A/N: As always, I must thank those who have been so kind as to leave me feedback on this story. For some, this may be the chapter you have been waiting for, but there is still some distance to go. If you're enjoying the story, please take a moment to leave me a review.

Trigger warning in this chapter for depicted violence.

She looked beautiful, as always. While he had not seen her in the hospital, he recognized how much she must have healed in the short weeks since the night when lives were torn apart. The stitches on the side of her face, the splints on her fingers, and a few half-healed scabs on her exposed skin were the only outward signs of the ordeal, but he knew better. She wore loose-fitting pants and an overly large t-shirt. One of his, he realized with a start. She had stolen it to sleep in early on in their relationship and it had never made it back into his wardrobe.

Behind her, Grissom noticed movement and a quick glance took in several things all at once: Greg stood by his car parked at the curb and gave the older man an apologetic smile and a wave before climbing into the vehicle to leave. Behind Greg's car sat a LVPD cruiser with two uniformed officers inside. One gave Grissom a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment.

Before he could look back at Sara, she was already squeezing past him into the house.

"Hey, grab my bag, will you?" she called behind her with deliberate casualness. Grissom did as she bid without thinking and then followed her, closing the door behind him.

He found her in the living room staring with amusement at his television choices. Family Feud played on the screen, and for a moment, the surrealness of hearing Steve Harvey asking questions with barely veiled innuendo while Sara was so close left him feeling like a stranger in his own body.

With a smirk, she remarked, "I always pegged you more for the Price is Right…"

"Sara…" he began, not knowing what to say or even where to begin. His mouth had gone dry dry and his knees seemed unsteady beneath him. Having fully never expected to see her again, he had not even practiced this conversation. Forcing himself to focus entirely on her, he struggled to locate a pathway through the murky darkness of his own thoughts. Absently, he turned off the television.

"I thought you were still in the hospital."

Sara flashed him a kind smile. "Yeah, well, they finally kicked me out."

"Catherine told me you were going to stay with Greg."

This time, her eyes darkened and she did not laugh off whatever emotion he had sparked within her. Uneasiness, perhaps. But she quickly buried it, refusing to let him hide and push her away. "I changed my mind. I made Greg bring me here."

The way she looked at him, as though drinking in every line of his body, reassuring herself of his existence, made him wonder if he was looking at her the same way. She took a step towards him, and the movement made him shudder even as he took an involuntary step back away from her.

"Sara…" he began again, knowing even as he said her name that the ability to speak further would abandon him.

"I needed to see you," she confessed tenderly. "I've been needing to see you ever since…"

Grateful that she did not finish her sentence, Grissom closed his eyes instinctively, as if to block out the memory. But her nearness only reminded him of those horrible hours in his garage. His stomach, as empty as it was, heaved and filled the back of his throat with the taste of bile. He swallowed reflexively.

"You shouldn't be here," he managed finally, forcing himself to look at her.

"Then where should I be?"

Her question knocked the wind out of his sails, perhaps because her natural charm had taken effect. Even if he could not express himself properly, she seemed to know what he wanted to say. And more importantly, he had not the will to cause her any sort of distress.

With a painful sigh, he said gently, "You should be resting. Please, sit."

Gesturing to the couch, he left to get them both a glass of water from the kitchen.

The cool water washed away the ugly taste in his mouth, and it helped to settle his stomach. But as the liquid reached his stomach, that organ forcefully reminded him of how little he had eaten in the ensuing weeks. He did not even have snacks in the house to offer Sara should she get hungry, he realized in embarrassment. But then, she wouldn't be staying, he affirmed before filling a glass of water for her as well before returning to the living room. The brief errand allowed him a moment to compose himself, but Grissom did not delay for too long lest Sara come looking for him.

She had taken one corner of his mother's couch, reclining gingerly against the cushions and looking utterly at ease in his presence. He wondered at that, how she could be so calm and relaxed whereas he was more edgy than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, making certain that their fingers did not brush as he handed her the glass of water.

"Pretty good, surprisingly," Sara answered. She deliberately took a sip of the water before glancing up at him and asking, "What about you? How are you feeling?"

"I've been trying not to," he said, voicing the truth before he could stop himself.

He regretted the words even as they came out of his mouth. They hit Sara's countenance like a blow, and he saw her shoulders visibly sag. Empathy had always been both a strength and a weakness for Sara. It was one aspect of her personality that he both loved and hated - she ready willingness to feel what others felt, internalizing their pain as if it were her own. But the last thing he ever wanted to do ever again was cause Sara pain.

"Gil, I really think we need to talk."

He could tell from her tone that she was about to say something to reassure him, and he did not want to hear it. He could not hear it, not from her lips while she sat so close to him, still healing from what he had done...

"There isn't anything to talk about," he said quickly, setting his water aside so he could beat a hasty retreat if necessary.

His statement elicited an expression of disbelief, and she began to ask, "There isn't anything-?" but quickly cut herself off. Shaking her head, Sara paused for a moment before restarting with a much softer tone. "I've been thinking for the last two weeks about what I'd say to you when I finally saw you again. But nothing ever sounded quite adequate. I guess it all boils down to… thank you."

While Grissom was not sure what he might have been expecting her to express in that moment, it certainly wasn't gratitude.

He responded in disbelief, "I almost killed you, Sara."

The bluntness of the observation surprised even him, her unexpected appearance having brought things to a sudden and ugly clarity. But her reaction to that stark reality was not what he would have expected.

She barely reacted at all.

"You saved my life," she reiterated. The way she said the words, so matter-of-factly, he knew that she truly believed it. While he struggled to recover, Sara went on, "I'd like to think if our positions were reversed, that I would have had the strength and courage to do what you did. Not everyone could have, but you did. And because of that, I'm still alive. So, thank you, Gil. I really mean that."

She spoke with something akin to admiration, and Grissom could no longer bear the weight of her gaze. Unlike his own feelings, she voiced no recriminations, no anger or hurt or even confusion. Rather, she praised his actions, as though he deserved recognition rather than the most severe of sanctions. The incongruence of being not only immediately absolved of guilt but thanked for the most heinous crimes he had ever committed was too much to bear.

"Sara, please," Grissom appealed, unable to continue this conversation. He kept his eyes averted from hers, too ashamed to let her see into the depths of his blackened soul.

"None of it was your fault, Gil." She spoke softly with tenderness and comfort, but the worst stung. Despite everything she had been through, everything he had put her through, she was comforting him. She still cared more for soothing his pain than protecting herself.

Sara shifted on the couch, and Grissom knew automatically that she was about to reach for him, to offer him whatever solace through touch he refused to accept from her declarations. And it was simply too much to bear.

"Do something for me," he said quickly, glancing up at her.

Sara simply cocked her heat to the side, curious but willing. Slowly, he reached his hand into his pocket and removed a multi-tool, the kind which could unfold to become a pair of pliers but also had a screwdriver, other tools, and knives. He had been using it for small repair projects around the house but the weight of it was also a reminder.

A reminder of the sharp blades in his block in his mother's kitchen, of the urge he had ignored not once but several times in the past two weeks to take them and mutilate his own flesh the way he had done to Sara's. He had not made such an attempt - yet - but carrying the multitool in his pocket allowed him to keep temptation close.

Carefully, Grissom opened the tool to bear the largest knife and held it out to Sara with the blade pointed towards him. When she did not take it at first, he waited, his eyes full of pleading that she do so. Reluctantly, Sara grasped the cold metal handle, clearly uncertain about what he had in mind and nervous about where this exercise was going.

He looked up and deliberately met her gaze as he appealed again. "Now cut me."

Sara's eyes widened at the request and a second later flashed with anger.

"No," she said and tried to hand the tool back.

"Sara, please," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Indulge me."

Sara clenched her teeth together but she probably figured whatever demonstration he had in mind was likely to some purpose. Gil Grissom was nothing if not a teacher.

Warily, she inquired, "Where?"

He shrugged, too defeated to care. "Anywhere."

Reaching for his hand, Sara paused for a moment as a memory clearly flashed into her mind.

She groaned in pain at the feel of a hand slapping across her face. Consciousness seemed very far away for her brain even as her body's reaction to the unpleasant stimuli drug her to the surface. For several seconds, her eyes saw and her skin felt, but nothing else seemed to be working.

All she heard was static, like the white noise played on an untuned television set. While her vision swam a little, she knew Grissom was kneeling in front of her, his eyes looking directly into hers. But when she tried to speak, nothing came out.

Her lips would not move, and when she tried to raise a hand to them, her hand would not move either. Confused, she looked from Grissom down to her wrists and saw they had been tied to the chair she sat in. But even looking down proved difficult as she could not turn her head. Somehow, it had been secured to the chair as well, just as the headphones playing static felt as though they had been secured across her ears.

Sara turned her eyes back to Grissom, her confusion only increasing, and at the sight of what he was holding, a primal sort of panic lit her instincts on fire. She tugged at the bonds, but every one of them felt secure: her arms, her legs, and her head. The tape over her mouth - duct tape, most likely - also stayed put despite her attempts to pry it off her lips and mouth.

Grissom turned from her then, and she watched as he approached a table behind him. While his body obscured her vision of most of the items on the surface, she recognized a few of them.

Knives.

When he turned back to her, he held one in his hand. It was one of the knives from his kitchen, she assumed from the look of it, but she knew it would not be used for chopping vegetables.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Grissom approached her. He knelt down on the floor before her and very gently took her hand in his, to the extent he could with the bonds holding her arm in place. With exquisite, nightmarish slowness, he brought the blad to the skin on the back of her hand.

The sting was followed by the sight of blood. Sara could tell the cut was shallow, but the fact that he had cut her at all both confused and terrified her. Was this some sort of dream? Or… or… an experiment she had forgotten? But no, everything was very real, including Grissom. And she knew in the depths of her soul he would never harm her in an experiment.

A moment later, a second cut ran parallel to the first, deeper this time. Had she been able to speak, Sara might have gasped, but the tape helped her bite back a groan instead.

Automatically, she flexed her hand away from his, and he let her go. She tried to search his face, but his eyes were focused entirely on the twin marks he had made with the knife. His expression betrayed a studied calm she knew he could not possibly possess in that moment. But the longer she took in his image, the more she noticed everything about him that was wrong.

Grissom's jaw was outlined even under his beard, and Sara knew he was clenching his teeth tightly. Even with his lips pressed together, his bottom lip quivering in the way it sometimes did when he searched for the right thing to say. His hand, the one which had held hers so gently, shook ever so slightly. And his other hand, the one holding the knife, hung limply at his side.

After a moment, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then reached for her hand again.

TBC