"She better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself."

-Charles Dickens, Barnaby Rudge.


Sara wasn't sure how long she spent on the floor by his side watching him, waiting for something to happen. Part of her wanted him to wake so they could talk, the other part wanted to prolong the moment when she would be told the truth. Hank snored on in his basket at the foot of the bed, unsuspecting, while her mind reeled, busy putting together all the tiny pieces of the complicated puzzle Grissom had posed her.

She felt drained and listless, and hungry too. Her stomach gave a loud rumble that had her push up to her feet. Reluctant to leave, she gazed at him a moment longer before pulling herself away. She shut the door quietly and stood in the dark hallway with her hand on the handle, unsure of what to do next. She wouldn't leave the apartment, that much was sure; she couldn't leave him, not when he was so vulnerable. She would just have to face him in the morning, come what may.

She kicked off her shoes next to his by the coat rack and padded barefoot to the kitchen, automatically turning the less intrusive cooker hood light on. She found eggs and cheese, and a few slightly shrivelled mushrooms, and cooked an omelette that she soon devoured. The time on the wall clock read eleven twenty pm. So early still, she mused.

Another time they might just be returning from a night out, a nice meal followed by a leisurely walk along the river. They used to do that a lot. Paris was so beautiful by night, she remembered, its monuments illuminated with millions of lights reflected on the dancing waters of the Seine. She shook herself out of her melancholy and needing to keep busy set about tidying up the kitchen. All the while, her eyes kept being drawn to the boxes of medication neatly piled up by the fruit bowl.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she picked up the top one, read the name and sighed. Giving the doorway a wary glance she opened the box, pulled out the notice and a strip of tablets that was almost empty, and began to try to decipher the French. Something to do with aiding digestion, she believed. The next box was more of the same, and the one below she soon discovered contained loperamide – an opiod drug used against diarrhoea.

It was another piece to add to the rest of the puzzle and it got the cogs in Sara's mind turning. Lost in thought, she broke a banana off the bunch in the bowl, peeled it and headed next door. In the dark she opened both living room windows, throwing the shutters wide. Evening air rushed in, cooling her flushed face. Street lights shone in, casting the room in soft shadows, reflecting her subdued mood. All was calm and quiet outside, except for the occasional sounds of passing traffic near and far. Birds twittered in the distance, seemingly calling to each other.

Sara absently ate the banana while staring out of the window, her mind drifting back to her encounter with Francine. The other woman had been so candid about her disease and the circumstances surrounding her meeting Grissom. Not long, she had said, a few months when she had been told more bad news. She and Grissom had to have met at the hospital, Sara figured. Where else would Grissom have struck up such an unlikely friendship so quickly? How long had he been hiding he was ill, she wondered? Had he known when he broke up with her? Could that explain why he hadn't fought to save their marriage at all?

She tried to cast her mind back to when they had last spent time together – physically together and not just over the phone. October, the previous fall, or was it September? She had trouble remembering exactly when it was, and that made her sad. But near enough ten months, she figured, ten long months that they had lost and would never get back. How could she have left it so long? They'd arranged that he'd come home for Christmas, but he had cancelled at the last minute. He'd picked up a bug, he'd claimed. She looked up, her gaze refocusing suddenly, her head shaking in disbelief. Had he known as far back as Christmas that something was wrong with him?

Anger flared up within her, anger and affront in equal measure. How dare he hide something as important and life-changing as an illness from her? And why, she questioned? Why would he choose to do that? Why cut himself off like that? Why deliberately choose to face all the pain and worry alone? Her eyes welled with tears, and she shuddered, her lips pinching tightly to silence her sobs. They were husband and wife for goodness' sake. They were meant to share everything together. They'd promised to love each other for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. Didn't those vows mean anything to him?

His voice filled her head, his quietly-spoken words echoing hauntingly. "We want different things out of life. You're young and vibrant, with a whole future in front of you, a career. You've made a life for yourself in Vegas – a new life, a good life." He'd said he wanted to set her free, and now she understood what he'd meant by that. Her anger redoubled, taking her breath away.

"Bastard," she muttered, angrily wiping at her tears, "you selfish bastard. How dare you make that choice for me?" All that time lost, she kept thinking, and she'd suspected nothing, months when she could have been by his side, loving him, helping him through his ordeal. How would he feel if the shoe were on the other foot? She stormed out of the room, ready to shake him awake and demand an explanation.

She made it as far as the bedroom door before she faltered. As quickly as it had flared her anger evaporated, leaving her suddenly lost and powerless. More tears spilled, but they were tears of sorrow now. Quietly, she cracked the door open and peered in, checking on him. He hadn't moved one inch, still facing on his side toward her with the covers pulled to his neck. He never slept this soundly normally, she thought with sadness. She pushed the door a little wider and stepped a little closer so she could see his face, see that he was still breathing. And he was.

It occurred to her then that when Francine had been at the church earlier, she hadn't been praying for herself, but for Grissom. And as she watched him in the dark and quiet she could no longer repress the thought: Cancer. He had cancer. The word echoed around in her head, and she scrunched her eyes shut at the searing pain it evoked. What else could it be?

Before she could think further, grief welled up inside her and she only just made it to the bathroom before she was violently sick. When she felt she had no more to bring up she pulled herself up off the floor and rinsed her mouth and face. A fresh wave of despair descended upon her, but she tried her hardest to push it away. She must keep strong and not jump to conclusions.

Don't immediately assume the worst, she told herself, cancer needn't be terminal or fatal. It had to be in its early stages. Most cancers were, if not resectable, treatable these days and with high success rates. Newer treatments were being developed every day, and improvements were being made among many standard treatment methods, she knew that. But in her heart of hearts she knew it had to be bad for him to deliberately resort to such extreme methods to hide it from her.

She wiped at her tears, pulled the cord on the razor light above the sink and stared at her pallid reflection in the mirror. This wasn't about her, or about what she was feeling. This was about him, and about this ordeal he'd been going through alone. He needed her to be strong. Not fall apart at the seams. What use would she be to him then? He needed her to be there for him. Her gaze averted shamefully as she was filled with guilt. For far too long she hadn't been there for him. Yes, she had a good life in Vegas, a job that fulfilled her and friends, good friends. But her life in Vegas wasn't complete when he wasn't there.

Exhausted, she returned to the living room, settling herself on the couch, absently massaging her feet and ankles. Morning seemed a long way off still. She repressed a shiver, and then another, and got up to shut the windows. His old navy Hope Athletics sweater was lying on the arm of the chair and instinctively she picked it up to put on. She brought it to her face and took a deep breath of it, filling herself with his scent. She slipped it on over her dress and closing her eyes wrapped her arms around herself, finding a little comfort in that simple gesture.

On the coffee table was his iPad, and she stared at it for a moment. Surely, there would be no harm in checking his browser history, especially if it held the key to knowing exactly what was wrong with him. He needn't know she had. That way she could prepare herself, so that when he did tell her she was strong for him and ready. Her gaze flicking over to the doorway she picked up the iPad, lifted the leather cover off it and switched it on.

Enter password.

Letting out a long sigh, she began typing, trying out every word and its permutation that came to her mind, his name, hers, his parents' and Hank's, even going as far as typing in Francine and random Latin insect names she'd picked up over the years. All without success, and frustratingly she had to conceded defeat. Facing a long wait until morning, she settled herself onto the couch in as comfortable a position as she could manage in the circumstance.

But she tossed and turned restlessly, all the while checking the time, her thoughts churning. She thought back to her own ordeal, a whole night and a day spent in the desert trying to find her way home. And she had found it – or rather it had found her – before she had lost it again. Not this time. She got up from the couch, sore and tense, stretched the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and finally when she couldn't stand it any longer she went to bed.

He was still lying on his side, facing toward the door. Noiselessly, she padded to her side of the bed, got undressed and as quietly as she could pulled the top drawer on the chest of drawers for the night clothes she'd left behind. Then, she slipped under the covers next to him. For a moment she lay completely still on her back, staring at the darkened ceiling as she listened to his quiet and measured breathing. She didn't dare come too close, lest she disturbed him.

Out of the blue he began to stir. With a mumble he turned onto his back and then fully round so he faced toward her. Sara froze, hardly daring to breathe as she waited on tenterhooks for the moment when his eyes would open and he found her there. They didn't. He just stirred again, bringing one hand up as he buried his head deeper into his pillow. Sara was releasing a quiet breath when he moved again, settling himself closer to her.

Sara daren't move, not for a long moment, not until she was absolutely sure he was once again sound asleep. Her eyes felt tired and heavy, and she stopped fighting to stay awake. Instinctively, she turned onto her side, draping her arm over his midriff. Her head gravitated toward his shoulder, inching closer and closer until she could smell his familiar scent. She took in a deep breath, filling herself with the memories of him, of them together. She didn't notice the tears that fell from her eyes. By the time she fell into an exhausted sleep the first rays of daylight were just beginning to filter into the room, bringing a little warmth with them.

"Sara." His voice was quiet and soothing, a dreamlike whisper to her ear. Feather-light fingertips brushed against her face, tracing over her eyes, the ridge of her nose to the curve of her lips. She shivered and let out a soft moan of pleasure. His lips were wet and warm as they took over, slowly rekindling a dormant fire.

Her eyes sprang open, immediately locking to his. He was propped up on an elbow, watching her in the dawn light. His expression was solemn, a little guarded even, hesitant. He smiled at her then, a soft, ethereal smile. His hand came up to her face and pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes ever so slowly, ever so tenderly. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip nervously.

"Are you back then?" his eyes asked when he faltered with the spoken words, "Back for good?"

There was so much love, so much tenderness in his gaze that tears came to her eyes. All her worries, all her fears melted away, and it was just them in that one moment. She smiled up at him, then reached up with her hand toward him and kissed him. His lips parted, warm, welcoming and tasting of home, the kiss quickly becoming more urgent and passionate. Her eyes were closed, and for the first time in months she felt totally relaxed, her senses reawakened.

Yes, she thought, I am back. Back home, at last.

Sara woke with a start to the loud beeping of a car horn. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Sitting bolt upright she ran her hands over her face and scanned her eyes over the bedroom, briefly wondering what she was doing there before it all flooded back. Grissom's side of the bed was empty, and when she felt her hand under the covers there was some residual warmth there. She listened for signs that he was around, but the apartment was silent.

She could tell it was light outside, but she had no idea what time it was. She frowned, her head whipping toward the window suddenly, before she scrambled out of bed. Could Francine be there? She flung the widow and shutters open and leaned out over the wrought iron railing, just in time to see Grissom emerge out of the building and climb into the back of an awaiting taxicab.

She stared out, watching as the cab pulled off the curb and disappeared down the road in a cloud of diesel fumes. Her hand came up to her mouth, her fingers dreamily brushing over it. A slow smile of bewilderment spread across her face. She could still feel his hands on her body and taste his lips on hers. It all felt so very real, her body still tingling from the aftereffect of her dream.

There was a note on the bedside table, and she swallowed. She clambered over the mattress, reaching for it, and sat cross-legged on the bed to read it. His wedding ring glinted on her finger in the morning sunlight, and she kept it on for strength, or good luck, she wasn't sure.

Sara, there is breakfast stuff in the kitchen, she read. We seem to be out of eggs, though. You know anything about that?

A slow smile of disbelief spread over her face at the lightness of his tone. What had happened to the man that only yesterday wanted nothing to do with her anymore?

I'm sorry about missing dinner last night. Will a birthday lunch do instead? Today, one pm, at the brasserie on the Place de la Sorbonne. I will be there. P.S: Hank needs to pee.