Disclaimer: Not mine. Enough said. Contains ideas from Risky Business Class, Dead Air and Forget Me Not.

Author Notes: Thank you to those who are sticking with this despite all the sadness. Thank You also to delita0204 and my other unnamed guest who I can't reply to any other way – but You Rock! I've had some lovely conversations with readers recently! I love that CSI is encouraging discussion again!

A part of this chapter actually came from another story that I had begun and never finished working on. That one was to have been called Beloved. The rest of this chapter gave me stress!

Apologies for the delay in my newly regular posting schedule - I have been in bed since Friday with Flu.

Home is Where The Coded Notebook Is

By Rianne

Chapter Seven.

Her bare toes curled into the warm sand.

Silky rough granules adjusting under every footfall.

One of her favourite feelings in the world.

Exposed skin bathed in late afternoon sunlight.

There were no restrictions here.

No rules.

An existence built on communing with nature.

It simplified the world, made her understand freedom, calm, and uncomplicated.

Slow waves caressed the land at the edge of the beach.

The soothing sound rhythmic and lulling.

The white silky fabric she wore, rippling and circling around her ankles.

Feminine, delicate, sleek.

She felt beautiful.

Her hair, loose and waving naturally free floated about her face.

Lifted by the warm breeze off the ocean.

Single white flower entwined above her left ear.

Silky, cleaned with real water, not rain water or sea water for the first time in weeks.

The salt and sunlight having lightened strands, giving her curls a halo of golden gleams in the deepening sunset illumination.

The after effects of touches of light which had been long missing from her life before.

And then she saw him.

Waiting for her.

Gil.

Unmoving against the glimmering canvas of aquamarine sea.

Dressed in pale linen.

Feet bare, beard tamed, eyes light.

Her heart surged.

The way he was looking at her.

The love and desire in his eyes.

The freedom, the happiness, the gratitude.

All things she felt.

Blushing in deference to his gaze, but unable to break their connection, as she closed the space between them.

He reached out to capture her trembling hand in his.

Not afraid, just a little overwhelmed.

The rest blurred.

Words from the officiator.

Promises of theirs.

To Love.

To Cherish.

His eyes glittered.

He did.

She did.

The simple gold band fit perfectly.

Glided into place with such ease.

Then he kissed her, lifting her from the sand as a warm wave came in and rushed around his feet making them both laugh and she felt weightless and happy, surrounded by him and everything around them faded away.

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She came back to life.

Slowly.

Became aware of her surroundings.

Slowly.

Mostly aware of the strain on her bladder. The natural twinges drawing her from unnatural sleep.

Growing more urgent.

It was dark behind her eyelids, so night.

Her cheeks were damp.

She brushed them dry with the heel of her hand.

Made her way to the bathroom, only a few steps. Mostly feeling her way.

The pressure off was a relief. Her body shivering from it. Feeling.

There was a reason she didn't want to do that.

Feel.

It was the lurking shadow in her slowly awakening mind.

She avoided it.

Her lips were dry.

Water.

The kitchen wasn't far.

She levered the tap on, filling a glass.

A cold shock to her system, but sucked down desperately.

Leaving her shivering.

In the other way.

She found the bed again, curling back upon herself, the covers back over her head, still retaining some of her body heat.

She opened her eyes beneath them.

The world grey.

A new world.

A very quiet one.

She let her mind wander.

For a moment she imagined him before her.

A slightly hazy combination of memories reformed into a whole.

Blinking back at her calmly with blue eyes sad, and heartfelt.

But it was too much and she covered her eyes with a dry heaving sob.

She just missed him so much.

It was a new world.

A very different one.

A world where her husband had told her over the phone that their marriage was over and she hadn't remembered it.

The beach fluttered across her minds-eye.

Where her marriage was over... and she hadn't been asked.

The way he had looked as he said, 'I do.'

Where it was just over.

A world where nothing made sense.

And there were no tears left to cry.

In the quiet his voice played over and over again in her head.

'You've been hard to get a hold of,'

'This is for the best,'

'It's the right thing.'

He hadn't denied it. Explained it. Anything.

He hadn't even seemed to notice that her heart had exploded right in her chest.

He had felt very far away. Distant. Frustratingly beyond her desperate grasp.

He hadn't tried to comfort her.

And the worst thing was that when she thought of comfort, she thought of nothing more than being in his arms, the way he held her when she cried.

That was what she wanted right now – despite everything – and that hurt more.

She rocked herself slowly, stirring some warmth, some attempt at reassurance.

And her own words echoed inside her emptiness.

'I miss you, I want you here with me,'

'You're a coward,'

'You bastard.'

Words tear-filled and raw.

Angry, hurt, overwhelmed.

Why hadn't she asked him why?

And why hadn't she said the other words?

The weight of the question was heavy in her chest.

For the first time in their married life.

She had not said, 'I love you.'

Every time they had spoken, she had said those words.

And he had returned them.

Would it have made a difference if she had told him?

Would it have destroyed her to not hear them back?

She lay there a long time.

Studying the weave of the cotton.

The way the growing light filtered in through the spaces.

A new day.

She didn't have to go to work.

It was her off shift.

Which was good: no questions.

How was she going to tell them?

Nick and Greg who had barely noticed?

Finn and DB who had been cautiously inquisitive?

Who didn't really know her well enough to push yet, who didn't get that some days she didn't know what to do when someone asked what was wrong, she had grown so used to discretion and secrets.

Even Hodges, how would she tell him, when she was already the bad guy for tempting his Great Gil Grissom from the Lab.

She tightened the arms around her own waist.

Feeling numb, her own arms were no relief.

This was why being off was bad: a lot of time.

To fill.

To think.

About what she was going to do.

How she might fix this?

Fix herself.

She couldn't hide here forever.

But she could for a while.

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She lay there as long as she could stand to be motionless.

Then her limbs began to shift.

The urge to be busy overtaking the melancholy still.

The pill had done its job this time, and hopefully only that.

She had slept at least eight hours straight.

So her memory was her own.

She rose.

Emotionally drained, but physically stronger.

Moving like she wasn't really there.

Responding only; on autopilot.

Showered. Dressed. Clothes just taken out of the drawer, the first things she laid her hands upon. Didn't bother to blow dry her hair.

No make-up. Who did she need that for?

Then she stood and waited. Wondering what to do next.

It was a new day.

But old habits remained.

She was drawn to search out her phone.

That thing, that one lifeline that had connected her life to his.

She touched it, it felt cold.

A lack of contact would be just as devastating as contact.

It was a no win situation.

Her hand faltered.

She did not power it up.

Not yet.

Instead she plugged its charger into the wall. Connected it. Put it back onto her dresser.

Gave it a chance at life.

Just in case.

Then she left it well alone.

Until she was ready.

Instead she picked up the clothing from her bedroom floor, dumping them into the hamper, tore the sheets from the bed, bundled them into the hamper too, motions becoming frenzied when the material tangled or caught. Then she dragged the hamper to the washing machine, the wicker basket scraping along the tiled floor. Filling it up, forcing the fabric inside, before she set it on, physically washing away all trace of the day behind her from the fibres.

She replaced the bedding.

Casting out the bed sheets in a wide wave.

Tightening each corner, tugging them under the weight of the mattress.

Then she tidied.

With intent.

Picked up the items from her bedside table that had been displaced when she had rushed late to work.

Ordered, replaced, neatened.

She hadn't had time to pick up after herself for a few days.

Then she began to clean.

The scent of bleach potent in the air; the rigorous circles she made over every surface leaving no germ un-massacred.

Sides, tables, bathroom, kitchen, floors. Wiped the windows, the appliances, the doors.

Hard steady work which allowed focus.

Made her heart pound with nothing but effort, made her breathing aerobic.

Each room completed in turn, ending with her bedroom.

Until there was nothing left to clean.

Looking cleaner and newer and fresher.

She picked up the little orange bottle from the bedside table.

There was a job left.

One which was a problem.

She had one pill left.

And the idea made her antsy.

Twitchy in ways she didn't like and she couldn't control.

The cracked orange bottle only holding one single remaining quotient of relief.

If she didn't go today, tomorrow she had no option.

And it was only an option.

She was lying. Even to herself.

It wasn't a choice to take them anymore.

It was her only option if she wanted to rest.

To forget for a little while and let her regroup and gather strength.

And suddenly that was more important than anything.

It was the only thing she really had left.

That and work.

And memories.

But calling the Doctor required her phone and she had left it on her bedside table.

Still silent.

Still off.

She approached it like a suspect.

Stared it down.

Then picked it up, pressed the power button and held her breath.

For a couple of moments it went crazy in her palm.

Beeping and vibrating, little lights flashing.

Then it fell silent again.

She'd ring, first, ask for a repeat prescription.

Then she'd look.

The answering voice on the phone was overly breezy and short at the same time. Receptionist tone down pat.

Her voice caught as she gave her name, vocal cords unused for so many hours.

Always her name, never his.

"I'm sorry, but we cannot give refills on that type of medication without an appointment." The singsong voice told her.

She swallowed her retort, hard.

"Alright, then can I make one?"

She sounded aggressive.

This was the right way to not get what she wanted. She couldn't help herself. She suffered no fools today.

Or any day really.

"How is three thirty?"

An hour and a half away. She'd be lucky in this traffic.

She thought about asking for later, but the receptionist had taken on a clipped tone.

She restrained herself again, aware that if she spoke her mind that there would be a mark made on her records, she could see it coming. Verbally Abusive.

"Great."

She disconnected.

It wasn't great.

Now she would need to rush.

And now she would need a reason. A good one. A believable one.

One to explain why she was still taking tablets that had been prescribed years ago.

The other problem was that she would have to go out.

In public.

She looked down at her bleach splattered jeans. Her wholly mismatched top.

She could see her reflection in the now very shiny glass of the framed painting on her wall.

She looked crazy.

Hair wild, clothes rumpled.

Her eyes.

She looked away.

Unable to see that anymore.

A change of clothes, smart jacket, jeans, boots.

Her hair tamed with straightening irons.

Make-up.

That was hard.

Required a real mirror.

She was struck by what she saw there.

She stood motionless a moment.

If she had tears left she would have cried.

But she didn't.

Then she set to work.

The make-up helped little.

But enough.

Then her sunglasses completed the picture.

She knew there had been a good reason to spend money on the expensive ones.

With the blackest lenses.

You couldn't see her eyes now.

A relief.

She grabbed her phone, knowing full well that she hadn't attended to its little notification beeps of distress.

Knowing that it held answers she wasn't ready to hear yet.

It went into her purse.

To be dealt with later.

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Stepping outside was disorienting for a few moments.

The sun was really bright.

The weather unfazed by her heartbreak.

Not a gloomy cloud in the sky.

She drove this time.

Taking control of her life back.

Winding down the driver's side window and letting the warm air roar over her.

The waiting room was quiet, no privacy at all as she checked in for her appointment.

She had to take her glasses off, so kept her eyes averted.

The line of pamphlets across the counter was riveting.

Being amongst other people was harder than she expected. She felt self-conscious and awkward. Aware of herself more painfully than usual.

There was a man behind the desk. Maybe Ms High and Mighty receptionist had gone home for the day or was on break. A relief whatever the reason.

She avoided all eye contact as she waited.

Usually she would check email, or use her phone. As so many people did now during the pauses in their life.

But not today.

Painfully reminded once again that she had not checked it. Not read the messages that had arrived.

Or called him back.

But now was not the place or the time.

Eventually they called her name.

Her name, not his, never used his, except in moments where she was teasing her colleagues.

'Well. Then I won't mention that I'm Mrs. Grissom.'

Was that a reason why? Why this hadn't worked. His mother had certainly been 'vocal' enough about it, telling everyone whom she had introduced her to that she was very modern and had kept her own name. Like it was a bad thing.

She trailed the nurse to the Doctors office.

Feeling anxious and twitchy again.

Afraid they would see right through her lies. She was terrible at deception. Her face too open and expressive.

But it turned out lying was almost too easy.

He wasn't her usual Doctor, but a locum tenens, young and inexperienced, overwhelmed and clearly stressed; he didn't look her in the eye or even ask the right questions.

She told him she was working long hours and it took too long to wind down.

He signed the prescription paper before she had even placed her bag on the ground.

His advice to help her sleep better was to take a little time for herself; to look after herself, relax with a bath, listen to soothing music, or be social, go out with friends, her husband.

She bit back her flinch.

He had seen the ring.

She still wore it.

She said nothing.

Then made awkward by her extended silence he quickly shuffled her out of his office.

And she was free again.

Piece of all important paper in her hand.

The pharmacist reminded her not to take the pills with alcohol.

But in a way that told her that she had spoken those words a thousand times today alone and they had lost all meaning to her.

She paid her money and left, never saying a word. Never committing to anything.

Never removing her sunglasses.

Who cared if she looked crazy?

Her world had turned on its head.

And she had just let it.

It was more than likely that she was.

000000

She stopped at the market on the way back.

Bought things to fill her empty refrigerator.

Little seemed to appeal, so she chose staples.

Milk, bread, fruits, some 'freshly-made' soups.

Her appetite wasn't thrilled by the idea of any of it, but she bought it anyway.

Wandering the aisles, trying to find something.

Basic toiletries, new tube of toothpaste, a shower gel that smelt nice. She chose several bottles of red wine.

Paid, parcelled up, returned to the car, and placed the items in the trunk.

She had turned the radio dial to off.

Opened the window again, listening to the rush of the air past the vehicle, it was times like this when she missed having a faster car, when she wanted to not care so much about the environment and gun the engine so hard she flew.

Her place practically gleamed when she stepped inside.

She killed the alarm.

Relocked.

Tossing her keys and purse onto the table, she carried in the groceries and put them away.

Kicked off her boots she replaced them with the softness of her slippers.

Put a soup in the microwave and watched it spin, letting the scent of warming vegetables tempt her appetite.

When the machine pinged, she carried the bowl over to her comfiest chair.

Settling herself in.

Bowl of soup in one hand, attention focused on the screen before her.

Her phone.

She felt calmer now.

Not necessarily ready, but more prepared.

She curled her legs up under her.

Then balancing the bowl in the curve between her knees, she touched her way to the call list.

Finn had called her once.

DB too.

Then Gil Grissom.

Three times.

All since they had spoken last, whilst she had slept.

There were no answer messages.

Just one text.

From him.

That simply read:

'I will give you time.'

Her stomach was heavy with disappointment.

Time was not what she wanted.

She wanted to talk.

To argue.

To work this out.

For him to have changed his mind.

For him to want to fight for this, for them, for her.

But that was always her role in this relationship.

Always.

She had been the one to encourage and tempt and ask.

She should know better.

Or she could try...

To Be Continued...