Grissom woke early that Saturday morning, long before the buzzer. When he couldn't stand anymore of lying there, he pushed the bed sheet back and, mindful not to bang his head against the frame of the top bunk, swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He'd tossed and turned anxiously for a long time before he'd finally gone to sleep. His cellmate's loud snoring hadn't helped either.

But he'd felt tense and excited at the same time – still did now – his feelings of anticipation over Sara and his mother's impending visits and the good news he had to share with them sadly tainted by worry over a letter he'd received the previous day. He'd tried to concentrate his thoughts on Sara, on the fact that in a few hours he'd be seeing her again, but the knowledge that she lay asleep in some hotel less than a half-hour away had driven him to distraction. She was so near, and yet so unattainable that it hurt.

Fairfax was still dead to the world and, slowly, tiredly pushing to his socked feet, he did his business before washing his hands and splashing cold water over his face. Thirsty, he cupped his hand and drank straight from the faucet. He took off the white T-shirt he slept in, ran a soapy washcloth over his sweaty chest and under his armpits, rinsed, and dried himself. In the dim corridor light, he studied his reflection in the mirror and stroked his hand over the three-day stubble on his cheeks and chin. He'd borrow a razor later and shave.

Moving soundlessly about the cell, he opened his locker and reached for a clean uniform shirt he slipped on. The previous day's mail caught his eye, and he took it out. The first letter, from his case manager, brought a smile to his face, but the second, opened by the mailroom staff but still unread by him, made his heart grow heavy. Fairfax stirred and Grissom turned toward him. Satisfied that his cellmate was still sleeping, he moved to his cot and sat down heavily on the edge of it with the letter in his trembling hands.

He had tried to read it several times the previous evening and night, had even pulled the single sheet of paper out of the envelope but just looking at it brought back feelings of shame, guilt and self-loathing so strong that he hadn't been able to. Even now as he stared at length at the shaky handwriting on the envelope – handwriting he recognised despite only seeing it once before; he hadn't needed to check the mailer's name and address on the envelope to know who the letter was from – he couldn't find the courage. He swallowed the constriction in his throat, the negative feelings that yet again resurfaced, and not wanting to sour his mood before Sara and his mother's visit, once again put the letter away. He'd read it later; he doubted the content was time-sensitive anyway.

The buzzer sounded suddenly, starling him. Fairfax groaned, then cursed as the main lights flickered on and the cellblock came alive for another day. He got a book out, and pretended to read while Fairfax went about his business. After breakfast, he went back to the cell, put on his shower shoes and, wash kit in hand, made his way to the shower block. There he was allowed to shave under supervision and when he was done he made sure he used up every one of his fifteen minutes under the warm spray. Afterwards, he felt a little better, less downcast and more relaxed, excited even.

And then he was waiting in the hall with the other inmates due for visitors that day. The line was subdued, the checks thorough. When his turn came, his name and inmate number were checked against the list of visitors. Then he submitted himself to the humiliating but inevitable search for contraband. When they'd all been checked, handcuffs were put on and they were taken out of the housing unit through a series of corridors to the block that housed the visitation room. That building was air-conditioned, a treat in itself. Prisoners from other units waited already, others came shortly afterwards. Handcuffs were removed, names and numbers checked again before they were allowed inside the room in an orderly single file.

Sara was already waiting there, her gaze fixed on him, a bright smile on her lips when he looked over at her. His heartbeat quickened, swelling with love, as his face lit up with joy on seeing her. It was all he could do not to run and take her in his arms. Instead, eyes locked to her brimming ones, he made himself walk across the room. She wore a light blue, short-sleeved shirt over jeans and her hair loose and curly, shorter than the last time he'd seen her. She looked happy and excited, if a little apprehensive and tired, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd last had a proper night's sleep.

He'd expected both her and his mother to be visiting together, to be sitting alongside each other, and was surprised that it wasn't the case. His eyes left Sara's face, checking the rest of the tables, the vending machines area, the entrance to the bathroom, for signs of Betty but saw none. Trying to cover his puzzlement, he turned his attention back to Sara. Her smile had faded, but now it returned and so did his. She stood up abruptly as he reached the table.

Her smile trembling, she quickly closed the gap between them before planting a hasty kiss on his lips and closing her arms around him. He waited for the bark of an order instructing them to stop and sit down, but it didn't come. His emotion spilling, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly to him. She hugged him back with as much fervour, and closing his eyes he relished the all-too-brief moment of actually holding her in his arms.

When finally they pulled back, they stared at each other, entranced, wordless, until an officer nearby told them to sit. Startling, they did as bid, and after moving aside the clear plastic bag full of change that Sara had brought Grissom reached for her hands on the table and gave them a strong squeeze.

"I thought this moment would never come," he said, earnest.

"Me too," she replied, chuckling softly, almost uncomfortably.

Something in her tone caused alarm bells to ring. "Where's Mom?" he asked before she could speak again, his eyes flicking to the visitors' entrance door, almost expecting his mother to come through, and then back to Sara. "You didn't come in together?"

A shadow of pain crossed her face, and she sighed.

He frowned. "Sara?"

She lowered her gaze to their joined hands, before looking back up decisively. "She couldn't come," she said in a small, apologetic voice.

His puzzlement intensified. "She stayed at the hotel?"

Her face fell. She opened her mouth but all that came out was a long, uncertain breath.

Understanding suddenly dawned. "She didn't come at all, did she?" He didn't try to hide the disappointment from his voice and features.

Sara swallowed and shook her head softly. "I'm sorry, Gil, but she couldn't. I wanted to let you know yesterday, but then I wasn't sure I'd be coming myself and—"

"Wow," he cut in, his head shaking with disbelief. "Slow down. What happened?"

"Betty's not been well, Gil. She desperately wanted to come, but there's no way she was up to making the trip."

Grissom pulled his hands back from hers and wiped at his face anxiously. Even though he'd been fearing this kind of news for a long time, it still came as a shock. "What's wrong with her? Is it serious?"

"She said she had a cold, but—"

"But what?" he prompted quietly, nervously, when she paused in her tracks.

"I think it's the flu. It was much worse than a cold anyway, even a bad one."

"But she gets vaccinated against the flu," he countered disbelievingly, and then more despondently when it occurred to him that there was a lot about his mother he didn't know anymore, "Or she used to anyway."

Sara's shoulder lifted. "I didn't ask her, but you know as well as I do that the flu vaccine only protects you against the previous year's strains."

He gave a lengthy sigh, and she reached for his hand on the table.

"I spent all of yesterday with her, the previous night too. She—"

"You spent the night?" Tears filled his eyes at the thought that she shouldn't have had to do that, that he should have been there for his mother, not stuck behind bars, and he looked away to hide his shame.

She gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "She was eating and moving about, already feeling better by the time I left." He turned back toward her, and she smiled reassuringly. "I stayed with her as long as I could, even swapped my ticket for the late-night flight."

He gave a nod. "How did you know she was ill?"

"She sent me a text asking me to come. Thursday evening it was, I was about to run myself a bath before getting an early night."

Well, that explained why she looked so tired, he thought.

"She wanted to tell me she didn't think she'd be able to come to see you," she said when silence stretched between them. "But I stayed. It was no big deal really. I went to the store, bought her more medication, made enough soup to feed a family. Learnt a whole bunch of new signs."

Her last comment managed to elicit a smile from him.

"The soup's nowhere near as good as yours, but it was okay."

His smile widened, but sadly her words, meant to be appeasing, did little to ease his overall worry. "Thank you," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Her face softened with a smile. "Hey, don't mention it, alright? What are daughters-in-law for, huh?"

"No, Sara," he countered quietly. "That's what sons are for."

"Gil—" Pausing, she looked at him with understanding and compassion in her eyes. "She's going to be fine, alright? I got a text from her this morning and she said she'd had a good night and was feeling much better."

He covered his growing unease behind a stiff smile and a nod, but once again he was struggling to cope with his feelings of ineptitude. "Maybe you should have postponed the visit altogether."

"I suggested it, but she was adamant. She didn't want you to be disappointed, and you know what she's like. Even unwell, she's still a force to be reckoned with." She gave him a sheepish smile. "And truth be told, I was desperate to see you."

Glancing toward the officer that walked past their table, she reached for his hands loosely clasped together in front of him. He told himself that he had to trust her judgement, that if she'd been overly worried about his mother's condition she'd have cancelled the visit and stayed.

"And anyway I got Nick on standby just in case," she went on. "I can ask him to pop round and check on her later if you want."

"Oh, she'd like that," he said wryly.

"Maybe not, but tough."

Her flippancy made him smile.

"I'll text her again after the visit, okay? Report back to you tomorrow. Or better still, I'll email and you can have news tonight."

"That'd be nice." His spirits lifted, he mustered a wider smile. "Just…just send her my love and tell her I hope she gets better soon. That I'll email soon."

Still smiling, Sara nodded her head. They fell silent, and just as she was doing he let his eyes wander over her face. Work, and then his mother's illness and the journey; no wonder she looked tired.

"You're staying at the same place as last time?" he asked at the same time as she remarked that he looked well, and they laughed.

"It's the new haircut," he said. He'd had his hair cut the previous day, by Fairfax of all people – who worked at the barber shop – and he had to admit that the guy had done a good job of making him look less…military and more like his old self.

"It's more than just the haircut," she said quietly, perceptively. She was seeing it too.

"I feel well," he said. "Better than the last time you saw me, that's for sure."

She gave a thoughtful nod. "You're almost looking like—"

"Before?" he provided, when she faltered.

Her smile fading slightly, she gave a nod.

He touched his fingers to his head, tried to make light of the situation before the mood became too melancholy and longing for a time that couldn't be anymore. "It had grown quite a bit since…you know…since before the attack and I told Fairfax not to buzzcut it."

"Fairfax?" she queried with a lift of her brow.

He chuckled. "I still don't like the guy, but he's okay, I guess. The colour of my skin helps." Talking of Fairfax made him remember he hadn't told her his news. "I've got some good news," he said, and gave her a cheerful grin that wrinkled at the corners of his eyes.

Sara's face lit up. "You got approved?" she exclaimed a little too loudly, and sheepishly checked no one was watching them.

He gave her a giddy nod. "I did. My custody level's been downgraded. They're shipping me as soon as a space frees up."

"That's great," Sara enthused. "Oh, Gil, I'm so happy for you." Her eyes filled suddenly, despite the smile dancing on her lips, and quickly she wiped at the underside of her eyes with her knuckles. "It's such a relief, you wouldn't believe."

"I know."

"How long have you known?" she then asked. "And why didn't I hear all about it when we spoke on the phone?"

Her excitement was contagious. "I only got the letter yesterday," he said, laughing.

"Did they give you a date?"

"No. All they said is that a transfer can take between three weeks to six months, which we already know. I don't know where I'm going either," he added, pre-empting her next question. "Just that I'm being shipped to a low-security facility, hopefully a little closer to home as per my request."

Sara's smile vanished, and she frowned, her disappointment clear to see. "Not minimum?"

"No," he said. He gave her hand a squeeze. "But low's good. It's fine. I'll be in a dorm; I'll have more freedom, less controlled movement and restrictions. Less violence too. Guys in low have either had their points lowered like me and believe me the last thing they want is to go back, or they committed white-collar, non-violent crimes."

"There'll still be a fence."

His expression softened. "Wherever they put me, Sara, there'd always be a fence even it's not there."

"Manuel went to a camp," she argued. "I assumed you'd go to one too."

"Manuel didn't kill anyone. And he'd been confined for a lot longer than me." He could tell she was disappointed but, as far as he was concerned, she shouldn't be. "Whichever way you look at it, it's good news, Sara, believe me."

Sara blew out a long breath, then nodded her head vehemently. "I know. I'm sorry." She forced a smile. "I'm happy for you. I really am. I'll tell your mother tonight. She'll be thrilled."

Talking of his mother sobered him again, and once again they fell silent.

"You thirsty? Hungry?" she asked suddenly.

"Sure," he said, grateful for the change of tack.

They settled on coffees, and Sara went to purchase them. She made her way to the hot drinks vending machine and shook her head before turning toward him. "Out of order," she mouthed, and he smiled. Probably a good thing, he thought. She raised a brow questioningly, and he opened his hands that it didn't matter to him, just to pick something. With a sigh, she turned back toward the bank of vending machines and while she made her selections he thought about his mother, and then about the letter he'd received. Should he even mention it to her?

"You okay?" she asked, drawing him out of his musings when she sat back down across from him.

Refocusing with a start, he gave her a smile. "Sure. Sorry." She reached for a can of Seven Up, and he lowered his eyes to the tray of food and drinks she'd placed between them. There were more snacks there than he normally indulged in a week.

Without pausing for breath, she pulled back the ring pull and took a long swig of the soda. "Sorry," she said afterwards, "I needed that." No sooner had she put the can down than she tore into a packet of Big Texas cinnamon roll.

A smile formed, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You looking after yourself properly?" he asked casually, amusedly, looking up and catching her mid-bite as he opened the second can of Seven Up.

"I am," she replied, smiling as she chewed. "I just missed breakfast this morning, that's all." Pausing, she finished her mouthful. "You're not eating?"

And as they ate, he enquired about work and the team. She talked quietly so they wouldn't be overheard, but freely and happily, regaling him with amusing stories, and he was glad everything was going well for her on that front. She asked if he'd read the article she'd sent him about the North American cold wave and polar vortex the previous winter, and they chatted about that and climate change for a while. He asked if she'd heard from Manuel – she hadn't – and they discussed the camp he was at that she'd looked up for him.

After bathroom stops, she bought them some lunch, a chicken and bacon salad for him he ate with gusto. In the past, he would have complained that it wasn't as fresh as it could have been, bland and tasteless too, but it was so much better than the chow hall food he was used to that it almost felt like he was eating gourmet food. Visitors and prisoners came and went around them and still they found more topics to talk about, until all too soon it was announced that they only had fifteen minutes left. He still hadn't mentioned the letter that weighed so heavily on his mind.

"Hey, it's not so bad," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "I'm coming back tomorrow."

He gave her hand a squeeze, mustered a smile. "I look forward to it already."

She fixed him with a probing stare. "Gil, what is it?"

"What is what?"

"You've got this look again. You worried about your Mom?"

He shrugged. "A little."

"I'll email as soon as I hear from her, okay?"

"I know. Thank you."

She paused, watched him with concern. "Something else is bothering you, I can tell." A chair scraped back as the visitor next to them stood to leave. "Gil, talk to me," she said more urgently now. "Is it that guy Armstrong?"

He stared at her with puzzlement. "Armstrong? No."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing." He tried a smile, which evidently didn't fool her, and sighed. "There was a second letter in the post yesterday," he admitted finally.

"Gil?" she said, alarm creeping in her voice when he stopped in his tracks. "What was it?"

"I don't know," he said in a sigh, and scratched at the back of his head. "I haven't read it."

Her gaze narrowed questioningly. "Why not? Are you expecting bad news?" And when he didn't say anything, "Do you know who it's from?"

His gaze averting, Grissom nodded his head. "It's…" he sighed, and made himself look at her straight in the eye, "It's from a man called Roberto Martinez. He's—"

Sara's ears pricked up. "I know who he is," she said quietly, her gaze lowering uncomfortably.

He paused and watched her with puzzlement, wondering how she could know. Maybe his attorney had told her, he thought then. But then why the guilty look? "Sara?"

She sighed. "Don't be mad, please."

Tension made his jaw muscles bunch. "Go on."

She was looking hesitant, and he knew he wouldn't like what she was about to confess. "Remember when I came to see you the first time? Just after I'd found out you were here?" she asked. He nodded and she went on. "I told you I'd spoken to your attorney."

"You did."

"I also read the court transcripts," she continued cautiously.

He could tell by her tone of voice that she was still holding back, and so he just stared at her expectantly. But when her expression became fearful, the penny dropped. "You contacted him? Mr Martinez? You wrote to him?"

Sara winced, and he let out a long incredulous breath.

"Don't tell me you phoned him."

Sara's guilty look intensified.

"Oh, Sara, no," he said desolately. "You went to see him?"

Holding his gaze levelly, she nodded her head.

"But why?" he asked beseechingly.

She shrugged. "You wouldn't tell me anything, and I knew so little. I needed to know what had happened. I needed more than the court transcripts and the words of your attorney. So, I called him and he agreed to see me."

Even though he was looking at her, Grissom's gaze became distant as he listened to her explanation. He wasn't angry with her, he was just very sad that she'd gotten involved in a part of his life he was so very ashamed of and desperate to keep hidden.

"His daughter was there," she was saying now, and he refocused on her. "She was angry, still raw by the loss, but Mr Martinez was kind. He spoke with me, helped me understand what you were going through."

He could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

She shrugged. "I'm sorry. I should have told you, but…we kind of never got the chance and it's not something I wanted to write in my letters." Her right hand twitched on the table in front of her as if she wanted to reach out to him but didn't dare to. "Gil? Please, tell me you're not mad."

"I'm not mad," he said finally, mustering a smile as he took her hand. "It's okay. I'm not mad." It wasn't okay, of course, far from it, but he didn't want her to know that.

"He told me that he'd written you before, but that you didn't reply," she went on cautiously. "Did you read his letter then?"

His eyes averting shamefully, he nodded his head. It had taken him a long time, but he'd made himself read the letter. He'd considered the inner turmoil and heartbreak it had caused him part of his penance.

"Why didn't you reply?"

He looked up and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"It's okay," she said soothingly. "Maybe you weren't ready then."

"I don't think I'm ready now," he said in a whisper.

Another message played over the PA system. The few remaining prisoners and visitors stood to leave, and Grissom's heart sank further. An officer moved to their table, telling them to hurry. He gave a despondent nod and dutifully pushed to his feet. He wished this hadn't been the last thing they'd spoken about.

Sara stood up too, hesitating only briefly before once again closing the gap and giving him a heartfelt hug. "You can do it," she said in his ear.

Pulling back from her, he nodded his head and smiled through his pain. The officer took his elbow, steering him away.

"I love you," she mouthed, giving him a shaky smile as he was made to leave.

He managed a smile and let his eyes return the sentiment before he was forcefully turned around. He was the last prisoner through the door.

The cell was empty when he got back. Grateful for the quiet, he lied down on his cot, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the dull ache in his head. Hearing about his mother's ill health had really knocked him sideways. He'd give Sara enough time to get back to her hotel and make contact with his mother, and for her email to reach his account, before he headed to the computer room to check. And then there was the worry over the letter.

"You can do it," echoed softly in his mind.

Before he could chicken out again, Grissom got up and fetched the letter from his locker. This time he didn't think about it, he just took the single sheet of cheap paper out and unfolded it. The message was short, and the small, shaky handwriting told Grissom a lot about Mr Martinez's health right then. Bracing himself, he began to read.

Mr Grissom,

I don't know if you ever got the letter I wrote you last year, but I fear not since I never got a reply. I'd like to think you would have replied to it otherwise. Anyhow, I told myself it was worth another try and I'm hopeful this time the letter does get to you.

I don't know if she told you, but your wife came to see me some weeks ago. She said you weren't doing well. I hope you're doing better now.

You say in the letter you wrote me when I was in the hospital that you will never forget or forgive yourself what happened. Don't forget, but forgive yourself you must. Paula would have wanted it that way. That's the kind of woman she was.

I would have like to come and visit you, see how you're doing and say those words to you personally. But the docs, well they say I'm not well enough.

You're still young, with a wife that loves you and a life worth living. Me, I'm at the end of mine.

Yours sincerely,

Roberto Martinez.