark, watery, but awake. He was listening. She spoke slowly, and after the second or third word turned away again, looking back out into the night.

"When you went away, I thought, I didn't know, if it had something to do with me. I mean I know that it was work, but it felt like more than that. And you didn't call. I didn't even know you were back until I saw you at work. It was like the whole thing hadn't happened." He did not move beside her. She could not sense his reaction. He sat quietly, and then cleared his throat.

"I sent you something."

She nodded. "I know, and that meant something, it did. But I had no idea, what was going on in your head. Until I read that letter." He didn't flinch. He didn't seem surprised. She went on. "But I wasn't supposed to see that."

"It was written to you." She ran her fingers over the cold concrete of the back yard below the step. It hurt to sit like this, but she liked it. It reminded her she was breathing.

"But you didn't send it."

"No."

"And I figured, it was left for me to find, and that you wanted me to see it. And then..Heather..and ..I realised that it wasn't." She had imagined feeling tearful or indignant when she had played this out in her head. But she was neither, she felt calm and clear, as though she were not controlling the words.

"Heather is a friend."

"So you say. But you can't talk to me about her. I have to hear from Catherine that you spent the night with her. Why couldn't you tell me that? Don't you know that I trust you?" She did. With everything she had. Except the biggest thing, the consuming fear that she felt much more than he did.

"I hope that you do."

"You know that I do. " He nodded. She could sense now his reticence, that he wanted to reassure her but just didn't know how. You're going to have to figure it out, she thought.

"Sara..." She waited for him to continue, willed him to find words. It took a long minute.

"Sara. I wrote the letter because I was away from you, and I missed you. Because I couldn't say to you in person the things I wanted to."

"So why didn't you send it, if that's true?"

He sighed deeply.

" I should have. I don't know. I wanted to come home, and say it out loud, but it didn't turn out like that. I didn't leave it out for you to find, but I don't mind that you did."

"That doesn't really help me."

" Is this because of what happened to you? Or is this something else?"

She sighed then, frustrated with him, loving his awkwardness but wanting him to try on something new, change the landscape, raise the stakes, anything.

"It's just something I need to hear," she said.

"What? What do you need to hear?" He was more urgent now, and placed a hand on her arm.

"The truth, Grissom. What's going on in your head. I have no idea how you feel about me." There, she had said it. It was said, and he was still breathing, still upright, no shock or stroke or immediate recoil. She was not crying, or running, and somehow the night air was still warm and gentle, coaxing them along.

"Sara.." He was speechless, aghast, as though he could not believe what she had said. She turned, defiant, to look at him. She had fixed him with that look only twice before. Once, when he had her pinned against a wall, at her invitation, and she was cracking a case. Again, the night he first kissed her, when she had all but dared him to do so.

" I love you. Very, very much." He paused, and shook his head, "You must know that."

She just looked at him, her eyes sparkling, the tears that she had so gallantly fought off earlier now forming through sheer emotion.

"Don't you?" He took her face in his hands.

She kissed him, and sighed with deep, racking relief. "I didn't." She said.

He pulled her to him, afraid no more of hurting her, knowing that she needed him, and knowing that in spite of her boldness there were still things she was afraid to say, to ask for. He gave, and wrapped his arms around her upper body until she was enclosed within him. It ached, but she was tearfully glad of the contact.

" I do, and I have for so long. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He was feverish with guilt, seeing now how small and unsure she was, knowing that he had done that, that work and sabbatical and Heather and his lack of lucidity in anything remotely emotional had done it. Hearing the concern in his voice, she looked up, pulled back so that she could see his face and soothed him.

" It's okay, its okay." He maintained his look of distress, so she stood and this time she lead him to bed. Once under the covers she rolled right into his chest and moved so that every inch of her was against an inch of him. They fit so beautifully, she thought, as she always did. He stroked her back lightly, and waited for sleep to take her. She was so tired, more so now than when she had not slept at all. She felt light, and, oddly, safe. His presence this time meant something else. It was not incidental, it was hers. He was there because he loved her, and she knew that, and that felt wholly and overwhelmingly right. The first thing all day.

As the waves of sleep overcame her, she was content to submit. Her eyelids dropped, and her head began to swim pleasantly. At the last coherent moment she remembered something. She raised her head once more. He was wide awake, looking down at her.

"I love you." She said, touching his face lightly. "But you know that." He kissed the top of her head.

"I didn't." He said, as she drifted into sleep.