A/N: I think angsty romance is my new favourite genre to write for :) Spoilers for Season Nine, this story is basically about why Grissom leaves CSI and Las Vegas. All mistakes are mine, and I do not own CSI. Please review with your favourite line of the story, as well as the parts you didn't like. I hope you don't find the format too confusing, enjoy!
Sleeping to Dream
Sleeping was never quite the same after she left. Those days of calm, dreamless sleep with her by his side was gone, replaced by the sight of a black ceiling. Four hours was the most he could get, even with the help of Ambien.
After the Warrick Incident, he gave up entirely on sleeping to rest. Nighttime was spent with him closing his eyes and dreaming, because there, he could see Warrick and Sara solving cases with him, with Nick, Catherine and Greg in the background. Brass even joined in sometimes, completing the 'family'.
Over there, Greg was never mad at him, Sara never cried and Warrick never had a gaping hole in his neck, spreading dark blood everywhere.
After Sara left for the second time, he started dreaming during the day, on the job, everywhere. But the thing with the dreams was that they left him even more tired when he woke up, the worst feeling was when he would wake immediately after talking to Warrick or kissing Sara – he could still hear his words or taste her skin.
What started out as an escape was turning into a dangerous cycle, one that threatened to consume him.
As he lay staring at the dark, dark ceiling, he finally made up his mind and picked up the phone from the side table – the one that had been there permanently two week ago. He dialed the numbers in the dark, feeling both relief and uncertainty overcome him.
"I'm going soon."
He looked up to see her dressed warmly, too warmly for Nevada weather, a suitcase in hand. "You're sure."
She nodded. "I have to go back. Bills to pay, graves to visit, trips – trips to the therapist that have to be completed…" She looked away, choosing to stare out the window.
The place was enveloped by an awkward silence, how could he forget? "I want to go with you."
She turned back to him, searching his eyes. "I know, but you're not ready yet. When you know for sure, just call me. I'll come back, and we can go back to San Francisco, or Boston, anywhere you like. I've heard there are over five hundred different insect species in Borneo."
It was his turn to look out the window, staring at the setting sun. "When I went to Massachusetts, I didn't think I was going to come back."
"I came back," she said quietly, sitting down on her suitcase.
"You came back for Warrick."
"No, I came back for you. Someone once said 'go with the living, the dead can wait'. Even if I had returned five years after your call, Warrick will still be here. You wouldn't."
He didn't say anything; because he knew what she said was true. Sara was the one person who knew him better than himself – one of the reasons on why he contemplated staying in Boston permanently two years ago.
She stood up and lifted the curtains, staring out at the street. "My cab's here."
He just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She walked past him, stopping only to kiss him softly on the lips. Everything felt eerily familiar – like the day she left him at the lab, sans the letter.
"Call me when you're ready."
Only then did she leave, walking out of his life again.
The day was downcast, as if reading his mood. Catherine was the only one who brought flowers – nine pure white lilies, because Warrick died on the ninth.
"So you're really leaving." Brass said, staring at the granite headstone.
It wasn't really a question; it was more like a statement that didn't require an answer.
Nevertheless, he answered. "Too much, too soon."
Catherine arranged the flowers carefully in the vase Lindsay made when she was six, slightly misshapen and glazed with a dull blue.
Greg was fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, his eyes cast down on the dirt.
"We're going to miss you." Nick said somberly, giving a teary-eyed Catherine a hand.
He turned to Nick's direction to speak, but caught sight of a figure walking towards their direction. She arrived, with everyone's eyes on her, and slipped her hand into his outstretched one.
Sara was dressed in plain clothes – black trousers and a grey blouse. A red rose in hand; the only bright pop of colour in the group and possibly the whole graveyard.
She bent down and placed the rose together with the lilies, somehow completing the flower arrangement. She rose, and laid her hand on his shoulder silently.
"We're all here."
Her calm voice broke the heavy silence, her eyes lingering on the section of the headstone, as if she was speaking to Warrick and not to everyone else.
He took her hand from his shoulder and squeezed it, telling her he was ready. Before they walked away, he couldn't help but voice what was on everyone's lips.
"For the last time."
- -
He knew splurging 2,000 on a business class seat was ridiculous, but he didn't care. No doubt it had burnt a hole in his pocket, but comfort and silence was all he was looking for.
Sara was staring out the tiny window, her fingers tapping against the fine upholstery of the divider absent-mindedly. He sighed, and she turned to face him, concern clouding her eyes.
"I'm tired," he said, looking into her eyes.
She turned back to the window, placing her palm over his arm in quiet understanding. He was certain she knew exactly how it felt; this flight back probably brought back memories of a year ago. The glittering neon lights of the strip were still visible – even at ten thousand feet, haunting them.
"It's because Las Vegas never sleeps," she answered simply, letting the neon reds and yellows mesmerize her for the last time.
He rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes; breathing in her raspberry shampoo and letting slumber wash over him. He felt himself drift off, not to dream this time, but to rest.
Finally.