I should have noted earlier that this story is rated M for language and strong adult content.

I just checked my investment portfolio, and I still own nothing remotely related to CSI.

Bertrand Russell's quote is owned by his estate, I suppose. It also belongs to the ages.

Don't let anything discourage you from posting reviews.

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Chapter 2.

Grissom arrived at the funeral home exactly at 4 p.m., dressed in a dark blue suit, a cobalt blue dress shirt and a gray-and-navy striped tie. He sat on a low brick wall beside the front door, waiting for Sara to arrive. Nick pulled up at 4:33. When Grissom saw Sara emerge from the passenger seat, he wasn't sure he could breathe.

Except for slightly reddened eyes and tear stains on her face, she looked wonderful. Great color, radiant skin, shining hair, perhaps a pound or two of additional weight, which she needed. Sara had been eating next to nothing before she left and had dropped weight she shouldn't have lost.

She's thriving without me, Grissom thought, and the thought hurt.

Grissom stood, and Sara saw him. She smiled, and his gut hollowed out. She walked straight to him. He held out his hand. She took it and moved close.

"You looked wonderful, Sara," he said.

"Thank you," she said. "You look good, too. But tired."

He shrugged.

She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She let his hand slide out of hers, turned and went into the funeral home. Nick followed. Grissom could see that he had been crying, as well. Nick nodded, acknowledging Grissom's presence, and disappeared inside. Fading relationships were not foremost in Nick's mind on this day.

Grissom trailed behind. The first person he sought out was Catherine. They embraced, and she sobbed into Grissom's shoulder. He stroked her hair and whispered that he would always be available to her and to Lindsay, and if they needed anything, all she had to do was ask. She held on tightly, and he was content to let her lay off her grief on him. He would hold her until she decided to let go.

When Catherine finally turned to Nick, Grissom paid his respects to Warrick's grandmother, his only living relative, and then, with great difficulty, stopped beside Warrick's open casket. The funeral home had put Warrick in a dress shirt and tie, clothes he never wore except to make a court appearance. But they covered up the two bullet holes in his throat. Grissom was thankful for that. He would not have wanted Warrick's grandmother to see the wounds.

Though Grissom had been raised a Roman Catholic, he had left the church as soon as he was old enough to start making decisions for himself. Organized religion, systems requiring great leaps of faith, didn't fit with his scientific mind. He wasn't an atheist by any means. To flatly deny the existence of God was to be as dogmatic as those who insisted without proof that God was real.

He recalled the words of Sir Bertrand Russell, who was asked once what he would say if, when he died, he was confronted by the God whose existence he had denied for so many years. Without hesitation Russell replied, "I would say to him, 'Sir, you did not give me enough evidence.'" Grissom shook his head. It always came down to the evidence, didn't it?

As he looked at Warrick's body, he promised the remains of the troubled young man that his killer would be found, and the crime lab populated with those who loved and admired Warrick would build an iron-tight case against the murderer.

He won't get away from us, Warrick. I promise.

Grissom left the casket and sat in the back of the room, watching the mourners, watching Sara. Brass came and sat beside him

"How're you doing?" Brass asked.

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Couldn't be better," he said with obvious sarcasm. "You?"

"Why don't you come over to the Bellagio with me, see to last-minute arrangements?" Brass said.

Grissom didn't respond. He couldn't take his eyes off Sara.

"Come on, Gil," Brass said. "Stop torturing yourself."

Now Grissom turned to his friend, held his eyes a second, then dropped his chin and nodded, almost imperceptibly. He got up then and followed Brass out the door.