My Love
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
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Chapter 1: Mourning Sara
Too late. Too late. Sara was barely alive when they found her, and for a moment he actually thought they could save her. For a moment he actually thought HE could save her. But as soon as they got into the hospital, it was obvious that she was dead already. Resucitation was an exercise in futility. The doctor went down the hallway and told everybody the news. The whole team –even Brass- broke down in tears, but Grissom just stood there, frozen and stiff. He could only whisper to the doctor "I want to see her".
But the body was already going to the coroner's.
Dr. Robbins was about to perform autopsy on Sara Sidle's body, but he knew he couldn't do it before Grissom got the chance to say goodbye to his long time pupil, friend and lover; so he let Grissom in and left the room. Grissom stayed about half an hour caressing her lifeless face, looking at her like the rest of the world didn't exist and murmuring "honey, honey…", still in denial of her damaged state: for him, she was just a sleeping beauty who would open her eyes when she heard his call. Then he realized she wouldn't, so he kissed her forehead, then each one of her cheeks, then her nose and finally, her lips, in one long not goodbye, but see you soon.
There was no burial. There was a cremation, as she wanted. Her ashes were given to Grissom, at his demand – he claimed to be her husband and nobody opposed the argument. When everything was done, the team went to comfort him, which was another exercise in futility. Warrick invited him to his house - were everybody would be, but he rejected the invitation. Catherine wanted to ride him home, but he didn't accept either. He made them know he needed to go home solo, on his own, or otherwise he'd just… lose it, completely.
And having said that, he took his car and drove home.
He opened the door and he met his cold, aseptic townhouse with his huge TV screen and his genius – level crossword puzzles. Except, he could smell the sweet "Sidle Scent" invading all of it, her fingerprints were all over the place just like her clothes and her stuff, and her side of the bed was full of warmth, full of her scent, full of her presence. He put her ashes on her night table, took her favourite t-shirt, sat on his bed facing her side, and as he took his X-acto knife with his trembling hand and pressed her T-shirt against him with the other, Grissom did what he had refused to do all this time: he started crying tears of sadness, tears of guilt, tears of hate for everything not Sara… crying himself bitterly to sleep.
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Stay tuned, twists to come. When I go angst, I go all the way…