Grissom was somewhere… it had to be somewhere.

It was dark and gloomy and grey. And cold. Colder than he had ever experienced.

And he was alone. He hugged his arms to his body, or tried to but there wasn't much of him, only a feeling of him. He felt himself being cold and there was no relief from it.

Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe he had really died and this was hell. Looking around him all he saw were various shades of grey all twirled into one another in a sort of morbidly grim beauty. There was no floor, no walls and no ceiling… only a sense of being somewhere… strange. And it was so cold. He shut his eyes and tried to will it away, tried to will his body to start functioning and heat up.

Was he breathing? Was his heart beating? He couldn't feel any of it. A sudden shocking realization plunged him backward and his mouth opened and he tried to scream, tried to force his lungs to throw out the air in a loud raucous screech of pure terror and loneliness. If he was dead… if he was dead, then… Sara. It was all he could think. Sara… alone in that crazy world without him, never having known his true feelings for her. He had never been given the chance to tell her. The pain wracked his body and he wished he could tremble with the force of it. He hung his head and that's when it happened. The first time.

The blindingly bright light flashed above him and the warmth came pouring down. He looked up, shielding his eyes with his hand, and tried to see what it was. And then with a snap and jerk of his body it was gone. And he was left once again in the pallor of this cemetery, the warmth leaving his body as quickly as it had come. It came a few times and always, with much pain and confusion, it would leave him. Or maybe somebody was taking it from him, as though someone didn't want him to feel it, someone who wanted to keep him there.. And so, once again, he had huddled down into himself, praying for this purgatory to end and release him. This thought crushed him, flattening him so that whatever was sustaining him felt pushed beyond its limit and the pressure was immense.

And then a most marvelous thing happened to make it so much more bearable. Her voice had come to him, disjointed and floating to his ears on a motionless wind like warm honey seeping into his soul and energizing it. She was here with him. If he could have smiled it would have been huge. If he had arms they would have been outstretched trying to have her come to him so he could feel her once again. There were no words, only bits and pieces here and there, coming and going. But it was her voice and it was here, even if she wasn't.

If her voice was here, was she dead as well? Then why wasn't she with him? Why couldn't he see her, or feel her, or even sense her? It was then that the thought eased its way into his consciousness. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe… he was still alive… somewhere and she was with him, only not here. Maybe…

He was in the dark, cold, grey void of his soul, that which he had meticulously – though unconsciously - created himself and for himself. And he was alone. Except for her voice, every time it came he would look up and around him, trying to find her. He would call out her name but he never heard his voice. And it was so cold. He just wanted the cold to end. Her voice would never stay with him It always left.

And then her voice came again and this time it stayed and was louder and it stayed longer. The words came and went in clarity but it was her voice. And it stayed. He strained to hear the words but they sounded as though they were coming through water – thick and muffled.

And then his hand began to burn. It itched and screamed and burned. The only part of his body to feel any heat in this dead void. He willed the heat to travel the rest of body and animate him once again, but it stayed where it was. So he held it close to his heart, to give his heart warmth and keep it alive so her voice could always find him and comfort him in this place. He needed her voice. It was his link to the real world