GRISSOM

For a while, you're the only one who realizes she's gone. Everyone except for Catherine, stretched out next to Sara, is facing forward, and her eyes are shut tight. There's no one there but you to see the last gush of blood she coughs up in lieu of a goodbye. There's no one there but you to feel the muscles in her hand relax around yours. And you can't tell them, because when she left she seemed to have taken your voice with her.

The Denali trundles forward, into what's passing for a sunset these days. The destruction of millions of lives hangs thick in the atmosphere, staining everything, even the last haven that hasn't yet been touched. You take stock of your losses and count your life among those already gone. If they have statistics in the new world you think will probably rise from the ashes, you'll be remembered as one. Nothing else, once the people in this car die. You'll be a regret, a casualty of a war that no one chose to fight.

You're okay with that. You know that there's no place for you in whatever future they might be driving to.

Your life is your work. There's no other way around that. And you know, as surely as you know your own name, that there will be no work of the type you do when you reach the coast. There will be no need for highly specialized forensic entomologists, or criminal investigators. In the space of three days, your life has been rendered obsolete. And the only other reason you might have had for living…

Abruptly, you jerk your mind away from that path. You've always liked to think of yourself as pragmatic, and you know that whatever chances you might have had with Sara are dust now. It's pointless to think about- so you won't.

But you still haven't let go of her hand.

Your mouth opens and closes, still not quite able to form words. You want to tell your hand to let go of her. Pushing the air out of your lungs, your lips mold syllables from it.

"Pull over." Not quite what you had in mind, but it will do.

Greg looks at you in the rearview mirror, his foot still on the gas. Warrick and Nick have turned around to stare, and Catherine has opened her eyes. Lindsey is lost somewhere in the forward seats; you don't really register that you can't see her.

"Stop the car," you repeat, annoyed at the twinge of hysteria that you hear in your voice. Reluctantly, Greg pulls over. You look back down at Sara (not Sara, Sara's body) and don't look up again until the rear door swings up. Warrick, Nick, and Greg stare down at her too, their eyes filling with tears. Catherine gropes for Lindsey's hand.

"Is… is she…?" Greg's afraid to say the words. You just look at him, your eyes boring into his until he looks away.

"We don't have time to bury her, Grissom." Warrick's voice, smooth and deep, makes you realize that if you were ever the pragmatic one in the group, it was a title you lost to him a long time ago. You wonder when that happened as you climb out and gently slide Sara across the floor after you.

Wordlessly, Catherine hands you a blanket, procured from under the seat someplace. One of those cheap, just-in-case emergency ones that most police cars are stocked with. This one is a deep, soothing blue, the texture rough against your fingers. You exchange a long look and nod your thanks to her. Sparkles of tears hang from her eyelashes, but not entirely, you think, for Sara. Maybe a couple of those drops of water are for you, as well, and you're not sure how to thank her for it- so you don't. Instead you grab her hand, bringing it to your lips in a chaste kiss, treating her like the lady she is, like the lady you always knew she had been. She smiles at you, a wavery brave smile, and turns her head away.

Warrick puts a hand on your shoulder and you stiffen. I'll do it, the hand seems to say. You won't have that. This last thing, you think, this last thing I can do. I'll put my world to rest, because I belong to this one, not whatever one is coming. The eloquent thought spins through your head but doesn't make its way into sound. Instead you shake your head, covering Warrick's hand with yours, squeezing it in reassurance before pushing it away. "Cath needs you," you say. Another long look, punctuated by a final nod. Warrick's always been your smartest CSI- you groomed him as your replacement for a reason. He's sharp. He picks up on things fast. He picks up on you fast- like Catherine does- and he's not stupid enough to argue. You wish you could take whatever strength was left to you and make it tangible so you could hand it to him. You hope that he finds it, somewhere, and think that he will.

Nick and Greg stand close together, and not for the first time it strikes you that they could easily be brothers. The way Nick stands protectively behind Greg's shoulder, awkwardly trying to comfort the younger man and hide his own tears at the same time. Catherine and Warrick will bounce back, you think. For Nick and Greg it won't be quite that easy. You approach them, and they look up from Sara's still form. You hug them, wrapping your arms around their shoulders like you give group hugs all the time, like you're good at it. You're not, but it will do for now. Greg sobs into your shoulder, leaving wet spots on your shirt. His clenched fist digs into your shoulder as he cries, and you rub his back in what you hope is a soothing way. Nick meets your eyes over Greg's bowed head; there's a ghost of a smile there, and you realize that he saw this coming a hundred miles back. He pats your shoulder and breaks away, going to stand next to Warrick.

Greg continues to sob, but finally seems to get a grip on himself. "It will be all right, Greg," you whisper to him, wishing you had a better lullaby. "This will all pass." He shakes his head yes and steps away from you, sniffling into his wrist. You smile at him, not knowing if he realizes it. Inwardly, you sigh. Goodbyes have never been your strong point- neither is comforting Greg.

Crouching next to the tailgate, you open the blanket, letting Warrick lift Sara and place her in your arms. She weighs nothing, and you marvel at her lightness as you turn away from them, heading out a little way into the desert. Your feet set you on a course that doesn't really matter, and as you cross a low rise and skitter down a hill into a tiny rocky valley, you decide that this place is as good as any. You carefully place Sara down on the packed grit and gravel of the ground, spreading out the edge of the blanket so there's enough room for you to sit beside her.

She must have approved of the spot you picked, because your voice has returned. The evening sky arches above you, a hazy blue streaked with white. It's not late enough to see the stars appear in the east, and anyway, they probably wouldn't be visible. That makes you angry and you tell Sara so, words pouring from you in a torrent the likes of which you've never seen. You tell her everything you've ever wanted to tell her, everything you've ever kept hidden. Inadvertently, you find that spilling your secrets to a dead woman is an amazing release, and you think you should have done it more often when you had the chance. But then, this isn't just any dead woman. This is Sara.

The minutes pass by not in ticks and tocks but in little ripples of desert wind. You empty yourself of everything, leaving yourself lying scattered on the sandy desert floor. The rocks, the scrubby bushes, and Sara all listen raptly. In the end, they have nothing to say.

"So you see, Sara, why I can't do this," you continue. "There's no place for me there. I'll die, one way or the other, and I'd like to die in the world I knew while I still have the chance. Even if it's collapsed… I can pick apart the ruins. I can still recognize what's left." You pause, look at her fondly, envying the expression of peace draped across her features. "I can't face whatever's coming, Sara. I don't want to know how the future's going to turn out."

You look away from her then, glancing in the direction from which you came. You're startled to see Lindsey sitting there, watching you intently, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her chin rests on her knees as she stares at you with those old, old eyes she seems to have suddenly acquired.

"Lindsey…" you falter, and the words you've been manipulating so beautifully for the past half an hour have disappeared again.

"Don't worry," she says with her old-young voice, and you wonder if she was the one who stole your words. "Don't worry. I'll remember for you." There's acceptance there, the blessing of a child who wasn't. If that's what you get, you think, you'll take it. But you can't take your eyes off hers.

"You shouldn't see this, Lindsey," you press on. "I'm… it's not going to be pretty."

A dismissive shrug. "Balalu-aye spins on his crutches, says leave if you want, if you want to leave," she said. You frown, not understanding her.

"It's a song my mom plays sometimes." The unquestioning simplicity of that statement reminded you that she was, in fact, only twelve years old. "Lindsey…" you add a note of parental warning to her name, and she shrugs again, stands up, brushing the dirt off of her jeans. She ignores the bloodstains.

"You better hurry up. She's waiting for you." Before waiting for your response, she's gone, headed back towards the car. You look around you again, up at the sky, down at the ground. Wincing at the creaking of your joints, you lay down next to Sara, on your side, looking at her profile against the backdrop of sand and sky. You drape your arm across her waist, holding her like you think you've always wanted to.

You murmur a quick prayer to the god you thought you'd lost faith in and placed the barrel of the gun to your temple. "Wait for me, Sara," you whisper into her ear.

………………………………………………………………………

The sharp crack of a gunshot echoes off the rocky landscape, and four heads turn toward the source in alarm. Lindsey ignores the sudden shouting and running, the scrambling down into the dirt covered dip in the desert. Catherine watches her daughter as she climbs into the Denali, snuggling up beside her. Lindsey's blonde head is a blur through her tears, but she can hear her, humming under her breath. She listens closer, barely making out the words.

"Balalu-aye spins on his crutches, says leave if you want, if you want to leave…"

………………

Author's Notes: the line of the song Lindsey sings is from a Paul Simon song called Rhythm of the Saints.

Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing this. There's an epilogue coming, don't worry.