A/N: Happy Labor Day weekend to those in the US! There aren't any episodes airing on Monday because of the holiday, but I will be posting anyways :)
Spoilers for episode 7x6, Burn Out.
"Greg, do you know where Grissom is?"
He shrugged and kept walking.
"Nope."
"Greg," I called as he turned towards me. "I'm sorry for earlier. That was my fault."
He shrugged again before pausing and turning his head slightly sideways, actually very Grissom-like. He stared at me for a passing moment.
"How come he let it slide when it was you?" he asked.
I opened my mouth, but caught off-guard, no sounds came out.
"I… what do you mean?" I fumbled.
He continued to gaze at me for a moment more before shrugging and exhaling in exasperation.
"Never mind," he said, turning away from me. "I don't know where he is. Ask Brass."
I watched his retreating back until it turned a corner, curious over what had just happened. But I shoved the thought from my mind for the moment, and pulled out my cell.
"Brass."
"It's Sara," I said. "Hey, have you, um… seen Grissom? I… just need to tell him something and I can't find him anywhere."
"Not answering his cell?"
"No."
"Well, that would be because he's been lying on a couch here at P.D. for the last two hours," Brass said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was dead by the way he's lying so still… but he mentioned a migraine."
"He has a migraine?" I repeated, concern slipping into my tone. "I mean, uh… thanks. Thanks, Jim."
I flipped my cell closed and squeezed my eyes shut. That was two almost-kind-of-slip-ups in a span of only a few minutes. It was hard not showing concern for him at work when I knew something was wrong, but I would have to be more careful.
I made my way to my car and headed towards P.D.
I felt like I'd had my eyes closed not twenty minutes before I heard the door open and close softly. I sighed, not wanting to deal with Catherine, or Brass, or Ecklie, or really anybody just then. I was tired and angry, and a little bit disappointed, and all I really wanted to do was retreat into myself for a while and think. Or just sit in silence.
But when I felt a cool hand on my warm forehead, I recognized the touch immediately. I wondered how Sara knew I was here, but all thoughts and worries were pushed aside as another round of pulsing pain pounded in my head. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.
"It's me," Sara whispered, her hands moving to my hair. "Did you take something?"
I shook my head. She continued her feather-soft touches to my hair, and though the pain wasn't subsiding, I felt myself relaxing.
"We should go home," she said after a while, stroking my cheek before gently trying to lift me up.
I sighed, but knowing that she was right, pulled myself into a sitting position. When I finally opened my eyes to look at her, I found her face full of concern, but she didn't press it – not yet. Instead, she drove me home, letting me close my eyes and staying silent the whole time, knowing that noise and sound would only hurt me more. I was grateful that the week previously, she had accepted my offer to move in together. Because I knew I would not have taken care of myself if I had had to gone home alone, like I had so many times in the past.
But now I had Sara, and the boxes of clothes and sheets and picture frames that came with her, once we got to the townhouse I headed straight for bed, not even bothering to change clothes. Sara came in only to close the blinds, place a glass of water on our nightstand and place a gentle kiss on my cheek. Then she snuck out again, quiet as could be.
When I awoke, the room was still dark, but I knew I must have been asleep for hours. The pain had been reduced to a mild throb, and I ambled into the hall to find Sara curled on the couch, having a crack at the newspaper crossword. I crept up behind her, slipping my arms around her shoulders.
"Thank you, honey," I said, kissing her cheek and making my way around the couch to sit next to her.
She put down the crossword and bit her lip.
"I'm worried about you," she said.
"Don't be."
"You used to only get those once a year, if that," she pressed. "This makes two in three months."
She paused.
"Was it the case?"
"It was a lot of things," I replied.
We sat for a few moments, knees touching knees.
"Do you wanna…"
"No," I interrupted her softly. "No, not now."
She nodded, visibly more worried than she was at P.D. I had no way of explaining to her that the exhaustion that claimed me was not just from the case, but from each and every day, the kind of exhaustion that built up until it sunk straight into my bones. I was not okay, not now, but I didn't want her to worry.
"Hey," I said softly, putting a hand to her cheek. "I told you not to worry. I'm okay."
She raised and lowered a shoulder, and I reached for her, pulling her close.
"I'm okay," I repeated into her ear.
"Promise?" she whispered back.
I paused.
"I promise."
She settled into me, her arms around me. I knew she must not have gotten much sleep, worried about me and resigned to the couch, and I was still bone tired. So we slept for a few more hours, together. And when I woke, Sara's smile was bright and the pain was gone.
For now.