I look at the case file in front of me, but I do not see it. I see Her. She is begging, accusing, and crying. Since she shared with me the depth of her solidarity, I can not stop thinking about Her. My feelings, if that's what one might call them, had been suppressed of late. I had become content with this state of being - nay, happy for it. Too long has She invaded my every waking thought. Finally I had control. A semblance of who I was before Her. It was all lost to her tears.
I sigh and throw the case file on my desk. It is no use. I will not be concentrating tonight. I pick up the new entomology book that has been cast aside and now hangs precariously off the corner of my desk. It's from Her. A "Thank you for listening", I suppose. It's actually quite interesting. A very thoughtful gift. She must have perused my office shelves before making the purchase. This is one of the few books I do not own. She must have made a great effort to find it. I lose myself in its pages. That's the thing I love about books. They whisk me away to places where no one can see me or touch me.
A sharp knock sounds at my door, and I immediately know that it's Sophia. I look up at her curiously before comparing Sophia's knock to Her's in my mind. Sophia is brusque and She is...She is an enigma. Her knock changes with Her feelings, but some how I always...
"Earth to Grissom, come in Grissom. Whatcha reading?" Sophia's comments intrude into my thoughts and break the fog. I smile slightly and fork over the book, knowing that this will be the only way to appease her. She perches on the edge of my desk, a place I usually reserve for Her. I cannot, however, tell Sophia to move, so I do not. A few moments of idle chatter - which I despise - and she offers me a goodnight and departs. I am relieved. I don't dislike Sophia...I just don't enjoy her company. I look back at my book and find that it's useless. That's when the idea strikes me. It's most likely a foul idea, but I do it anyway.
It takes me but a few moments to travel to the lab, log in, and pull up Her file. The pictures make me want to rid my stomach of its contents. The crime scene is brutal enough, but the pictures of Her...big brown eyes devoid of all emotion except fear. A tattered blue nightgown splattered with the blood of the father. A child. Just a child! Tattered brown hair. Bruises, oh my. Many bruises. She looks as if she's been in the ring with a heavyweight boxer. It's not right. Parts of the case jump at me from the computer screen.
Multiple stab wounds.
Psychosis.
Daughter.
Foster Care.
Life in prison.
It frightens me. My childhood was abuse-free. I cannot relate. I want to. I want to know the fear she felt. For only through knowing can I help. Or so I would like to believe. I hear footsteps. Quickly I close all my open windows and grab a case file from the stack beside me. Greg waltzes in and puts on some music; grinning at me before beginning his work. I nod back wordlessly and leave the room. Then I feel Her. I look for Her and see Her. She is sitting at a computer, but begins to get up and gather her things. I hurry to the door, hoping to prevent Her hasty exit. I mutter her name. It is barely audible, but we both know She heard me. She looks at me. I am frustrated that, in the process of smothering my...feelings, I have smothered my ability to read Her. My fingers dig into the case file and my nostrils flare in frustration. Finally I ask Her.
"Why are you still here?" She looks conflicted. As if She wants to tell me something. I want to tell Her something. I want to tell Her that She isn't just another case, another trial, another name in the system. I want to pull Her into my arms and hold Her there until I absorb all of Her pain. But She will not let me. So I do not try. I see Her conflict resolve, and she answers me.
"I was just looking up some things for my case. Tying up all the loose ends. You know." She shrugs slightly and I hear the fear and emptiness in Her voice. It is masked by a fine layer of confidence.
"Shift has been over for hours. You really ought to go home." I tell Her this because I am concerned for Her, because I lo...wait. Do I...do I really? In a sudden moment, I do realize it. I do love Her. She is here, real, and it is my responsibility to show Her that love, and to take away Her pain.
"Why are you still here then?" I smirk to myself. This is a typical response from Her. I watch as She shrugs Her jacket on and gathers Her purse. She steps towards me, giving me a look that tells, not asks, me to move. It is now that I become nervous. I focus on the window behind Her to gather my thoughts before looking at Her again.
"I, uh, was just about to leave as well. And, well, neither of us have eaten since at least eight hours ago, and, would you like to get some breakfast?" The words rush out on a breath of air. I am scared she will reject me. I have no problem letting the hope reach my eyes. I have been lonely long enough. It is time I do something to remedy it. I grin at Her when She nods, and give Her the address of the place at which we are to meet. As I walk away from Her, I clutch my case file and mutter: "So it isn't too late."
The drive to our meeting place is filled with thoughts of what to say and what to do. How shall I impress Her? With quotes? My knowledge? I feel as if I am a beta male attempting to catch the alpha female with and unimpressive show of feathers. This does not help my confidence. I arrive before Her, and wait for Her in the doorway. This short time is filled with more insecurities.
As She passes through it, I can tell that She is shocked to see me waiting for Her. Like the gentleman my mother raised me to be, I take Her jacket for Her and place my hand on the small of Her back to guide Her to our table. The way my hand fits perfectly is not lost on me.
We sit and order, and as I ponder how to properly proposition Her, she solves my puzzle for me.
"What is this? Are we co-workers now, friends, or more?" I am afraid and nervous, but my hollowness has existed too long. I know that this is my chance to show my feathers. I feel the overwhelming pressure. My blood rushes to my ears. I can barely form a thought. I manage to gasp out a single sentence.
"This is...this is you and me, Sara. This is friends, co-workers, and more. This is...everything." I want Her to understand so badly. I don't believe I can offer anymore. I've no more to give...and then She does it, and my heart stops. Her finger reaches out and caresses mine. Like a starved man with a nine course meal set before him, I cover her hand with mine, squeezing softly. Her smile will carry me through.
Nathaniel Hawthorne once said: "Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it." Somehow, as I slide my lips over Hers in farewell, I knew that I had achieved happiness. I had not been looking for it, nor had I even been pursuing it. Happiness snuck up and took me by surprise. It comforted me, surrounded me, made me warm, and filled the void. Then I knew...everything would be alright.
