Author's note: Well, I'm back! And will hopefully be able to post more regularly now. (Although, ever since Thursday night, I've been curiously afflicted with spontaneous outbreaks of irrepressible grinning…) But first – Wow, thank you to those who reviewed! Your comments and feedback are sincerely appreciated, and I'm thrilled that people are enjoying this story! Especially as I'm pretty much wingin' it, as I write. So advice and suggestions are definitely taken under consideration. I'm sorry that I only have a relatively short chapter to offer, less heavy on the tormented-emotion than the last couple, but the next one will be longer. Promise.

Chapter 10

I wake to the muted amber hues of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the corners of my curtains. Bathed in warmth and light, a sense of tranquility and security that feels as foreign as it does welcome. Mildly disoriented until I recognize my position on my living room couch, safely cocooned in a cotton throw. A quick glance confirms the time: 4:52.

There were no nightmares last night. And no dreams. Only sleep.

Something served to keep both the demons and the dreams at bay, and I sit up, more energized than I've felt in a long time. A long time.

I almost manage to convince myself that the events of yesterday were just another nightmare – An incredibly lucid and detailed nightmare, I readily admit – when I espy a folded slip of paper, propped against a glass of water, resting on my coffeetable. 'Sara' written in a familiar scrawl.

Opening it, with a slight degree of apprehension eclipsed by a larger dose of curiosity, I read:

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In the years that bring the philosophic mind.
-- William Wordsworth (#)

Reading the words aloud, they wash over me in a comforting wave. Of potential. Of hope. Typical Grissom, I think, turning to poetry to articulate what he cannot allow himself to say.

About to set the paper down, I realize that I almost overlooked the postscript:

'Peanut butter and beets? An interesting combination, to be certain, although I believe that jelly is most commonly partnered with the former. But then, you never were "common," Sara. And, as I am particularly partial to chili-flavored mealworms, who am I to complain? – G'

Peanut butter and beets? What the hell was Grissom talking about?

And then, the blood rapidly draining from my face, I remember my surreal shopping experience of yesterday afternoon, of returning with avocados and Worcestershire sauce, with band-aids and beets. My eyes immediately swing to the kitchen counter, where the eclectic assortment of groceries from my excursion still sits, on prominent display.

Oh… Fuck.

Definitely less embarrassing than if I'd left my underwear draped over the armchair – which I hurriedly verify that I hadn't – but humiliating nonetheless. As I pick up the box of cartoon-themed band-aids, I console myself with the thought that Grissom probably has no idea what the hell that yellow, underwear-clad, animated sponge is either.

I head in to the lab early, not out of any masochistic compulsion to exceed my overtime allotment, but because I want to log in the evidence from Mandy's processing. I assume that it's still locked in my kit, which is presumably still locked in Grissom's GMC. Meaning that I'll have to perform some creative breaking-and-entering into his office to retrieve the keys to the vehicle.

I just hope that Ecklie isn't marauding the halls to catch me in the act.

But… Grissom wouldn't leave evidence unattended in his vehicle overnight – Damn, overday? Six years on graveyard, and some clichéd phrases unfailingly filter through. Well, regardless of semantics, he almost certainly toted my kit into the evidence room.

But, when I arrive at the lab, I'm stunned to find that my evidence has already been logged in, the initials GG scrawled after every item, DNA samples sent to Wendy, trace shuttled over to Hodges.

"Sara!"

Startled, I turn abruptly at the sound of Grissom's voice. He's clearly surprised to see me. Surprised, and… admonishing?

Harboring strong suspicions as to the source of his reproach, I placatingly say, "Relax, Grissom. Before you accuse me of sadistically subjecting you to HR hell," referring to his paperwork fiasco of yesterday, due to my excessive overtime, "…I clocked in less than ten minutes ago. Just wanted to get yesterday's evidence from the hospital logged in. Which I see you beat me to. Thanks for that, by the way."

Shrugging off my gratitude, he begins, stuttering awkwardly, "I… stopped by your apartment… to drive you in, but you…"

Hiding my surprise at this display of consideration behind a self-mocking chuckle, I say, "Yeah. It's probably a good thing I wasn't there to let you in."

At the flicker of hurt that fleetingly crosses his face, I hastily clarify, "Because every time you come to my apartment, I end up parading my dirty laundry in front of you, and am reduced to an emotional wreck. Not exactly beneficial to the self-esteem," I dryly conclude.

"Well, how did you get in to the lab?"

"Public transportation. It does exist, Grissom," I add, upon his look of doubtful skepticism. I refrain from mentioning the headache-inducing timetables and the multiple transfers I endured.

"So, you're becoming a convert to the Vegas metro system?"

"Uh… hardly. A one-time thing, no prob. But the first time I have to board a crowded city bus, reeking of decomp…? They'd drop-kick my ass to the curb."

One corner of his mouth quirks upward at this, before his face acquires a more serious mien. I can sense that he has another question for me, and I can infer its subject rather easily, when his cellphone disrupts the conversation. I laugh inwardly, biting my lower lip to curtail the smirk that threatens to break free. That's the story of my relationship with Grissom – any time a significant revelation is forthcoming, technology intrudes.

Actually, I'm grateful for the interruption. Grissom has refrained from bringing up this morning's… encounter again, seemingly content to revert to our status quo of 'no communication' – A major event occurs, I collapse into sobbing emotional ruins, and we never discuss it again.

Our relationship of late, while not completely re-establishing the easy camaraderie or laced with the casually-dropped double entendres typifying my initial years in Vegas, is vastly preferable to the period of stilted animosity that we experienced. So, I'm more than happy to relegate the events of this morning into Non-Discussion Territory.

Putting away his cellphone, Grissom says, "Sara, could I speak with you in my office?"

Apparently Grissom didn't get the non-disclosure memo.

Entering Grissom's sanctuary, I decide to pre-empt his lecture. "Look, this morning, everything was just very… raw. That crime scene was disturbingly… familiar. It evoked some deeply buried memories. But, I'm okay. And, I want to stay on this case."

I add, with a sense of urgency, "I need to stay on this case. I can do it, Grissom."

"I know you can. I had no intention of pulling you off."

Pausing slightly, his eyes not meeting my face, fingers nervously fidgeting with a pen from his desk, he adds, "I trust you, Sara."

My eyes fasten on his, still downcast. I'm positive that his choice of words was not accidental, not from Grissom. Not from the man who probably subjects every syllable that crosses his lips to a dozen filters and censors. Especially when subjectivity or emotionality is involved. I also don't think that I imagined the slight emphasis he placed on 'trust,' and my mind immediately latches on to the reference to this morning's conversation.

My eyes silently, relentlessly, demanding, pleading, for him to raise his gaze. Slowly, haltingly, his eyes slide over to capture mine. But once they do, the hesitancy vanishes. His recently-verbalized trust splayed infinitely more clearly in those pellucid cerulean pools.

Confessions and admissions. Spoken and unspoken. The latter exponentially more revealing than the former. As usual, words only tangle us, ensnare us. Confuse us. Trap us.

I don't quite know what to make of his statement, both the said and the unsaid. I realize that it's a huge admission for Grissom, allowing himself to trust another person. Allowing himself to confess that trust. But simultaneously, I fear to read too much into it. My heart simply can't endure a round of Grissom's emotional tug-of-war right now.

And Grissom somehow seems to sense this, because his gaze loses its penetrating intensity, softening to a gentle entreaty. "Just… let me know, if things get… overwhelming."

And, as I leave his office for the breakroom, I'm left wondering when, exactly, did Grissom become an emotional guru?

(#) Excerpt from the ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, by William Wordsworth.

A/N: So, I'm a big, big fan of continuity. Which means that I might make references to things that I mentioned in passing, several chapters earlier. I like having that thread of connectivity woven through the story. But I also realize that these references might be slightly confusing. So, if things don't make sense, please let me know. And, if you notice any discrepancies, please inform me. As I said, continuity is a good thing. Thanks! And, as always, feedback in general is appreciated!