Three shifts in a row and a few more hours later Grissom was finally home, but his head wouldn't let his body relax. The image of that dead woman broke him in a way he wasn't prepared for. He'd been to so many crime scenes but none had taken away his sense of responsibility and partiality like this one had. But it was her. Sara. Dead. No, it wasn't Sara. It was Debbie. But his mind always put his determined young CSI in his memories. They were so alike, yet so different.
Grissom shuffled into his kitchen, his knees complaining with the movement, his whole body complaining. He was going to reach out to get a glass, but when he started to move, he heard some more complaints and preferred to grab the mug that was on the counter. He went back to his big, comfy couch, the route altered a few feet to get the whiskey bottle. His body heaved as he sat up. Poured some of the drink into his mug and downed it in one gulp. He slipped on the couch and threw the shoes away. He knew he needed a shower, but he wouldn't be able to move anymore. His eyes grew heavy until he closed them and let sleep take him to a time when he discovered what it was like to be happy and someone else.
The sound that seemed far away was getting closer, snatching him from her arms. An annoyed growl hoarse from his newly awakened throat, he blinked his eyes several times before actually waking up. It was dark, he didn't know how many hours he'd slept, but he was still tired. His body was still stiff from the overexertion he'd put in, but it hurt even more to know that the effort was in vain. He was still free, but Grissom knew it was him. He saw himself in that man. He would also have killed Hank, the idiot paramedic who had hurt Sara. Not that he could, he no longer had any rights. He got up with difficulty and walked towards his room, maybe a shower would be enough for the tensions to give him a break. He turned on the shower, the water very hot, and threw his clothes in the hamper. He stopped in front of the mirror and let himself watch their tired expressions, his gaze was dark and exhausted. The feeling of loss still plagued him, it still passed through that bathroom. Dead.
He got into the shower and stood under the hot water, that hit his head and trickled down his body giving him some kind of comfort. His head was thrown forward and the drops hit her back hard. He couldn't relax, even though his body felt better. With the towel wrapped around his waist he left the bathroom and headed for the closet, he was looking for a comfortable outfit when his eyes betrayed him and they went to a dark box that was on the top shelf. This time without so many complaints he managed to reach up and grab the small box, having completely forgotten what he was looking for before. He walked over to the bed and set the box on the mattress. His fingers trailed along the edge before opening it. There were some papers and another smaller box, but he felt like he had rescued a treasure. He took out the entire contents of the box and a photograph fell out. He would recognize that smile anywhere. San Francisco, that memory was always for him a quiet place for when his mind was troubled, as it had been all those last few days.
Whenever he stopped for a minute and closed his eyes, the memory of that sunset, minutes before their first kiss, comforted him. His lips still remembered the warmth of hers, how could he forget, he still felt it so many times and let it slip through his fingers. Simply thinking that would be the best thing for her, but he only saw her glow fading day by day. The smiles weren't real anymore, he knew that, he knew them well. He saw that smile so close, the sound of her laughter still echoing in his head, making her always present, wherever he was.
He held the smaller box and his hand felt heavy, as if it weighed a ton, but it was small and simple. A silver pendant with a small butterfly set with five small sapphires. It was her birth month stone and the color of Sara's favorite butterfly: Morpho. He held the bracelet between his fingers and the butterfly was between his forefinger and thumb, moving his finger gently and he felt the stones under his skin, his eyes grew distant and he allowed the tear that was struggling to escape to run down his face. He would always love her. And now that he could name what was feeling, he couldn't express it. He couldn't. Conversations in the hallways were already that he favored her for personal reasons. As if she needed him to protect her or do anything to make her flawless at that job. Sara was born to be a CSI, she just needed to control her emotions. She had instinct. She knew when something wasn't right. Many were theories and years of work, like him. Sarah doesn't. She seemed to feel and see things that others didn't.
He returned the bracelet to its box and closed it carefully, it was very fragile and extremely valuable, emotionally speaking. He picked up one of the papers and saw the scrawled letters. He only knew one person who had such bad handwriting. He smiled when he thought about it. She was thinking so fast that her lyrics to keep up with the beat were such a mess. It was a quick read, letters from when she was still in San Francisco. They, in their haste and desire to be together, did not remember to pass any contact, so she sent it to the laboratory. His surprise was huge when he saw his name in that bad handwriting that he somehow missed.
'Now that you have my contact, send me news, I always remember our conversations, even though I still think I pestered you with so many questions!
XO
Sara Sidle.'
When he'd finished the letter for the first time, he'd expected some reference to the kiss they'd shared, but nothing, not a word on the subject. Perhaps the distant time made her realize the error of that gesture and confirmed that he was too old for her, in addition to all her weak social relationships. Even with her contact, he still preferred to send her letters and always had answers. She sent him a copy of a book, which, incredibly, he didn't have: 'Entomology' by Cedric Gillott. He devoured that copy as if he'd never read anything on the subject just because it was a gift from her and thought for him. The book was on his shelf, he had never touched it again after the first reading, it was as if he was afraid it would damage it. More letters were exchanged, as well as emails and phone calls, but never about them and that last day in San Francisco, it was always about a different case or her with her questions that made him think. He found it fascinating, always had the easy answer to many subjects, but she always made his head need to gather information before answering.
And then, she came to Vegas. Not at the best of times, but he needed someone he could trust and at that moment all he could think about was her. She was always his breaking point. He didn't trust anyone, but her he did. He had no friends, but she was his friend. His best friend. And when she arrived and he heard her voice, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he could feel her presence. It was like a charge in the whole environment. When he turned around and saw her, it was as if the problems that had been plaguing his thoughts flew away. The wavy hair shorter than the ones in her memories, the colors that seemed to give her more light and that damn amazing smile. He'd loved her from day one, he was sure of it.
He carefully put everything in the box, now with the photo on top, along with the box with the bracelet. He ran his hand over the lid before returning it to where it was. He took his work clothes and put them on like a ritual he already knew so well. He took the coat off the back of the chair and looked at his bed one last time. Her laughter echoed in his memories and a moment he guarded carefully was revisiting his memory forcefully. He couldn't think about that now, not after so many years of managing to keep everything under control. He left for his shift with one certainty: He needed to work with her.