Author's Notes: Thanks to gabesaunt for the beta and all the encouragement. And Nomadic Soul, words fail to express my gratitude; this wouldn't be half of what it is without you. This is my first fic, so please let me know what you think! It is a WIP but the first four chapters are in near-final form so I will be updating frequently.

Prologue: Sublimation

As he drove to work, Gil Grissom was in a restlessly buoyant mood. His thumbs drummed against the steering wheel as he navigated the light traffic, the erratic rhythm a release valve for his nervous energy. He had a disquieting awareness of both a heightened sensitivity to the stimuli of his surroundings and at the same time an odd, almost clinical detachment. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and confirmed that minutes were passing with their normal speed, yet he felt as if this moment existed outside of time. Womblike – the word came, unbidden, perfect. Soon, he would pull into a parking space outside the office and exit the state of suspended animation in which he had been living, would be born to the world anew. To calm himself, he allowed his mind to replay the events which led up to the choice he had just made.

He had been living in a climacteric period for quite a while, he realized, but the final catalyst had been his last shift. The team had worked an especially difficult case – an emaciated body found in the desert led them to a torture chamber eerily reminiscent of the medical experiments at Auschwitz. After his many years of service, he had thought himself inured to the depths of the human capacity for cruelty. He had been wrong. What made it even more agonizing was the personal connection; the victim was Zoe Kessler, the daughter of his old friend, Lady Heather.

To be fair, he acknowledged to himself, he and Heather Kessler hadn't been friends for a long time. They had been close, once. She had known him, instantly – that had always been her gift. He had been seduced by what she offered him: kindness, steadiness, acceptance, and a chance to explore a world that had always intrigued him – with no questions, no commitments. What was the phrase Greg would have used? – friends with benefits – the ideas kids had these days, and yet it should have been the perfect arrangement for a shy, intensely private middle-aged entomologist with intimacy issues.

He had enjoyed her company immensely. The conversations – oh, how he missed the conversations, the joy of talking freely with your intellectual equal. But one night, tired and seeking comfort, he had taken her up on the benefits that were an unspoken part of the equation. It had been a bad decision on his part, he knew, since they were investigating a case that involved the murder of two of her employees, but he was so tired of being lonely. It hadn't even been kinky – he smiled wryly at the thought – she had known him so well, had known he was intrigued but not ready. Instead it had been slow and sweet and intense, the sensations incredible, the physical release unlike anything he had experienced.

But. Even now his throat tightened at the memory. The most exquisite sadness he had ever known was relentlessly intertwined with the triumphant pleasure of his orgasm. The longing for Sara had been an acutely physical pain – his chest aching, his throat closing, his lashes dampening as he squeezed his eyes against the sting. Of course, Heather had known that too, had fixed him in that clear gaze of hers, had taken his face in her hands and caressed the tension around his eyes with her thumbs as she whispered, "Oh, Gil, this isn't going to work." All he had been able to do was mumble hoarsely, "I'm sorry. Heather, I'm so sorry."

Downshifting for a red light, he felt his skin pinken a little with embarrassment. Heather had been her elegant, ladylike self, letting him go with no recriminations. She had made him tea the next morning, and it had all been so civilized – and then he had realized that she was a diabetic, and therefore linked to the case. On an instinctive level, he had known that she wasn't involved in the murders. But the evidence had been there, had needed to be processed, and he had done what he had to do.

Yesterday, he had seen her outside of the morgue after she had identified her daughter's body. It was the first time they had spoken since she had been cleared in the case involving her employees. She had made it clear he hadn't been forgiven, and he had accepted her ire, pained by how much he had wounded someone he truly cared about.

At the end of the case, he had been the first one on the scene as she was whipping the modern-day Mengele who had tortured her daughter. His first reaction had been relief that he had gotten there in time; she didn't need to face murder charges on top of everything else. He had caught the end of the whip and jerked her around to face him, urging her to stop, though he feared she couldn't hear him.

But she had heard him, had collapsed against him in tears. He'd murmured soothing sounds of comfort, fisting his hand in her hair and stroking her head while she cried. He had never been good with words, he knew – but he poured out his heart in the only way he could, giving her his mea culpa in the tenderness of his embrace. And even then, damn him, he couldn't stop thinking of Sara – what it would be like to hold her this way, what it would be like to offer her comfort, what it would be like to tell her he loved her.

His reverie had been broken by the squeal of tires as a squad car pulled up. Heather had lifted her head off his shoulder and looked at him, her stormy-ocean eyes surprisingly clear though her husky voice was still rough with tears. "Don't wait to say I love you, Gil. That wall around your heart won't protect you when she's gone."

After shift, he'd gone to ride the X-Scream, seeking comfort in the familiar. But the anticipation at the crest and the thrill of the plummet didn't provide him the usual catharsis. Bemused, he had gone home to bed. He had expected sleep to elude him, but it overtook him like a gentle gift, dark and dreamless. Hours later, he had awoken, more refreshed than he had felt in years.

Heather's words had been ringing in his ears, urging him to take the risk he had been avoiding for so long. He had been shocked at how quickly the decision had come, as the frozen wall protecting his heart had not just melted, but instantly evaporated. Sublimation. The certainty that he needed to approach Sara about their relationship had left him feeling off-kilter, but strangely centered at the same time.

He made the final turn into the parking garage, sliding his old Mercedes into its usual spot. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he noted his heart beating quickly with the familiar eagerness he felt on the first climb of a roller coaster. This is it, Gil. Find Sara, ask her to have breakfast after shift, and then… His thoughts trailed off. He couldn't quite think of what he would say to her, but he trusted that words would come in the moment. More excited than he had been in years, he turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out of the car. Closing the car door, he walked towards his future with an anticipatory grin on his face.