Let Her Rain

by Clemmentine

Sara's life is full of truisms.

Title: Let Her Rain

Author: Clemmentine

Category: CSI/GSR, Angst/Romance

Pairing: Grissom/Sara

Rating: Teen

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Summary: Sara's life is full of truisms.

Spoliers: "Way to Go" Season 6 finale

A/N: This is my first post here. I'm dealing with a death in the family, and a lot of this comes from personal experiences. I needed to write it out, and Grissom and Sara seemed like exceptional characters to test my life out on.

At every funeral I've ever been to, it has rained. I don't really like throwing that out there at people, because it's a terrible cliché that starts out many a sappy Lifetime movies. That's not what I'm aiming for by telling this. In my case, it's true and that makes me almost want to boast about it. That probably makes me morbid. But maybe it means something.

When I was six, my grandpa died. I remember everyone telling me how pretty I looked at the family night, and I thought they were all morons. There was a dead man in the corner and everyone was pretending he wasn't there. When no one was looking, I held his hand and told him I loved him.

On the morning of the rainy, Sunday clichéd funeral, everyone started out looking good once more. But by the time of the service, we were all drenched and no one told anyone they looked good again. All the women were a bunch of sobbing frizz-balls. My hair frizzed too, but I didn't cry.

When I was twelve and my mother killed my father, it rained again. I sat between my grandmother and my uncle Roger, and I didn't cry. Nobody cried. And nobody looked good.

There was a torrential downpour when I got the call at Harvard telling me my brother Travis had been murdered by a hitchhiker and there weren't enough remains for a funeral. I didn't cry, but I was used to death by then. The sky was crying, anyway. You can't steal the sky's thunder.

I was in sunny Southern California when I read he'd been raped and hacked up into little barbequeable pieces. I cried then and every night I came home alone to a room full of sunshine after a crime scene.

When it started raining during the seventh summer drought I'd lived through since moving to Nevada, I knew something bad was going to happen. I couldn't predict that Brass would be shot, but I could smell the rain in the air, and see the frizz in my hair. I knew the extent of what was going to happen, but I could not predict the crime.

I should mention I'm not a psychic. I don't even have a decent understanding of psychology. People…are unpredictable. Life, unlike death and rain, isn't so easy to forecast.

So I was shocked.

I had never made love in the rain until Grissom took me home and dried my cold and soaking body off with a towel, only to leave me drenched—but very warm—much later.

We both died a little after each night on the job, and I guess Grissom realized that it was easier to tell a dying person you loved them than a living one. It's not embarrassing to let down your solid-brick walls and just love when the person won't be around to judge you later.

And we died in each other's arms that night, and I smiled at the added cliché in my life.

Grissom and I never got married and we never had any children. But we were happy—so happy. We did honeymoon for a straight month in Japan, sans wedding. It made it all the more enjoyable.

We ended up spending thirty wonderful years together (after the initial trials and tribulations any successful relationship has to go through). He died naturally—if you can call cancer a natural death. I suppose it is in this day and age. But he got his wish, and in the end—we had time to say goodbye.

Grissom was happy and loved, and he died in my arms with his friends around his bedside. I'm telling you, my clichés are real.

The weather at his funeral wasn't totally unexpected. I predicted it even before the weathermen did.

It was a sunny and mild Thursday, with a cool breeze blowing. There were birds singing and bees buzzing, and everyone was beautiful.

I cried.

The sky paid its respect, and it let me rain.

Let her cry…if the tears fall down like rain

Let her sing…if it eases all her pain

Let her go…let her walk right out on me

And if the sun comes up tomorrow…

Let her be.

-Hootie & the Blowfish