Author: Catherine Grissom
E-Mail:
Rating: Uh...I'd say PG-13...But to be safe, a soft R.
Pairings: Looks up at the section marked "Author" If that doesn't tell ya...
Feedback: Please? Flames will be used to roast marshmallows...
A/N: Let's get this straight. Socrates (Socra- tees not 'So-Crates') was a Greek philosopher who elected to commit suicide by drinking hemlock rather than be exiled and lose his citizenship. That's what that reference is. The song Gloomy Sunday was commonly called 'The Suicide Song' in the early part of the 20th Century. People who have heard the song will be able to figure this story out. If you really want to know what I was thinking of doing, look up the original direct-to-English translation. You will thank me for scrapping that idea.
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Song: 'Gloomy Sunday' by Sarah McLachlan...Or Iva Bittova if you have the Man Who Cried soundtrack.
A/N2: Holy crap it's been a long time.....What do I have to say for myself, you ask? Well....Nothing...I am an idiot and a moron and a b!tch for leaving you hanging for that long...There. That's said. Continue please.
One week. A Sunday to a Sunday. It was hard to believe. To Gil Grissom it felt that all of time had slowed and merged until all of his existence was one moment of unbelievable loss.
She was gone. His life, his love, his very soul now lay in a mahogany box, six feet below where he stood. All that gave any hint as to what lay there was a small placard reading "Willows, Catherine Elizabeth". A crystalline drop landed, blurring the 'C' in the type.
He couldn't remember when he'd cried before her death. He couldn't recall when his tears had ceased since. Tears, alcohol, and hatred were all that filled him now.
He wasn't angry with the man that had done this to her. Eddie had been arrested no more than 10 minutes after she had passed. No, Gil Grissom hated no one but himself.
If only he'd moved when she walked out of his townhouse. If only he'd called to her. If only he'd kept her there, safe, with him...If, if, if...His life was filled with 'what if's.
Every night his mind replayed it, each time it was different, each time he'd kept her from that house, each time he'd told her he loved her, each time they had shared a bed. Every morning he'd wake, her name on his lips, the scent of her hair filling his nostrils, his heart filled with the hope that, maybe, this time, it hadn't been a dream.
And every morning, another piece of him died.
Sunday is Gloomy,
My hours are slumberless,
Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless
It had taken three days for her death to sink in, but even still her spirit haunted him, waiting for him in the kitchen, hovering near his vehicle when he visited the city on a whim. Just as he had this morning.
Well, it hadn't been so much of a whim as a wish to find a unique way to say goodbye. He'd set out on a search for Stargazer lilies and Sweet Peas, two of her favorites. Instead he'd received an elegant arrangement of Stars of Bethlehem, Stephanotis, both of which were small white blooms with little fragrance, but the centerpiece, what had caught his eye, was a single, blood-red rose.
Little white flowers will never awaken you
Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you
At the time he hadn't known what had possessed him to buy it, but now he thought he knew. It reminded him of her; a stunningly tragic beauty standing out in a crowd of plain faces. A beauty that would never truly belong to him. As he laid the flowers on the soil covering her casket, his solace was that soon he would be with her.
Hopefully.
Angels have no thought of ever returning you
Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
Gloomy Sunday
Gil turned from the grave and headed back to where Jim was waiting. The entire shift had taken to watching him, making sure he didn't try to drown himself in alcohol. They were afraid he would 'do something drastic'. The dynamic at work had pulled a one-eighty. Instead of him encouraging and watching out for the younger CSI's, the younger CSI's were encouraging and watching out for him.
It almost made him smile. Almost.
He nodded sadly at Jim, the signal that he was ready to go. He climbed in the car and they took off toward his townhouse.
He couldn't call it 'home' anymore, he'd noticed. Catherine was 'home', and Catherine was dead. Home had died with her.
She still hadn't left him, though. Her memory danced in his mind the way she had once danced in the surprise snow that Las Vegas had received one winter. She'd looked so radiant, surrounded by the swirling crystals, that, for once, he'd forgotten that they had work to do.
The storm in his mind eased somewhat. That was how he would remember her. Carefree and beaming in a flurry of shimmering white. He captured the image in his mind for a moment and allowed himself a soft smile.
When the car finally stopped, Gil automatically opened the door, only to hesitate when Jim asked, "You gonna be alright?"
Gil thought for a moment, "Yeah," was all he said.
Jim nodded and waited until Gil reached the door before easing into the street.
Sunday is gloomy
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to end it all
The old tune had been playing through Gil's mind all day. It was fitting, he thought, and, within minutes, the note was on the counter.
It was rather short, only three lines. No doubt someone would recognize the lines, probably Warrick. He vaguely wondered if one could be sued for copyright violation post-mortem.
Soon there'll be flowers and prayers that are sad,
I know, let them not weep,
Let them know that I'm glad to go
It was all too simple to gather what he needed. Within minutes he was ready. He held her picture, softly caressing the image of her smiling face.
He sighed deeply. Now or never. He threw back the shot, the bitter almond taste causing him to choke slightly.
'Socrates had the right idea,' he thought.
All too soon he felt that he was flying. He smiled; the end was near.
"Catherine," he breathed softly as the image of her filled his mind.
"Gil," the vision spoke softly.
Death is no dream,
For in death I'm caressing you
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you
Gloomy Sunday
Gil's eyes fluttered open. He waited, puzzled, for the fog in his mind to clear. His head seemed to be raised and lowered repeatedly, in a soft, steady rhythm.
His head was resting on her chest. She was sound asleep, her hand resting on his head.
Gil smiled relieved. It had all been a dream. His love, his life, was here, safe and warm.
Alive.
Snoring slightly, but still alive. Gil found himself falling in love with the sound of her breathing, simply because he could hear it.
Dreaming
I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you
Asleep in the deep of
My heart
Dear
Gil smiled contentedly, and softly kissed her lips. Happy to simply be near her. Wanting to be closer, but blissful with just this small contact.
He twisted his arm around her waist, not noticing the discomfort the chair caused, placed his head back on her chest, and fell asleep, matching his breathing with hers. The rain outside continued to fall softly.
This time, Gil Grissom did not dream.
Darling I hope that my dream never haunted you
My heart is telling you how much I wanted you
Gloomy Sunday