A/N: Sorry about the delay with this epilogue, but I got there in the end. This is soooo very long; I hope you enjoy it.
I have no plans or original ideas for another multi-chaptered story so this might be it from me…unless TPTB throw something juicy our way, of course. We'll just have to wait and see. But just in case, I want to thank you, as always, for reading all my stories, putting them in your favourite list and leaving reviews along the way. It means so much.
Epilogue.
Grissom put his book down and looked over to where Sara was sitting twenty yards away. "Are the fish biting for you?" he called, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight.
Hank's head lifted off his front paws, turning toward him, ears pricking up in interest. Grissom smiled on noticing Sara's slight startle at his call, confirming his suspicions that like Hank curled up at her feet she'd dozed off. She gave her head a slight shake, shifting up on her folding canvas chair, but her face stayed turned toward the water, her eyes shielded behind black sunglasses, betraying nothing.
"Not much," she called back, "You?"
"Me neither," he replied, his gaze returning to the rippling waters of the lake and the bobbing pole float of his fishing rod. They'd been at it for two hours now, and had nothing to show for their effort. Standing up, he picked up the rod and jerked at the line, vainly teasing the fish with the bait, then eased another glance in her direction. "I guess we're going to have to make do with what we've got at the cabin for dinner."
"Maybe we could take a drive to Callville Bay. Eat at that snack bar near the harbour."
He turned toward her with surprise and found her watching him, a teasing smile on her face. "Missing civilisation already?" he queried in good-humour.
It was now day three of their week away at Doc Robbins' cabin, almost half-way, and time was going too fast. Since they'd arrived they hadn't met or spoken to a single person. Their phones were stowed away, switched off; the nearest cabin to theirs was a ten-minute drive away, the nearest town, twenty minutes away, and Vegas despite only being an hour away could be on a different continent.
The pace was slower, more in tune with nature and their basic needs. There was no stress, no interruptions, no demands placed upon them other than those they placed upon themselves. They got up when they wanted, ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired, the notion of keeping to set times irrelevant.
The weather so far had been perfect for long walks in woods further inland or hikes around the lake, for fishing or just pottering around the cabin, doing odd jobs and chopping an endless supply of wood for the stove. They'd stopped on the way up to buy fishing permits and bait and had brought enough supplies from Vegas to be self-sufficient for the week.
"No," she said, laughing. "You?"
He didn't even need to ponder his reply. "No," he said with a confident shake of the head, "Not one little bit. In fact, I'm positively enjoying everything; the isolation, the peace and quiet and let's not forget the lack of interruptions too."
"So am I," she laughed.
"And being with you, of course."
Her smile faded. "Me too," she said gravely, and smiled again. They stared at each other for a moment before she glanced away toward the black mountains overlooking the channel of water stretching before them. "I love this place," she said and let out a long breath. "It's just what I needed."
Grissom nodded his head then followed her gaze and stared at a lone buzzard circling above the opposite peak. Shimmering water as blue as the sky stretched as far as the eye could see, encased on either side by steep and rugged terrain. It was just mesmerising landscape, spectacular, he thought, and liberating. He felt free there, free of constraints, free of their past and sorrow, and knew Sara felt the same. There was something about the magnificence of the place, the desolation and sheer scale of it that made you re-evaluate your place in it.
He took off his straw hat and ran a hand through his damp curls a couple of times before replacing the hat over his head. He bent down, reaching for his canteen, and drank a little tepid water from it. From his vantage point he could see dark storm clouds brewing far away in the distance, but whether they would make it to their shore remained to be seen. Overhead, the sun still shone brightly and the landscape afforded them little shade and shelter. The breeze blowing off the lake did nothing to lower the ambient temperature or humidity.
Grissom turned back toward Sara and watched as she lowered the cap over her sunglasses and sank down into the chair, stretching her legs in front of her and crossing them at the ankles before folding her arms over her chest. His smile widened; she was going back to sleep. He secured his rod, then covered the distance to her as silently as he could over the craggy rocks.
Hank's head lifted again, inclining to one side, and the dog watched his progress with an amused expression. Grissom brought a shushing finger to his lips, then crouched down behind Sara and draping his arms around her shoulders dropped a kiss to her neck. He felt her body briefly tense in surprise then relax into his touch as a smile formed on her lips.
"You can't stay still for a minute, can you?" she asked, leaning her face into him. One hand lifted, reaching to him behind her.
"I was missing you," he said, his reply muffled by her hair.
She lowered her hand and let out a long breath.
"What's up?" he asked, pulling back from her.
Her shoulder lifted. "Nothing I want to talk about right now," she said evasively, and glancing toward him flashed a smile.
"Sara," he said in a mildly warning tone, "We said we wouldn't…do that."
She turned toward him with a sigh, removed her sunglasses and met his expectant gaze. "I was thinking about the case," she admitted at last. "Mel Carver's."
"Sara," he lamented, "We said we wouldn't do that either." He glanced around for somewhere he could sit on and perched himself precariously on a small boulder. "We agreed no talk of work."
Her shoulder lifted again, in apology this time. "The funeral's a week tomorrow and…" her words trailed off.
"And you'd like to go."
She nodded. "I want to go, but I'm not sure I should."
Grissom considered her words. "I think you should go," he said confidently.
"Yeah?" she said with surprise.
He gave her a quiet nod. "I'll…come with you, if you want."
Her face lit up. "You don't need to, but thank you. I just want to…see Carver again. See how he's doing, see how Timmy's doing."
He nodded again, smiled. "Okay."
A brow lifted. "Just okay?"
Her question garnered another nod. "Yeah, just okay. But I'll come with."
A slow smile spread across her face. Her gaze lowered and she nodded her head at him. "Thank you." Just at that moment her fishing rod bent with a catch. The line began to unreel, and she giggled. "I think I finally caught our dinner."
"Let's see, shall we?" he said, wincing as he quickly scrambled up to his feet.
Sara followed suit, picking up the rod, and slowly began reeling the fish in. Hank was circling on the spot at the water's edge, barking excitedly. Grissom placed himself directly behind her and wrapped his arms around her body, covering her hands, one on the rod, the other one on the reel. Sara turned her face toward him and they shared a look and a smile. After a minute or so of careful reeling, a fish emerged out of the water, squirming and flapping. Grissom left Sara's side and reached for the net while she caught the fish in her hand and put the rod down.
"Oh, that's a beauty," he said returning with the net.
"Is it bass?" Sara asked, as she carefully tried getting the hook out of the fish's mouth.
"I don't think so," Grissom replied. "It looks more like a catfish to me."
It took a little time but, thankfully the fish hadn't swallowed the hook and she was able to wriggle it out without damaging the flesh too much. Grissom was opening the net for her when she turned away from him and walked to the water's edge. Bending down she slid her hands in and released the fish back into the wild. Hank bounded over to her in the water, splashing and barking at the fish.
"That's our dinner you're setting free," he said with a twist of his mouth.
Sara glanced over, grinning at him. "Just doing my bit."
Reaching down, she splashed a little water over her arms, the back of her neck and face to cool herself down, then straightened up to her full height and removed her ball cap, tossing it on the chair and shaking her damp hair free. Grissom watched with a smile, an idea forming in the back of his mind, then set the net down on the chair and covered the distance to her. Scooping her up into his arms he stepped right into the water. Sara gave a yelp of surprise, laughing, her hands instinctively coming up and around his neck for support. Hank was by his side, barking, joining in their fun.
"Put me down!" she laughed.
He shifted her higher up into his arms, then took another step forward. "What, here, now?" he asked, opening his arms out as though dropping her.
"No!" she shrieked, tightening her hold of him. And then when she saw the intent in his gaze added in a low, warning tone, "Gil…" He cocked his brow, daring her to go on with her threat. "If I go down, you go down with me and the water's freezing."
"I need cooling down anyway."
Her expression became imploring. "Gil, no," she pleaded, "My hair will get wet and there's no shower to wash it and…"
He laughed. "That's the worst excuse I've ever heard."
Maybe stepping into the water knee deep and fully-dressed had been a little rash considering his Hi-Tec-Total-Terrain-Aero-eighty-dollar walking shoes were sodden and probably ruined, his jeans heavy and clinging to his lower legs. He lifted one foot, and then the other, feeling the water squelch with every move. In for a penny in for a pound, as they say, he figured and with a wide grin on his face began to walk further into the lake until water reached the top of his legs.
Sara's eyes were wide and she squirmed in his arms, trying to wriggle upward, but he had her pinned solidly to him. He took another step, genuinely meaning to turn around, when his foot caught on a raised rock on the lake bed. He tried to keep his balance, but the momentum sent them both tumbling into the water. Sara let out a shriek and he stood up quickly, reaching for her before she had time to go right under, keeping her afloat. The damage was done, though, and she was a sight for sore eyes.
He helped her to her feet, then pulled his sinking hat out of the water and shook it off. "Oh, Sara, honey," he said, pinching his lips to stifle his grin, "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to, I promise. In fact, I was turning back when it happened." His shoulder lifted, and he returned the soaking hat to its rightful place on top of his head. "I tripped. I―"
Sara began to giggle. Her hands lifted to her tank top, dripping wet and clinging to her body, and she pulled at it, vainly because the material just clung on, accentuating every curve on her upper body, much to his unabashed delight. "You're sorry?" she exclaimed, laughing.
He brought his gaze back up to her face and grinned. There was no mistaking his smug expression and the fact that he was relishing the moment. Sara pursed her face at his blatant teasing, then took a step back and began scooping and splashing water at him. He thought about retaliating, but noticing the goosebumps forming on her bare skin didn't.
"Sara, stop," he called gently, "You're cold, you're shivering. Let's get out and dry." Turning his face away he held out his hand at her in peace offering and eying him suspiciously she stopped splashing.
"You're calling a truce?"
"I'm declaring defeat."
He held out his hand further and she took it, and together they waded their way out of the water onto the shore, squelching and sloshing. Hank followed behind, shaking himself off on them. Sara laughed again, then reached for the picnic rug and used it to dry herself while Grissom quickly toed off his shoes and peeled off his T-shirt before stripping to his boxer shorts.
"We'll dry off in no time in this heat," he offered hopefully.
"I hope so," Sara said, "because I don't know about you, but I didn't bring a change of clothes."
Grissom pursed his face in contemplation, then ran his eyes over the cove and surrounding landscape. Not a buzzard in sight. "We could always…" his words trailed off with a shrug and a suggestive waggle of his brow.
"What, go native?" she laughed.
His shoulder lifted again. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."
Head shaking, Sara stripped to her pants and bra, neatly laying her tank top and shorts over the back of her chair to dry them, and tried to put some order back to her hair. The skin on her neck and shoulders and arms was very red where she'd caught the sun and Grissom frowned, his hand instinctively reaching toward her before withdrawing.
"I thought you'd put sunscreen on before we set off," he remarked with concern.
"I did," she said, looking down at herself. She lifted her sunglasses to take a better look. "Why, is it bad?"
His shoulder lifted. "Depends what look after you're after." He walked over to the backpack and rummaged inside for the cream. When he returned to her, she was pressing her fingers to her forearm, inspecting the damage and giggling. "Turn around," he bid quietly.
She did, gently lifting her hair out of the way. Grissom dropped a kiss to her tender neck, then squirted enough cream to cover her neck, shoulders, back and arms twice over. Her head tilted forward and he began to rub the cream in very gently, taking great care to cover every bit of exposed skin all the while praying that the sunburn looked worse than it was, or she would soon be very sore.
"Maybe we should head back," he said, wiping the leftover cream onto his own chest, "And stay out of the sun for the rest of the day."
Sara nodded, and silently they packed up their gear, ready to be hauled up the rocky path cut into the hillside back to the car parked a half-mile away. Grissom slung both backpacks over his shoulders while Sara took care of the rods and folding chairs, and whistled for Hank who came bounding after them down the path.
Dinner that evening, just as every meal had been so far, was a simple affair, grilled and eaten outside under the canopy of trees with Hank curled up at their feet. Beer was usually their beverage of choice at mealtimes, but that night, they shared a bottle of red wine that Grissom had sneaked into their supplies and been saving for just the right moment. His apology, he'd explained as he'd twisted the cap off, for the stunt he'd pulled that afternoon at the lake, and after registering a look of surprise Sara had readily accepted a glass.
The cabin was situated in a wooded hillside a few miles inland off the north shore of the Lake Mead. It had had some alterations made to accommodate wheelchair use, but was otherwise very basic. A petrol-operated generator made electricity for them; a water tank situated on one side of the cabin stored enough water for washing, cleaning and toilet-flushing while a good, old-fashioned fire-burning stove kept the place warm in winter and food on the table.
The peace and quiet ever surrounding the place permeated everything else, them included. The light was fading fast, the wind cool now and strong enough to rustle the leaves overhead and blow strands of hair about Sara's face. The storm was moving closer, if the distant, sporadic rumbles of thunder were to be trusted. They would have to remember to batten down the hatches.
"Doc was right," he said when they'd finished eating and just sat there enjoying each other's company and sipping the wine, "this place, it's…good for us."
Sara smiled, nodded, then brought her glass to her lips and took a small sip while she scanned her eyes over their surroundings. "Maybe we ought to buy a place like this," she said, refocusing on him. "I mean, it's only an hour away from Vegas, and I can't imagine cabins like these are all that expensive. We could come at the weekends, or even for a daytrip, and leave all the madness behind."
Grissom pursed his mouth as he thought her suggestion over. His gaze settled on their clothes and shoes and his poor straw hat hung out to dry on the makeshift clothesline he'd tied round a couple of trees. His face lit up as underneath he spotted a white-tailed antelope ground squirrel, poised completely still as he watched them.
"We have a visitor," he said in a whisper, catching her eye and gently pointing in the dim light toward the squirrel. "He's patiently waiting for our scraps."
Sara looked over at where he was indicating and giggled. "I wonder what else is lurking around, watching us," she said, scanning her eyes upward.
"Bats, desert bighorn sheep, cottontail rabbits," he opened out his hand toward their new friend, "ground squirrels and snakes and coyotes of course, to name but a few."
Sara's mouth twitched with a smile but she bit back her retort, taking another sip of wine instead. A companionable silence settled between the two again until she asked, "What else did Doc say?"
Grissom's gaze averted to his wine. He picked up his glass and slowly drank from it, choosing his words carefully.
"He knows we're having problems," she said, pre-empting his next words, and he looked up at her, nodding. "He kind of guessed. He was asking questions and…"
"It's okay," Grissom said softly, "You don't have to explain. I know it's been a tough time for you, and me being away so much―"
"I'm lonely," she said quickly, as though scared that if she didn't say the words fast enough she wouldn't say them at all, and the candour and openness in her words, in her tone and features surprised him. "When you're not there, I come home to nothing but Hank and…" she gave an empty laugh, "I live mostly in the bedroom. I eat there, work there, sleep there. I―"
He reached across the table for her hand, and she let her words drift off with a sigh. "I know it's not your fault," she went on. "I know you got to work and that work takes you away from home for long periods of time."
Grissom sighed and nodded. "I told you. I will try to cut back on the travelling, but sometimes the places I go to are remote and it can't be helped."
Sara's smile was faint. "I know."
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze that he hoped showed he shared her sadness on the matter. But as it stood, jobs for someone of his age and experience were scarce in the Vegas area at the moment on account of all the budget cuts. "Did…did you tell Al…" He trailed off with a sigh, his eyes lowering from her as he searched for the right words to bring their daughter up in the conversation, "Does he know about…"
"Jasmine?" she prompted.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he met her gaze and nodded, and she shook her head in reply. Maybe their preliminary visit to Patricia Alwick had set things in motion, he wondered, and Sara was finally beginning to open up about Jasmine. Or maybe it was simply the wine, or the fading light, or even the healing powers of the place but something was happening. They stared at each other briefly before it became too hard. Eyes shining in the night, Sara leaned forward, reaching for the bottle of wine, and poured herself some.
"More?" she then asked him.
He nodded his head again and she topped up his glass.
"No one knows, well, apart from Russell now," she said, and then with a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, "And your friend, the therapist."
"She's not my friend," he defended in good-humour, "But she did help me when Warrick died, and I hope she can help us too."
They had shown a united front on their visit, a loving couple who desperately wanted their marriage to work. And for that to happen they needed to deal with their loss, however painful the process might be, and look forward to the future. Patricia had suggested that at some point they organised a memorial service to remember Jasmine by and acknowledge her short life with them. She suggested they used the occasion to share their daughter with all their friends and family, whom they hadn't told about their loss.
Sara wasn't ready for that yet, she still had far too many conflicting emotions over her loss to sort through, but she hadn't said no and he hoped that in time they would be able to do that. For too short a time he had been a father. No one but Sara knew, not even his mother, and he wanted everyone to know. He was a father, a father without a child, but a father nevertheless. But he wouldn't push her on the issue, and when she lapsed into silence, staring intently at her glass of wine, seemingly losing herself in her thoughts, he let her.
They had time, all the time in the world.
It was pitch black when some hours later he woke up with a start, roused by a sharp, loud crack of thunder. He waited a beat on the alert, his heart pounding but heard no more, the only sound that of the wind whistling through the trees outside and the cracks in the cabin walls and roof. The rain hadn't yet started. He turned over, his hand instinctively seeking Sara but instead of a warm body lying next to him he found cold sheets.
He pushed the covers and got up and was pulling clothes on when a flash of lightening lit up the room, followed seconds later by another loud crack of thunder. He noticed then that the clothes she'd been wearing earlier were gone, and that Hank's basket at the foot of the bed was empty. He pushed his feet into his training shoes and opened the bedroom door into the main room of the cabin, fully expecting to find them there. It too was empty. Quickly, while he was finishing getting dressed, he scanned his eyes over the table top, the mantle top, over the shelves on the old dresser, over the rest of the sparse furniture for a note or a clue as to her whereabouts, but came up blank.
Another flash of lightning streaked the room, followed by the resonating crack of thunder, the storm well and truly upon them now. Her waterproof jacket wasn't on the hook anymore and he felt his temper rise at the thought that she'd gone out into the night, into the storm without a care for hers or Hank's safety. He yanked his coat off the hook and shrugged it on. Fear gripped him. The front door was shut but unbolted, and Grissom wrenched it open with far much more force that was necessary. The wind was howling outside, the trees bending and swaying under its mighty force.
Standing on the porch he let his eyes adjust to the new light, then frantically scanned them over the front yard, to the side where the car was still parked, down what he could see of the track and then to the woods beyond. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was about to shout out her name when she called his, a quiet, hoarse whisper he mistook for the wind until he turned to his right and found her and Hank huddled together on an old wooden swing bench. Her hair was blowing about her face, but she looked fine, if a little edgy, but otherwise safe. Hank was watching him too, his head resting on her lap. He blew out a long breath of relief and shook his head while she gave an empty chuckle of disbelief.
"You ought to give me a little more credit," she told him, knowing exactly what he'd been thinking.
His shoulder rose, contrite that he had immediately assumed the worst. "I'm sorry," he said with half-smile, "I woke up, and you weren't there." The storm made its presence known again and he paused. "I panicked."
The anxious look in her eyes faded, softened by the smile tugging at her lips. "I couldn't sleep," she said, as if that alone explained everything.
He nodded at her, then refocused on the wilderness outside. "It's going to rain soon."
He glanced over at her and she smiled, scooting over on the bench to make space for him. Hank gave a long yawn, then climbed down from the bench and went out in the night in search of a tree. Grissom sat down beside her, and she shifted position, curling her legs under her and nestling the side of her face against his shoulder. Grissom opened out his arm, wrapping it around her shoulder, holding her to him tight.
"You okay?" he asked in a soft voice, and felt her nod against him.
"Just thinking, you know."
He turned toward her and met her gaze. "About the case?"
She shook her head, but didn't say any more, so he settled his gaze on a patch of sky between the trees and waited her out. Another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating everything around, and a few seconds later thunder rumbled again. The wind seemed to calm suddenly, but he was sure it was only a matter of minutes before it picked up again. The proverbial calm before the storm, he thought, smiling to himself. Hank returned, lying down at his feet.
"I'm surprised he isn't more scared by the storm, actually," he remarked pleasantly.
Sara didn't reply. He looked over at her, but her gaze was fixed on a spot in the middle distance. "This place…this storm," she said, "it reminds me of the Corcovado reserve."
"In Costa Rica?"
She glanced at him and nodded. "I was so happy then." Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly and she looked away. "We were making a new life with each other."
"And we have," he said quietly but positively, and tightening his hold on her pressed a kiss to her temple.
Again she nodded, but her nod seemed somewhat unconvinced to him. He watched powerless as her tears spilled. "I'm scared, Gil," she blurted out suddenly, and turned fearful eyes toward him, "I'm scared to try again. I know you want to."
He hesitated a fraction before nodding his head at her. Honesty and openness, even if it hurt, was what Patricia Alwick had advised if they wanted to heal and move forward. And he wanted that above everything else.
"I found the leaflets in your car. I―" she sighed.
"We know what went wrong, Sara," he told her earnestly. "We know why Jasmine died. This time would be different. We would take every precaution so it didn't happen again. You and the baby would be monitored every step of the way, the tracheloplasty would help…"
Sara was shaking her head, cutting his words short, then wiped at her tears. "I feel so empty inside. I don't know if another baby would fill that void."
"Would you want it to?" he asked softly.
Shock registered on her face, and he shrugged, as though the answer to the question held the key. It began to rain; hard, relentless rain that soaked through the trees, collecting into puddles everywhere and splashing up on his feet. Sara repressed a shiver and he ran his hand up and down her arm. Hank got up and looked up at them, then moved toward the door, his message clear. Despite the rain and chill in the air neither Grissom nor Sara made a move to go back indoors. They remained under the shelter of the porch, holding each other, silently watching the storm. Hank gave a whimper of discontent and settled himself down as close to the building as he could.
"I mean, we were agreed, right?" Grissom went on quietly after a moment, and turned toward Sara. He paused, waiting until she looked over at him to add, "We wouldn't have children. And we were both happy with that. And then we fell pregnant and we watched Jasmine grow. Everything changed. And even though she wasn't born yet we loved her, she was part of our life, an extension of us." He swallowed the constriction in his throat. "She made us stronger, made us whole, a family. And I think that when she died, our family died too, that when we lost her, we lost each other too."
He stopped again. Sara wasn't looking at him anymore. Her watery gaze stared dead ahead into nothingness, and he wasn't sure she was even listening to him anymore. Still, he made himself push on and open up to her. Hiding what he felt hadn't worked and it was time he tried a different approach. "I would love to have another baby. The thought of having another miscarriage fills me with dread, but although there is a chance of one there is also a chance that everything will be fine this time. I know you blame yourself―"
"When she was born she was alive, Gil, not dead." Her words stole his breath. She turned her heartbroken face toward him and shrugged. "I watched her die." Her lips pinched, trembling. "She was born alive," she went on in a breathless whisper. "I got to see her fight for every shallow breath she took, and there was nothing I could do to help her. I just watched and cried. She was too small to save, the doctors said, trop petite. I still hear their voices now, their broken English. I still see the helplessness and sorrow in their eyes. I got to watch her, I got to hold her until there was no heartbeat and she didn't move anymore, and it was all my fault."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he gasped, shocked by her revelation.
She wiped at another tear. "You weren't there," she said, and there was no reproach in her voice, just sadness and resignation, "it was easier that way. They called you, left messages, they said, but by the time you got there it was all over."
He'd been away on a day trip to northern France, near Amiens, his cell out of range, and he'd only gotten the message that Sara had been rushed to hospital after it was too late. He shifted on the bench so he could look at her as he spoke.
"When I got the message from the hospital and realised what had happened and that I hadn't been there, that you had to go through all that alone, I just broke apart. I sat in the back of that taxi and just fell apart, Sara. I tried calling the hospital to tell them I was on my way but…" his words drifted in a helpless sigh, "I was already too late. When I finally got there and found you, I told myself you needed me to be strong when you couldn't be. So I put my feelings aside and went through the motions, did all the things that were expected of me. It was easier for me to cope that way, but I realise that it's because of that that we broke apart and drifted away from each other."
She lifted her hand, stopping his words. "That wasn't all you," she said, and gave him a trembling smile, "I played my part too. We can't change what happened, that day or ever since―"
"But we can change our future," he said.
She met his gaze and stared at him, right at him, as though she could see straight to his soul for a very long time before slowly nodding her head. Then she swung her legs out from under her and stood up. "Come," she said, holding her hand out to him, "There's something I want to show you."
Frowning he took her hand and followed her inside the cabin, Hank at his heels. They shut the door on the storm and divested themselves of their wet shoes and jackets. The room was dark, and Sara fumbled for the camping light, which she turned on. A faint glow flickered at first, but it soon grew bright enough to light up the table and area around it. Without a word, she went to the bedroom.
Unsure of what was going on, Grissom put the teakettle on the stove and set about making them some tea. He flicked his eyes up toward the ceiling and marvelled at the fact that rain wasn't seeping through every crack in the building. Sara came back, carrying the sports bag she'd packed her clothes in. She hauled it onto the table and waited until he joined her with two steaming mugs to unzip it. With growing puzzlement he set Sara's tea down on the table, then pulled up a chair and sat down, the mug in his hand, warming him.
Lips pinching and stealing a look in his direction, Sara opened the bag and took out the hospital box that contained the few things they had left of their daughter before setting the bag on the floor. The mug of tea was shaking in his hand and he blindly set it down on the table. His gaze was fixed on the box, wide, unblinking. Realising what they were about to do he raised shocked eyes to her face. She met his gaze then, and gave him a shy, hesitant smile. "I think it is time," she said, and he could only nod at her.
Slowly she pulled up a chair next to him and placed the box on the table between them. They stared at it for a while, silent and contemplative, neither moving to open it. Hôpitaux de Paris and Bébé Grissom stared back at him. The emotion churning inside him was so overwhelming in its intensity that he felt queasy. Suddenly it was too much, and he understood why in all these years Sara had never been able to open the box.
"We don't have to do it," he said in a whisper, and swallowed hard. "I mean, not now. There's time."
"No. I want to do it." She flashed him a tense smile. "It's just hard, you know. Us talking like that has brought back a lot of memories, a lot of pain."
She was being brave, finally taking the step he'd been willing her to take for so long, and he was chickening out. He reached for her hand on her lap and gave it a squeeze he hoped was both understanding and encouraging. "Why don't we open the box together?"
She gave him a small nod and together they slowly lifted the lid. The smell that escaped, their daughter's scent, hit him like wave. He scrunched his eyes shut at the searing pain, the sense of loss that filled him. The box wasn't crammed full of stuff, as one might have expected, quite the opposite in fact, and again he wondered why the hospital had given them such a big box for so few memories.
Inside, and he didn't need to look to remember, was an ID bracelet with Jasmine's birth number on it – it had been far too big for her tiny wrist and she'd never worn it; Sara's matching one, mother and daughter shared the same number; the blanket Jasmine had been wrapped in and a plaster cast of her right hand and foot. The nursing staff, sadly all too used to such tragedies, had suggested they had the moulding done, and he was glad they'd accepted. There were no photographs, Sara had refused, and he wondered whether she regretted that decision now.
Sara moved beside him and he reopened his eyes. She'd taken out the folded blanket and was holding it to her face. The bloodstains were still there, only they appeared much darker now, almost black against the yellowed white of the cotton. Her eyes were closed and she took in a deep breath of it. She remained like so for a minute maybe before she lowered the blanket from her face and met his gaze. She was remarkably composed.
"Did I tell you that they let me hold her?" she asked in a choked voice, running her hand over the material, "Before she…" she swallowed and shrugged, meeting his eyes again as she wiped a tear off her cheek. "I held her. She was so small, barely there." Her words trailed off, her gaze became distant.
Grissom's eyes averted to the box. He'd held Jasmine too, but too late and he knew it wasn't the same as holding her while she'd still been alive. He'd never felt the connection like Sara had. "I wish I could have been there," he said in a low voice, and brought his gaze back up. Sara was watching him with tears in her eyes, and he blew out a long breath, closing his eyes and letting his tears fall. "I wish I could have gotten to meet her too."
He heard her chair scrape on the wooden floor as she got up. Her arms wrapped around him, and she pulled him to her, holding him tightly to her and rocking them gently. His arms came up, wrapping around her waist and finally they allowed themselves to cry for their daughter together. It had taken them three years, almost to the day, but at last they were beginning to mourn their loss.
It was almost dawn when they finally went back to bed, shutting the door on Hank asleep and snoring in front of the wood burner. They undressed in the dark, slipped under the covers in the dark and made love in the dark, their moans and gasps and cries drowned out by the rain still beating down on the roof outside.
The next day Grissom woke up at noon to a dull and overcast day and drizzling rain. He got up to stoke the fire, and let Hank out. After a trip to the bathroom he made some tea and took it back to bed, gratefully slipping his cold feet under the covers. Sara let out a moan of discontent and moved her legs away from him. He nudged himself closer, looking for warmth, finding it.
"You're cold," she mumbled and turned away, pulling all the covers to her in the process.
He shuffled up behind her and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. "Good morning to you too, Little Miss Grumpy."
"I'm not…grumpy. Just…" She turned over so she faced him, and opened her eyes. "Still raining?"
He gave her a nod, then shuffling up half-lying, half-sitting against the headboard reached for his tea. He took a sip, and offered her some. She declined with a shake of the head, and draping an arm over his midriff nuzzled her face against his side. She closed her eyes and let out a low moan of contentment. He smiled; it was nice to feel so close and connected to her again, not only physically but also emotionally.
"You okay?" he asked, leaving his 'after what happened last night' unsaid.
She nodded against his chest. "This is the best I've felt in a very long time," she said after a beat, glancing up toward him. "At long last, it feels like the veil has lifted, like we don't need to tiptoe around each other. I still hurt, but it's…"
He brushed his lips to the top of her head. "It's not so all-consuming, so very overwhelming," he finished for her. She nodded her agreement and resettled herself against him, and as they lapsed into a contented silence he took another sip of his tea.
"What do you suggest we do?" she asked after a moment. "Today, I mean."
He pursed his face thoughtfully. "We can do whatever we want."
Her hand snuck under his top, trailing up over his stomach to his chest, her fingers threading through the soft greying hairs. Her eyes were still closed. He didn't think she'd meant for her caress to be sexual – it seemed inadvertent somehow, almost automatic in its execution – but his body stirred nonetheless.
"I think I saw a Scrabble game somewhere," she said, glancing up toward him.
He reached over to put his tea down on the bedside table. "Are you challenging me?" he asked, a smile played round the edges of his mouth as he met her gaze.
"What if I was?"
His smile widened. "Then you know very well that I'd always take you up on it."
His words seemed to give her pause, and he frowned. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of excitement that he hadn't seen in a very long time. It was like someone had turned the light back on inside her, and he could see its glow through the windows of her soul.
"We're not talking about Scrabble anymore, are we?" he asked, sobering up.
Sara gave a very slow shake of the head in reply. He glimpsed hesitancy in her gaze now, sudden doubt that maybe she'd taken one step too far, too quickly. She hadn't – not as far as he was concerned anyway.
"So what are you saying?" he asked again, afraid to believe where his thoughts were taking him.
Her shoulder lifted. "Not to give up on me?"
Friday came round all too soon. This week away had given them peace and a much needed clarity as to where they were headed with their lives. They had finally begun to talk, really talk, and although their issues weren't all resolved Grissom knew that they were on the same road to recovery. The car was loaded, the cabin all clean and tidied, locked up and secured against foraging animals and the elements. Hank was having one last sniff around the place, he too seemingly a little forlorn to be leaving. Sara was watching his antics with a fond smile on her face.
"Ready to go back?" he asked her.
She looked over at him. "No. You?"
He shook his head, then reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Come on," he said, "Let's not put it off any longer. Maybe we can stop and grab some lunch on the way."
With a nod and a wistful sigh, Sara walked over to the passenger side, and opening the back door he whistled for Hank to come. "He doesn't want to leave either," she laughed.
Grissom paused. "Maybe, you're right," he said, "About us getting a place like this, I mean. Maybe we ought to look into it, see what's out there."
Sara's face lit up and she nodded. "I'd like that," she said.
Hank clambered into the car and Grissom slammed the door shut. He turned the key in the ignition and lowered all the windows. Immediately, the car's interior filled with the subtle scents of the place. Sara's grin was wide as she scanned her eyes all around her, committing every inch of the place to memory. They would be back; he had no doubts about that. Maybe not at Doc's cabin itself, but somewhere very much like it.
The sun shone brightly on the day of Melinda Carver's funeral. Grissom and Sara arrived just as the service was beginning and slipped in at the back, unnoticed. The chapel was small, ten pews on each side, but large enough to contain the twenty or so mourners gathered there. Not very many people at all, Grissom pondered sadly.
The last time he had been in a church on such a sombre occasion was for Warrick's funeral and he remembered the day all too clearly. As the congregation sat down after the first hymn, his thoughts drifted from his dear friend to his beloved daughter and he found himself praying that they both rest in peace. His hand found his wife's on her lap, and they remained entwined for the rest of the service.
Later as he followed the coffin out of the chapel Geoffrey Carver caught and held their gazes briefly. His eyes were red-rimmed, his grief over the loss of his wife obvious. Timothy was at his side, holding his hand tightly. Both wore matching black suits, white shirts and ties, and solemn expressions. Timothy had been crying too, but like his father he was putting on a brave face.
Sara offered Carver a small smile and Timothy a bigger one while Grissom simply nodded his respects. Carver seemed touched by Sara's presence there and he returned their greeting shakily. The exchange only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough for Grissom to know that coming had been the right thing to do.
"You mind if we follow on to the cemetery?" Sara asked as the coffin was being loaded into the hearse.
Grissom shook his head, and they followed the small procession to a cemetery nearby. Grissom and Sara opted to stand at the edge of the path, away from the graveside so as not to intrude. The coffin was being lowered into the ground when Grissom noticed George Cooper standing twenty feet away from them in the shadows of some trees. She wore large black sunglasses and a sombre pant suit. At least, he thought, she had the decency to stay far back.
Discreetly he nudged Sara's arm, indicating with a slight tilt of the head George's presence at the cemetery. He felt her body tense beside him as she looked. Her gaze narrowed, and he wondered briefly whether she would go and confront the woman. She didn't, which somewhat surprised him. She simply turned her gaze back toward Carver and Timothy still at the graveside, looking in the other direction.
Carver thanked the officiant. Mourners began to drift away, a few patting him and Timothy on their way, but not many. Bending down, Carver had a word to his son and the little boy nodded gravely. Carver spoke again, then held out his hand to his son and together they walked away toward where Grissom and Sara were standing near the cars. Timothy stopped walking suddenly, tugging at his father's hand and pointing toward George. So Timothy had recognised her, Grissom thought. After a moment's hesitation Carver instructed Timothy to stay where he was and changed course, marching straight to George.
Carver stopped a few feet away from the woman and Grissom watched as he pointed a finger at her, a heated exchange ensuing between the two. From where they stood Grissom couldn't hear what was being said, but from their body language they weren't sharing condolences. Sara made to walk over to Timothy but Grissom held her back by the hand. He knew what her intention was; she wanted to check the little boy for clues, for signs of distress, to see whether his recognising his mother's lover had triggered recollections of the murder.
Carver turned his heels on George abruptly, leaving her mid-rant, and returned to his son's side. Timothy spoke and Carver shook his head, smiling. He took his son's hand and they walked over to them. "Mr Carver," Grissom said, smiling as he extended his hand, "I'm Gil Grissom. Sara's husband. I'm sorry for your loss."
Carver acknowledged his words with a nod and shook his hand, then smiled at Sara. "Thank you for coming," he said. "It was nice of you to do that."
Sara returned the smile. "How are you two doing?" she asked, her eyes flicking down to Timothy standing slightly back.
Carver's smile faded. He glanced at his son and shrugged, "You know. We're taking one day at a time, but it's tough. Night time especially." Grissom nodded that he understood, that he knew all about the kind of nightmares that would be plaguing the little boy for years to come, then looked over at his wife who was smiling down at Timmy. Carver reached over to ruffle his son's hair. "It's just us now, isn't it, Timmy?"
"Daddy, can we go now?" Timothy asked, pulling at his father's hand. "You said we could go for ice cream."
Carver smiled down at his son and nodded his head. Then he looked up, his expression sheepish at how insensitive his son's words might appear to be in the circumstance. Sara reached out a hand, patting Carver on the arm and smiling. "Life goes on," she told him, and he nodded his head at her. With one last parting smile father and son turned away, headed to the car. Carver opened the back door for Timothy to get in, then leaned in to strap the seatbelt across him. An everyday gesture made by every parent all over the world, but it tugged at Grissom's heartstrings.
"Come on," he told Sara, draping his arm across her shoulders and leading her to their own car, "Let's go. We can go for ice cream too if you want."
His comment garnered a smile. She looked over her shoulder toward where George had been, but she was gone. He was opening the car door for her when she met his gaze earnestly. She reached up a hand, lovingly cupping his cheek, and smiled. Her eyes shone with that same bright light as they had that morning a week ago in the cabin. He felt emotion bubble up inside him.
"Let's do it," she said, "Let's try again."