Grissom re-read the last paragraph of Catherine's email and sighed. He been hoping for something concrete - a script, perhaps - not general advice like wait until right before bed. All the same, he told himself, something was better than nothing, and the idea of writing down his argument was slightly more attractive than confronting Sara face to face.

But they hadn't told him what to write! The whole problem was that he didn't know which words to use! He groaned.

Will, who had been walking by, heard the noise and stuck his head into the room. "Everything ok in here?"

Grissom sighed again and rubbed his temples. "Not really, but it's nothing you need to worry about."

"Sara, huh?"

"What?"

"Sara. She's the only thing that seems to unsettle you. Plus, she's one of the few things you won't talk to anyone about."

He was that transparent? He would have to try to keep his mouth shut around Sara's team, he decided.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Will said, interrupting Grissom's recriminations. "I get the distinct impression that you don't feel like chatting right now."

Grissom watched the younger man disappear down the hall, then turned his attention back to the computer. Should he type the letter? Hand-write it? Typing it would allow him to make corrections as he went and thus yield a much neater product...but it seemed so impersonal. The human element would come through much more clearly if he hand-wrote it, but then he'd either have to give her a note full of cross-outs and erasures or he'd have to copy the note multiple times to get it right.

After a moment, it occurred to him that he could draft it on the computer, then hand-write it when he had it perfect. He let out a breath, stretched his hands, and looked down at the keyboard.

An hour later, he re-read it before putting it in its envelope:

Dear Sara,

I'm writing this because, as we both know, I'm terrible at getting my words out when I'm face-to-face with you. Please don't think that it's because I'm avoiding you or the issue, because I'm not.

So...what I'm writing about is basically what I tried to tell you yesterday and screwed up so completely: why I'm here and what I'm hoping to accomplish.

On the surface, I'm here because you wanted to help me stop smoking, but we both know there's more to it. I wanted a second chance with you, and it took you moving across the country to get me to realize it. I emailed you that day hoping that, if I crafted my words carefully enough, you'd be able to understand what I wanted to tell you. I think it worked, to some extent; after all, I'm here.

I didn't get it quite right, though. I wanted a second chance, and you've given me one...but I've discovered that it's not enough.

I've taken the chance. I feel like I've had some minor successes (and many minor failures) doing it, but what I don't know is whether my second chance, as a whole, was a success. Lately, it seems to be disaster after disaster, and instead of bringing you closer to me, it seems to have pushed you away. I seem to have pushed you away.

I've tried so hard to make things up to you, to show you that I've changed and I'm ready, but now...I'm at a loss. I've done, used, said everything I know how to and yet you still seem unwilling to let me in.

I'm played out, Sara. That's what I was trying to tell you yesterday. The next move has to be yours, because there are no more steps that I can take by myself.

I wasn't trying to control you. I wasn't trying to start a fight. I wasn't even trying to pull back from you, although I know it sounded like it.

Well, that's basically what I wrote this to express. I want to move forward, Sara, but I can't do that unless (or until) you're with me wholeheartedly. Or at least three-quarter heartedly. The next step, if there is to be one, has to be a step taken by us, not by me alone or you alone.

I hope I've explained myself a little better this way. I'm going to give this letter to you before we go to bed tonight and let you take it into your room to read. Please don't feel like you need to give me an answer tonight; just promise me you'll think about things.

This is as close to begging as I've ever come with you: please, decide what you're ready or not ready for. Tell me when you've made that decision. Even if you decide you don't want to pursue this, please know that my feelings about you won't change. I want you to be happy, even if you can't be happy with me, and I'll accept whichever option you believe will accomplish that.

Love,

Gil

A few hours later, Grissom stood up from Sara's kitchen table and yawned. "I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. Tonight's cases wore me out."

Sara looked at him in confusion. "You're going to go to bed? Now? You don't want to do anything? Watch TV, talk...?"

"No," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "I'm just too tired."

"Oh." She blinked. "Ok. I guess I'll go read in my room or something."

This was it. He dug deep for whatever courage he could muster and said, "I have something I'd like you to read while you're in there."

"What?" she said, looking intrigued. "A new file? A cold case?"

"No..." he said slowly, drawing the slightly crumpled envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. "This."

Sara took it automatically and examined it: a plain white envelope with just her name written on the front in Grissom's familiar scrawl. "What is it?"

"I can't talk about it right now. Please, just read it when you're in bed."

Scowling at him, she slid a finger under the flap and started prying it open, but before she could open more than an inch Grissom had grabbed her hand. "Please don't."

"Grissom...what is this?"

"Sara, please!"

She sighed. "Ok, fine. I'll indulge you. But this better be something good!"

"I hope it is," he said with a tired smile. "Good night."

"G'night, Gris."

More apprehensive than he could remember ever being, he watched her turn and walk to her bedroom.

Later that night, Grissom lay on the futon in his pajamas. He had the TV on, with an old episode of Columbo playing, but he wasn't really watching it. A book lay open in front of him, but he wasn't really reading that, either.

What he was doing was trying to mentally catalogue all the possible responses Sara could give him. There was the plain old Yes, I'm ready, for one. And the corresponding, No, I'd be happier without you. What was driving him nuts, though, were the dozens of possibilities lying between the two extremes. She could say I'm not ready to make a decision, or I think we need to go into this slowly. Maybe she'd skirt the issue entirely and just yell at him for not being brave enough to speak to her in person. Maybe she'd write a letter of her own back to him. Then there were always You're pushing me and Do we have to do this now?

For all he knew, he reminded himself, she might say Marry me or I never want to see you again. I'm in love with someone else. Maybe I don't know what I feel or I'm still not sure of you. She might put on her stubborn face and insist that I'm not talking about this. Maybe she just wouldn't say anything, and he would be expected to infer her response from that.

Still thinking of responses, Grissom drifted off to sleep.