A/N: Hmmm, season 10, I finally could catch up (Don't ask where I live or how bad the internet connection at my place). This fic is probably my reaction to the whole long-distance-marriage situation. Read, enjoy, and fire those constructive critics;)

- Distance -

Part 1

"Whoa, BFT."

"Big Freakin'…. Toilet?" Greg made a lucky guess from his spot by the door.

"Big freakin' tent," came Sara's correction as she bent over to take a first look at the body.

"It's not uncommon for dead bodies to sport erections due to muscle contraction." David spoke professionally, checking the body for rigor. "TOD is somewhere around six and eight p.m."

"Whoa! That's a huuuuuuuuuge boner." Greg, who finally arrived at the side of the body, bellowed. "I'll take it you want to process the body." He winked at his ex-mentor.

"I've seen better." Sara winked back; glancing at the body reclined on the chair before starting her walkthrough.

Her words left both David and Greg gasping for air like stranded fish.

/-/-/-/-/

"Dare I say that this man is a handsomer copy of your husband?" Greg spoke from where he was crouching over a book.

Sara, of all people, had already remarked the similarities between this crime scene with Grissom's library. Not just the rows of journals and books, but also the various displays of insects on the walls and the jars of specimen on the selves.

"King Lear. Bet he read it before he died." He took a picture of the book on the floor by the chair. "It probably slipped out of his hands."

She didn't need Greg's comment to be reminded of Grissom. The way the glasses had slipped down the victim's nose, the way he wore his shirt and pants. All were petrifying likenesses that almost scared her.

Almost.

All of her experience on the field had taught her how never to be surprised. Not even by the most bizarre scene.

Yet, she couldn't help the shiver down her spine as she spotted a battered copy of Moby dick in the room. The book was closed, laid beside a wine glass atop the coffee table.

She bagged the glass after sending her husband a text message.

Hi, I miss you.

/-/-/-/-/

"Suicide?"

"Huh?" Sara averted her gaze form her cell phone on the layout table. Grissom hadn't replied to her text message. Yet.

"I think it was a pleasurable suicide." Greg waved the bagged glass where he had found no fingerprint but one that belonged to Mr. Taubman, the victim.

"Really?"

"Well, he spiked his own drink with this experimental herb and drug, hoping to launch his rocket up high and ended up blowing nothing but his own heart."

Sara picked up the tox result, reading the row of additives that were in 's system, "Well, let me review the evidence once again, if nothing comes up we might have our first open and shut case this week."

"The man practically had a dozen Viagra tablets in his body, that's consistent with all the toys we found in his closet." Greg made air quotes as the word toys escaped his mouth, "I'd say that this man died of his own fixation."

Then just as Sara expected he grinned at her. "It made me think that your husband has the same interesting collection in his closet as well."

"Ah Greg," Sara rose up, pocketing her phone. "Wouldn't you love to know?"

/-/-/-/-/

Grissom's cell phone was inactive.

Sara considered calling the university as she leaned against the wall, gripping her cell phone in hand. She had tried to call him twice.

They both had seen this coming. Long distance relationship meant problems in communication.

No matter how strong their marriage was, no matter how modern the communication gadgets they had, distance would always be the gray cloud above their relationship.

She knew the risks. And Grissom could forecast the trouble ahead more than she could. That was why he had been so reluctant to let her come back to Vegas. And sometimes, at irritating times like this, she regretted her decision.

Part of her wanted nothing but to stay with him 24/7; to curl up with him in bed in the morning, to share a cup of coffee and a slice of Tarte Tatin, to hear him cite the latest forensic journal before they went to sleep. To do what a husband and wife were supposed to do together.

Another part of her, the more selfish and stubborn part, wanted a life of her own, a proof that Sara Sidle was still Sara Sidle, no matter how in love she was with her man.

Now, after seeing the crime scenes photos for the umpteenth times, she felt her chest tighten until she found it almost impossible to breathe. The image of the entomology text book on Mr. Taubman's nightstand, the mounted blue morpho on the wall, the image of himself, laying cold on the morgue table; all were running in her mind and had her heart screaming her husband's name.

If only she could reach him. If only she could make sure he was okay.

TBC

Thank you for reading and special thank you for the kind one who helped me checking through this grammar mess.

Review?