Author's Note: Thank you for so many reviews – I love reading them, and they really do register with me, I take note. So here's the rest – it is complete now. Some of these chapters are much longer than the previous ones, because I was getting into having far too many and thought it might be easier to combine some.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show, I have nothing so suing me really would be a waste of time that could be better spent writing Sara back in for Season Nine.

The sun had risen in the sky since she had left work, and was beating down on her as she walked up his driveway. She had been there a handful of times, for work, or once to give Grissom a ride when his car had been off the road. She had never seen the full extent of it, and was amazed to see, as he let her in the front door, that to the rear of the living room was a set of French doors leading to a canopied terrace out back. She could just make out a table and chairs behind the sheer curtain that billowed slightly in the breeze from the open door. She wondered why she hadn't noticed this before, and reasoned that it had probably been less obvious, without the additions of coffee pot and other things that told her this was to be the setting for breakfast.

She felt strangely close to him, standing there in his house, knowing he had done this for her. For them. For once, something was happening, and it wasn't an accidental arm brush to later be denied, nor a look that could be misread, nor even a set of circumstances that they merely found themselves in that excited their unresolved sexual tension but offered no hope of a resolution.

He wanted her here, and she wanted to be here. She smelt coffee and toast, and realised happily that she was hungry.

Grissom couldn't remember the last time another person had been in his house for so long. Occasionally Catherine dropped in after work for a coffee or something stronger, but never stayed more than twenty minutes or so, and he had semi-frequent social engagements with Brass, but even those usually took place in less personal places.

But watching Sara sitting opposite him, feeling pleasantly full, sipping good coffee, he wasn't even aware of what time it was. It could have been lunchtime, and all he could wonder about was how they had gone so long without ever doing this before. It was so easy. She talked, he listened, he replied, she listened. It was so simple, and he was touched to see how carefully she treated his words, taking every one in and thinking hard about anything that seemed to be of import. She was so attentive to him, so intelligent and well spoken, not too challenging, just stimulating. And she was funny. How had he missed that?

You've missed a lot of things, he reminded himself, sipping his coffee, watching Sara sit back, relaxed in a way he so seldom saw her. He had missed so much. Opportunities, mostly, and clues, precisely the things he was trained to notice. Yet the longer they sat there the clearer it became to him that, in spite of their strongest connection being one of work, what he and Sara were really about had nothing at all to do with the lab.

Eventually, around eleven, the sun drove them inside. In contrast to twenty four hours earlier, when the rain had seeped through every layer, today the sun spread languidly across the yard, warming them completely, and, ultimately, overly. Grissom moved around in the kitchen, putting away breakfast things and fixing more coffee. Sara leaned against the island, watching, at ease.

"So, " she began, after a few moments silence, "any regrets?" He stopped, cup in hand, and turned to look at her. "About?" He turned back, setting the cup down next to the coffee pot. She didn't say anything. He took a few steps, stood before her.

"Fear not for the future, weep not for the past," he said, and she narrowed her eyes at him, a smile just beginning to form.

"Cite your source," she said, remembering his trick the last time.

"Shelley," he said, his breath catching in his throat a little as she moved even closer.

"I hate quotations, tell me what you know," she said, leaning in so that her lips just barely brushed his ear as she spoke. He gave her a quizzical look, then began to understand the game.

"Cite your source."

"How do you know that's a quotation?" Her cheek was warm against his.

"I recognise it."

"Okay, " she said, closing her eyes as he dipped his head to caress her neck, the sensation inviting her to give up much too soon, "It's Emerson."

"Knew it. How about this..Quote me as saying I was misquoted." He placed one hand on her waist, tentatively letting his fingers ruche the fabric of her shirt so that he felt the tiniest sliver of skin. She responded by laying both hands on his chest.

"Sounds like Marx." Her breathing had shallowed, and the husky quality to her voice was undoing him, piece by piece. Not to mention her knowledge of quotations which, quite frankly, turned him on.

"It is Marx," he replied, suitably impressed. She took hold of his lapels and all but closed the gap between them, lingering just an inch or two from his lips.

"How about this," she whispered, challenging him again, " You have… no idea… what you do to me." His eyes snapped up to meet hers, softening in amazement as he realised, almost immediately, that this was her talking.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," he sighed, pulling her in closer. She smiled.

"Great minds.. I guess…" she faltered, and before she could recover, he was kissing her, with a passion and grace that threatened all rational thought. Her hands were around his neck within seconds, snaking upwards into his hair and tugging in a way that made him only want to get closer. He let his hands wander across her stomach and up her back, tracing fine lines that made her shiver.

Later she would be unsure which of them had made the move towards the living room, but she knew that somehow they had ended up there, and he had lowered her gently onto the sofa, strong arms holding her. She had taken him down with her, and they had found themselves suddenly closer, more intimate, than even the rain and the car had been. His lips found her neck again, her collarbone, her chest, never venturing beyond the bounds of her neckline although driving her into a state that she could but just control. It was too much and not enough, and she hooked her leg over his to bring him closer still.

They kissed for a long time, over and over again building to almost the point of no return, tugging at one another, chests rising and falling sharply as they tested the formulae of this new science, before descending into quiet, small kisses, small caresses. They were constantly torn between the desire that threatened to overwhelm them and the sheer emotion that lay between them.

Sara wanted him, all of him, then. But she also cherished the notion that she could do this again and again, until that moment arose when they would tumble headily over the line. She no longer doubted that that moment would come. He left her in no doubt, running his amazing hands slowly, seductively, under and over her clothes, staying just shy of all the places she really wanted him to touch her, but setting her alight even so.

Grissom could scarcely believe that a moment like this could come but once in a lifetime, never mind the silent, unquestionable promises Sara made as she kissed and touched him, running beautiful hands over his chest, his arms, his face. Each kiss told him how much she had wanted, needed him, over the years, and he began to imagine all the ways in which he wanted to make things right. Make things up to her. So he wasn't good with words, at least where Sara was concerned, but with this new kind of communication he was better.

Sara drew back, slowly opening her eyes as their lips fell reluctantly apart. Her hand was on his cheek, holding him close to her. The tips of their noses touched, their eyes locked. Neither could, nor would, look away.

They were getting through to one another now.