A/N: After a few requests, we wrote a final chapter from Grissom's point of view. Here it is...

How Do You Mend A Broken Heart?

Chapter 11

Gil Grissom had a stack of papers in front of him—applications—more money than he had ever thought possible had been awarded the university for a long-term environmental study. And he was the project leader which meant he would select people to work with him.

But he wasn't concentrating on the applications; his mind and eyes were following three people in his own back yard. Pushing his dark glasses up to the bridge of his nose, he watched.

His mother was getting frail but that did not keep her from doing what she wanted to do. His wife, he smiled; the most amazing, beautiful, and compassionate person in his world, was on her knees digging in her garden. And the reason for both women's easy laughter was Rosemary—almost a year old, chattering non-stop, running from one to another—as she 'helped' with planting cool-weather vegetables.

His eyes clouded with wide-ranging emotions as he watched—an every day event he had almost missed—and he remembered…

Even in a stupor caused by too much unfamiliar pisco followed by whisky, he knew he had betrayed his wife. He had gotten drunk and, in an indiscreet and careless moment, had followed a woman to bed. It had been quick and impulsive, and the pleasure had been intense and immediately regretted.

What would he tell Sara? He could not suddenly spring it on her—'I slept with another woman'. Would she want to know? It would mean talking—really talking to Sara—not by phone, but in person. All he could think about was how much sadness he would cause her.

The guilt was his; Sharon Blackman had laughed, made a joke about waking up her libido once every three years, and had gone to tell the others goodbye.

He sent a plant. And told Sara he was not coming home, hearing sadness in her voice when she asked when he'd be able to come home. But she was also excited—for him, for his work.

The guilt stayed with him—months passed and he still had such regret; loneliness was pervasive, made worse each time he talked to Sara. He postponed going to Vegas, unable to face her, not yet. Each time they talked, it was about his work, about her work, making vague remarks about seeing her. Every conversation pained to the point that his ability to converse faded to mumbled words before ending. He worked until exhausted, trying to forget that night, forget the betrayal, forget everything but the discovery of another insect.

Finally, he agreed to a compromise—Sara wanted to come to Lima. They would talk—he would make the decision—not sure if he could tell her about that night—there had been other things they had not spoken about and Sara accepted that as part of their life together. Perhaps his failure, his mistake, did not have to become part of their marriage.

And then his worst fear—no, not fear, because he had closed his indiscretion into a small, dark space in his brain—a new and totally unexpected nightmare arrived.

Pregnant—Sharon Blackman stepped off the tourist boat, arriving with no notice, to tell him she was having his baby. It took days for his mind to grasp the shock; yet, each time she spoke became a new eternity—she had no intention of keeping the child, she said. A girl—what was he to do?

Sharon, as straight-forward and detached about the situation as she had been while working on the Moche project, voiced regret—for both and what had happened between them. She saw no reason to announce the reason for arriving at the center. She told Sean that Grissom was a long-time friend, but Sean, a man who had four children with three women, had guessed and had given her a room in the lodge for as long as she wanted to stay. Privately, he told Grissom to make sure she was elsewhere before going into labor.

Grissom knew he could not deceive Sara—she would have to know about a baby. He stayed awake for hours trying to figure out how to tell his wife—about his adultery, about the consequence—a baby. He and Sara had tried for months to start a family only to learn—it was too late—he had waited too long.

A plan—an idea—came to him in the middle of a sleepless night. Would Sara—would Sara forgive him? And in her forgiveness, would she take the baby as her child? They had talked about adoption only to learn he was too old. Surrogacy had been discussed and dismissed as too expensive. Sara, even if she could not forgive him, would love a child.

And then his nightmare had turned into chaos—a maelstrom of sudden labor, a tiny baby born in the middle of the afternoon with a native woman acting as midwife. Sharon Blackman had smiled afterwards, expressing satisfaction that the baby was healthy, but showing no change in her original declaration. She had no intention of becoming a mother; the baby was his.

So many things happened in the days following the infant's birth, he barely noticed Sharon Blackman's departure. Psychologically, he knew he was not in a good place; two of the local woman took charge of little Rosemary's care and she thrived. Sean, realizing the troubled mindset and the potential for a greater tragedy, made suggestions trying to get Grissom engaged in the baby's care.

Then the unrelenting rain started—he would always remember the rain.

The research center became an island, impossible to leave in a wide, fast flowing muddy river. Sara arrived in Lima and he was not going anywhere. Grissom felt he was in the middle of the ten plagues of Egypt except he was in Peru.

But the rain accomplished one thing; confined to the center's buildings, he learned to care for his daughter. He knew the baby was his—even though Sean had insisted he run a DNA test—she was a near-clone of a photograph his mother had hanging on her bedroom wall. He had watched the woman caring for her and slowly, gradually, he gained confidence in caring for his baby daughter. He held the infant, gave her a name, but Rosemary, nicknamed Rosita, was ten days old before he fell in love with the miracle that had been given him in a wisp of humanity.

By the time the river receded and Sara had returned to Vegas, his original plan—if he could call it that—had fallen apart. Several things occurred in a short time—a few days, as he remembered—as he gained confidence with Rosita, his belief that Sara would accept the baby began to fade.

In a stack of mail, he received a Christmas card from David Hodges and in the ramblings of a 'yearly update', there was an oddly written mention of Sara working with an old friend. Grissom remembered Sara talking about the NTSB guy and had not given a second thought to her former colleague until old fears and past doubts interrupted his thoughts, dwelled in his sleepless nights, and embedded in his actions.

He sent Sara a muddled-up email, vaguely telling her she should think about moving on with her life. And he requested money from a joint account; he needed it to make Rosemary safe. Infant supplies, a washing machine, a water purifier, and legal fees quickly eroded his funds.

Of course, he had been a fool.

Sara discovered his humiliation, his betrayal, and his daughter whom she loved. And she forgave him—without reservation, without a pause.

Things began to change in his life, incrementally and from within. While his self-absorbed ways would occasionally surface, he resolved to make Sara and Rosemary the center of his universe. He had been given another chance, to make a life worthy of forgiveness.

He had told his mother of his infidelity; she had accepted Rosemary as her granddaughter without question and continued to have the grace and decency not to mention it again.

The wanderlust that had driven him to ends of the earth was gone, replaced by a grateful frame of mind. Sara's boundless forgiveness had spilled over and soothed his troubled soul.

As the sun touched his face, as a bird's song caught his daughter's attention, as his wife signed for his mother, Gil Grissom heard a mighty love song of kindness, of joyful healing in a symphony as real as an orchestra.

He watched as Rosemary danced a made-up dance, turning in circles with her arms out wide, meeting her mother's hands before dancing away again. His mother clapped her hands. Sara turned, laughing, a look of elation on her face, as she watched her daughter.

Grissom felt a pleasant, sleepy warmth as he was engulfed by wave after wave of happiness, almost weightless with profound joy. He felt his mother's silent invitation, the feel of Sara when he held her in his arms, and he thought of Rosemary's small arms around his legs, and then he got up and began to walk toward them.

A/N: Thank you for reading one more chapter of the story written as our response to "Forget Me Not". We appreciate your comments and reviews as inspiration and encouragement.