February 13, 1998. San Francisco, California.

The next morning, when he looked at the beautiful young brown-haired woman lying in his bed, Grissom felt something approaching happiness. The night before hadn't been awkward, and it hadn't made him feel sad or disconnected. It had been rather marvelous, in fact. Though he had an implicit awareness of how fleeting this situation would be and thus couldn't quite bring himself to feel happiness, he felt something rather close to it. He also felt a genuine fondness for the lovely young woman lying in bed next to him. He thought again about how brilliant she was. He smiled and fell back to sleep for a bit.

For her part, the lovely young woman was ecstatic, and she was going to try her best not to scare him off; he seemed like he would scare off quite easily. She had heard him awaken, and she did not fall back to sleep, but she lay there quite contented.


Hours later, Sara and Grissom had eaten breakfast (together) and showered and dressed (apart) and were leaving from Sara's apartment for more sightseeing. She'd decided to start the day by taking him to City Lights Books. It was a San Francisco landmark, and she figured he'd quite enjoy it. He did. They spent hours. Grissom found several things he liked, and Sara snuck in the purchase of the 40th anniversary edition of Howl and Other Poems, which had originally been published the year Grissom was born, 1956. She intended to give it to him as a parting gift; she hoped it would remind him of San Francisco and, with San Francisco, of her. She then took him to Vesuvio Cafe for a little hair of the dog, and he stopped to take pictures of Jack Kerouac Alley.

They ate lunch at one of the many Italian restaurants in North Beach, then they wandered over to Washington Square before climbing up to Coit Tower. Afterward, they made their way to Fisherman's Wharf. It was admittedly a pretty touristy day, but that was what Sara had promised him, and Grissom seemed to enjoy himself, although maybe he just enjoyed Sara's company. For dinner they ate clam chowder out of sourdough bowls, because that seemed really just the most perfectly touristy thing they could do. Then they ate ice cream cones and walked up and down the pier. At the end of the day, after they'd taken the cable car back to his hotel (the location just off Union Square was perfect for that), he asked her up for a drink. Of course, she accepted. Again, they both thought the night marvelous.


February 14, 1998. San Francisco, California.

The next day, Grissom thankfully failed to notice the rather awkward fact that it was Valentine's Day. Sara, who had not failed to notice, took him to that most romantic of all San Francisco tourist attractions, Alcatraz. Though the release of The Rock some two years earlier had only increased the attraction's popularity, in February it was relatively quiet.

On the boat ride over, Sara for the first time learned that Grissom liked boats and being on the water, which was not too surprising to her, as she was aware of at least the minimal biographical information that he had grown up in Marina Del Rey. On the island, they took the audio tour of the prison, which predictably both quite enjoyed.

On the boat ride back, they found a quiet area of the boat to sit. When, despite being two intensely private people, they managed to break away from their ocean-watching for several minutes to make out, Sara thought this trip to a former prison was most certainly the most delightful Valentine's Day outing she'd ever had. (It was the only Valentine's Day outing she'd ever had.)

They hadn't exactly been planning a Valentine's Day dinner, so after Alcatraz Sara took Grissom to the Embarcadero, and they bought treats and wine at the Ferry Building. Grissom offered to buy some flowers to add to the ambience of their evening, but Sara told him she'd always found cut flowers a little sad: once you got them, they were already dying; so, instead, Grissom bought a living plant—she liked vegetation.

After they started discussing vegetation, Grissom told Sara a little about his father, who'd been a professor of botany, and it was strange because he couldn't remember having talked to anyone about his father before, ever in his whole life; for years after his father died, his mother had still bought Christmas presents for his father, but she didn't like to discuss him. Meanwhile, by this point in her life, Sara was so adept at avoiding conversations about her own family that Grissom didn't notice her failure to reciprocate by sharing any family information of her own.

Something about Sara made Grissom feel comfortable telling her things he wouldn't tell anyone in his real life. This time with Sara couldn't be real life, not really, he thought. This time with Sara didn't feel like anything Grissom had ever experienced before.

Following some further conversation and some further wandering, Sara and Grissom took their spoils back to Grissom's hotel room, where they had, once again, really a very marvelous night.


February 15, 1998. San Francisco, California.

When Sunday came, they were both a little somber, though they tried not to show it. Sara took Grissom to a local brunch spot she liked, then they spent a few hours wandering the Museum of Modern Art. Afterward, Sara drove them out for sunset at the historic Cliff House, where they enjoyed seafood and looked out at the Pacific, and perhaps for the first time since meeting did not know quite exactly what to say to each other. They went back to Grissom's hotel room rather early, and once again the evening was marvelous—and the night, too, as they didn't really sleep much—but this time instead of almost quite happy they were both almost quite sad.


February 16, 1998. San Francisco, California and Las Vegas, Nevada.

Almost exactly one week (one week and some hours) after meeting Sara Sidle, Gil Grissom was flying back to Las Vegas. In the morning, they ate breakfast together quietly and waited for Grissom's scheduled airport shuttle pickup. When the time came, Sara walked out with him. They'd already exchanged business cards at the beginning of the conference, and the copy of Howl she'd slipped in his bag also had a note from her and her contact information. Neither really knew what to say, so she kissed him and told him she expected to hear from him. He told her, "Of course," and he smiled. She smiled, too, but she couldn't quite manage that megawatt smile he already loved (not that he would have used that word yet—he wouldn't manage that for many years).

Once Grissom had left, Sara took her Valentine's Day vegetation and returned to her apartment, where she put on Sarah McLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy; lay face down on her bed, still fully clothed and clutching her vegetation; and tried very hard not to cry.

Of course, neither of them could have recognized the full extent of the shift, but on that day perhaps Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom already began to wonder whether the course of their lives had been slightly altered. Of course, we know that was not the case. We know the course of their lives had not been merely slightly altered. We know their lives would never be the same again.


When Grissom returned to the Las Vegas crime lab that night, his colleagues on graveyard all asked him about the conference, and he told them it had gone well. One of his younger colleagues jokingly asked him whether he'd managed any conference hookups. They all laughed at this because the notion of Grissom going to a conference and hooking up with a strange woman was really quite laughable.

Grissom was not offended. "I met a beautiful brunette on the first day, and we spent several marvelous nights together," he told them, knowing what their responses would be.

They all laughed at this. They thought it was a good joke. Puns aside, sometimes Grissom could be quite funny. Grissom laughed, too. He'd found honesty really was the best policy.


Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom would tell you, both then and now, that they didn't—and don't—believe in love at first sight. Really the whole idea was an insult to the concept of love. How could you love someone you'd just met? You couldn't. Sara and Grissom would surely give you some sort of scientific explanation for it. An initial intense attraction that, over time, allowed love to grow up beside it—something like that. Yet, if that was how Sara and Grissom explained love at first sight, was that not also what they experienced? If we were to define the concept thus, would they not meet this definition? Examining the evidence, how then can we say they did not fall in love at first sight?


UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FEBRUARY 20, 1998 AND ONWARD. SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA AND LAS VEGAS, NEVADA.


NOTES

On love at first sight:

To be clear, I love slow burns. Give me When Harry Met Sally. Give me TV shows where the characters take six or seven seasons to get together. (Hello, Josh and Donna! Hello, Sara and Grissom!) I think love at first sight is a crock, and movies (I think it's usually movies) or TV shows that claim to depict it make me want to throw all the rocks at the screen. That's not what I'm claiming for the science nerds; I am claiming they had an immediate spark, an almost instant connection, a very quick sense of being smitten with each other, and a love that grew up alongside those other things.


SOUNDTRACK LISTING

Sarah McLachlan. "Ice Cream."


A/N:

Thank you again for reading, and thank you so much for the kind reviews/favs/follows! Honestly, it quite literally makes my day to know anyone is reading and enjoying this. 💛