"The best thing about the future is that it comes only one day at a time."

-Abraham Lincoln.


Sara looked up from her book and then over at the empty seat beside her. Her heart and head felt heavy. With a sigh she reached down for the bottled water and took a long drink. Her ears popped, the cabin and engine noise suddenly becoming louder in her head, almost oppressingly so. The man on her other side stared at the screen in front of him intently, his head encased in headphones, oblivious to his surroundings.

Air Canada flight 1851 which had left on time from Charles de Gaulle was due to land at Montreal at 12.55, local time, for a connecting flight to Vegas at 16.50. No layover as such, just a change of terminal and aeroplane, after going through customs of course. Greg would hopefully be waiting at the other end; she couldn't wait to be home. She checked the time, 14.53 pm, French time, and when she tried her mind was too foggy to make the conversion. Hours to go left anyway.

The little boy sitting in the seat in front of her popped his head up above the headrest, cocked it to the side and smiled. Sara smiled back automatically. His cheeky grin was chocolate-rimmed, his brown eyes staring at her with interest, with mischief. Without breaking eye contact he brought a piece of chocolate to his mouth, shoved the whole of it in there even though it barely fitted and chewed it noisily, stickily, with his mouth open, while he wiped sticky fingers on the headrest protector in front of him.

Sara's lips pinched in amusement. Chocolate goo oozed out of the corners of the boy's mouth, running down his chin, headed straight for the seat. The boy's mother spoke, hushed stern words Sara didn't make out. A hand holding a wet wipe came up suddenly, roughly cleaning the boy's face and hands, causing a whimper of discontent from the boy who slid back down out of sight. Her smile fading, Sara looked around at the other passengers in the packed Boeing 777 and then back at the book in her hands.

It was a French forensic entomology textbook – Insectes, cadavres et scène de crime – a well-thumbed and annotated one Grissom had used for tutorials at the Sorbonne, one she'd been compelled to salvage from the overflowing box of French books destined for the second-hand bookshop on Rue Monge. It was just a book, he'd argued, one he wouldn't need ever again, and she'd stared back at him with dismay, as if he'd suddenly sprouted two heads, before stowing the book away among her things.

Lying back in her seat as the plane cruised somewhere over the North Atlantic, she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. Grissom hadn't felt at all well in the days following his mother's departure. He put on a brave face, but his energy levels and stamina dipped, and his mood too. Sara couldn't be sure if it was a consequence of the knock he'd received at the airport, or just general malaise at having to leave, but it worried her.

She wanted him to make an appointment to see Dr Fournier to have his abdomen checked, to call and speak with him at the very least, but Grissom was adamant that physically he was fine, that his…dip in form would pass, an expected side-effect of the medication no doubt, nothing to worry about. She watched him carefully, but reluctantly followed his advice and went ahead with their plans, buying their return flights and packing up their belongings and the apartment. What else could she do?

The thought of leaving filled her with mixed emotions – joy for herself at finally going back home with Grissom, sadness at what she knew he was giving up for her, and worry that this return trip was a step too fast too soon. Knowing Grissom wouldn't be able to lift or carry anything, it had been decided that they would travel 'light', or as light as possible anyway. With this in mind, packing was planned like a military operation. The apartment was furnished and what little they had bought for it over the years – bed sheets, towels, kitchen utensils, crockery and glasses – and wouldn't be needed in Vegas would be left behind.

They boxed up, so that they could be shipped on ahead, all their personal belongings and items of sentimental value they wouldn't urgently need; clothes, footwear, coats and bags, books and files Grissom wanted to keep, all their CD's and memorabilia adorning the walls and shelves they'd bought at marchés aux puces over the years, as well as the quilt and matching chenille throw they kept at the foot of the bed which Sara wanted to use in the guest room in their Vegas home, and pictures and photographs they'd collected over time and meant so much to them.

Grissom's old clothes, those he was far too slim for now, were carefully folded and bagged and given to Madame Louboutin for her husband. They insisted it was the least they could do, especially after everything both she and her husband had done for them over the months, years even, that they had no more use for them anyway and they might as well go to a good home. Sara worried Madame Louboutin would be somewhat embarrassed at the gesture, offended even, but far from it. The older woman was left speechless, moved to the point of tears at their consideration.

It was arranged that their sets of keys would be left with her and that she would thoroughly clean the apartment after their departure ready for the next tenant. An envelope was prepared with money for the cleaning, and another with a thank-you gift of a dinner-cruise for two on the Seine. Both would be left on the kitchen table to avoid refusal through embarrassment.

Throughout all this, Hank was unsettled, agitated even, wandering around the apartment fretfully. Instinctively he knew they were leaving and worried he would be left behind. No amount of reassuring worked. He was taken to the vet, where all his paperwork was updated and vaccines checked so that he would be granted entry back into the States without problems, delays or needing to be quarantined. His travelling crate was pulled out from under the bed along with the suitcases, put together and his blanket placed inside it so that he could start to acclimatise himself to it again.

Behind her back and despite not completely feeling himself Grissom went ahead and booked their tickets for the Moulin Rouge Féerie extravaganza – their farewell to Paris courtesy of their Vegas friends. That night she'd taken great care getting ready, more so than usual. She did her hair up the way Grissom favoured, but truth be told she liked it that way too when they went out on a date. It made her feel more…sexy, more feminine and alluring. She knew it was silly, but she wanted to look her best for him; she wanted to make him feel proud to be seen with her.

She wished she'd thought to ask Greg to mail her purple evening dress, the one she'd worn at the party for the Gilbert Foundation for the Deaf, which Grissom had never seen her wear since he'd not attended the do. It would have been a frivolous expense to have it mailed, one they could hardly afford, but the dress would have been perfect for the Moulin Rouge. Instead, she applied a little makeup and put on the same black dress she'd worn for their romantic meal at Chez Emile a few weeks previously. She was just about finished when feeling his eyes on her she turned from the mirror and smiled. He was standing at the bedroom door, all set, watching her.

"You ready?" he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "The taxi will be here soon."

She turned back to the mirror for a final look and nodded her head. Their dinner with show wasn't until 9 pm and Sara wondered at what Grissom had planned for them to do beforehand. He had something special up his sleeve, something he'd been secretly plotting for days and was keeping absolutely mum about. "Are you going to tell me why we're setting off so early when the show isn't for another three hours?"

"And spoil the surprise? No."

Sara's smile grew at his giddiness. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit she'd never seen before, a white shirt and a deep purple – almost eggplant – tie. Francine had helped him pick out the suit, he confessed a little bashfully, he'd only worn it once as he felt self-conscious in it, but the narrow, fairly close fitting cut suited his new shape perfectly. His hair was cropped short, his beard freshly trimmed. He looked very dapper; Francine would have approved.

Sara stood up, smoothed down her dress and reached for her clutch purse. Grissom slowly brought his eyes up to her face, then with a start moved forward, reaching for her wrap from the bed and carefully draping it around her shoulders. His hands lingered, brushing against the bare skin of her arms and shoulders, and she smiled. Glancing down, she slipped her stocking feet in her heels. Comfortable ones, as advised.

"I'm ready," she said, smiling as she looked back up at him.

Grissom swallowed, gave a tight nod. His expression was solemn, slightly apprehensive all of a sudden. He forced a smile that trembled. Her heart clenched at his visible emotion, at his happiness but also nervousness that the evening wouldn't go as he had planned. She could read in his gaze all that he wasn't saying but clearly thought and felt. She took his hand, gave it a warm squeeze, and they kissed.

The traffic was relatively fluid, and they reached the Boulevard de Clichy in good time. The taxi cruised past the Moulin Rouge, its big rooftop red windmill unlit as yet, headed toward Place Pigalle, and Sara frowned. Half a mile down the boulevard, the taxi took a left turn up the Montmartre hill to the touristy quarter of the same name. Sara's eyes snapped to her husband as she realised where they were going. He was watching her closely, a smug smile on his face, and she shook his head at him. The smile on her lips was wide and dancing. He was taking her to her favourite place in the whole of Paris.

The taxi stopped at the bottom of the butte just in front of the old-fashion carousel. There started the left stairway. More than three hundred steps that would take them to the top of the hill where the Sacré-Coeur stood, proudly watching over Paris. Sara dipped her head to look through the cab's window, barely containing her excitement. From her vantage point, she could just about make out the rounded tip of the basilica. On a clear day, the view from the top was mind-blowing, especially this early in the evening when the sun was beginning to set over Paris. Sara turned wide, incredulous eyes toward him.

His shoulder lifted in a self-effacing shrug. "We just…couldn't leave without saying goodbye to this place," he stated quietly.

Tears filled her eyes, and she nodded her head. Grissom reached for his wallet and paid the fare before instructing the driver to come and pick them up at eight thirty on the dot from the Place du Tertre at the very top of the hill. As she was about to get out, Grissom raised a stopping hand, and pausing with her hand on the car handle she smiled. Quickly he got out and walked round to her side, opened the door for her before bowing his head and gallantly holding out his hand for her. If that was the way he wanted to play it she was more than happy to oblige and happily let him help her out of the car.

Sara looked half-way up the sunlit hill and watched the ant-sized people slowly zigzagging their way up and down the steps. Once upon a time they would have happily joined them, but now? "Gil, there's no way I'm letting you walk all the way up to the top," she said with concern, wary of spoiling his plans, "Even if we take breaks at every turn."

Grissom laughed, a warm, slow chuckle that told Sara she was way off the mark, not to underestimate him as he'd thought this through properly. When she looked a question over at him, he tapped the side of his nose and pointed toward the funicular hidden behind foliage to the left of them. "Race you to the top?" he called.

Now it was her turn to laugh. She looked down at herself. "In these heels?"

Grissom took her hand but before he could pull her away she reeled him to her until they stood inches apart. Her free hand came up to his face and she gently pressed her lips to his. "Merci pour une très bonne soirée," she said in a whisper on pulling back from him, thanking him in advance for a lovely evening.

He stared at her intently, a smile tugging at his lips, but kept his retort to himself. "Come on," he said, gently tugging her by the hand as he started for the funicular, "I'm told that the view from the top is quite something."

For the price of a métro ticket, the cable car took them up the one-hundred-plus feet in under ninety seconds. They put their sunglasses on and leisurely walked up the remaining steps to the basilica, turned to face the view ahead and stood leaning against the balustrade entranced. Other tourists milled about, doing the same, and yet their presence didn't feel intrusive at all.

"I love this place," Sara said musingly, as she stared at the wide expanse of white buildings and slate rooftops stretching unobstructed as far as the eye could see.

On the right-hand side, the Eiffel Tower stood silhouetted against the bright sky, its tip swaying in the moving clouds, not so tall anymore but as imposing with the pale sun setting directly behind it. Grissom draped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. Sara turned toward him and smiled, silently thanking him for taking her there one last time. The breeze whipped loose strands of hair across her face and she pushed them back.

"I wish I'd thought to keep my camera," Grissom said, the regret undisguised in his tone. The camera had been packed and shipped a couple of days previously with the rest of their belongings. Grissom pulled away from her suddenly, got his cell phone out of his pants pocket and stepping back a few feet tapped at the screen a few times. "I want to take a picture," he said when her brow creased in a frown, "of you, here, in this beautiful setting, and never forget." He lifted the phone in front of him and framed the shot. "So smile!"

Her expression softened automatically. He touched the screen, once, twice, taking a shot and then another and another until Sara's smile began to stiffen and she turned her face away to admire the landscape. When a few moments later he still hadn't joined her side and she looked back Grissom was holding his phone out to another tourist. Quickly he came to stand next to her, slipped his arm around her waist while she leaned her head on his shoulder. The man took a couple of photos before handing the phone back to Grissom.

Grissom quickly checked the screen and smiled widely, satisfied; his enthusiasm was infectious, and Sara found herself taking a peek too. They looked happy, carefree and in love, and Sara realised it was exactly as she felt. They spent a few more minutes there watching the sunset before they set off at a slow pace round the side of the basilica down the shaded cobblestones streets that would take them to the Place du Tertre, the artists' corner.

The sunglasses came off. The enclosed square was mainly in the shade at this time of the evening, most of the artists were packing away their easels for the night, but the streets still bustled with tourists and Parisians alike, some dressed smartly like them on their way out, others dressed more casually headed home. They'd visited the area many times over the years, had visited the museums, had shared in its history and many a meal there.

The last time Sara had come though, she had been alone. It was that first Sunday after she'd arrived when the situation was still so dire between them, and she remembered the day very vividly. As she'd wandered down the familiar streets she had felt desperate. Her marriage was over, and she was struggling to understand. And now it all made sense. The thought made her tighten her grip on his hand, and returning the squeeze he looked over at her with a smile.

The evening was pleasant but cool, and Sara repressed a shiver. Pulling the wrap more tightly around her bare shoulders she looked all around her and wondered again at where Grissom was taking her. And maybe he wasn't taking her anywhere, she mused, maybe they were just strolling around one last time, killing time until the taxi would pick them up to take them to the Moulin Rouge.

Maîtres D's stood to attention on restaurant doorsteps, scanning the rows of tables lining the sidewalk, making sure everything was tiptop, everyone content. Customers talked and laughed or simply whiled away the time watching the world go by, as is the custom in Paris. Grissom and Sara were crossing the square when the penny finally dropped. Sara stopped dead in her tracks and Grissom followed suit, turning toward her. Her smile was wide and excited.

"We ate here on our very first night," Grissom said, his shoulder lifting diffidently, "So I thought…you know…well, since it's our last evening out before we leave…" His shoulder rose again. "It's only apéritifs since we're dining at the Moulin Rouge but…"

Sara's smile faded. They had come full circle, she realised, ending their Parisian adventure and all its long-winded detours where it had started. They had been newly married and blissfully happy then, and despite everything that had happened in the intervening years they were once again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. "I love you, Gilbert Grissom. So very much."

A wide smile spreading over his face Grissom stared at her lovingly before indicating with his head that they should head on. His arm draped around her shoulders they walked the remaining fifty yards over to La Mère Catherine. He pulled a chair out for her at the only free table on the sidewalk terrace. The place was packed, inside and out, and Sara sat down with a frown while Grissom took the seat across from her.

She picked up the réservé sign and slowly shook her head in realisation. He hadn't left anything to chance and had booked the exact same table they had sat on over four years previously. Sara looked up, meeting his eyes, eyes as soft and loving as his smile as he watched her. The waiter came, turned the outdoor gas heater on and they ordered non-alcoholic cocktails and a portion of Tarte Tatin maison with vanilla ice cream to share. He'd had the ice cream, she the caramelised apple turnover. Dessert as an aperitif? Who cared?

The plane hit a bump, startling Sara into wakefulness, cutting short her recollections. Her dreamy smile faded as refocusing she took stock of her surroundings. Rubbing at her face and neck, she straightened in her seat and looked all around her dazedly. A food and drinks cart was moving slowly up the next aisle, smiling cabin crew busy making up drinks and taking hot food orders. The Green Mile still played on her right side, Tom Hank's face filling the screen, earnest and sincere. How long had she been out, she wondered, once again glancing at the empty seat on her left?

She hoped he was okay. The whole evening had gone by in a flash, just like a beautiful dream where she was Cinderella and Grissom her Prince Charming. Except that the dream was reality, albeit for a few carefree hours when the cancer took a back seat. Cliché she knew, but that was how she'd felt. Sara had never had that in her life before she met her husband; selfless, unconditional love where her needs and wellbeing were put before his own, and last February she'd failed to recognise the signs.

"Sorry I took so long," he said in a hushed whisper as carefully he slipped into the seat next to her. Sara turned toward him with a smile before her eyes narrowed in a question. "I got chatting to one of the stewardesses," he explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Did you know that the seats in business class recline all the way down?"

Sara's lips twisted. "You should have asked for an upgrade."

"I did," he said, failing to pick up on her sarcasm, and stretched his compression-stocking feet out in front of him as much as he could. He was looking slightly awkward, as if he was about to deliver bad news. He did. "There's an empty seat and Wendy said I could have it."

Wendy? Sara's heart sank; her eyes averted to the seat in front reclining toward her. The little boy had found the lever and was playing with it.

"I mean, I explained, you know, about the pain in my stomach and having to take these short walks around the plane at regular intervals, and she offered. What was I to do?"

Sara turned back toward Grissom and gave him a nod and wan smile. "That's great," she said without enthusiasm.

Grissom's lips pinched. He stared at her at length before heaving a long, loud sigh. "I turned it down."

She perked up instantly. "What?"

"The upgrade, I turned it down." His shoulder rose. "There was only space for one and I said we were a twosome, so thanks, but no thanks."

Her smile returned, wide and amused. "You should have taken it – the seat, I mean. You would have been more comfortable. I'd have been fine here." She indicated the seat in front once again reclining toward her. "I even made a friend."

"I'd have been lonely. Besides, the pillows didn't look all that comfortable in first class."

With a mischievous smile he slid further down in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes before leaning his head against her shoulder, as if going to sleep. A wide, contented smile spread across Sara's face, and she too closed her eyes. After a while, he sat up and reached down between her legs for the bottled water she was keeping wedged between her feet and thirstily drank from it.

"You feeling okay?" she asked, glancing at him with concern.

He swallowed and after she turned down his offer of water slowly recapped the bottle. "I'm fine," he said. "The usual, you know."

She nodded. "I hope Hank's okay," she said.

Grissom stroked his hand to her thigh in a reassuring gesture. "I'm sure he's fine."

Again she nodded. Hank's forlorn expression as she shut the crate door before he'd been taken away along with their luggage had broken her heart. Too big to be stowed away in the cabin by their feet, Hank had no choice but to travel in a crate in the hold. It was air-conditioned and pressurised and the crate was big enough for him to stand, stretch and turn, but still. It was far from ideal.

"He's not getting any younger," she said with a musing sigh.

"Neither are we," he retorted in a chuckle.

Sara's expression sobered. "Any regrets?"

He shook his head without a moment's hesitation. "No. None whatsoever. You?"

She'd come to Paris not knowing what was in store for her, for them, and she still didn't know. But now at least she knew her marriage was solid and that together they could and would weather anything. Smiling, she gave her head a quick shake. No, she had no regrets. The past was just that, passed, no point looking back.

His smile lingered as he watched her. He looked how she felt, in need of a good stretch, a shower and some sleep. She'd asked Greg to keep their return low-key, not to make a fuss and have an impromptu Welcome Home committee, to leave that for the next day. She knew their friends would want to come by, say hello and welcome back, that they'd been missed. She couldn't wait to catch up with everyone, but by the time the plane landed in Vegas and they'd gone through customs, retrieved their luggage and Hank, they would be exhausted and sore, ready for home and bed.

She was going to suggest a snack when he reached down for his daysack underneath the seat in front of him. He took out his pill box and a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in foil she'd made up before they'd left. He offered her half, and when she declined bit into the sandwich hungrily. Her eyes dropped to his hands as he ate, a little fleshier than they were a week ago, the band already fitting a little more tightly on his finger.

After a few mouthfuls he dutifully swallowed the required pills with a little water. It still pained her to see the amount of drugs he took on a daily basis, but they was no going around them; they were keeping him alive and healthy. He was setting the bag down on the floor when he thought better of it and took out from it his faithful wooden chess travel set.

He'd had it years, a gift from Betty when he'd gone off on his first trip to the Rainforest. It too showed its age, but all the little pegged chessmen were magically still present if very worn. A quick glance and a smile in her direction told her all she needed to know. Wordlessly she took the bag from him and he folded down the tray table in front of him to set the game up on it.

"Ready for that trashing yet?" he asked, a twinkle in his eyes as he gave her another sideways glance.

Her brow rose. Her lips curled devilishly. "You bet."

They were coming home.


The end.


A/N: It's hard to end a story like this, especially when there isn't an ending as such – just a new beginning. It's been a hard story to tell, as I'm sure it's been a hard one to read at times. I tried very hard to keep it balanced. I hope I've done it justice. Thank you for making this journey with me. The epilogue is in the works, so hopefully not too long to wait.