A/N: Thank you, Jem, for your suggestion. It came at just the right time.

Thank you again to everybody for the wonderful reviews. Keep them and your ideas coming, they make for a better story.

At exactly seven-thirty the following morning, a blast of loud music woke Grissom from his sleep with all the subtlety of a SWAT raid. Jolting awake with a gasp he lifted his plastered arm up in the air and turned onto his back. His heart was racing. Beyoncé's chorus of 'Got me looking so crazy right now,' was abruptly cut short, replaced by a sleepily muttered, "Sorry."

He leaned his head back on the pillow and took a moment to catch his breath, his mind taking him back to the previous evening. As he'd walked Hank round the block and then later laid in bed wide awake he'd thought of nothing else than Warrick's casually thrown 'Have you asked her about it?' Why hadn't he? Why couldn't he just ask her why she'd suddenly begun calling him Gilbert? Was it because he was afraid her answer would hide a more sinister truth?

"Like what?" he asked himself for the umpteenth time, swiftly dismissing the idea with a shake of the head. She was still his Sara, albeit changed, and he would just have to get used to the new her, and stop pining for the past, a past that could be no more. "At least we still have a future together," he said aloud, "That's all that matters."

Still, today he'd ask her. They'd passed the stage of pussyfooting around each other and second-guessing what was in their minds. He'd be casual about it, jokey even, but he would ask her. He needed to know. He needed to know she still felt the same way about him and that calling him 'Gilbert' wasn't her way of distancing herself from him, even subconsciously. There he'd said it. He was afraid of losing her, that the trauma to her brain could have somehow altered what she felt for him. McKay hadn't managed to kill Sara, but he feared that maybe she had succeeded in killing her love for him, taking Sara away from him that way instead.

He pinched his lips and sighing pushed the covers back. Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed, almost stepping over Hank lying there on the rug. He let another long breath, his eyes flicking to the door as he wondered how yet again the boxer had managed to open a door he was sure he'd shut, all on his own. At least this time, he thought with a small smile, he hadn't sneaked his way into his bed and into his arms.

Pulling his robe around him, he stopped by the bathroom, then made his way downstairs to let Hank out and set about making breakfast. He was at the table, his left hand wrapped around a cup of tea, half-way through reading an article about house prices and the economic downturn when Lindsey finally came down. He looked up, wanly smiling his greeting. Still wearing her pyjamas and looking disheveled and sleepy she rubbed at her eyes and took the seat across from him where he'd set a plate with toast and a glass of orange juice for her.

"I'm sorry about the alarm," she said, grabbing a piece of toast and taking a small nibble from it.

"It's okay. I like Beyoncé," he said pleasantly.

Lindsey paused, the piece of toast hanging in mid-air, the look of surprise on her face saying it all.

"Okay," he amended softly, his smile broadening in amusement, "Sara does. I prefer…" he pursed his face, searching for the right words, finally settling for, "older stuff."

"That figures." Before Grissom could ask what she meant by that a frown had appeared on her face. "Where's Hank?" she asked, looking all around her for the boxer.

Grissom's eyes flicked to the back door. "He's in the yard."

Lindsey sighed, her gaze dropping to the table. She took another bite of toast, quickly washing it down with some juice. Then she pulled a face, seemingly debating with herself, hesitating, and Grissom braced himself for what he knew was coming.

Meeting his gaze dead on she said, "You know, there's a nice park down the road he likes to go to. Why don't you take him there? The yard's too small for him."

"I'm taking you to school," Grissom replied matter-of-fact.

"I can always call grandma."

"No. I told her I'd take you if your mother wasn't back."

"She won't be," Lindsey said in a sigh. "She sent me a text, saying she wouldn't make it. That she had a meeting with rat face."

Grissom's brow shot up. "Rat face?"

"Sorry," Lindsey said, not looking contrite in the slightest. She mimed quote marks, adding, "I meant, Lab Director Ecklie. I know he's your boss and everything but he's a jerk. Mom deserved that dayshift supervisor promotion last year."

Grissom couldn't help the amused twitch of his lips; adults words spoken by a child, and obviously overheard. Lindsey's mention of Ecklie and the lab served to remind him though that maybe it was time he thought about going back to work and take some of the load off Catherine.

"Can I ask you something?" she then asked, refocusing his attention.

He had the feeling that even if he said "No" she'd ask anyway. The apple never falls far from the tree, he thought fondly. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he smiled, "Sure."

Briefly flicking her eyes away she took a deep breath. "I heard mom and grandma talk, and they say Hank makes you sad, that he reminds you too much of Sara and the attack, and that's why you don't want him in your room."

That he hadn't expected. Grissom blinked and swallowed, his left hand moving to his face. Lowering it quickly, he took a sip of tea for something to do to hide the sudden piercing pain ripping through him. He thought about rebuking her, but he didn't. Anybody else he would have told to mind their own business. But the young girl's obvious concern for Hank's well-being, the caring and innocent tone in her words pulled at his heart. His eyes on his tea he forced a nod.

"I know he's your dog and everything, and that we can't keep him," Lindsey went on earnestly. "But I don't mind looking after him for you while Sara's in the hospital, you know? Keep him out of your way. I promise to walk him and feed him, not to open your bedroom door so he can sneak in, but please can you not send him away?"

The words took a moment to permeate. "Send him away?" he repeated after a beat, doing a double take as he looked up. "What gave you that idea?"

Lindsey's shoulder rose. "Mom said that-"

"Your mom talks too much."

Lindsey's face scrunched up into a frown. "So you're not going to send him away to a shelter?"

Grissom's smile was very sad, and he shook his head. "I could never do that, Lindsey. He's not just my dog, but Sara's too, and she loves him." He paused, and took a breath. "Hank does make me sad, but I'm sure that with time it'll get better."

Right on cue they heard whimpering coming from outside and after putting her toast down Lindsey went to open the door to let Hank in. Tail wagging animatedly, the boxer pushed his way past, headed straight for his food and water.

Grissom smiled. "You like having a dog around?"

"Yeah," Lindsey said categorically, "But mom says no pets. Well, apart from Hank, of course," she added quickly, "She likes having him around."

"I'm sure," Grissom said, a chuckle escaping despite himself. "I tell you what. Sara's got a busy morning today. So what do you say if after I drop you off at school I take Hank for a long walk?" His eyes flicked to the boxer who was watching the interaction avidly, as if knowing he was the centre of attention, "To one of his favourite places?"

Smiling victoriously, Lindsey turned toward the boxer and winked at him and Grissom could only shake his head at the feeling that he'd been played.

"You think Sara would like me to go visit?" she asked hesitantly, keeping her eyes on Hank.

Taken aback by the unexpectedness of the question Grissom paused, and took a moment before he answered, stalling for time.

"I'd only spend a little time with her," she continued more earnestly, turning toward him. "She must be real bored. I could take my makeup kit with me. Give her a makeover…" A shiver ran through Grissom as images of McKay giving Sara a makeover filled his mind. Bile rose up in his throat and he clenched his eyes shut. "…paint her nails maybe," Lindsey was now saying, totally unaware of his inner turmoil, "do her hair a little, that kind of stuff."

Grissom took a breath, and then another, willing himself to stay calm and not blow at Lindsey. She was just a kid. She didn't know. Besides, he told himself, McKay was dead, so was Martin Wallis, and young Jimmy, well, he was in jail. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

"No," he told Lindsey. The word didn't come out, and he reopened his eyes. Lindsey had stopped talking and was watching his expectantly. "No," he said again, forcing the words out. "I don't think Sara would like that."

Lindsey's face dropped. "Oh," she said in a whisper, her disappointment evident.

Realising his gaffe Grissom said, softening his tone, "I meant that I'm sure Sara would like for you to visit, but not yet. You know Lindsey, Sara's not the same as before." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "She tires easily."

"I know. I just thought that-"

Grissom sighed. "The makeover's not a good idea," he said quietly, mustering a small comforting smile. "It's not her thing at all, you know?"

"Oh. Okay. It's just that I heard mom tell grandma that-" Lindsey paused mid-sentence, visibly realising this time that what she'd overheard wasn't to be repeated. "It's okay."

"I tell you what," he said, relenting at the teenager's overwhelming disappointment. He pushed to his feet. "Let's give Sara another week or two to get used to her new routine and then we'll ask her how she feels about you visiting. How does that sound?"

A bright smile broke across Lindsey's face. "Awesome."

"Good," Grissom said, his smile widening at the overused adjective. "Now you'd better finish breakfast and get ready, or we'll be late, and I don't want your mother on my back any more than she is now."

Lindsey laughed. "You and me both."

By the time he got to Torrey Pines it was past two pm. On the spur of the moment he'd decided to take Hank out to Lake Mead, regretting his decision almost as soon as he'd gotten there. Too many memories of happier times, most of them spent with Sara. Still, they'd had a walk on the beach, taken a rest on a spit of boulders jetting out into the lake before they'd headed back. Next time he'd come, he'd decided, next timethey'd come, Sara would be with them.

"Mr Grissom," the front desk clerk greeted as Grissom signed the visitor's book to be handed his pass, "I'm afraid they're running a little late with Sara's physical therapy."

"Anything I should be aware of?" he asked pleasantly.

After a brief hesitation the clerk flashed him a smile, saying, "Dr Williamson asked to be told as soon as you got here. He can explain everything to you."

"Is Sara okay?" he asked, alarm creeping into his voice. He rubbed a weary hand down his face.

"She is," the clerk said positively. Quickly reaching for the phone, she brought it to her ear and pressed a couple of keys. "Let me see if Dr Williamson's in his office."

Grissom let out a long breath, all kinds of scenarios of what could have happened flashing through his brain. After a brief telephone exchange the clerk directed him to the doctor's office. The door was open and Dr Williamson looked up as soon as Grissom got there.

"Mr Grissom," he said, closing the open file on his desk as he got to his feet. Smiling he walked round the desk and opened out a hand. "Come in and take a seat."

Grissom gingerly stepped into the office, closing the door after him. "Is Sara okay?" he asked again.

"She is, yes. I believe the physical therapist is with her now."

Taking a seat across from the doctor, Grissom gave a nod. "The desk clerk implied that-"

Dr Williamson's hand lifted, interrupting Grissom. "Sara didn't have a good night," he said quietly, kindly, "and I'm afraid we had to sedate her. Hence now she's running late with her morning programme."

"What happened?"

The doctor took a breath. "According to the nursing staff on shift last night Sara woke up distressed, crying and screaming. We think she had a nightmare, or maybe a night terror."

Grissom's hand moved to his face. The thought that Sara had had to go through this ordeal on her own broke his heart. "Do you know what triggered it?"

"No, and Sara won't talk about it to any of the staff."

"Could she have remembered the attack, maybe?"

Dr Williamson's shoulder rose in ambivalence. "It's possible, but when I asked her about it she just clammed up. I was going to wait until tonight to have a chat to her again."

"Why wasn't I called?"

Dr Williamson smiled. "We can't be calling you every time something happens. Sara and the staff need to learn to work together and trust each other. I would have called if we hadn't been able to calm Sara, but we did."

"Yeah, by giving her a sedative."

"A mild one."

Grissom nodded. "You know, with the work we do, we've seen our fair share of…trauma, and Sara's always taken it to heart. What I'm trying to say is that…well, Sara's always had nightmares for as long I've known her. Not recently, though."

"I'll make a note of it, but again it is not uncommon with the type of injuries Sara sustained to-"

"I know," he cut in with a sigh. "I know." He refocused his attention on the doctor and gave him a sad smile. "Could you call me next time something like that happens? Just to let me know? I don't have to come down to the centre if you don't feel it necessary, but I would like to know. You see, I drove out to Lake Mead this morning with Hank when I could have come and seen Sara, even if briefly. I could have reassured her."

Dr Williamson nodded his head in understanding. "I'll make sure you get told, but we don't want you coming down every time." His shoulder lifted, his face taking on a serious expression. "It would only undermine what the staff is trying to do with Sara."

"I understand that."

The doctor glanced down, hesitating. "I wasn't aware you had a son."

"A son?" Grissom repeated with surprise.

"Hank?"

"Oh," he said in a small chuckle. "No, Hank's our dog." His expression turned wistful. "He…he misses Sara, and Sara misses him."

"Well, why don't you bring him in?"

Grissom's brow shot up. "I could?"

"Sure," Dr Williamson replied easily, "As long as his vaccinations are all up to date, of course. We have dogs come in all the time. They help patients with their therapies. 'Pet therapies' we call them." Grissom's face pursed with interest. "There are a number of organisations that train and register dogs and their owners," the doctor went on. "At Torrey Pines we use a local branch of Therapy Dogs Inc. It might be as simple as a patient petting and stroking the animals. Some patients might wish to brush the dog or to just look at the dog. If the dog is small enough, with permission, people can hold them in their laps or the dog can be carefully placed on the bed. These activities, including walking alongside the dog and owner and throwing toys for fetching games, provide therapeutic contact."

"I didn't know such scheme existed," Grissom mused.

The doctor got up, walked to a book shelf on the far wall and pulled out a brochure, which he held out to Grissom. "There's a local number on the front you can call if you're interested."

Grissom took the Therapy Dogs Inc. brochure and began flicking through it, a smile forming on his lips as he came across the picture of a teenage boy with Down Syndrome holding a fluffy Bichon Frise and grinning with delight at the camera.

"Obviously for insurance purposes," Dr Williamson was now saying, and Grissom looked up, "only Sara could have contact with Hank, and you'd have to be present at all times and responsible for the dog."

Grissom got to his feet. "I'll think about it. I'm not sure seeing Hank is the best thing for Sara yet."

"That's entirely up to you," the doctor said easily.

Nodding, Grissom moved toward the door. "Thank you," he said, lifting the brochure. "I'll go and see Sara now. Maybe she'll talk to me."