Title: SOS
Author: wobbear
Rating: General/K
Pairing: Grissom/Sara
Disclaimer: CSI and its characters aren't mine; the story is.
Author's note: If this fic is anything to go by, next summer I'll write one based in the Colorado Rockies. A tiny chunk of this may remind you of a recent drabble of mine. Renewed thanks to the wonderful smacky30 for beta reading.

Summary: Sara sidles away and Grissom is left in dismay. What happens next? GSR

Chapter 4

The sun was sinking into the streaky stratus clouds that hugged the horizon. Ephemeral strokes of red, pink, purple and gold painted the sky as Sara checked the time. It was hard to believe she had been on the beach for three hours.

Much of that time she had slowly trailed along the hard wet sand one eye on the outgoing tide looking for rogue encroaching waves, the other watching for interesting shells. All the while her thoughts had been wandering through the past, recalling recent months and going way back to school days in Tomales Elementary School.

It was time to go. She stood up, brushing sand from her jeans, and turned back the way she had come.

It was at least a mile back to the Muni stop at Ocean Beach. The setting sun spread Sara's fantastically long shadow on the sand dunes; it kept her company as, cold and weary, she trudged alongside the waves. She glanced up occasionally at the darkening sky, marveling at how the colors changed from one second to the next. The sound of the sea filled her head as the rising wind whipped her hair across her face.

xxxxxxx

Another night, another crime scene. And his knees were protesting again. Grissom was crouching in a bath tub, dusting for prints and wondering why he hadn't gotten Greg to do it. Even as that thought ran through his mind, Grissom remembered that he had instructed Greg to search through the trash cans. He had spotted suspicious blood drops on the white plastic swing top bin in the kitchen, and outside the back door were three overflowing malodorous trash cans full of … who knows what. Greg would find out.

Graveyard had gotten called in early because swing shift had been decimated by the flu. Grissom's cynical theory was that most of them actually had heavy colds, but preferred to self-diagnose the more serious malady. Whichever it was, those CSIs weren't at work, and he had been dragged out of bed before his usual wake-up time. That wasn't unusual, but today it grated more than it normally did.

Grissom sighed. Giving himself the bathroom to process had seemed like a good idea at the time. The lesser of two evils. He may have been wrong. And now he had a cramp in his hip. Clamping the handle of the fingerprint brush between his teeth, he carefully positioned his hands one on either side of the bath. He flexed tentatively, to see if he had sufficient leverage to stand up.

Nope.

He hadn't been getting enough exercise recently, not since …

This was ridiculous. Fleetingly he thought of calling Greg in to help him out of the tub, before dismissing the idea. He wasn't sure what would be worse; the sheer ignominy, or seeing Greg's concern at his supervisor's incapacity. For a moment, just a moment, Grissom was furious with Sara. If she hadn't left, she would still be making him use the elliptical trainer, nudging him to do the weights every day, and he would be able to get out of this predicament without assistance.

As quickly as it had flared, the flame of rage died down and he stopped his silent rant. Shaking those pathetic thoughts out of his head and forcing his mind back to the present, Grissom looked around the bathroom.

For a house so dirty, a startling amount of Clorox had been used in this room in recent times. Everything he'd dusted came up with the swirl marks of an assiduous—and thus safely anonymous—wiping. Scanning the bath under UV light he had been almost blinded by the fluorescing signs of bleach.

He lifted his head and spotted the grab bar attached to the wall above the tub. Despite a thorough coating of Red Creeper, he'd found no usable prints there either. Grissom reached up with one hand, wincing as he squirmed awkwardly past the dagger of pain in his hip. Shoving mightily against the rim of the bath with his other hand, he hauled himself to his feet. He knocked his elbow on the tiled wall on the way up, but at last he was standing. Still in the bath, but it was progress.

He was still standing there, rubbing his arm, when Greg came back inside. "Grissom?"

"Y—" He cleared his throat, wondering why it felt so scratchy. "Yeah, Greg?"

"There's so much trash, I think we need to take the cans back to the lab, sift through it in the garage."

"Uh, okay, call for a truck. Don't want to transport that stench with us. I'm about finished here; we can work the other rooms together."

As Greg turned away, pressing buttons on his cell phone, Grissom's own device warbled. It was the sound he'd assigned to text messages.

Grissom contemplated ignoring the message for now. The two most likely communicants were Hodges and the Under Sheriff, both of whom could wait. But they wouldn't go away. He sighed. Might as well get it over with. He peered at the glowing display.

A smile brightened his face. He clambered out of the tub and sat on the edge.

xxxxxxx

As she came off the beach, Sara saw an N-line streetcar leaving the Judah Street terminus and readily diverted her steps over to the Java Beach Café. The Metro service was frequent; she could catch a later one.

Hunkered down at a small inside table, Sara cupped her hands around her jumbo-sized hot chocolate, wishing she could do the same with her feet. They still felt semi-frozen. And gritty. The whole sand-between-the-toes thing lost its appeal once you were off the beach. She had toyed with the idea of doing contortions over the restroom sink to rinse them off until she decided that paper towels wouldn't dry her skin properly and she didn't want to sacrifice her last clean(ish) handkerchief. So she'd wiped off as much of the sand as she could before putting her socks and sneakers back on, but that irritating grainy feeling would be with her until she got back to her temporary home.

Anyway, the hot chocolate was hitting the spot. Memories surged of Gil's strong warm hands massaging her feet. Floating away for a moment on remembered bliss she soon drifted back to thinking about life with Gil.

Their approaches, their habits, were so different. Where Sara would rummage feverishly through drawers searching for the only top she could consider wearing that day, Gil would calmly take dark shirt #3 off its hanger and slip it on.

He had remarked once how intriguing he found it that she could be so painstaking and attentive to detail professionally and so disorganized in private. He wasn't being judgmental; it was merely an interested observation. Ever the scientist, thought Sara.

"It's an illusion of chaos. Underneath I'm totally organized," she insisted.

He pursed his lips in a silent 'if you say so', humor sparkling in his eyes. He tilted his head, waiting for the segue.

Sure enough, Sara's eyes darted around once more and she grinned guiltily as she wondered out loud, "Now, where are my sunglasses?"

"Try the kitchen counter." He was shaking his head and smiling back at her.

"See, I don't need to be organized. I have you." A big smile accompanied that.

He thrust out an arm as Sara hurried by, capturing her, tugging her close and gathering her into his chest. "Yes, you do." After nuzzling her neck he whispered in her ear, "And I thank my lucky star every day, even as you run rampant searching, that I have you."

xxxxxxx

Sara smiled at that memory. She felt tears rising again, but they were happier tears now. Then she realized it was about that time of the month. Hormones sure had a lot to answer for. She retrieved her handkerchief and dried her eyes.

Gradually she felt the blood returning to her extremities, and some of her tiredness lifted as the sugar and chocolate worked their magic. She rose briefly to snag a copy of the Chronicle from the table next door. Flicking through the pages, she read a word here, a phrase there. The world was still out there, but she felt strangely detached from it. She was getting in touch with herself, feeling more at ease in her own skin, and that was what mattered. The world would still be there when she was ready for it.

But there was someone out there she needed to get in touch with, and soon. She had been procrastinating long enough.

Yes, it was time.

Tomorrow she would take the first step.

Anticipation battled with apprehension as she let her decision sink in. Then she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and looked back at the newspaper. Turning over the next page, she spotted the Sunday crossword. A previous reader had made a start on the puzzle, but not gotten very far. She scanned the clues, wondering if she could be bothered. After a moment she shrugged, and dug in her bag for a pen. It wasn't like she had any plans for tonight.

She made reasonable progress. It was a straightforward crossword, which she appreciated. Her brain wasn't up to the challenge of a cryptic puzzle right now.

59 across. Four letters. She paused. She should know that. Staring at the blank boxes inspired nothing. But she knew someone who could help. It was early evening, he would probably be awake. She fished out her cell.

Deftly she thumbed a message. "Sign of surrender. 4 letters. Insect wings."

As she set the phone on the table she glanced at the screen. 6:53 pm, Monday 31 March 2008. Monday, not Sunday. So the paper was a day old, and she was out of touch. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but stored the question for another time and turned back to the black and white grid.

xxxxxxx

The reply came quickly. "Simple one, Sara. ALAE"

Grinning broadly, she sent back "scientific oracle speaks".

Grissom burst out laughing. It wasn't that funny, but he sorely needed some levity. He hadn't laughed in so long and the tension release was marvelous.

Greg, lugging his kit into the house, wondered if he were hearing things.

"Sara outshines stars". Grissom smiled as he pressed the "send" button. This was getting silly. It was way past silly, in fact. Downright absurd was more like it. But it was fun, and they both needed some fun in their lives.

She'd been thinking about him so much today, suddenly she knew she had to speak to him. Forget the SOS messages. Sara shot off, "Time to talk?"

"Gimme 5. Will call u."

Sara looked at that. Gil using abbreviations, almost text speak, meant his time was limited. She shrugged; she would take what she could get. She wrote in the answer to 59 across and started looking at the transecting down clues. Maybe the just added letters would help her get a few more answers.

Sara smirked at the puzzle as she read the clues. Gil's crossword discipline was very different from her own. Really, she had no discipline at all. She used a scattergun approach, skimming the clues and waiting for one to jump out at her. He methodically worked through all the across clues, crossing off the number when he got the answer, moving onto the next if not. After that it was every down clue in order. Only then would he allow himself to go back and cherry-pick clues for further contemplation, scanning for the places where a few letters had been inserted.

xxxxxxx

Grissom tidied the fingerprint equipment back into his kit, then left the bathroom to find Greg screwing up his nose at the unsavory dishes in the kitchen sink. Gesturing towards the front door with his cell phone in hand, he said, "I need a break—I'll be outside for a few minutes."

Greg sighed at the sight before him, tugged on a new pair of gloves, and distractedly tossed over his shoulder, "Sure thing, Grissom."

A few moments later Greg grunted in annoyance. How could he be out of evidence bindles? Grissom would have some, but he didn't want to rifle through that meticulously organized kit and risk messing it up. He knew there were plenty in the back of the truck. Plus he could do with some more gloves.

Greg muttered "supplies" as he passed the officer stationed at the door, then glanced over to his right. Grissom was leaning against the patchy stucco wall of the house which was their crime scene, left leg bent so his foot was flat against the wall. Head tilted into his right hand, he was talking on his cell phone. The low voice and relaxed shoulders told Greg that it wasn't a work-related call. That was unusual in itself, and the distinct giggle that floated Greg's way on the evening air was downright weird. Grissom giggles? Maybe it was a chuckle. Whatever, it was weird.

Greg raised his eyebrows and grinned privately. He hoped he was right. Question: was he brave (or stupid) enough to ask Grissom, try to find out for sure? He pondered that as he rummaged in the cargo area of the Denali. The box containing latex gloves, size M, was proving elusive.

xxxxxxx

"I've been walking on Ocean Bea—"

"And you have cold sandy feet," Grissom finished.

There was a pause as Sara took the phone away from her ear and stared at it. She looked around her suspiciously. Did he have her under surveillance? She pictured Grissom arranging webcams all over the Bay area to keep an eye on her. Okay, that was ridiculous, but how …?

"C'mon, you said you always walk barefoot on the wet sand, and the air temperature can't be more than the high 50s."

Oh. Yeah.

He was right on both counts. She shrugged away her slight paranoia and admitted, "I forgot that I told you about my beach walking."

"Mmmm." He pictured long-legged Sara striding on the sand then dragged his attention back to the phone call. "Any seagull attacks?" he asked, striving for a tone of innocent inquiry.

"There was a dog chasing some, if that's what you mean." Her confusion came through. "Bruno would've loved it."

"Ah, no. I was thinking about the Sausalito ferry." He chuckled, remembering. She had been so indignant, claiming that the gull had targeted her. "Did you get 'hit on' by any birds?"

"Why do you insist on finding that so amusing?" Sara was still annoyed at that seagull. The shoulder of her favorite jacket, her hair! She shuddered.

Grissom scratched his new beard and patiently explained, not for the first time, "I don't think it's funny you got guano'd. That you feel the bird made a beeline for you, and did it because he knew it would piss you off…that I find amusing. It's a BIRD, honey. The phrase 'bird brain' exists for a reason."

"Yeah, well," Sara grumbled. "You know logical answers aren't always satisfying."

Grissom smirked into the early evening air. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. "So … need any more help with the crossword?"

"Eh …" Sara glanced over the remaining clues. "Nothing else buggy that I can see."

She heard Grissom coughing lightly, and rushed to add, "I know your general knowledge is vast, and not limited to small arthropods, but I'm doing okay with the rest. Thank you." Sara heard what sounded like a car door slamming and frowned. "Wait, where are you? I thought you'd be at home."

"Yeah," Grissom sighed and looked at his watch. "It's approaching my breakfast time, isn't it? Swing shift has 'the flu', and we got called in to cover. I'm at a scene, but … let's just say I needed some fresh air. Greg's--" His voice trailed off as he watched Greg go back into the house.

"Greg's what? Annoying you?"

"No, no. He's working the scene. Just got some supplies from the truck. He's—" Grissom wrinkled his brow as he wondered how to phrase it. "He's been very helpful recently. A bit quiet. I think … I know … he misses you."

Sara didn't know how to respond. She felt her lip quivering and clenched her fist. A hormonal outburst was the last thing she wanted.

Grissom hadn't meant to say that. It just slipped out. He had to say something else. Keep it light. "See, he thinks that if you were here I'd put you on trash trawling duty instead of him, to demonstrate that I'm not playing favorites."

"Yeah, you'd do that too." Sara's voice was warm with her unseen smile. She felt steadier now. "Look, I don't want to keep you from work, but I wanted to tell you something."

"I'm here."

"I've decided to give her a call. You know who. Tomorrow. To see … what happens."

Grissom squeezed his eyes tightly closed as he tried to contain his surprise. He'd been trying, very gently, to encourage this for … how long? A very long time. It was a big thing. Huge. Which meant that now was the time to downplay it. Sara's announcement was momentous. He knew that she would follow through. She didn't need to feel any added pressure from him. "That's good news, honey. I'm pleased."

"Yeah." She knew he was holding back, and appreciated it. She couldn't handle more emotion right now. "Hey, I'll call or text you after. To tell you how it went."

"Okay … Okay. That's good. Uh, I should probably—"

"Get back to work. Go. I'll call. Love you."

He was about to reply when he realized she had gone. He checked the screen and nodded—that was very Sara. He closed the phone, stuffing it into his pocket as he headed back into the crime scene.

TBC