No Place Like Home

Although the chaos and complications of Keppler's sudden death disrupt the homecoming both of them have long been anticipating, in the end, Grissom and Sara find that the most important thing is there is no place like home.

Takes place following episode 715 "Law of Gravity," circa early February 2007.

For all my patient readers who I so do not deserve, but so greatly appreciate...

One: Soliloquy

Grissom

In some ways, I am not entirely surprised to find that when I finally put down my bags to pull out the keys to unlock the door to my condo, that my arrival has come considerably later -- in terms of days now and not hours -- than I had originally planned.

But as they say -- The best laid plans...

Because while it seems that many things have seemed to change in my absence, some things -- in this case the ones you really wished would change -- have not.

Vegas is Vegas after all and Vegas never sleeps.

And while I do distinctly remember telling Warrick that I missed Las Vegas, that was before all hell inexplicably broke loose.

Vegas is Vegas after all.

And somehow the thought that if I hurry through the shower I know I desperately need right now and head straight to bed and worry about unpacking until later, I might be able to squeeze a handful of hours of sleep in before Vegas -- or more likely Ecklie -- calls again, is little comfort. For I fear, or more precisely know, that sleep will be long in coming.

It isn't so much the time and schedule changes or the strangeness that lies in the familiarity of being back home after being so long away. No, it is just life and having way too much to process all at once and in so short a time, that will likely keep me up.

I did not know Michael Keppler well -- not really at all actually, as we only met once, briefly in passing and exchanged no more than a handful of words, and yet his death feels different than the loss of so many others.

Perhaps, it is because while I didn't get a chance to know him, the rest of the team did and even in the relative shortness of a month, they built up professional bonds and friendships, some it seems more so than others.

At this I think of Catherine and have to wonder if I have failed yet again.

I know perfectly well what has been said about me behind my back all these years -- that I care more for bugs and bodies than for people, for science than society, and in some ways, that is true. Bug and bodies are easier to deal with than living, breathing human beings and science brings with it a sort of reassuring surety and certainty that dealing with humanity does not.

And as much as I loath the administrative aspects of being shift supervisor, for last few hours and days at least, the impersonal duties of paperwork, reports and briefings seem to be far more easy to dispatch than dealing with the personal.

At least Lily and Lindsey are with Catherine now and know much better than I do how to soothe and comfort her.

Or perhaps that is just what I tell myself to keep from feeling guilty.

When the truth of it is that while she and I have have known each other a long time, I still often find myself at a loss with Catherine, especially in times like these.

This time especially so, as I don't quite recall ever seeing the look I found there in her eyes last night the moment the EMTs said that Keppler was gone -- that look of absolute desperation and desire, the anguish and longing for that fact not to be true.

I've never quite known what to do when confronted with that look.

Because even in our line of work, most of the time we don't arrive until after that moment has passed into something more like numb denial than anything else. We are not the ones there to have to bear witness to that the initial overwhelming look of absolute loss.

And while part of me wonders precisely what Catherine has lost, my thoughts rather selfishly turn more to myself. For I am struck, have been struck, since that moment I saw that look on her face, with how real the possibility -- the one I never truly let myself face -- of what it would mean to loose you like that -- absolutely.

Keppler's dead; Catherine came so close, too close, last night. I guess at some point all of us have and I think of Nick in that box and Jim and Greg laid up in hospital beds and you on the other side of the glass -- and how powerless we really are -- how powerless I was to prevent any of those things from happening and how powerless I still am and will continue to be in the days and weeks and years that are to come .

We've been lucky -- too lucky perhaps.

For each of those times, it wasn't too late. We got Nick out just in time. Jim and Greg recovered. You were able to get out.

It wasn't too late.

And what too late would have meant with Nick or Jim or Greg is hard enough to stomach, but the thought of what that would mean when it came to you, I simply don't possess the words for that feeling.

For I remember all to well when I was there that day on the other side of that glass and it could have so easily had been too late and then I would have never known the hours and days and almost years that we have come to share together since then. A whole another lifetime it seems, a whole new life.

These thoughts have made it harder to find the right key, harder to keep from fumbling to fit it once found into the lock, harder for me to gather up my things and step across that threshold.

But I know I need the shower and to crawl into my own bed and try, however in vain, to sleep and put these last few days aside for a few hours at least.

Vegas with all her hidden horrors will still be waiting for me when I wake.

But when I finally manage to stumble through the door and drop my keys noisily on the table, I find myself at once confronted by an unfamiliar and unexpected soft, stirring sort of sound that is soon replace by an almost buzzing and I sigh and close my eyes and shake my head and begin to worry that despite my best efforts and intentions, some of my roaches have gotten loose in my absence. And while Madagascar hissing cockroaches are harmless and in no way pestilential, I doubt my neighbors will see it that way and I don't really want to risk their wrath right now.

As I listen further though, it strikes me that the hissing is a far different sort from the typical mating and aggression calls of roaches; it is almost more like a wheezy, nasally snoring sort of buzzing and I have to quickly smother a laugh when I realize the noise is not coming from any runaway insects, but from you.

For there you are curled up cat-like in one corner of the couch with a book propped open on your lap, seemingly very sound asleep or at least as sound asleep as one can be when they are snoring that resoundingly.

And you complain about my snoring.

Your name is halfway past my lips, before I catch myself, for I know you well enough to know that you have, as usual, probably been working those same sort of shifts I do, the ones that only ever seem to grow longer rather than shorter and that you need your rest.

So I try to be as quiet as I can so as not disturb you as I slip off my shoes and pad towards the sofa.

Seeing you there now, it seems far longer than the almost five weeks since I last had the opportunity to watch you sleep and I am glad to see that at least this afternoon at least, you seem to be resting peacefully untroubled by bad dreams or anxieties, relaxed and comfortable or as comfortable as one can be curled up on a couch.

As much as I do not want to wake you, I cannot resist the urge to brush that one strand of hair that always finds its way free from your ponytail back behind your ear and place a soft kiss on the top of your head.

You begin to stir, so no matter how further tempted I may be, I do not linger longer than the time it takes to carefully ease the book from your grasp and drape my jacket over you, as I know how much you hate waking up cold and February afternoons are not always the warmest even here in Vegas. Thankfully, you only shift slightly, as if to snuggle deeper into the warmth.

Although I felt momentarily caught off guard at finding you here and slightly guilty that I forgot to call you in the midst of the paperwork and attempting to deal with Catherine, I have to say I am pleased to see you. For it while it seems that all the talk of laters and when I got back has seemed to escape my memory, it hasn't yours.

At the same time, your presence here and now doesn't seem that all unexpected, for you belong here.

You always have.

As I gather up my things and tip-toe down the stairs, I take a good look at this place I know I am fortunate to now call home.

I never really gave much thought to having a home of my own per se. Or at least what I suppose is conventionally considered to be a home.

For most of my life, indeed all of my adult life, home has merely meant four walls, a roof and a floor. That was what my last place was like really, just four walls, a roof and floor -- a place to sleep when there was time, a place to work when sleep would not come and when work got to be too much, a place to hide.

Just four walls -- white walls that I suppose could have been considered to be cold, clinical almost, merely functional to the point of sterility.

And I suppose, too, that for a long time that white-washed, sterile, solitary existence suited me.

For too long really.

From the moment I met you, you challenged that.

You were color and light and warmth and breath and life -- real life.

So it seems fitting to find you here now -- amongst the light and color and warmth -- as if you've always been here -- and perhaps you always have and I just never realized it.

I remember once when I told you I liked your apartment -- that old studio of yours, the one you used to live in -- because it was so warm and inviting in the afternoon, you said it was because of the paint and windows.

But it wasn't that, nor is it that now, now that I guess I have finally moved out of my dark and broody cave as you once called it, nor is it because here the walls are richly painted and windows aren't covered all the time, while the floors are.

No, it was then as it is now -- you.

It was you, too, I suppose I have to both blame and thank for all of this, for wanting and then having more than just four walls and a roof and floor.

Because of you, I wanted a home.

And while you don't live here full time (neither do I for that matter), I still think of this as being your home, too -- mine and yours -- ours -- whose precisely, it doesn't really matter.

All I know is this is home.

Or perhaps it has just become so because you are here.

You, who more than the floors and walls and books and furniture and art, more than all the things that can be place and replaced -- for you are the irreplaceable -- are the one who makes this place finally feel like a real home.

I think I once tried to tell you that, but the words only seemed to get in the way as they always seem to do when I am with you.

Before I met you, I always thought of language as boundless -- infinite -- full of permutations and possibilities.

Then why is it that I have nothing to offer you but other people's words?

Perhaps that best explains why the one letter I could write to you still sits unsent, safe within the pages of the The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare you gave me for Christmas.

Because while I meant it, every word of that letter, every thought and feeling, they were still someone else's words -- good words -- great words even - profound -- poetic -- lasting, but they were not my own.

And while I still smile each time I open that volume and read in what I know is your best attempt at a legible hand the inscription there --

Gil - For all the times you are in want of words remember -

"Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain" - Richard II

and "Talent borrows, genius steals" - Oscar Wilde

- Sara

it reminds me, too of all the years of things unsaid or done and how even after all this time, it has become harder, rather than easier, to find the words when it comes to you -- or at least words that are wholly mine.

So they remain unsaid, but not unfelt, like so much when it comes to you.

I remember my last words before I left.

I'll miss you.

How inadequate those words seemed even then and managed to become even more so as the days passed.

I hope you knew that it was more than that -- more than just those words -- more than just me missing you.

But I did.

I missed you.

I missed you more than you can know or I can say or there are even words to convey.

Sara, I missed you.