Grissom's POV:

Sara was always stoic; she never let people in. Sara had this brave face that she would put on whenever she was hurting; the only thing that gave her away were those huge brown eyes. Sometimes, I needed to look away when I saw the depths of her pain. I looked away far too many times; I wasn't there when she needed me. I wasn't sure if anyone was there when Sara began to crumble.

I watch her sleep, but it really isn't sleep. Coma. The electroencephalogram is encouraging everyone says, but then why isn't she awake. I began to wonder if encouraging was rhetoric; I was guessing it was the noncommittal answer given to quiet our questions.

Greg and I have been sitting silently in this room for well over six hours. This woman touched so many people in her life, but there are only two people waiting for her. I shouldn't be here waiting; I know I am part of her larger problem. I knew that she heard what I said in interrogation room; everything changed the next day. She couldn't look at me. Sara wouldn't talk to me. Working with her became extremely challenging. She stopped asking me out to breakfast; she began to join Warrick and Nick in their morning ritual. She shut me out. It was probably a wise decision; I didn't want to hurt her anymore. Every time she tried to touch me, I hurt her. Greg is the only one that really deserves to be here.

Nick watches from the window in the hallway. He hasn't come in to see her. Reality must be setting in; he lost a baby and there is a really good chance he will lose a friend. I cannot imagine the 'what ifs' that are running through his head. I know mine are intolerable, but his must be crippling.

Nick watches her without blinking.

We all let Sara down. I thought she needed space, but space was what destroyed her. I assumed that she tried to hurt herself, but my assumptions were as far off base as possible. I wanted to believe that there was a simple answer for Sara; I wanted to deny that she had problems that were consuming her life. I look back wondering how I did not see this coming.

I picked her up from the police station that night. She was picked up just a few blocks from Nick's townhouse. It was noon. I wondered what would keep her at his home so late into the morning. Her clothes were put together haphazardly; her hair was messed. I was blinded by the situation; Sara had turned to Nick for something that I couldn't give her. I didn't know that I was wrong until today. My two young CSIs turned to each other for the comfort and reassurance that I couldn't give them. Sara told me that it was none of my business; Sara had won the right to be disrespectful towards me . . . I never showed her that I respected her.

I watched her leave the team meetings to vomit. She would come back into the room like nothing happened. Doc said that Sara had begun vomiting during autopsies; he wanted to know what was going on. He asked me if Sara was pregnant. I scoffed that the question . . . who would get Sara pregnant is how I replied. I didn't see what was unfolding right before my eyes.

I made her roll up her sleeves when she returned from the hospital. I knew that if she tried to commit suicide, she would be placed on an emergency detention for 48 hours. I just wanted to be sure. She told me that she miscarried; I didn't say anything to her besides 'go home and get some rest.' I didn't offer condolences. I didn't ask if she was going to be okay. I called her daily, but I never made a true attempt to get in contact with her. Her problems were not visible from the lab.

I watch and I wait.

Nick's POV:

This all looks surreal. She looks like a china doll; her skin is a white that I've never seen before . . . it's a white that I don't think I could even describe. Her lips are parted by a plastic tube; her body is restrained by a dialysis machine and several IVs. Her eyes are closed; she's not even making an attempt to open them.

"Sara, please wake up so I can take you out to dinner sometime," I whisper as I watch her from the hallway. I'm not sure if I can go into her room. I'm not sure if I can handle watching her like this. If I was a good friend, I would be in there with her.

I danced around the flirtation for years. Sometimes my flirtation was with the intent to make something real of the sexual tension that Sara and I had let billow for years. Most of the time, I was satisfied that I had a friend that I could count on. It didn't realize that until after I was attacked by Nigel Crane. Sara let me move in with her temporarily. She let me sleep in her bed, while she slept on the couch. Sara didn't need to do that, but she said that she wanted to.

For a week, I told her secrets that I didn't think I could ever tell another person. She simply smiled and said that I was going to be alright; I was so much stronger than all the things that tried to destroy me. She didn't belittle me that way others did. My mom couldn't believe that I didn't notice that someone was living in my attic; my mom asked how I became a CSI, if overlooked all the evidence right in front of my face. It's hard to mess up when you have seven perfect siblings. I had messed up a lot in my life. Sara said that she admired the way I overlooked my own needs when it came to helping victims; Sara said she wished that she could care as much as I do. On the seventh day, I packed my things and moved out of Sara's apartment. I spent two weeks thinking of ways to go back to the safe haven she created. I called her in the middle of the night a few times because I thought I heard someone in the attic. She drove to my townhouse without question; Sara never accused me of being paranoid. She never told Grissom that I was terrified of the dark for weeks afterward.

Weeks ago, it was my turn to protect Sara from her demons. I never asked why rape cases were so hard on Sara; I always hoped that maybe she would tell me when the time was right. There were so few things I remembered from that night, but I remember feeling her lips against mine. There was something there; it was like a flash of electricity . . . the flames of a fire. The entire time, everything I ever wanted to feel was right in front of me.

I woke up in the afternoon to the smell of her perfume on the pillowcase next to me. I got up and looked for her. I looked for a note or something. I didn't wake up with regrets; the regrets would come later when I realized that one careless night might undo the best friendship I could ever ask for.

Did I love Sara? It was a question that I struggled with for three weeks. The lines of friendship and love were blurred. Loved her like a friend or a friendship with someone I loved. I should have taken her out to supper some night . . . I should have tried to figure out the syntax of our situation before it got so out of control.

Greg was right to yell at me. I only realized this now. I should have told Sara that she would be a great mother; I never should have placed the burden of all the decisions on her shoulders. I should have been the one to grieve with Sara; I should have grieved a child that would have been loved so intensely. I hadn't let myself grieve; I didn't know what I was missing. You can't miss what you don't know. I struggled with the guilt of not knowing for three weeks. I have nieces and nephews; I've watched them grow as I have watched myself starting to show the signs of aging, but that in no way is the equivalent to a child of my own.

For so long, I wanted a family of my own. I wanted a son or daughter to come home to. I replay the fantasy in my head every night; it's the one where Sara and I come home to a daughter after work. The fantasy didn't mend my character flaws; it didn't mend Sara's character flaws. I wanted everything to stay where it was thirteen weeks ago. The fantasy was so comfortable; every thing just seemed to fit. I wished that life would begin to emulate my dreams.

I stand frozen in the hallway of a hospital. Everything special about Sara is temporarily silenced by tubes and a ventilator. I wonder if her mind is in tact. Her mind is what sets her apart from everyone else on Earth; it's something that makes her special . . . her quick wit, the random knowledge that is stored in her cortex, the way that she can listen to me without psychoanalyzing, the way that she sings when she thinks nobody is around to hear her.

I wait. I know I might have to wait for days before I can ask her to go out to supper with me.