A/N: There are references to something I had Grissom do in a previous story. If you don't remember it, it's from the Butterflied chapter (chapter five) of season four's story, A Blind Eye. You can refresh your memory there, if need be :)

Spoilers for episode 7x16, Monster in the Box.

I cradled a huge, steaming mug of tea in my hands, but I hung back.

I couldn't make myself knock on the door in front of me. As soon as we'd gotten off work, Grissom went straight for his office, locking himself inside. He hadn't come out since. And I was worried about him.

The case had been enough – we lost an officer, but on top of that, the miniature killer was playing a direct game with Grissom, and we were at a complete dead end to find him. I remembered how, only a few months ago, he had been so excited at the prospect of finally, finally putting this frustrating case to rest. It hadn't ended then, and it still hadn't ended now. I wished there were some way to help, but short of marching out and tracking down the miniature killer himself, there really wasn't much I could do.

Except be there for him. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He didn't answer, but I let myself in anyway, finding him hunched over his desk, the lamp illuminating an open book in front of him. But he wasn't reading it. He was staring straight ahead with blank eyes, holding his head in his hands.

"Hey," I cooed. "I brought you tea."

He jumped as if jilted out of a stupor.

"What?" he mumbled. "Oh. Thanks, honey."

I put the tea on his desk next to the book and slid my hands over his shoulders, kneading them. The muscles in his back were tight – the tension he was feeling was evident even there. Eventually, I leaned down and dropped my chin onto his shoulder, kissing the side of his neck.

"Are you okay?" I murmured.

"I don't know, Sara," he sighed exasperatedly. "This last one…"

"I know. What can I do?"

"Nothing," he said again. "You can't do anything, I can't do anything… this guy will continue making miniatures until he dies, and we'll probably never get a clue as to who he is or why he does what he does."

"Don't," I scolded, rubbing his shoulders again. "Don't think like that. I know it's frustrating, we're all frustrated, but I've never seen you back down from a challenge. Don't start now."

"It's a mess…"

"I know."

I twisted him around a little in his chair so that he was facing me. I studied his face, and though I found worry lines etched across his forehead and dark circles under his eyes, I smiled at every detail.

"Why don't you come to bed," I suggested. "I think I know a way to make you a little less stressed."

He tried offering me a smile, but the result fell short.

"I'm almost done here," he said tiredly. "I'll be in in a minute."

I recognized my cue. I left the office, closing the door behind me and leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. I hated seeing him like this – frustrated, tired and angry. I wished there was something, anything, I could do.

I strode to the bookshelf near the living room and pulled any books that looked even remotely helpful. I carried the stack of them in my arms and headed back to the bedroom, spilling them all over the bed. I climbed in near the pillows and looked at them, pulling over the two closest to me, an encyclopedia and a dictionary. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I figured maybe even flipping through the volumes might produce something helpful. Nothing else was.

I flipped through the pages of the dictionary with my fingers. There was something stuck between two of the pages in the "G" section, and the book fell open to it. It was an envelope, stuck in upside down and never opened. Fingering it, I could tell something was inside. I pulled it out and flipped it over. It had my name on it.

I stared at the four letters for what seemed like an eternity. I was pretty sure I knew who it was from, but the rest was a mystery. When did he write it? Why had he never given it to me? Why was it stuck in the middle of a dictionary?

Tentatively, I slid my finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. There was a page inside. I stopped halfway through pulling it out, listening for any signs of movement coming from the office. Nothing.

I unfolded the single page and let my eyes run over the words printed upon it.

Dear Sara, it said. Henry Louis Mencken once wrote, "The one permanent emotion of the inferior man is fear – fear of the unknown, the complex, the inexplicable. What he wants above everything else is safety."

I smiled a little. I was definitely right about the author. But as my eyes continued to read over the rest of the letter, my smile faded and my heart grew heavy. By the time I finished, there were tears in my eyes, threatening to spill out and land on the paper I was holding. I didn't know how to feel, or what to think. I knew that at some point, probably for many years, Gil felt like he shouldn't and couldn't be with me. His words to Lurie had told me that much. But to read the words written from his own hand, expressed so eloquently with each and every explanation laid out before me…

I didn't bother moving the pile of books off the bed, I just shoved the letter back into the envelope, back into the book, and crawled under the covers. I clenched my jaw tight, cocooning myself in the blankets. I willed myself to fall asleep before Gil came in, but I wasn't so lucky. I clenched my eyes closed when I heard him come in, but I knew it wouldn't fool him.

"What's all this?" he asked softly, probably gesturing to the mountain of books piled at my feet. "Sara?"

I shrugged, but under all the blankets, he probably couldn't see. I cleared my throat.

"Research."

"You think you'll find the key to the killer in Miriam-Webster?" he asked.

His tone was light and teasing, but it only made the pressure on my heart increase tenfold. I whipped around, eyes ablaze. He looked taken aback.

"I did find a key to someone else though," I said, grabbing the dictionary.

"Sara… what?..."

I opened the pages to the letter and tossed it to him. His face only grew more concerned.

"Oh," he said softly.

"Right next to the entry for grief," I said stingingly. "Very appropriate."

It took him a long time to raise his gaze from the envelope to me.

"Sara, I wrote this a very long time ago," he said slowly. "This were different then… I was different then."

"Regardless of when you wrote it, you had your mind made up," I pointed out. "There was no going back."

"At the time, that's what I believed, yes," he said, frustratingly calm.

"What changed?" I challenged.

"Let's not go down this way, Sara," he said. "What's done is done."

"No," I said firmly. "What changed? How could you go to this one second, and suddenly able to be with me another? Or are you just pretending?"

He looked hurt.

"I would never pretend feign the way I feel for you," he said softly. "And this wasn't from one second to this next. There were years in between when I wrote this letter and when we became… us. People change, grow, learn."

My lip trembled and I had to take several long breaths through my nose before speaking.

"This scares me," I said timidly, my eyes back on the envelope.

"Why?" he said distressingly, reaching out for my arm. "I know it's hard for you to believe, but this means nothing now. None of it is true. Not any more."

"But what if it is again?" I asked timidly. "If you felt this way before, who's to say you'll never feel it again? What if… you change your mind again?"

Our eyes locked. Minute after minute, we sat in silence and gazed at each other. Finally, he reached to the dictionary lying between us, picked up the envelope and ripped it in half. He kept tearing, until the letter was in pieces. He threw the shreds onto the floor and moved closer to me, without a word. Only centimeters apart, we continued staring at each other until I broke down and folded into him. He wrapped his arms around me.

"I can't predict the future," he said softly. "I don't know what will come or where we will be in five or ten or thirty years. But I do know what I feel for you, and it's this."

He pulled away, putting his hands firmly on each of my arms, making sure I looked straight at him.

"I love you," he said. "I will never hurt you. And I don't ever, ever, want to lose you."

A large lump grew in my throat, and I had to swallow several times to keep it down, nodding as I fought back the tears. As anxious as my lingering insecurities still made me, there wasn't a reason in the world for why I shouldn't believe him. I could see the truth reflected in his eyes. And for the rest of the night, and refused to let him go.