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: Language
Author's Note: Just for future references, I don't use asterics, or dashes, or any other form of censorship in my writing. I feel very strongly that if you don't write in the full context it's meant to be written in, then the writing just looses its sincerity and meaning. If someone is fuming and passionate about what they're fighting about, then they should be able to express it passionately. So just incase anyone is offended, whenever I put language up at the top, you will find things like dn, a, and most likely the f-bomb. This is the reason I have titled this story as 'T' since I knew I would most likely have language and violence somewhere. If you are uncomfortable with this, I apologize. But anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as the others.
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He sat there, not angered, but depressed. Hands covering his face, Grissom shook his head. He'd been trying for what seemed like months to remember anything more, or to make a connection to Miss Sidle from his escapade into his past, a past he couldn't even remember. The flowers around him were still as bright as the very first moment he laid sight on them, and he took that as a good sign. Whether that meant that he was going to live through this, or wake up, or anything else for that matter, he couldn't quite tell. And frankly, he could care less. He would sit on the ground, or pace sometimes, trying to remember someone by the name of Sidle, trying to remember a woman with such a lovely face. He couldn't even remember her and yet he was in love with her.
A sudden breeze blew through the clearing, startling him. Looking all around him, he couldn't quite make out what was causing the wind. The sky was clear and even more disturbing, the flowers or trees weren't swaying with the wind. They stood still. How could he feel something and nothing else move? As suddenly as it came, it ceased, and something tickled the back his ankles. Turning slightly to look over his shoulder, he caught sight of a piece of paper on the ground.
Grissom, with steady hands and hope, leaned at an angle, as not to disturb it, and gently, with only his fingertips, picked up the paper. He stared down at a blank side and cocked his head to the side, reading out loud his own scientific, script handwriting. "'Reunited - 2000' ?" He carefully turned it over and found another picture. His heart fluttered in his chest, and he gingerly reached out to run his finger out over a face, her face.
Grissom felt the change of atmosphere before he saw it, the hot, dry air of Vegas sweeping over him. He stared up into the sun and squinted, trying to figure out what was falling from the roof of the Monaco Hotel. His eyes widened when he realized what it was and ran forward to the edge of yellow crime-scene tape. A body hit the ground, but he looked at it for a moment. It wasn't a body, it was a dummy. Shockingly, Grissom watched two more dummies fly off the roof and land in different positions on the ground.
"Norman pushed. Norman jumped. Norman fell." Grissom looked up, and found himself watching his younger self, older than his appearance in San Francisco, but young nonetheless. Snapping pictures, the younger Grissom stooped and began taking pictures of the dummies when a woman came up to the tape and sat a bag down. Grissom's eyes just moved through the crowd, but traced back to the woman.
"Wouldn't you if you were married to Mrs. Roper?" Her sweet, seductive voice verified it. It was the woman from the college. His younger self stood up straight, and smirked wide.
"I don't even have to turn around. Sara Sidle." Grissom's mouth dropped, but instinctively shut it quickly even though no one could see him. Stepping carefully around the dummies, he made his way closer to the younger him and the woman. Sara. Their conversation continued as they began to speak of a girl who, from the conversation, seemed certain to die. "God Sara, I have so many unanswered 'why's."
At that Grissom watched the scenery change continuously, from little conversations between him and Sara, to just the two of them working together in the lab, and then they were in a truck. His younger self sat on a stool closest to the closed doors of the van. Grissom stood next to himself, looking at the monitors sitting on a ledge attached to the inside of the van. Walking through the monitors was Sara, and he gulped. Vests and jackets with 'FBI' were worn on all of the operatives, besides himself, who wore his blue and white 'FORENSICS' jacket. A man came back around towards Sara, approaching her after a double-take. His younger self gave a nervous glance and warning to the man sitting next to him. The man brushed it off.
They watched intensely until the man reached forward and thrust his hand into her purse. Grissom was bolting before the man even reached for her. He dashed forward, and with his younger self and the agents, bursted into the store, holding the man at gunpoint. Sara stood quietly, breathing faster and heavier than normal. That wasn't, apparently, the man they had set-up Sara to catch. The agents cleared out quickly, but he stayed with Sara.
"He met the profile." He turned to her and sighed, handing the wallet back to Sara.
"Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing." He turned, and so did Sara, and they both walked out of the store. Grissom walked with them, watching them. The anger and concern in his own eyes, and the disappointment and disbelief in Sara's. He noticed his hand flinch, reaching out behind Sara to guide her with his arm on her upper back, but he put it back down without her noticing. "C'mon, the Feds have left already. The Denali's back under the bridge."
They walked silently, down the quiet streets of the suburbs of Vegas. When they made it back to the SUV, Grissom had somehow ended up in the backseat and watched as his younger self opened the passenger side door for her. She glared at him, and got in, closing the door herself as he got into the driver's seat and started the SUV. After a long period of silence, he spoke quietly. "Did you want to get something to eat?" She shook her head, and he nodded.
"Why are you so god damned protective," she hissed, and Grissom, in shock, leaned forward, his head in the space between the two front seats. His younger self turned to look at her in shock as well.
"What the hell are you talking about, Sara?" His voice was stoic, quiet, emotionless.
"Why couldn't you just let me do what the fuck I wanted to do. The Feds needed me."
"They could've gotten you killed."
"I was doing it so that no one else would get killed."
"But the suspect didn't even go there!"
"But he could have, Grissom! Damn it! See, this is what I mean! Why can't you just let go?! I thought I had gotten over you after you left San Francisco. And then you called me up, and once again, asked me to come to Vegas. Now here we are in the same damn situation! Don't you get it? If by bringing me here you just wanted to rekindle something, Grissom, than you are getting nowhere, especially if you're going to keep this fucking game up." By then they had reached Sara's apartment. Neither one of them moved, and he sighed.
"By bringing you to Vegas, all I was doing was looking for a good CSI that didn't have a conflict of interest. News travels, Sara, and you were known as a damn good CSI in San Francisco. That's all I wanted. I've moved on." Sara's eyes were glittering now, and she looked down at her lap.
"I didn't mean anything I said." She slowly opened the door of the Denali and got out, walking to her door. He watched her as she unlocked the door and got in. He sat there for a couple of minutes, just making sure everything would be all right inside, and then he put the SUV into reverse, pulling out of the parking space. Grissom watched himself drive silently through the heart of Las Vegas before submerging into the suburbs again. Pulling into a different development of townhouses, Grissom recognized his own townhouse as he pulled into the parking space in front of it. His younger self turned off the vehicle and sat there, just staring at his door for a long while.
Eventually, he exited the Denali and entered his clean, white-walled, sterile townhouse. It wasn't even a home, just a place to sleep when he ran out of over time. Grissom followed himself and sat down on a chair across from the couch where his younger self sat. He watched himself finally sag, head into his hands and arms braced on his knees. Grissom sat there, and after a long time watched himself lay back on the couch, kick his shoes off, drop his jacket to the ground, and close his eyes. The room began to grown lighter rapidly, and Grissom looked out the window. The sun was rising over Sin City, but when he turned to look back at himself, he stared back at the field of flowers.