Author's Note: The question of chapter three: do we REALLY need jammies? (Well, gotta lighten the mood somehow!) Please note that Grissom is checking on Sara because this story occurs less than a week after Sara's DUI. It's not random. :)

Chapter Three: The Visit

Gentle taps at her front door startled her so badly that she nearly dropped the mug to the floor. She set it on the counter with trembling fingers and crossed the room to the door, peering out through the small circular glass at eyelevel.

Grissom stood outside, a soft black tee shirt, beige suede jacket and stonewashed jeans indicating that this was more than likely not a work call. His feet were sandal-clad, and he had two fingers pressed to his lips as he studied her door as closely as if it were an important piece of evidence in a murder or kidnapping case. He raised his other hand tentatively and knocked again, this time a little louder.

Sara looked down at herself, seeing lightly tanned skin and thick white cotton…and nothing else. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, dropping both the towel around her body and the one holding up her hair to the floor and reaching for a clean pair of pajamas from an open dresser drawer. Her fingers closed around black satin, and she winced, but one look told her that nothing else remained in the drawer. She pulled on the button-up short sleeved top and the long pants, trying to ignore the cool slide of the fabric against her skin, still heated from the shower. Still, her nipples puckered and her skin goose-fleshed beneath the satin, and she rolled her eyes and shoved a hand through her hair.

One more knock. He would be leaving soon, assuming she was asleep. Maybe she should let him think that, let him go. It would probably be for the best. One more look at him, and her nightmares might come flooding back so violently that she would start crying all over again, and that would never do. But she found herself retracing her steps to the door, pulling back the deadbolt, twisting the knob. She pulled the door towards her and met his eyes.

"Hi."

"Sara." His voice was low, though she knew that at this time of the morning there would be no fear of waking her neighbors. "Can I come in?"

"Is something wrong?" she stalled, trying to hide a visible flinch when she caught his eyes drifting down her body, taking in her wet hair, her simply cut but fabric-sensual sleepwear, her bare feet. It was only a second, and then his eyes were back on hers, but she felt as if she had been stripped again, and was waiting, trembling, to be dragged back into the blood-red room…

"No. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Did I wake you?"

"Uh, no." She could not lie when her hair and the fresh scents of soap and shampoo wafting off her skin spoke to a recent shower. "But I'm fine."

He pursed his lips and leaned one hand against the doorjamb, too casual. "Can I come in for a moment?"

"I—" For the life of her, she could not come up with a plausible excuse. "Sure."

He slipped past her into the warmly lit room, taking in the dark red walls, the richly finished wood of her cabinets, the cozy and inviting setting she created for the friends she did not have and the lovers she never entertained. He had seen them once before, five days ago, after he had brought her home from her devastating night of inebriation. But he seemed to study the rooms anew, as if looking at a crime scene with fresh eyes. She moved into the kitchen and picked up her mug of cocoa, desperate to give her hands something to do besides shake.

"Sit down," she said numbly, taking a sip of the slightly cooled beverage. "Do you want something? Tea, or coffee? I'm having hot chocolate."

"That sounds good," he said, his voice slightly absent, his eyes still searching her apartment, cataloguing every detail. Sara pulled another packet of cocoa from her cabinet and another mug, but her trembling fingers spilled half the powder onto the counter, and she cursed softly.

In a moment Grissom was behind her, reaching for the mug and packet of hot chocolate, probably to save her from dropping the cup as well and slicing her hand on the sharp ceramic. His fingers brushed over hers, warm and callused, and she jerked back so sharply that her back collided with his chest, sending them both stumbling back a few feet before he caught her, hands lightly steadying her hips. She whirled, tugged away, coming to rest against the refrigerator across the room, her breath coming fast and sharp.

"Don't touch me." The words tumbled out before she could process or censor them.

His face creased with concern. "Sara, what's wrong?"

"I think you should go." Apparently, her internal censor had taken the night off entirely. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the fiery sting of an invisible cut.

"Sara." His voice was so soft, so tender, that she felt something inside her break. There was nothing left to stop her words, to make her think through what she was saying, and all her pain and fear and anger began to pour out of her through her lips.

"I just have a question for you."

"Okay." His voice was purposefully neutral, but still soft.

"When you spent the night with her, did Heather chain you to the wall?"

Grissom's face looked as if she had kicked him in the groin with every ounce of her strength. "What?"

"Did she chain you up? Silver chains, like the ones that first victim, the girl, was hung from? I'm just curious."

"Sara—"

She tilted her head, studying his face. "You're wondering how I know." She inhaled deeply. "I was…in the room, with Jim, when you made the call. He told me he needed to get a warrant for Lady Heather's medical supplies, and I said I would go find you. He told me you were already there. It was early morning, Grissom. And I knew."

He was slightly pale now, and his hands were gripping the edge of the counter as he watched her, his eyes tight. "I see."

"So I'm just wondering. Chains?"

"No." The word was clipped, cold, with a hint of an emotion behind it that Sara struggled to identify. For a moment she studied him, lips slightly pursed, and then it hit her. To answer her question, he had to confess that he and Heather had been together that night. And he did not want to, at least not to her. But he had.

"So." She slid a hand up through her damp hair. "Guess I have some details wrong."

"Details?" His tone was so careful that she wanted to slap him.

"I've been dreaming," she blurted out. This was it. If she ever found the little voice that was supposed to be inside her head screaming at her to shut up, she was going to strangle it for abandoning her tonight. "Not dreaming, really. Having nightmares."

"About me?"

She nodded. "Since you brought me home, after—" She could not quite say the words. "After. That night, and every night since."

"It's been more than a year." She knew he was referring to the night he had spent with Lady Heather, and not the night he had taken her home.

Sara's lips twisted in a parody of a smile. "Yes, well. A lot has happened in the past year. Guess bad memories piled on top of each other until the best one made itself into a nightmare."

"You want to tell me how chains are involved in this nightmare?"

She shook her head, some remaining shred of secrecy sealing her lips at last. "I think I'd better not."

With a sigh, Grissom crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I don't think I should leave until you tell me the rest of this."

Hot rage bubbled up in Sara's throat as she stared at him. Always calm, always in control, he would force her to open up to him again, and the experience would only spiral down into more agony when he remained closed off, secretive, imprisoning her outside of his life again.

Do you think you can understand the way his mind works, what he craves, what he despises, the deepest secrets of his heart? The words echoed inside her skull, and she fought against the urge to press her palms to her temples and scream.

"Suit yourself," she said coldly, stepping away from the cool hard surface of her fridge. "I'm going to bed."

TBC...