DISCLAIMER: I do not own CSI, any of its plots, its characters, or anything else already copyrighted by Mr. Zuiker. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction...I'd be writing the episodes.
Warnings: none
Author's Note: I realize this next chapter's kind of confusing, but I think you'll really like the set-up and the way the plot rolls.
----------------------------------------------
Gil Grissom's subconscious
The fragrance of the flowers was pleasant, and the soft caress of the wind on his cheek soothed him. But as he lay in this valley, he couldn't help but feel torn. His body and mind ached yet he was visibly well. There were no noisy cities preoccupations, yet his ears buzzed, straining to hear anything. The silence was deafening, the beauty unbearable. Something was wrong, something was not right. Grissom rose from his laying position on the ground and sighed, standing as quick as a teen might. He couldn't understand how he was acting so, behaving in such a serene manner. He began to walk, anywhere, everywhere, somewhere. Where was Warrick? Nick? Catherine? Brass? Greg? Hodges? Even Ecklie? It struck him that he was alone, and he stopped walking.
He had left the flowers and was now on a beach, with a boardwalk, but undeveloped, just a forest behind it. It was warm, and the sand seemed nice enough. Shedding his shoes and socks along with his jacket, he embarked on another walk down the beach. There was a woman, just flashing in and out of focus. She was familar, like the team, but felt more...intimate. He shook his head, scolding himself for his childish thoughts. 'There is no woman,' he thought. 'Just the images of my past forming a new image, like a dream.'
"Gil? Gil, hon, is that you?" He stopped and furrowed his brow, an old habit he recalled. Turning his body, he faced the master of the voice.
"Mom?" His voice was soft, and his head lowered slightly as if trying to get a closer look without moving. It was his mother. But how? Of all people to run into, this was the last one he imagined. His mother died a year ago, in her sleep peacefully. The woman shook her head up and down, and he felt his feet dragging through the sand toward her. He raised his hands, beginning to sign while whispering the translations to himself. "Is it-? Is it really-?" They were in front of each other now, only a foot away. She once again shook her head yes, and he found himself being hugged by his deaceased mother, and he was hugging back. Pulling away, he gazed quizically at her. His hands flew in a fury, confused. "But how? How are you here? You passed away in your sleep a year ago." His voice saddened and his face sagged slowly as she painfully nodded back.
"Yes, I know. I was alarmed when I learned of your condition, Gil. I came immediately."
"How can you hear? I can't believe this, any of this," he whispered, flustered.
"I know, sweetie."
"Came? How can you have come or gone anywhere? Mom, you're dead."
"Ah, the same way I can hear you now; death brings the ultimate healing." Her face was contorted with sorrow and worry, no longer displaying the meek smile from moments earlier. She raised her hands up to him and gently laid them on either side of his face, his hands unknowingly settling over her's. "That's why you're here."