Sara couldn't sleep that night. At some point, she gave up trying.

Despite her strongest efforts to push them away, her imagination kept creating scenarios for the end of Grissom's life. Scenarios that forced her to sign the papers that would prompt doctors to turn off the ventilator, leaving the man she loved to gasp desperately for breaths he would never breathe and, finally, to cease struggling. Scenarios where she sat at his bedside, holding his hand, telling him she would be all right, that he could leave now because he shouldn't have to fight and suffer any more.

Would she be able to do it, if it came to that? Did she have that kind of strength? Could she grant Gil that one final wish, even though he wouldn't be able to tell her, yes, it was the right thing to do?

Her doubts haunted her.

She turned her head and her eyes fell on the respirator readout. Her imagination morphed the numbers into the ultimate final score, the outcome no one could change:

Ventilator 12, Grissom 0.

Her cot lay alongside his bed. The fingers of her left hand entwined those of his right. She spoke to him nonstop, and she no longer even attempted to resist crying. If he could hear the extent of her pain, perhaps he would come back to comfort her.

She would give anything to feel his arms around her again, his fingers in her hair.

Gil, can you hear me? I need you. I love you. Please. Can you find your way back?

She sighed.

Yes, I can. I'm here.

Sara froze, and in that instant, she was sure she felt his hand close a little tighter around hers.

She felt herself stop breathing. Her abdominal muscles clenched and she sat straight up just as the door to the room burst open and two nurses charged inside.

"Page Dr. Bly," the duty nurse said, and the other left to obey.

The remaining nurse turned to Sara.

"I need you to get up, Honey, and move the cot so we can get in beside him on that side."

"What's going on?" Sara asked.

"See for yourself," the nurse said and nodded toward the respirator readout.

Ventilator 1, Grissom 11.

xxxxxxx

He opened his eyes a few hours later, just as dawn was turning the Arizona sky blue-black outside the window of his room. He looked as if he wanted to try to say something, but Dr. Bly put a finger over his lips.

"Don't try to talk," he said. "You've been on a respirator for days. Your throat is going to be very sore for a while."

Grissom thought for a moment, his eyes darting around the room, landing on one person after another, one piece of machinery after another and, finally, on Sara.

Gingerly, he turned to look at her more directly. And against his doctor's orders, he spoke.

"I should know you," he said in a voice both weak and raspy, barely above a whisper.

Now she couldn't hold back the tears. And she couldn't speak. She just nodded.

"I should remember," he said. "I don't."

"You will," she said.

He closed his eyes then and went back to sleep.

Sara looked at Bly in concern.

"It's all right," the doctor said. "He's sleeping. Sleep will help."

"He called me by name back at the Firth house."

"I don't know what to tell you about that," Bly said. "It's hard to predict the course of amnesia."

"But Gil is better over all, right? And him memory will come back at some point?"

"Amnesia is better than brain death," he said. "Some things will come back to him. Maybe everything. It's way too early to tell."

"I just want him to remember us," Sara said.

xxxxxxx

Two days later Grissom was airlifted back to Las Vegas. He was weak and groggy, and still he remembered nothing.

After two weeks of recuperation, physical and occupational therapy and dozens of tests, Sara was allowed to take him home. Except for his memory, he seemed to have emerged from his ordeal with no permanent damage. Bly had stayed in touch with Sara by phone, still not believing Grissom had fared so well.

"It's one for the medical journals," he said. "By the way, I FedExed those legal documents back to you. With any luck, you'll never have to use them again."

Nick brought Hank home the day after Grissom got there, and the dog had to be restrained from leaping on sofa and seriously jostling his master.

"Good-looking dog," Grissom said. "What's his name?"

Life was nothing if not awkward. Grissom had been switched to a walking cast on his leg and a brace on his arm. But he wasn't anywhere near fully mobile. Since he had no memory of Sara or their life together, her determination to help him shower and dress embarrassed him.

She refused to embarrass him further by sharing his bed, so she slept in the smaller of their two guest rooms. He objected, but she told him he needed some privacy. He also needed quiet, and she was a restless sleeper. But she insisted he leave the master bedroom door open in case he needed to call her.

Grissom returned to work, though not to the field. Everyone hoped if he hung around the office, observing procedures, contributing where he could, something of what he had known would come back to him. And it did. At first he asked a lot of questions, but after doing a procedure under supervision once, he found he owned the process again, as fully as he had prior to the accident. There was no context to the regained memories, but the knowledge was there.

Recognition of his colleagues came back more slowly. They took a lot of time reminding him of events and experiences they shared. Some were familiar to him, and those triggered additional memories. The team tried to keep it light, but when something Catherine said triggered his memories of Warrick Brown, he had to excuse himself and go outside to be alone with the cascading emotions.

He got stronger. His wounds healed. The brace came off his arm first, and a few days later the cast came off his leg. He wasn't allowed to use crutches because his orthopedist didn't want him putting that much pressure on his left arm. So he used a cane. A week later, when he abandoned that, he found he could walk with only the slight limp. And that would disappear with time.

The memories of his professional life gradually formed up around him again, as vivid as before the accident. Even the parts that involved Sara, the professional criminalist. But the parts that were Sara, the friend, the lover the wife, the most important parts, continued to elude him.

A month after he returned home, he took her out for an elegant dinner on one of their nights off.

They talked about nothing serious until the coffee came. Then Grissom said, "Tell me about us."

He could see in Sara's eyes the abrupt question startled her, maybe frightened her a little.

Why?" she asked.

"Because we hardly ever talk about that, about us, and it's troubling me. It's as if you don't want to talk about us."

She shook her head and put her hand over his on the tablecloth.

"It's not that. I'm afraid if I tell you everything, you'll be able to pretend to remember, but you won't really. And that will diminish what we had and what we were. Whatever it was that bound us together will become something known, but not something experienced. An awareness but not an emotion. We can't settle for that."

"But I need to know. I want to know."

"You do know," she said. "We're married."

"Okay, let me rephrase. I know, but I want to feel."

"What do you want to feel?"

"Us. What did we like to do? I see DVDs and CDs at the house. So we must have liked movies and music. How did Hank come into our lives, and why in the world did we name him that? Did we plan to have children? What, um, what were we like in bed?"

Sara carefully folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate. She lowered her eyes and sighed. She had seen anguish in his eyes.

He leaned across the table toward her. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Because it's too painful to think about what might never be again," she said softly.

Even though I think about it every waking moment…

He waited.

"We fell in love the first time we ever met, a long time ago in San Francisco," she said, finally. You were teaching an advanced forensics class on bugs, and I was one of your students. When it ended, I stayed in San Francisco, where my career was, and you came back to Las Vegas, to your career. A few years later you asked me to come here to conduct a special investigation, and I never left. To say the next years were rocky for us is a real understatement. But when we finally worked it out, fully understood and trusted one another, we got married. And it was wonderful."

"Was being the operative word, I take it."

She didn't answer. She avoided his eyes. She didn't want him to see the sadness in hers.

"We were wonderful together, no matter what we were doing," she said. "We were especially great in bed." She heard her voice crack.

He didn't say another word to her. Not as he paid the bill. Not as they walked to the car. Not as they drove home. He took Hank for a brief walk, and when he returned, she had undressed and was wearing her claret satin robe, sitting on the sofa, staring off into their past. He sat beside her and took her hands.

"Show me," he said.

She looked at him, not understanding.

"Show me," he repeated. "Show me what was so wonderful."

"I … I don't know if I can," she said. "We each knew instinctively what the other wanted. We rarely said anything. I'm afraid it would lose something in the translation if I choreographed it."

He sighed deeply. She saw his disappointment. He let go of her hands and stood up.

"I think I need a drink," he said, walking into the kitchen. "Can I get you something?"

Stop this. Now!

"Yes," she said.

She knew she couldn't let this opportunity pass. If he wanted a demonstration, it was a demonstration he would get.

She stood quickly, caught up with him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him into an embrace at the same time she pushed him up against the refrigerator. She turned her head up. She put a hand behind his head and pulled him down into a kiss that began gently and sweetly, until he opened his lips tentatively and she took full advantage of the opening. Their tongues touched and then caressed. He was exploring, testing, tasting, and she was patient with him, trying to ignore the fire he generated in her.

When they broke the kiss his eyes caught hers, and his look alone stoked her desire hotter. His stare ignited her skin wherever it fell, and when his gaze returned to hers, she thought it was the most intimate eye sex she'd ever experienced.

He pulled her in for the next kiss, and if he had been tentative before, he was supremely confident now. He reached down and loosened the sash on her robe. When it fell open, he ran his hands across her back and let them settle at her waist. She slipped the sash out of its loops and put it in her pocket. She loosened his tie and pocketed it, too, then ripped his shirt open and unfastened the buttons at his wrists. She pushed it off his shoulders and he shrugged out of it. She caressed his back and his shoulders and his chest. He pulled back to look at her. He slowly pushed the robe over her shoulders, and it fell to the floor. She saw him fighting to remember and appreciating what he saw.

He slipped his fingers beneath her bra and pushed it up and over her head, not even bothering with the clasps. He almost leered at the view. He cupped her breasts in his hands and began to stroke her nipples as he lowered himself to her neck, to the exact place he had discovered years ago to be one of the most erogenous spots on her body. Sara wondered if he remembered the spot or just made a lucky guess. She decided at this very moment, she didn't exactly care. He feathered it with his lips, caressed it with his tongue and then blew softly on the wet spot. She shivered hard.

He took a step back then and caught her eyes again. He cocked his head toward the bedroom. She stooped quickly and picked up her robe, then took his hand and let him lead her there, back to their bed for the first time in forever.

She tossed her robe to the far side of the bed, out of the way.

He slipped out of his shoes off and kissed her again, a long, searing gesture of passion out of control. When they separated, his hungry eyes roamed over her, his hands examining everything he could find, pausing at her vulva, cupping her gently and feeling the moisture that had soaked through her panties.

"I did that to you?" he asked.

"I'd like to think you did it for me," she replied.

He pulled her into another blistering kiss and lowered her to the bed. His mouth returned to her neck. His lips and tongue explored her shoulders, lingering at the pressure points there then continuing down to her erect nipples. His tongue traced a path around, under and over her right breast but never contacted the areola. She squirmed under him, sensations ripe, desire mounting by the second. For a moment, she lost feeling in her hands and had to flex them to get it back.

When he finally captured the nipple between his teeth, she groaned her pleasure. She wasn't having to explain anything to him, or ask him for anything. He was totally getting where she wanted him to be. He repeated his routine on her left breast, prolonging it, if anything, and then let his lips and tongue work their way down to her navel, across her abdomen and down the inside of her left thigh. She knew where this was going and reveled in it, spreading her legs to give him easier access. When he reached a point just above her knee, he transferred his attention to her right thigh and began his trip north to her labia.

He stripped off her panties and used his fingers to spread her lips, drank in the sight of her and began teasing her with his tongue, savoring the taste of her. Her hips rose to his face to force the issue, but he was a little quicker, always pulling back in time to keep the touch barely perceptible. It was driving her to distraction. He let his tongue brush her clit, and she made a noise that most resembled a squeal. She raised her hips toward his mouth, and he moved away. Again, and again he teased her with a whisper of the possible. He pursed his lips and blew a soft stream of cool air directly on her most sensitive spot. Hearing the depth of her groan engorged him, and he groaned.

"Gil, please!"

He just smiled.

He slid a finger inside her, found her G spot and stroked it. She was writhing now. He slipped in a second finger and then a third and used his thumb to summon the blood that rapidly inflamed her clit.

"I want you inside me now, Gil," she said, her voice begging.

"Not yet, Sara."

"I can't wait."

"I don't want you to wait. I want you to come for me while I watch."

She pushed herself up on her elbows so she could see him bring her pleasure. The view pushed her over the edge. She yelled his name, fell back on the bed, arched her back and let the orgasmic shocks transport her for the first time in two months.

xxxxxxx

He was torn between watching her face and watching the convulsions of her vagina around his fingers. He let his eyes flick between them. As he felt the tremors begin to subside, he went down on her again, inhaled her musky sex scent and felt his own arousal escalate even more. He used his tongue and lips on her to keep her from fading completely and wasn't quite prepared when she flipped him onto his back and bent to kiss him.

When the kiss ended, she raised up on her knees and reached for her robe. He watched her, but she turned his face back to her.

"Look at me, Gil," she said.

"With pleasure." He smiled, and his eyes filled with renewed lust.

She moved up until she was straddling his face. The vision, the scent, made him gasp. He opened his mouth to caress her with his tongue, and she let him. He was only vaguely aware of it when she reached behind her, clasped his hands and raised them to the headboard. When he felt her binding his wrists to the furniture, he became alarmed.

"Sara?"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

She moved down over his chest and smiled at him.

"I tied you up. With your own tie."

"I know. That's what worries me."

"Really? Don't you trust me?"

"I-I don't remember."

She smiled again.

"You used to trust me."

"Okay, then."

She bent and kissed him again. When her lips left his, she began an exploration down his body, pausing over some of his worst scars to welcome them to the neighborhood. She spent several minutes with the spot on his left breast and moved from there to his nipple. And then to his right nipple. He watched her closely, every touch thrilling him. As her face moved south, her hands stayed behind to caress, pinch and tease. It became apparent that Sara had one target in mind and wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

When she reached his belt, she undid it and tossed it aside. She undid the clasp at the waist of his slacks. She took the slide on his zipper and pressed down on it slightly, so when she lowered it with agonizing slowness, it grazed the length of his erection.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. He lifted his hips a little to give her room to get rid of the slacks and then waited, taking instruction from her moves. She lowered her mouth to the waist of his boxers and inserted her tongue under the elastic, searching out is navel. She dipped her tongue into it and he groaned. With her tongue still probing, she slid her hands under the waistband and lifted his shorts over his erection.

"I've missed this," she said. He had raised his head to watch her and felt himself continuing to escalate. He saw her bend to tongue his balls. She lapped them and then sucked on them, and he began to writhe under her.

After a few moments, she raised her face and smiled. She was holding the sash to her robe. She looped it over him, to the base of his erection, and pulled it just tight enough to constrict the urethra without causing pain. Then she began working over the head of his cock with her tongue, as if it were an ice cream cone. His breathing came faster. He felt perspiration on his face and chest. When Sara slid her lips down the length of him, his hips bucked and he had to will himself to hold back. He tried reaching for her hair and remembered he was bound. He didn't want to come in her mouth. He wanted to be inside her.

"Don't worry," she said. "Let go. You won't come. I won't let you."

She descended on him again, taking him all the way down her throat. His hips bucked again. And again. He couldn't help it. She was using her lips and her tongue to drive him to an orgasm, and it was working. And working. And working. He could feel the pressure building in his balls and his brain. As he watched her, she pumped him faster and harder, and when he couldn't take any more, he let his head drop back, and he nearly screamed. And when he looked up, she was still pumping him with her mouth, not even slowing for breath.

He was desperate for release, poised right there on the edge of it, but physically unable to make the leap. The pressure of the sash garrote kept his urethra closed, the orgasms building and building behind the dam.

"Dear God, Sara, you're killing me."

She just kept pumping, and his balls kept constricting, and his hips kept bucking, and the pressure kept growing, and, finally, he did scream.

She quickly tossed the sash aside and mounted him, very much on the cusp of her own orgasm. When leaned down to kiss him lightly she reached up and released his hands. She raised up to her knees again and created a steady rhythm with him that wouldn't let either of them last.

He took her waist and flipped her onto her back, rocking up on top of her in one smooth maneuver that maintained their coupling and their rhythm. He pulled her legs over his shoulders and began slamming into her so far and so hard he felt his balls slap her ass.

"Now, please," she begged.

And that did it. He felt her spasms begin, which triggered his. He reached between them and found her clit and began massaging it to keep her orgasms going for as long as his lasted. Wave after wave of pleasure hammered their bodies, rocking them again and again and, eventually, draining them completely. When the orgasms began to subside, they had no energy to do anything but lie there, him on top of her. A sweat sandwich.

As long as any of him remained within her, neither wanted it to end.

Finally, it had to, and he rolled off. Both of them lay still, on their backs amid a jumble of damp sheets.

xxxxxxx

Sara waited for him to say something, anything. But he was silent. She wondered bitterly if he had simply fallen asleep. That wasn't the way their lovemaking normally ended. He wasn't holding her. She longed for him to hold her.

The sex had been wonderfully satisfying, mind-blowing in fact, and she knew she should have been grateful enough for that. He made all the right moves, touched her exactly as she loved to be touched. But his silence now spoke volumes. She rubbed the tears from her eyes. She hadn't thought of it when he asked her at dinner, but the difference between having sex and making love was the difference between knowing what to do and feeling the passion for doing it. Tonight, they "had sex." Because he couldn't remember her, he couldn't love her. And if he couldn't love her, he couldn't make love to her.

What had Grissom said about that once? "Sex without love is pointless. It makes you sad."

He was right.

She was sad.

They had gotten the physical release they both needed. That was about all. She had hoped for so much more.

She turned on her side, away from him, knowing she would cry herself to sleep and hoping he wouldn't know. He didn't deserve the pain it would cause him.

Then she felt the mattress move, felt his arms reach out to her, gather her in and pull her to him, her back to his chest, her head on his left arm, just like they used to do it. He wrapped his arms around her and held tight.

She held her breath.

He lifted her hair off the back of her neck and kissed her lightly there. She shuddered. He put his cheek against her head, so his mouth was just behind her right ear.

"Maybe when we wake up," he said, "we could try that shower thing again."

Her eyes went wide and she heard herself gasp. She rolled over to face him, and her hands went to his face.

He was smiling, and there was no mistaking the love she saw in his eyes.

"Gil…?" she said. She didn't need to finish the question.

"Hi, Honey. I'm home."

10