A/N: I apologize for the delay in continuing this story. I blame convergent waves of depression, anxiety, social isolation, and real life obligations. But as the story nears its end, I promise that intend to post more frequently until it is completed.

As it always bears repeating, reviews are the life's blood of all fanfic writers. So please drop me a review and let me know your thoughts.

Grissom found himself dozing on the bed next to Sara. After he insisted that a recent gunshot victim should have plenty of rest, she had reluctantly retired to the bedroom. Intent on her comfort, Grissom moved his late mother's television into the room and rooted through her ancient VHS collection. After spending the day enjoying his mother's best selections, he had ultimately decided on the historically-challenged Titanic, more for the length and musical score than anything else.

Sara had dozed on and off throughout the day, letting Grissom bring her food and water when she needed it. She smiled when he insisted on her taking her medication and even complied without calling him a mother hen.

For his part, Grissom enjoyed the responsibility of looking after her. For far too many days now, he had been without any responsibilities or tasks. But now, he was entrusted with the most important thing he could imagine: Sara's well-being.

"I hate this movie," she grumbled tiredly beside him, her eyes mere slits as she glared at the television. The first half of the movie had finished, and a message on the screen alerted them both to the need for the second tape to be inserted.

"I was actually impressed with some of the things they got right," he noted analytically. "For instance-"

"Shuddup," Sara murmured grumpily, and Grissom smiled. He lowered the volume on the television and after switching out the second tape, the sound of Sara's light snores drifted over to him.

Not really caring about the movie, Grissom turned the volume all the way down, letting the television continue to cast the room with lights and shadows. Glancing at Sara, he sighed with relief to know she was at least resting comfortably.

Their day together had been lazy and slow, filled with plenty of healing naps for her and memories of reflection for him. Avoiding their recent trauma, he instead replayed in his mind every major moment between the two of them, each occasion when he could have taken them from supervisor/CSI to lovers sooner than he had. Regret colored his recollection and reminded him of his many shortcomings. But when he looked at Sara's sleeping form, he could not help but wonder if he could have avoided a great deal of pain if he had just given in sooner. By the same token, he knew he needed to give in to her now, to free himself from the dark clouds of regret which now seemed inexorably tied to his spirit.

She needed him.

The concept could barely register in his brain, so alien did it feel. Sara - strong, smart, beautiful Sara - needed no one. She stormed through life with competence and rage gathered around her like a superhero's cloak. He could hardly fathom that she needed him as much as he did her.

And yet, she did want him. She needed him, to hold her hand, to take care of her. To love her...

He could do that, at the very least. Everything else might exceed his limited emotional capabilities, but he could give her every ounce of love in his heart, if that was what she desired.

She does love you, a voice inside his head said pointedly.

Not for the first time, another voice interjected: But I failed her. I didn't protect her.

The surviving shards of his heart ached at the memory of her eyes when he cut her. Her expression was one he would never be able to put out of his head - shock and understanding and barely suppressed fear. But despite all of that, she still trusted him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the agony hitting him anew. She trusted him, and he had let her down.

Beside him, Sara groaned in her sleep, and he suddenly focused all his attention on her.

"No…" she whimpered, "please, no…"

"Shhh, " he soothed quietly, rubbing her back. "You're safe, Sara. You're safe now."

But his words did little to help as she sobbed anew, "Oh, God... Please, no!"

Her hands reached out blindly and without hesitation, he grabbed them, taking care to be delicate with the splints on her fingers. She clung to him like a despondent child or a frightened animal, and all the while he whispered reassuring words to her until she relaxed into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

Even after the nightmare had passed, Grissom still sat there soothing her, his hand repeatedly stroking the length of her hair. His own eyelids had grown very heavy, but he resisted sleep. The second tape of Titanic having long ended, the absence of light from the television leaving the room in inky blackness.

But then, something caught his attention.

A subtle yet distinctive noise came to him distantly from another part of the house. It sounded like a click.

A click of the lock on his mother's back door, to be precise, he realized suddenly.

Adrenaline hit his body as if it had been injected directly into his bloodstream. Without thought, Grissom found himself on his feet. Belatedly, he remembered that he kept a spare key to his mother's house at his townhouse, and it was very conveniently located in an envelope in his date book, just before the the entry "Mom."

She's here. Brenda's here. She's come back to finish what she started.

He did not have a gun, he realized, belatedly remembering that they'd confiscated his service weapon after his arrest. But he needed some sort of weapon.

Closing the door to the bedroom behind him, he moved silently towards the kitchen, his ears attuned to any unusual sounds. Just as he reached for one of the larger blades in his mother's knife block, a voice spoke behind him from the living room.

"Oh, should we do a repeat episode? Something tells me your mother didn't keep her knives as sharp as you do."

As though a bucket of cold water had been poured over him, Grissom found himself frozen. For one interminable second, icy terror zapped through his body, seizing up his muscles and chilling the blood in his veins. When he turned around, she was waiting for him. She wore no mask this time, only a contemptuous sneer and her outstretched fingers clutched a handgun aimed directly at his chest.

"Brenda Waters."

He said her name aloud, hoping it would pierce the moment. But she only laughed.

"Took you long enough," she gloated. "The citizens of Las Vegas should quiver in their beds knowing the great investigator Gil Grissom is on the job."

He said nothing, only waited, hoping she would go on. When she only smiled at him with exquisite hate, he ventured carefully, "Sometimes we get things wrong. Sometimes we fail people. You're one of the ones we failed, aren't you?"

Anger flared in her eyes, and he knew he'd regained Brenda's attention.

"Sara Sidle put my husband behind bars," she informed him, anger overriding caution. "She is the reason he went to prison."

"But he wasn't innocent," Grissom volunteered. Before Brenda could argue, he offered, "His DNA was found in the victim. Sara only told the truth at trial."

Brenda lunged at him, grabbing his collar with one hand and placing her gun directly to the side of his head. The cold metal of the mussel pressed tightly into his skin, and Grissom wondered if he would even hear the report before the bullet tore through his brain matter.

"My Dan never loved anyone but me," she insisted, fierce and unhinged. "If he was with someone else, it was because… Because..."

"Because he wanted someone other than you," Grissom stated slowly, calmly. She squeezed the barrel even more tightly against his temple, but Grissom did his best to ignore it. "Whether he raped her or not, he was with someone other than you. He was unfaithful to you. Didn't that make you angry?"

She was certainly a woman of jealousy, he had noted from her response. And her anger bubbled to the surface easily. Grissom noticed as he studied her that Brenda's hand shook, the gun quivering unsteadily.

"Dan loved me," she seethed. As if to demonstrate her belief in that notion, she let go of his shirt and stepped back from him a few feet. But she carefully keep him in her crosshairs.

"He hurt you," Grissom asserted calmly. "Love should never be painful."

Brenda's eyes narrowed and the firearm muzzle again made contact with his skin. "Says the man who tortured his paramour nearly to death," she taunted.

Grissom regarded her before answering. "Sara knows why I did what I did. She forgave me before I even had the opportunity to beg for her absolution."

"Then she is a fool."

"No," he corrected sharply. "She is a merciful, loving person."

Brenda laughed at him, sounding more like a Disney villain than she likely intended. "We'll see about that."

"What do you mean?"

Even as he asked, he realized her intention, and fresh terror blossomed in him.

"I think we're due for another… foray into the human psyche, don't you, Doctor Grissom?"

He looked from her eyes to the barrel of her gun and considered the situation dispassionately. In the end, it came down to one calculation. Could he react in a way which would save Sara pain and suffering? His own life mattered little in the equation, beyond his means of leveraging his years of experience against Brenda's blind rage.

A moment later, the opening he needed presented itself as she turned slightly from him as she glanced at the back of the house. "I suppose she's somewhere back there some-"

Just as her eyes swept past him, Grissom grabbed for the gun.

Not all CSIs are sworn officers, so not all CSIs are armed. As a younger man, Grissom had resisted carrying a gun, insisting that he was a scientist, not a police officer. So when he had finally decided that the safety of his fellow CSIs dictated that he carry a weapon, he had been required to become proficient with firearms. Not only did that mean learning to aim and shoot accurately, but he also learned the various firearm safety measures. He knew how to take apart a 9 millimeter Baretta and reassemble it, if not with his eyes closed, at least by heart. He knew how to clear the chamber if a firearm jammed. He had even taken a few hand-to-hand defensive courses during his career.

But in that one horrible moment, none of his prior training crystalized in his mind. His vision tunneled as he reached for the weapon in Brenda's hand, and suddenly he was back in the enclosed garage at his condominium with Sara in front of him tied to a chair. The change seemed so real that he could even smell the coppery scent of her blood in the air, and it made him nauseous.

A moment later, his head spinning dizzily, Grissom barely made out the image of Brenda standing over him, an expression of malicious delight spread across her face, before everything faded to black.

TBC