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Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

Chapter 2

Sara. For weeks, she had laughed and smiled, completed physical therapy, prepared dinner; they had celebrated his unexpected proposal by making love for hours, laughing about how to actually get married in ridiculous ways before they slept. He knew she was happy. But he had not known everything.

So much had been going on—so many things had robbed his time with her—and he knew better than anyone how successful Sara Sidle could be at hiding secrets. He knew she had tried; had hoped she had succeeded in putting events in the past. Her written words had left him unable to breathe.

Realizing he still gripped her letter in his hand as he entered the locker room, he jammed it in his pocket. Finally, a breath of relief when he opened Sara's locker to find her things inside—clothes on the hooks, photos taped on the door. Slowly, he turned; nothing seemed out of place. Nothing to indicate—he stopped near the door and stared at the trash can a few seconds before reaching a hand inside. He fingered the fabric name tag. She had taken time to remove the stitches.

Quickly, he left the room, heading back to Judy.

Minutes later he was driving out of the parking garage; she could not be far. And he breathed another sigh of relief when he opened the garage door and saw her car. By the time he entered the kitchen, he knew she was there.

And found her—curled up tight on the bed. An open suitcase was beside her. Hank was on the bed with her.

"Hey," he said softly as he sat beside her, gently placing his hand on her hair. "I—I got your letter. Want to tell me what happened?"

Sara's eyes opened as a veil of tears suddenly appeared. "I—I didn't have a toothbrush," she whispered. A sob caught in her throat.

Grissom, startled for a moment, gathered her into his arms. She flinched at first, surprised by the unexpectedness of his touch, but then she surrendered. Collapsing into his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, she wept.

His hand smoothed her hair. "Don't worry—we'll find you one." He turned his head and rested his cheek on the top of Sara's head. "You're a survivor. You're going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right."

Even as he was unsure of his own words, he desperately wanted Sara to understand; he would do anything to make her world right.

Over the next twenty-four hours, a life that had been years in the making was systematically dismantled. Sara was adamant that she needed to leave Vegas. He made a phone call to the sheriff who immediately granted his request for Sara's leave without asking many questions. With Grissom's help, she packed two suitcases. He found an extended-stay hotel near her mother. And, tearfully, she apologized for her behavior yet a few hours later, she cried uncontrollably as she told him she no longer wanted to marry him.

She could not meet his eyes; it wasn't that she loved him less, she said. She didn't think she was worthy of his love. "I think I'm losing my mind," she whispered.

Grissom knew she was sick, mentally overwhelmed by her abduction, her hours in the desert. When she dropped into a fitful sleep, he had gotten on the phone with the department psychologist who contacted a psychiatrist, a specialist in post traumatic stress. And he got the name of a group practice in San Francisco; she needed help he could not give her—he had been blind to her descent into a dark hole—but he could support her, make sure she got treatment even if it meant giving her space to recover.

He stayed beside her, feeding her, wrapping her in a soft blanket. At times, her words had no meaning then she would lapse into silence punctuated by a choking sob. Finally, exhaustion and fatigue closed her eyes.

As he prepared vegetable soup, he became convinced that her state of mind may have been triggered in the desert, as she had written in her letter, but he remembered her comment from a crime scene—a murdered couple, having a quiet night at home when an intruder had picked them at random. It had not registered at the time, but Sara had been upset and he had followed a train.

Talking with Jim Brass and Catherine, he had pieced together the last hours Sara had been working—he heard of Sara's odd reaction to the domestic violence case. A woman stabbed by her husband; the officer on the case had noticed Sara's non-involvement, even mentioned it to Brass, as being uncharacteristic of Sara.

And then Hannah and Marlon West had reappeared, involved in another murder. He learned of Marlon's suicide, of Hannah's breakdown as she was taken into custody.

"It will be a long time before she's out of a mental hospital," Brass had added.

Silently, he berated himself for not noticing subtle changes—how could the woman he loved hide her pain so well. He shook his head knowing the answer, reliving the occasions of being oblivious and careless to the woman he loved.

Months ago, Sara had shared with him a dream she'd been having on and off for most of her life. She was standing in the middle of a field with nothing on the horizon in any direction. There was no sense of malice or evil, nothing for the imagination, just miles and miles of tall grass. At times, she recollected, she had known she was looking for someone but no matter how many times she'd had the dream, she would wake the moment before finding the person.

Grissom knew the ghosts of her dreams were the ones she had mentioned in her letter.

He checked on her every fifteen minutes or so but was outside with the dog when she woke and got in the shower. She was dressing as he entered the bedroom.

Smiling, he asked, "Are you hungry?"

She nodded and then said, "I have to go, Gil. I—I can't stay here." Tears filled her eyes before she turned away.

He wanted to say "Not without me" but he hugged her and said, "You've got a place to stay near your mother."

"I—I don't know what's happening to me." She withdrew from his arms, sighed heavily, and sat on the bed. The dog managed to find her hand.

Grissom watched as Sara's hands cupped around the dog's head; even Hank's brown eyes seemed concerned by Sara's touch.

"We'll be fine, honey. You'll feel better in a few weeks. It—it will be good for you to—to smell the ocean, spend some time with your mother."

Her response was another deep sigh and a choked sob."

It was early in the morning when Sara took Hank for a walk; she had slipped out while Grissom was in the shower. He found her staring at the rising sun, the dog at her feet. A greenish tint indicted new life had been sprinkled in the ground from the sprinklers that sprayed a mist into flower beds.

His thoughts, what he would do, where Sara would go, recognized that no matter what a person's situation was, it would eventually change, for good or bad. There was a risk involved—in a few hours, Sara would fly to San Francisco where a woman from a support group would meet her at the airport. An appointment with a psychiatrist was scheduled for later in the day. But she had to leave; he knew she was fighting a wildfire to maintain a semblance of normalancy.

When he placed an arm around her waist, she laid her head against his shoulder. A few seconds later, she turned her face to his and suddenly kissed him. Gently, with a warmth that almost unknotted every snag of tension inside him.

"I do love you, Gil," she whispered.

"I know you do—know this—I love you now, today, tomorrow." His fingers traced along her tear stained cheek.

Silently, they entered the home they shared, got her packed bags, and drove to the airport. He held her hand until she went through security and then, using his Clark County ID tag, he rejoined her as she waited to board her flight. They did not talk other than to say "goodbye" as they hugged.

In a week, seven days, they would see each other. That was as far as their future could go.

A/N: Sadly, it seems the end of CSI, the television series, has caused numerous fan sites to close. Hopefully, fanfiction readers will continue to support CSI stories for a while longer. So-thank you for your support and we'll continue writing.