A/N: Again, I haven't actually seen the episode in which Brass alludes to the fact that he knows about the secret lovebirds, but from what I've read he doesn't give anything specific away, and I took this as an invitation to play. For those who follow my WIP, 'Thieves and Secrets', I am hoping to have the next chapter posted tomorrow.

WARNING: There is some adult content here people, but nothing too explicit, I don't think... It does involve a shirtless Grissom though, and that is always a good thing.

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As Grissom sat alone in his darkened office, he began to wonder when he had stopped being shocked, when violence had become normal, when cruelty had become the status quo. For twenty-two years now he had spent his life moving from one crime scene to another, scrutinising, collecting, processing, and no two crimes had ever been exactly the same – that was part of what he loved about his work, it was never predictable – but he drew comfort from the knowledge that there existed one constant across them all: there was always a sense of disbelief that permeated the air. The living victims would cry and shake their heads, or stare off into the distance trying to understand 'Why me?', the families of the dead would yell and scream and demand justice, or hang their heads and ponder the inevitable, the torturous 'What ifs?'. As a young man it had gotten under his skin, spurned him to work longer, harder, to care a little too much, and then somewhere along the way all of the pain and suffering had begun to smother him. He had begun to shut down, deliberately choosing to engage with each case as a strictly cerebral exercise as a means of basic self-preservation. And it had worked. Until now.

The case finally closed, he sat at his desk and drowned in the pictures. Laid out before him in a macabre gallery of sorts, he focussed on each tiny mark, each scratch, each bruise, on the young boy's skin. Closing his eyes, Grissom could picture the young boy's vibrant blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight, his blonde hair blowing gently in the breeze as he rode his bike down the street, or challenged himself to go higher on the swings in the park near his house. He pictured his mother standing not far away, calling out his name and telling him to be careful, that he didn't want to scrape his knee again…

But as he opened his eyes again, he knew that the beautiful images his mind had conjured up had no place in reality. This boy was an unknown, no one had reported him missing, and no one had claimed his corpse. There was no one out there who cared if he scraped his knee, no one out there who cared if he had been beaten to death in some filthy alley off the strip. And that was what bothered him the most. For the first time in years he allowed himself to be consumed with a case, to feel the pain, the suffering, the heartbreaking loss of this little unloved boy, because there simply was no one else, and everybody deserved to be mourned.

Standing in the doorway, Catherine silently took in the sight of him – hunched over his desk, eyes focused intently on the images before him, his fingers tracing over the prints as though trying to soothe some of the pain away – and felt the tight ball of concern that had been building in her stomach for the past several hours begin to spread.

Softly, so as not to startle him, she called his name, stepping into the room a moment later when it became clear that he was far to engrossed in his solitary vigil to have heard her. Leaning slightly over his desk, she reached forward and began gathering the pictures into a neat pile, sliding them effortlessly back into the folder they had come from; but still he did not speak, did not move, did not acknowledge her presence at all.

"Grissom? You are starting to worry me here, you know."

Looking up slowly to meet her gaze, he lifted a hand and drew it across his face in an attempt to hide the heady mix of emotions shining unguarded behind his eyes.

As Catherine stood before him, watching his gaze flit aimlessly around the room before coming to rest again on the sterile desk where the pictures once lay, she decided the best course of action was just to continue on as planned. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak a little louder than she had before, hoping that some trace of authority in her tone might just convince him.

"Um… Nick, Warrick, Brass and I are going to go and grab a drink, debrief a little after all of this. You should come. If nothing else, you look like you could use a drink."

That wasn't so hard, she thought as she watched him slowly stand and make his way around his desk and towards his office door, until it dawned on her that he still seemed unable or unwilling to look her in the eye.

"Grissom? Does this mean that you are coming?"

"No, Catherine," her replied over his shoulder as he began to walk away. "I just want to go home."

Before she could protest, he had disappeared out the doorway, and she found herself hurrying to catch up with him as he travelled swiftly down the halls, the pace of a man desperate to escape.

"Hey, you really should come. It was a hard case, and you need to relax a little."

"I will relax, Catherine, when I get home."

"I mean that you need to escape from it all for a little while. Re-alphabetising your forensics journals just won't do it."

Without once breaking his stride, he burst forth into the car park, followed closely by his pursuer. Reaching his car, he opened the door with more force than was necessary, and climbed inside. Donning his sunglasses he turned to her and uttered a pointed, "Goodnight, Catherine" before pulling quickly out of the lot.

As she stood in his vacant space, watching his tail lights disappear around the corner, she heard footsteps approaching. Turning quickly, she saw Warrick, Nick and Greg approach.

"Hey, Cath. What are you doing?"

"I was trying to convince Grissom to come with us."

The men exchanged an amused glance before Nick said lightly, "I bet I can guess how that turned out."

"Yeah…" she replied quietly.

Suddenly concerned, Warrick took a step forward and lay a gently hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?"

Turning to look in his direction, she said, "I'm fine. I'm not so sure about him though. This case really got to him. I've never seen him like that before."

Before he could reply, they were jolted from their conversation by a loud honking to the left. Snapping their heads around, they saw Brass pull in to park in the space they were standing in, his bumper stopping less than two feet from their shins.

"Geez, what the hell are you doing? Trying to scare us to death?" called Greg as he jumped back to a safe distance.

"Hello, children." called the detective cheerily as he climbed out from behind the wheel. "Are you ready to go?"

The dramatic arrival overshadowing their previous discussion, the four made their way to the truck and climbed in, conversation light and simple, until, after a few miles, Brass said lightly, "So, no Grissom, eh? I actually thought he might come today."

As silence settled over the tiny space, he continued, "What? Did I miss something?"

"Catherine is worried about him" replied Greg from his position nested between the two older men in the back seat, when it became clear that no one else was going to answer.

"Why?"

Sighing heavily, she turned to look out the window, admiring the endless flashing of the Vegas lights.

"This case just seemed to affect him a little more than usual, is all. I tried to convince him to come with us, but I didn't get anywhere."

After another moment of silence, this one slightly more sombre than the last, Catherine turned to the man behind the wheel, a shameless grin now plastered across her face.

"Turn around, Jim. We are making a little pit-stop on the way."

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As Grissom drove further and further away from the lab, his mind began to clear, and thoughts of the little blonde boy beaten to death so horribly began to melt away, in their place thoughts of Sara and falling asleep with the delicate scent of her skin all around him. Pulling into the driveway, he put the car in park and bounded for the door, desperate to see her, touch her, taste her, desperate for the feel of her skin against his. He always missed her when they were forced to schedule their days off separately, a fate unavoidable if they hoped to keep their relationship secret, but today her absence had been particularly hard to bear. Opening the door, he dropped the keys to the floor, not caring where they fell, and began to make his way towards their bedroom.

His pace slowed as he mounted the top of the stairs and looked down the hallway, through the open door. She was there, his Sara, curled on her side sleeping, his pillow held to her chest, her nose buried in the linen. As he reached the doorway, he leaned against the frame and just took a minute to watch her, shaking his head slightly as he thought of all the years he pushed her away.

Not able to bring himself to wake her, he made his way back downstairs to pour himself a drink, downing the first three fingers of scotch in a single mouthful before pouring a second. Cradling the glass in his right hand, he again climbed the stairs, feeling with each step another wave of relief wash over him as he inched closer and closer to her side.

Stepping through the doorway, he made his way straight to her side of the bed and sat on the floor, his back resting against the bedside table, his lips mere inches from her sleeping face. Taking a sip of his drink, he let the flavour roll around his mouth as his eyes traced the line of her nose, admired the eyelashes that rested so lightly on her cheeks, counted the tiny freckles that sat just above her right eyebrow. Taking another sip, he reached up and, being careful not the wake her, gently brushed the hair that had fallen across her face aside, revelling in the feel of it below his fingers.

As he sat beside her, he lost all track of time, until once again his glass was empty. As the fatigue began to build, he leaned forward to place a feather-light kiss on her forehead, as he thought of crawling into bed beside her and wrapping his arms around her tiny frame.

Eyes closed, he did not see hers open, and only realised that he had woken her when she said softly, voice sleep-ridden and airy, "Hey, you."

Pulling back slightly, he began to apologise for disturbing her, but was soon cut off as she raised herself up slightly on her arms and said quickly, "What happened?"

"What do you mean? Nothing happened. Everything is fine."

Pushing the pillows aside, and pulling the quilt back, she climbed out of bed to kneel before him, lifting her hands to his face.

"You look… sad."

Smiling at her as best he could, he reached up to cover her hands with his own before replying.

"Tough shift, is all."

"Tell me about it."

"Sara–"

Her hands slipping from their position cradling the sides of his face to rest flat against his chest, she shuffled closer.

"Tell me about it, Grissom. It's what I'm here for."

As he watched her move towards him, he suddenly became acutely aware that she was wearing nothing but her night-shirt and a pair of panties. Turning his eyes to meet hers, she watched in awe as they shifted from a warm ocean blue to black pools of lust, and felt her body respond instantly.

Tracing her wrists with his fingers, his tone low and husky with desire, he said, "What if I don't want to talk, Sara?"

As she felt the need pouring from him in waves, she felt all resistance slip away. Moving quickly, she crashed her lips into his, pausing only an instant before opening her mouth to him as his tongue begged for entry. Clawing at his shirt, she pulled the hem from his pants as he rose up onto his knees to press his body against hers, pulling it over his head at the same time he liberated her from her nightshirt, both anxious not to lose their connection a moment more than necessary.

Suddenly, she felt his arms lift her from the floor, her legs reflexively wrapping around his waist, pulling him to her core as he stood. Laying her on the bed, he began trailing delicate kisses along her cheek, across her jawbone and down her neck, before moving back to her lips, capturing her moan in a searing kiss.

Using his right hand to hold himself above her, he let his left trail down her sides, tickling the underside of her breast and playing lightly across the lace of her panties, before moving to draw her leg up over his own as he ground himself mercilessly into her.

Desperate to touch him, she abandoned her worship of the tiny curls at the nape of his neck and moved her hands over his shoulders and down his chest before fumbling desperately with the clasp on his pants. As she felt him grind into her again, she fingers lost their purchase as her back arched up in response.

Just as she decided that she could wait no longer, that button be damned, she would replace the pants tomorrow, the door suddenly crashed open.

Moments before Brass had pulled the truck up to the curb outside Grissom's townhouse, two of the occupants determined to drag the entomologist out with them kicking and screaming if necessary, the other three wishing they were anywhere else in the world, terrified of what he would do to them for invading his sanctuary. Stepping out, the five made their way towards the front door with varying degrees of enthusiasm, the detective raising his hand to knock before Catherine grabbed his wrist and waved her keys before his eyes.

"If we let him know that we are here, it will just give him time to formulate another excuse. He gave me this key years ago for use in case of emergencies. I think this qualifies."

Before anyone could object, she had slipped the key into the lock and was pushing the door open. Stepping inside, she looked back and urged the others to follow.

"Okay, let's split up. He is here somewhere."

Abandoning the others to search the ground floor, Brass had made his way upstairs, thinking that Grissom may have just retired to bed early, overcome by the exhaustion that had seemed to haunt him through the case. Coming to stand outside the bedroom door, he heard the faint sound of movement, and knew that he had found his prey.

As he turned the doorknob and swung the door open with all the force of a police raid, his words died on his lips as he took in the sight before him.

"Gil Gris… Oh my God!"

"Brass!" cried Grissom as he moved to shield his almost-naked lover from the detective's gaze.

Realising that he was staring, Brass turned away, his eyes searching the room, quickly taking in the silk kimono on the end of the bed, the hairbrush on the bedside table, and the two sets of towels hanging in the adjoining bathroom, all clues to suggest that what he had walked in on was more than just a frenzied one-night stand triggered by emotional exhaustion and intellectual defeat.

Sara had quickly moved to cover her bare chest with the quilt, whilst Grissom bent to collect his shirt from where it lay discarded on the floor, and no sooner had he pulled it over his head was he advancing on the detective, grabbing him by the arm and marching him down the hallway and towards the top of the stairs.

Pulled from his daze by the feel of his friend's fingers digging into his arm, Brass turned his head and said quietly, "The others are downstairs."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Grissom let go of him and nailed him with a fiery glare.

"Excuse me? What others?"

"Nick, Greg, Warrick and Catherine."

As he watched Grissom's hands ball into fists at his side and his face grow red with rage, Brass hurried to continue, hoping to calm the situation as much as possible.

"We were worried about you."

"So you broke into my house?!"

"Well, technically it is not breaking and entering when you use a key."

"Who's key?" Grissom yelled in response.

Suddenly, Brass heard all movement stop. Desperate to understand what he had seen before Catherine and her unwilling minions decided to risk a journey up the stairs, he asked quickly, "What was that back there?"

His anger now fighting for domination with sheer, unadulterated embarrassment, Grissom's eyes quickly darted towards the stairs, ostensibly to check that nobody was within earshot.

"Brass, that was what that was, okay. Now if you will kindly–"

"Oh hell no. No way are you getting away with that. Are you and Sara…?"

Bringing his eyes back to meet the detective's, Grissom said quietly, yet in a tone that strove to actively discourage any further questioning, "Yes."

Failing miserably in his attempt to end the conversation, Grissom closed his eyes in frustration as his friend – his former-friend, that is – continued.

The fear draining from his voice as curiosity took control of his mind, he asked "Yes, what? Yes, you are together, but it has only been a couple of weeks and it's nothing too serious yet?"

"Yes, we are together, and have been for almost two years. Yes, we are together and it's very serious. Yes, we are together and I plan on spending the rest of my life with her. Satisfied?"

As a smirk broke out across his face, Brass felt Grissom once again grab hold of his arm and lead him down the stairs. As they reached the bottom, he chuckled at the looks of pure terror that flashed across the three young men's faces, and the look of faux apology on Catherine's.

Without relinquishing his grip on Brass's arm, Grissom managed to run them each out of his house before closing the door behind them and turning again to the man who had so unceremoniously stumbled across the details of his secret life.

"You are the only one that knows. I need your word that you will keep it that way. If Ecklie found out, it could ruin us both."

As Brass looked past the anger still dancing in his eyes, he saw the fear, anxiety and vulnerability hiding behind it.

"Do you love her?"

It had taken him years to admit his feelings for Sara to Sara, so the prospect of spilling his heart to the grinning detective was nothing short of painful. Resigning himself that it was a sacrifice that he simply had to make, he whispered gruffly, "With all my heart."

Seeing the truth in his face, Brass let the smirk slip from his face and said with a promise, "You have my word."

"Thankyou, Jim."

Opening the door again to let him out, Grissom heard his friend mutter with a laugh in his tone, "You are one lucky bastard, you know that?"

After a moment, a tiny smile appeared on his face and he replied simply, "I know."

Closing the door behind his friend, he drew the deadbolt before heading to the kitchen to grab the cordless phone, dialling information as he climbed the stairs. As he passed through the bedroom door, he abruptly hung up the phone, cutting the operator off mid-spiel. Before him lay Sara, still wearing nothing but her flimsy lace panties, sprawled invitingly across the bed.

"Are they gone?" she asked seductively.

Having no confidence in his voice, he nodded slowly, his eyes travelling down her slender frame longingly.

"Well, then, where were we?"

Stepping forward, he climbed up the bed until he was once again over her, his lips brushing lightly against hers.

His last words before melting into her embrace completely were, "First thing tomorrow, we are getting the locks changed."

FIN