Grissom pushed the door to his place open and stepped in, letting it go then so that it quietly clicked closed behind him. He listened. All was silent but for the ticking of his clock on the wall. He scoured his home from his spot in the entranceway, but he could not see her.

"Sara," he called out, with a touch more urgency in his voice than he had intended. He waited, but heard no answer; nothing stirred.

He slowly took a step forward, his superior, trained instinct dominating his desire to run through the apartment in frantic search for her. Why did he always have to assume the worst?

Another cautious step took him past the kitchen into his living room. "Sara, are you here?"

He half expected to hear some muffled cry, but he scolded himself. He more than half desired for her to come up behind him, to surprise him, in that pink robe he liked so much, freshly showered. He wanted her to wrap his arms around him as she used to, to lie with him and talk about their plans, and menial things, with simple words that seemed not to exist in his lexicon. He wanted to feel her skin; to sense that wondrous foreign entity that was human touch he had, until that moment, forgotten he had so adored. His senses frittered and frenzied in agonizing anticipation of her appearance, be she did not show. His blue eyes, so filled with concern, merely continued to search his place over the rims of his glasses.

He went into the bedroom and noticed her things were gone. He then felt a mixture of sad surprise and intense relief, noting that had something gone amiss, she could scarcely have had time to pack her things. She had even made the bed. But still, she was not there. Had Greg called her? Had she maybe gone to Catherines? Comforting as those ideas were, the fact she had not said anything of it to him caused a twitching pain in his heart. He had so looked forward to seeing her.

He sat down on the bed, this overarchingly small disappointment gnawing away at him all the same. He observed his nighttable: the lamp which likely still had her fingerprints on it, the crumpled tissues they had used to dry their eyes still damp with death-induced tears. He saw his framed butterfly, and a picture of the two of them together, smiling somehow. A butterfly, he thought, it is so obvious and so clear.

Butterflies are free to fly. Fly away.

He suddenly looked as though he remembered something, cocking his head sidways as though listening intently. He knew her well enough to assume she might leave him a note. Where? Likely on the kitchen counter. He got up to check.

He was right. He found one, folded neatly with his name written on it in her distinct, endearing handwriting. Lord, he prayed, cure me of this agony. He was begging inside.

Unfolding it, he read:

Dear Gil,

I have had to cut my stay short. I am not fit to stay any longer in Las Vegas. It pains me to have to tell you this way. Please don't misread me. It was wonderful to be so close to you again, but I have learned a lot about us. I cannot tell who has changed more. I think maybe you are more like yourself than you were since I left the lab. I know you. I know your devotion. I know you cannot leave and I cannot ask you to, but your job had a hold of you like it did me. I believe it would break us apart in time. I think this maybe be where we part for some time. I have so enjoyed what we had.

With unchanging love,
Sara

Spots where tears had dried streaked across the page.

He folded the letter back up with scientific precision and method of preservation. But closer observation would have revealed trembling lips, quickened breathing, and a deep suffering in his eyes. He leaned onto his hands pressed on the counter and stood motionless for many minutes. With a sigh, he turned around an pulled off his jacket. He kicked off his shoes and socks. He also took off his watch and he thew all of those things on to a kitchen chair. The jacket slowly slid off the chair and he heard the zipper hit the floor with a ping. He glared hard at the heap.

He looked to his right and saw the contents of his trash can. A brochure of the Galapagos, a guide to Santa Cruz. There was a sticky note attached to it: "Think about it."

"Damn it," he said under his breath. "Damn."

He walked out of the kitchen into the living room. Empty. "Damn," he whispered, half closing his eyes as he stumbled across the carpet.

He fell to one knee and grabbed for the couch to steady himself. He there felt the soft quilt he and Sara had been wrapped up the previous night. He brought it to his face and breathed deeply. It still smelled so strongly of her, as though she was right next to him, holding his hand as she had, her face so close to his.

"Damn it," he said louder. He winced as he rolled over. His face now upturned was contorted in agony. "Damn!" he yelled again. He seemed to bellow and moan, crying out as he had never done before. Hot tears welled in his eyes and he instantly became angry with himself. He loathed himself for it.

He got to his knees. "Oh God," he whimpered. Then he whispered, "Oh God, Sara."

He had to do something. He needed to throw something; to hit something; to break something. Pain spasmed through his body as his lunged upward at things close to him. He whipped a magazine against the wall, and smashed the TV remote on the floor. He tore the quilt from the sofa and amassed it into a heap on the floor. His head was spinning and aching. He kept muttering the same words over and over, furious with himself but unable to stop.

I am losing everyone. I am losing everything. God, I need her so badly. All that came out was "Oh God."

He stood up finally amongst the minor wreckage of his living area, the spinning fan above his head casting strange shadows on the wall. Strange shadows on his hands.

He took a deep breath in and shouted, "How could you leave me?" His face contorted once more, his chest and shoulders heaving, his balance swaying, he grabbed a particularly beautiful framed butterfly casing from his wall and threw it hard against the glass pane of his sliding door. It shattered into flakes of glass and the butterfly lay askew on the ground, free but bereft of life all the same.

Grissom let out a husky cry and fell to the floor, shuddering between sobs, and muttering a now complete thought. "Oh God, oh God, I love you. So much." He pounded the floor, so ashamed and so empassioned with grief, he never even heard the door click shut.

Two feet suddenly appeared before Grissom's eyes as he kneeled, inclined toward the floor. His sobs caught in his throat and he ceased his ramblings. A warm hand touched his face and lifted his towards hers. Sara stooped and kneeled on the floor with Grissom, staring intensly into his face. She used her free arm to wrap around his neck and shoulders, consoling him, keeping him still.

His red eyes showed his bewilderment at her presence, but his expression was so ashamed and so apologetic. Her own grave expression showed pity, and her big, brown eyes revealed to him apologies he felt he far from deserved.

Her lips opened as if to speak, but no words came out. She couldn't get past merely leaning in close to him and kissing him harder than she had ever kissed anyone in her entire life.

TBC

(PART III Rated R)