Not altogether sure where this came from.. it's been wandering around in my mind for a few weeks. This assumes a time when GSR began which isn't necessarily when I think it was, merely a timeline for the purposes of this story, plus I like to ground the fiction in the fact of the series. Also, I'm ever so slightly into the 'how it all began' things. As if you hadn't noticed.

I'm as anxious as anyone about Dead Doll, but know that unless it plays out in some variation of this (ie, no character death) I won't feel good about the show anymore.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or CSI, I borrow in good faith and not for profit, but for the love of the show and the relationship that has inspired me to write in a way I have never before.

Not In So Many Words

Sara was not dead. He could feel it, and hoped against all hope that his instincts, usually his strongest tool, were not blighted by the torment that had been unleashed inside. He wished he had been better, stronger, wiser. He wished he had never put her there, in that limbo. How could he have? Where she could finally, after all the rings that he had made her jump through, love him, all she had ever sought to do. But only in the private, secluded world of his home or hers. Not in the public domain, not in anyone else's thoughts. Their love was not held dear at the hearts of any of their friends, nor doubted by less knowledgeable acquaintances or coveted by jealous exes. He had denied her the right to walk into a room with him and assert herself, know herself to be his, know that others know, and that they will wonder, later, alone, how she did it, how he does it. He had denied her the world, denied them knowing her for the lover and woman that she is. He had denied her the security of being his, of a commitment known by even one other person alive, and it had left her vulnerable, and it had lead them here.

He did not know where she was. He felt like he did, because he had the miniature, and he had looked and looked at that tiny hand reaching out from beneath the car, willing himself to be where she was, willing it to be real so he could hold it, stroke it, feel it warm and moving in his hand and tell her once and for all that she was safe. She was not safe, and that certainty cut him so deeply. It was the taste in his mouth, the sweat on his brow and the hazy, headachy feeling that kept him from closing his eyes. He was running on empty, coffee, water, coffee, water, a painkiller, more water. With every sip he knew how much she would be needing it, and ached with the unfairness of it all. After all, she had given him everything, he could see it now like he had never seen it before. He could not give her this, not yet, even though he burgeoned with guilt and determination and love, oh the love that would not quit.

It had taken him five years and some loose change to do what he had longed to do all that time. He had always wanted her, and had never been naive of that truth. But he had formed a strong pact with himself that he should protect himself, and Sara, from harm. He could love her from nearby, like her very much as a friend and work with her every day. He could not, and did not allow himself to, fall head over heels like he knew he so easily could. It was a floodgate wedged firmly shut and he guarded it fiercely. Sara, though, had walked through fire for him, and now, in hindsight, he was both amazed and truly humbled by the emotion she had entrusted him with all those years. She had never shied from it, only worded it beautifully, succinctly and not even inappropriately, creating moments that would have rocked him to the very core if he had only allowed them to mature. Instead he had diverted the torrent each time, usually at the last possible moment, still desperate in spite of himself to hear what she had to say. It was always shattering. Like a swift blow to the knees, he felt himself apt to go down at any moment as soon as her lips began to move at one of those impossible, unavoidable, awesome junctures.

Looking back, she had been loving him for a large part of his life, had hung on and hung on until he was ready to be the lover he now couldn't imagine not being. She had been patient, and true, and by some sheer stroke of luck had not fallen in love with anyone else in the meantime. He saw this as very good fortune - Sara saw it as obvious. He was in awe of her ability to be so certain, or he had been, before this, before she had so delicately alighted into his daily life in a way that made him want to laugh out loud with pure joy. He knew now, but she had known then. When she had asked him to dinner, and he had said no, she had known. When she had sat at his desk and asked him why he thought she had moved to Vegas, she had known. When she had been frustrated with the justice system and walked away from him in the hall, when he had followed her into the parking lot feeling electric with the thrill of facing her in the dark breeze, so close, talking in a way that could so easily become intimate. She had known. He, for his part, had felt the charge but tucked it away.

She had always been years ahead of him, and he was struck dumb by her loyalty. Somehow it was nearly the same, perhaps more amazing, than the thought of being with her for five years, when he could give back the love she gave. That seemed easy in the face of her loving him so passionately, with so little hope. It had to have meant everything.

As it now did, and as the police radio crackled in the next room his chest froze. No-one came. Nothing. Not yet. There were a hundred officers out there looking for her, and as much as he knew he was not so agile or rested as any of them, he wished he were one of them. He wanted to do something, to make something happen. It had started with the models, and he had moved away from those now. There were only so many answers in tiny things. Natalie, he realised, was greater than the sum of those parts and while the reasons for her psychosis might eventually be found in the arms of little bisque dolls, Sara would not. He had no wish to lay eyes on the woman responsible again. Not without Sara. He thought of his girlfriend, and how he so rarely used that word, and now wanted to so much. He thought she would want to see Natalie, to talk to her, to re-build herself somewhat by looking into her eyes and being the stronger, better woman. And she was. It was not lost on him that the terror coursing through him, and he had to imagine, through Sara, his beautiful, brave, warrior of a woman, was caused by a shrew. The lion and the mouse.

Fuck. That word kept coming to him, and as it did his hand would cover his mouth, his fingertips sinking into his cold flesh, warming it up, keeping him going. He could just conjure the feel of her hand in its place, her soft slim fingers as she turned his face to her. The night he had first kissed her, she had taken hold of him, made him face her, wanting everything and expecting nothing. She had wanted his honesty, and as they had faced each other, it came. Their eyes had met, and he just couldn't, after all his practice, tear them away. He still scarcely knew how it had happened, and thought about it often.

Sara, in the end, had to do very little. Her sheer being was enough. There was a turning point, probably, but he was damned if he could pinpoint it. He wanted to know, actually, to have a moment in time to which he could attribute the life-changing goodness that was this relationship – which might as well be the only one he had ever had. It was all he could do to conjure another woman's face. He no longer knew or cared if there were other women – for him, for life, there was just this one.

It was, ironically, work which threw them together. Work had always been both a catalyst and a deterrent for him, placing him close to her in situations of great intensity, and serving as a daily reminder of what they both stood to lose. He didn't know when that fear had subsided. Maybe when he had endured one too many run-ins with Ecklie and had ended up somewhere just past caring. He didn't fear for his job, but he feared for hers.

Sara had worked a peculiar case. It had made her doubt everything – her judgement, mostly. The young girl who had lied so beguilingly to her and a court full of people had really affected her. Reminded her of herself, he thought, when she recounted some of it to him at the end of the trial. He had been packing to leave when she had passed his office doorway. She was dressed for court, where she had come from, and he drank in her appearance as she talked about the girl. A genius, but so very alone, and sad, and with so much love for a family that didn't seem to know what to do with her. He could only imagine how this hit home for Sara.

He finished packing his belongings and without a conscious decision they walked together through the brightly lit halls to the parking lot. It was dark, and not very warm. Sara pulled the tailored suit jacket closer around her as they headed for their cars, a few spaces apart.

She was quiet, pensive, and in her long moments of silence he was able to hear his own thoughts. Confirming how good it felt to walk with her, be next to her, catch the scent of her on the breeze. She was wearing perfume, one he had never smelt before. She had two others that he knew well, that he had developed a kind of immunity to. This was a going to court, power dressing, meaning it perfume. He could imagine her having little use for it other than days like this, as though it were a secret weapon. It was intoxicating.

She stopped by his car as he popped the trunk and laid his kit on its side. She sighed, placing her hands in her pockets. She felt defeated, undone, thoroughly useless. She looked in the direction of her car, and, he knew now, was thinking ahead to her solitary evening she wouldn't altogether hate. She was not afraid of her own company, but the parking lot parting was something they did too often, that weighed heavy on her, reminding her how separate their lives were, how resigned she was to loving a man who could not or would not love her back.

She said goodnight, and she smiled. And that was it. He looked at her, and could suddenly see how they could be together and still work, still live, still function as normal. How they could stand shoulder to shoulder in a morgue or a courtroom or across the table from their colleagues and not let the almighty presence of love overwhelm them. It was so damn simple. Of course he could do it. She had been doing it for years. She was doing it then.

They were face to face, a few feet apart. Their eyes were locked, neither sure what was going on. It was as though she could feel his hand on her face, although it was still by his side. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she tilted her head to one side, silently warning him not to toy with her. His face opened, and she watched as he felt the years of tension ebb away. What he was left with, what became strikingly, monumentally clear, was that he wanted to kiss her.

Not here, he thought, aware of the lab just yards from where they stood. As if he had spoken, she looked back towards the door of the building, which opened and closed as two police officers came out. He said her name, and she could tell then that something had changed. She nodded, not able to say anything. He managed to ask if she wanted to come over, to finish telling him about the case. Her assent was slow, as though she was afraid.

It was thus that he found himself standing opposite her, in much the same position, less than an hour later, in the half light of his kitchen. She slid her jacket off, slowly, and he watched a new world opening up before his eyes. He took it from her and laid it over the arm of the couch. When he returned, he stood closer than before, and this time his hand was really on her face. Hers was on his, turning him gently to face what they were unable to stop. She was exquisite. Instead of feeling powerless, swept along, he felt enabled, like things were falling quickly and quietly into place.

As he kissed her, he knew that he loved her, and that it would be weeks, not months, not years, before he was telling her that, silently or otherwise.

He had never told her in so many words. He thought it a thousand times a day. He told her a hundred times a day with a kiss, a look, a breath on her neck before she was fully awake, but never the words. Now, what he wouldn't give just to be able to say it, to swallow the lump that always materialised in his throat any time he came close – it seemed so simple, so easy, compared with the massive search that lay ahead.

He had said something at work, too. He hadn't intended to, but as it became clear that Sara's life hung in the balance because of him, because of them and what they were to one another, the importance of big things seemed to wane, until only the details remained. He could no longer think about why, how, what drove Natalie, where she had taken Sara from. He could only think that he could have been there, if he hadn't trusted her to take a case alone, as he now did. That trust, given by him, had done her harm. It was work and it was love and he couldn't, standing in front of his friends and colleagues, care enough to separate the two. Now it was just about Sara, about finding Sara, and that was everything, she was the bolt that held together all the parts of his life and he felt a wave of guilt that he had never done her justice.

As Catherine, Nick, Warrick and Greg looked at him one by one he wanted to go on, to tell them what he was feeling, how she had changed his life, opened it up, made it matter. He wanted to tell them the tiny things that made up such a massive whole, the loss of which left a different kind of massive hole. As his words formed on his tongue he thought he was going to say he loved her. But at the last second, he snatched them back, wanting to save that for her and her alone. He paraphrased, and left them in no doubt of the weight of this situation. He left them together in the layout room and walked away. He knew they would be processing what he had said, but hoped, no, knew, that he could rely on them to put it aside until Sara was found.

The police radio crackled again and made him jump. Still nothing. He checked his cell phone for messages, although it had been in his hand all day long. He rubbed his eyes and decided fresh air would help.

It was dark outside, like so many nights when he and Sara, he and other members of the team had come out of these doors and jumped into trucks and raced to scenes where there was really no rush. The dead didn't require them to make haste. He closed his eyes and prayed that there would be a rush, a race to the desert, a race to Sara, and that the haste would save her. Grissom prayed that the rain had spared her, that the sand had cocooned her, that she knew, despite his lack of articulation, that he was barely hanging on to himself not knowing.

He wanted the door to open, the phone to ring, the engines to start. He breathed in deeply, calming his turbulent mind as he rested his tired eyes. Behind his eyelids he could see her, his girlfriend – use it, he thought, since you like it – and he told her to hold on. He told her it wouldn't be long.

When the doors swung wide and they poured out of the building, he thought he was dreaming. Several steps of footsteps advanced, car doors were snatched open, and yes, there it was, engines and cell phones and Brass' radio crackling, frenzied, as he jumped into a marked car. The rush. He turned just in time to catch Brass' eye, and he nodded. Making for his own car, he was overtaken by Nick, who took the keys from him.

He had never gone so fast in a car in his life. But he felt perfectly safe as Nick threw the Denali around corners and activated the siren and the lights. People got out of their way as they raced down the freeway towards God knew what. A helicopter circled overhead. All around them were police cars, joining the convoy at every exit they passed. They were an army of lights and wheels and dust as they forged ahead.

Fuck, he thought, his hand going once more to his mouth. Nick didn't move, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he expertly wove in and out of the traffic. It felt like hours before they turned off the road onto sand, bumping over small dunes and throwing up tonnes of red sand and dust as they careened closer. The helicopter became two, and they were circling tightly up ahead. Grissom's stomach rose in his mouth.

The car slid to a long stop in the dust, clouds of it engulfing them as they got out. They didn't look at one another. The dust cleared before them, revealing the mustang, no more than fifty yards away. Behind them police cars skidded to awkward halts in the sand, sirens blaring.

They ran. There was nothing else to do. Handfuls of sand flew over their shoulders as they dug at the side of the car, calling out to Sara, but making far too much noise to hear any response she might make. Grissom's face was wet with sweat or tears, and he didn't know which. He wiped it, and carried on, intent only on the sight or sound of Sara.

Officers joined the dig, and it was only minutes before they were able to see beneath the car. Grissom's composure fled as he bent to look beneath it. No movement, no life. No Sara. Wildly, he looked around. She wasn't there.

Nick looked up, sharply, confused. He shouted to Brass, whose car had just arrived. Brass shouted back, confirming that the report that came in just said the helicopters had found the car.

Grissom turned in a wide circle, lifting his hat from his head and wiping the beads of sweat gathered in the band. Brass' radio crackled again and he heard Catherine's voice come through. He couldn't hear what she said, but he heard Brass tell her there was no sign of Sara. How could that be?

He squinted as far ahead as he could. All he could see were rocks, sand, rocks, more sand. The landscape was harsh and unfriendly. He looked once, and again. The second time something caught his eye. The dust cleared a little more and there she was, slumped awkwardly against a rock face, leaning, standing, breathing.

Fuck. The breath was knocked from him, and he bent double. Nick came to his side, placing a hand on his back before following his gaze. Again, he ran, calling to Brass for a medic. Grissom looked up just in time to see Nick reach Sara, lift her, support her, and he saw her fall limply into his arms. He thought she was sobbing. Her body was racked as she clung to Nick.

Slowly, Grissom walked towards her, now unable to fight the tears. Just two escaped, mixing with the sweat that glistened on his cheeks. She wouldn't know he was crying for her. Relief and horror spread slowly, and as he got closer, step by step, the anger towards Natalie grew and the fear subsided. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to take Sara from Nick, and didn't want to hurt her as it was clear she was fragile. Her right arm looked broken, and her face was a maze of cuts and bruises. Nick supported her as she released him. She coughed, a painful, hoarse spasm, and he realised she wasn't crying at all. Yet.

Her eyes spoke the words he was desperate to hear as she looked at him. I'm okay. He gingerly put one hand on her waist, feeling the dirt and sand caked to her clothes. She clung to his forearms with her scratched, black fingers, making him draw her in closer. She buried her face carefully in his neck, confirming that this was exactly what she needed, and he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her, rocking her, stroking her. Each of them had a few tears. As she pulled back, his arms still firmly around her, he saw a clean track streaking through the dust on her face. As he had before, as he would again, he gently wiped it away.

An ambulance shot past them and swung around, coming to a stop just beside them, throwing up another small cloud of dust. Grissom closed his eyes as it passed over them, and thanked whatever he could that she was okay. He wasn't going to overwhelm her with words and thoughts right now, when all she needed was medical attention, but by God he was going to later.

He let her go as the EMTs jumped out of the ambulance and attended, sitting her on a gurney. They began examining her, and almost immediately she reached out for him with her good arm. He held her hand and stood quietly as they administered to her injuries. The ones that could be treated there, anyway. The arm would need…well, something, he thought, realising that he didn't want to waste thoughts on anything but the joy of finding her, breathing, moving, crying.

She was bleeding, but she was living, and in living she would have love, and he would tell her every day.

That night, Sara awoke from a fitful sleep to a dimly lit hospital room. Grissom was reading in a chair next to her bed. He was reading Thoreau, feeling transcendental, as he told her once her eyes were fully open. She enjoyed his comment, and was briefly nostalgic for those earlier days. How far things had come from the crossword come to bed banter of late nights in the lab.

The others had been, he told her, but they had wanted to let her rest, and would be back in the morning. She was aching, she told him, flexing the fingers of her plaster-encased arm. He was sorry, he told her, for all the times he let her go. She gazed at him, surprised. He held those tiny fingers as they moved slowly within the cast, and said the three words he'd kept back for so long. She smiled, and he said them again.

The End.