Part III

His house seemed bigger than she remembered it. Or maybe she just felt smaller. Sara thought back four years to the last time she had been in Grissom's home. The team was working to catch the Strip Strangler and she had been pumped: eager to stop the serial rapist and just a little bit giddy to be in her boss's sanctuary.

This time it was different. She was the one who had almost been the victim of rape and he was so much more than a boss to her now.

She stood still at the entranceway, arms crossed in front of her, as Grissom locked his front door. "Are you hungry?" he asked blankly.

Sara shook her head. He swung her duffle bag over his shoulder, placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, and quietly led her down a small hallway.

"You can sleep here," Grissom told her, swinging a door open to reveal a rather large bedroom. Sara bit her lip. It had be the master bedroom. His townhouse was large, but this bedroom couldn't be a spare.

"Is this…is this your room?" she asked quickly. "Because if it is -- Grissom, I'm fine with staying at a hotel."

He just stared at her stonily and placed her duffle bag on the floor. "Goodnight, Sara."

He closed the door and left her alone. Sara sighed and lifted her bag off of the floor and onto the end of the bed. She took a moment to study the room. The large bed with its mahogany frame should've clashed with the cool, almost hospital-like tones of the rest of the room, but it worked, oddly enough. There were no photographs on the nightstand, just a bottle of water and a field guide for North American birds. There was a seashell on his dresser along with an extra pair of glasses, some books, and a framed baseball card. Roger Maris.

Maybe a few years ago she would have taken advantage of the fact that she was alone in Grissom's bedroom and peeked in his underwear drawer or checked under the bed for little hidden trinkets, but the walls were too high between them now. Finding some random Playboys or an old letter from an ex-girlfriend wouldn't give Sara a better idea of who Grissom was. He didn't want her to know him and so she knew she must resign herself to the fact that she never would.

She pulled of her shirt and began to undo her jeans when she caught her reflection in the large mirror above the dresser. It was all so odd, she thought to herself, taking off her clothes in Grissom's room. So many times she had imagined doing that very thing, imagined him laying on the bed eyeing her hungrily while she did a slow striptease.

Sara huffed and quickly pulled the jeans down her hips, picking them off the floor and shoving them in her bag along with her shirt. She pulled out a tank top and a pair of sweats and changed into them as quickly as possible. Grissom had seen her body after the attack. He had gone so far as to close her robe for her. Sara had blushed but he hadn't. He dealt with her like he would any victim of a crime, cool and detached.

All throughout her life Sara had worked to avoid being labeled a victim. Victims were helpless. They were at the mercy of others. She pulled back the covers and sunk down onto the bed as it hit her. Ever since the day she met him, Sara had been helplessly and hopelessly in love with Grissom. Ever since she moved to Las Vegas she had been at the mercy of his actions.

Love was a lot like a crime.

Sara's head hit the pillow and she could feel herself drift off immediately, her heart heavy with old and new pain. The linens smelled like Grissom and it was oddly comforting. Wrapping herself in the comforter, she could imagine that his arms were holding her, keeping her safe and warm and wishing her sweet dreams.

She opened her eyes after what could've been minutes or hours. He was sitting on the chair by the bed, staring at her.

"Go back to sleep."

Sara could feel herself smile sleepily at him and obey, reaching her hand out towards him to grasp nothing but air. So far away, she thought as she closed her eyes. Like that Carole King song her mother used to play all the time. If I could only work this life out my way, I'd rather spend it bein' close to you. She laughed into her pillow, wondering if she had dreamt it all -- her father's death, her mother's incarceration, Harvard, the handsome, aloof man she spent her adult life chasing.

The sun was filtering through the slats in the wooden blinds the next time Sara opened her eyes. The chair was still there, but it was empty. She sat up in bed and debated her next move. Her stomach was rumbling, she had to pee, and she needed coffee.

But more importantly, she had to get out of Grissom's house.

She would thank him for everything and then leave quickly. As she retrieved clean clothes and underwear from her duffle bag, Sara called for a cab. She wanted it waiting outside of the townhouse when she said goodbye. It would be easier that way. After dressing, Sara packed up her things and made the bed. She grabbed her toothbrush and put her hand on the doorknob, turning it silently so as not to alert Grissom. Sara walked the few feet down the hallway to the bathroom and grasped the handle again.

"You're awake."

She emitted a high pitched squeak and dropped her toothbrush, the small piece of plastic clattering on the floor. Grissom bent down and picked it up.

"Sorry. I'll get you a new one." He placed his hand on top her hers, which was still gripping the door handle, and turned. They walked into the bathroom together. Sara stood awkwardly while Grissom opened a cabinet near the sink to retrieve a new toothbrush for her.

"Thank you," she said as he handed it to her. She opened the package and tossed the wrapping in the wastepaper basket.

"The toothpaste is here," Grissom said, opening the medicine cabinet for her.

She reached in and picked up the tube of Crest. "Thank you."

Sara waited a moment, wondering when he would leave. Brushing one's teeth in front of another person wasn't exactly akin to going to the bathroom in front of them, but it was still rather…intimate. She unscrewed the cap and squeezed some toothpaste onto the bristles and got to work. She could feel the color rise in her cheeks. Why the hell is he still here? she asked herself. Their eyes met in the mirror and Grissom was the first to turn away.

"I'll, uh, be outside. Call me if you need anything."

Sara spit in the sink.

When she was finished, she checked her watch. The cab would be there to pick her up in any minute. It was time to say goodbye. Sara hoisted her duffle bag onto her shoulder and walked out into the living room where Grissom seemed to be waiting for her.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

"I called a cab."

"To…go where?"

"Home," she said simply.

"Sara, you can't go home. The scene hasn't been cleared yet."

"I thought you said you were calling for crime scene clean up."

"They were backed up," he explained.

She stayed silent for a moment as she considered this. "I guess I'll go to a hotel, then."

"You can stay here."

"No, I think it would be better if--"

"Stay here."

A horn beeped outside, the noise muffled by the walls of the townhouse. "That's…my cab."

"Stay here," Grissom repeated.

"But I--"

"Please."

It was just like always. She was at his mercy. "I'll…go tell the cabdriver he can go."

When she returned, he asked her what she wanted to eat. They would have to order because he hadn't been shopping since he began working all hours on the Barzini case. "Is pizza okay?"

"Pizza is fine."

She flipped through an old copy of National Geographic as they waited. When the pizza came, they ate in silence. Sara made sure her mouth was always full so she wouldn't have to say anything. Grissom's eyes would occasionally wander over the bruises on her wrist or the mark on her face, both courtesy of her scuffle with the now dead criminal. Her injuries seemed to bother him more than they did her.

As they cleaned up their plates, Sara cleared her throat. "I never, uh…thanked you for, uh…you know."

He stared at her but said nothing as he took her plate from her hands and loaded it into the dishwasher.

"It was, uh…a lucky coincidence that you were there."

"Yes," Grissom said quietly as he put dishwashing liquid into the machine.

Sara narrowed her eyes. "Why were you coming over in the first place?" It hadn't occurred to her until then Grissom's very presence at her doorstep was cause for alarm.

"I was just checking up on you," he said as he looked down at his hands.

"Oh." She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. "Well…thank you. Very much."

Nothing more was said as they sat on opposite ends of the couch. Sara picked up a book on Renaissance art while Grissom read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. She would repeatedly check her watch, hoping time would tick away faster. Sara remembered a time where she could smile and laugh with Grissom and tell him everything on her mind. Ten years ago she would've been stopping at every other page in the art book to show him something she liked or something she thought was hideous. Ten years ago he would've made her guess just how Sherlock Holmes had solved the case in his story.

But as it was they sat on either end of the couch wondering what the other was thinking.

Sara put down her book. "Can I use your computer to check my e-mail?" She almost smiled at her brilliant excuse to leave the room and break some of the tangible tension between them.

"Of course," he said, and surprised her by getting up to lead her to his office.

He pulled out the desk chair for her so she could sit down, and stood by her as she clicked on to the internet. After a moment, he cleared his throat, told her to call if she needed anything, and then left her alone.

Sara signed and sat back in the chair, happy to relax away from Grissom. She was so self-conscious around him, completely aware of the elephant in the room, yet unwilling to speak of it. Every conversation they seemed to have over the past few years would veer into territory that made one or both of them uncomfortable. They couldn't share because they both knew that once the floodgates were open, there would be no turning back.

She logged on and checked her inbox. It was depressingly empty, save for a few offers for Viagra and free online credit reports. She didn't know why she was surprised. She had no contacts. She never made a friend in high school and had lost touch with her college acquaintances. The only person she had ever bothered to keep in touch with over the years was several feet away, immersed in Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly, Sara wanted to go back into the living room. She wanted to sit close to Grissom and make him talk to her. She wanted to put his arm around her neck and snuggle up against him so she could read alongside him. She wanted to grip him for dear life because, in reality, he was it for her. It was depressing, she surmised as she pushed herself up out of the seat. No matter how hard she tried, he'd always be several feet away.

When she wandered back into the living room, he looked up at her and then checked his watch.

"Would you like to do anything, Sara?"

"What do you mean?" she asked immediately.

"Do you want me to rent you a video? Do you want to go out to eat?" he asked. "The movies? What?"

Is he joking? "No, I'm fine. I can just…read a book or something. Please don't feel the need to entertain me. I'm fine," she stressed. "If you have to go to work or something…"

"No, no. I don't."

She slumped back on the couch. Sara could feel Grissom look at her over the top of his glasses, but he returned to his book before she could catch him staring.

"Can I…" She reached for the remote on the coffee table.

"Sure, sure. By all means," he said. Grissom closed his book.

Sara flipped from channel to channel, trying to wordless strike a balance between their tastes. She bypassed the late-night talk shows and the home shopping network. MTV was out of the question, as was the Disney channel. She settled on the local news and watched as an anchor reported on the weather.

"Looks like rain," she said, her eyes on the television.

"Probably won't be much," he commented. "Usually four inches a year, tops."

"Too bad."

"Why too bad?"

"I like the rain."

"Well, you shouldn't have moved to Vegas."

Sara was silent as the daily lotto numbers were announced.

And then came breaking news.

"A serial murderer was killed in pursuit earlier today," a well-dressed anchorwoman said. "The police aren't releasing any details, save for the fact that the man, described to be in his thirties, was not a Las Vegas native and had committed crimes in several other states. And now, here's Clark Scott with sports…"

Grissom grabbed the remote from Sara's hand and shut the television off. "Say something."

She raised her eyebrows. "Say what?"

"Sara, you were almost…well…I mean…"

"I know. I was there."

He shook his head and sat back on the couch, staring straight in front of him. "I wanted to kill him."

"Excuse me."

"Barzini. When I saw him with you, I wanted to kill him. I've wanted to kill before. That's not what's upsetting me."

"What is?"

"That I'm glad I did," he whispered. "I wish I could bring him back to life just so I could kill him again. I want to snap his fingers off," Grissom continued, his eyes wide as he stared into space. "I want to pummel him until he's bleeding out of every orifice. I'm half tempted to go to the morgue and fire a few rounds into his dead body." He unclenched his hands and returned them to his lap. "I'm a peaceful man, Sara."

"I know."

"'There is nothing more animal-like than a clear conscience,'" he quoted. "I would kill him again. For you."

She bit her lip.

He looked at her and narrowed his eyes in confusion. "You make me…inhuman."

Lightening flashed, illuminating the darkened room momentarily. The crack of thunder soon followed. Grissom got up off of the couch and walked towards his front door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," he said, without looking back.

Sara sat, frozen, for several moments. When the next round of thunder and lightening battered her senses, she numbly slid her hands along the patch of leather Grissom had vacated. It was still warm from his body, but rapidly cooling.

Hours passed and Sara paced numbly, still caught up in his revelation. If she made Grissom inhuman, he made her all too human -- too vulnerable, too capable of mistakes, too subject to the whimsy and folly that was human nature. He damaged her as much as she damaged him.

The rain battered the window as a new day began. Fatigue was beginning to catch up with Sara and she felt her eyelids begin to droop. Her feet were weary and her body ached. She trudged back to Grissom's bedroom and peeled off her clothes, dropping them on the floor unceremoniously before slipping between the sheets. The bed still smelled of him and, like so many nights before, Sara fell asleep with Grissom on her mind.

Lightening once again lit up the room before thunder made its presence known with a resounding crack that shook the foundation of the house. Sara opened her eyes and saw a dark form sitting in the chair by the bed. He was closer than the night before, his knee touching the edge of the bed. She blinked at him, but didn't smile.

Grissom extended a hand and stroked her arm tentatively as if to make sure she was really real. Sara lay still and let him touch her. He got up off of the chair and sat on the edge of the bed so his fingers could play on her better. She could see his hair was wet from the rain. Her eyes toured the rest of his body in the dim room. He was soaked.

Sara sat up quietly and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off of his shoulders. She could hear him toe off his shoes. He finished undressing without a word and slipped into bed next to her, burying his face in her neck and kissing the skin softly.

"I think Las Vegas got its yearly rainfall in one night," he told her, his voice hoarse.

"Sometimes one night is all you need."

"Not for this," he said, tightening his grip on her.

"This?" she asked breathlessly.

His breath was hot on her neck. "I need you to stay with me."

Sara bit her lip. "You said I…I make you inhuman."

Grissom pulled his head back and stared into her eyes. "You make me feel."

THE END