A/N: Thank you for reading! Most of us remember this episode-and we've attempted to put it into our romance with as little disruption as possible! Let us know what you think!

Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

CHAPTER 8

Outside, the rain poured from a dark sky, hitting windows in watery sheets. The rumble of thunder penetrated the walls. A flash of lightening lit up the room even with the blinds tightly closed.

Gil Grissom lay in bed, his left hand on the dog stretched across most of the space. He wore clothes he'd worn the day before; exhaustion had driven him to this bed, to sleep that lasted minutes; dreams like thunder rolling across the desert. Only to wake in an empty bed—a bed shared by their dog. Their dog—Sara's dog before Hank became theirs—missed Sara as much as he did.

Wiping his eyes, pressing with his fingertips, he wished the nagging headache would go away. He'd had it for days; nothing seemed to help and he knew why.

Sara. They always slept close—so close they touched. Contact. He craved—desired—her touch. He'd thought they could—would—survive anything. And then something had changed. A change brought on by...

There was so much to do. He worked long hours, unable, unwilling to fly to visit Sara in San Francisco where she was finding another life. A life of laughter, sunshine; her gentle passion for helping had found a purpose—her mother and the three women living together had benefited from Sara's surprising windfall from her grandfather. They had new furniture, had taken a real vacation to Disneyland, and had brought laughter to Sara. Meeting their needs, bringing light and enjoyment to four lives had brought healing.

He should have been happy but instead he felt an old chill creeping into his life. Something was slipping out of his life. And he had let her go. Not on purpose, not as part of any plan—he was busy; so much happening at work. She was making a new life—away from him.

Warrick's death had brought Sara back to Vegas. He had been so relieved, so thankful and comforted by her presence that he had failed miserably in recognizing how difficult it had been for her to be in Vegas. He'd let everything, everyone come before Sara—she returned to the lab to work on the death of Pam Adler. And it had pushed her back into a black hole, away from him while he worked.

He groaned; it wasn't Pam Adler's death but his declaration of "she wasn't coming back to him". Suddenly, the room had gone cold as she responded. And before he could wrap things up, find a killer, complete his work at the lab, Sara had disappeared. Returned to San Francisco, he knew. But she did not stay there—she was gone. For the first time in nine years, he did not know where she was.

He got out of bed and managed to stumble to his desk where the blinking light on his computer indicated new emails; his phone flashed with waiting messages. His first thought was to ignore the lights—turn off the computer, dress and go into work. Of course, he didn't; waking the lap top with one finger, he pressed the phone with the other.

The phone messages were from work, of course. He was needed at a scene, immediately; his chin dropped to his chest, already exhausted. And then he glanced at his emails—instantly, one caught his eyes and seconds later a video opened up.

Sara's voice; Sara's face. Sara's tentative smile. Her soft, emotion-filled voice using his words—he stopped breathing.

He stared at the screen, his eyes taking her in so intently that when the video reached its end, he realized he had no comprehension of her words. He hit 'replay' and listened. Again, he watched, listened. Raking a hand across his stubbly face, he was paralyzed—there was not an inch on her beautiful body that he hadn't touched, stroked, loved. And now she was—gone—using his words; his breathe seemed to be caught in a damp quagmire, so complicated by a few words.

Sara was gone. He watched the video again, memorizing her face, her words. She was on a boat—a ship—with others—with someone who reminded her of him. Saying goodbye to him.

Gil Grissom slumped in his chair; his legs weak, his hands shook as Sara's words echoed around him. He had done this, he thought. Sent her away, thinking all he had to do was love her—she knew he loved her!

He did not know how long he sat in front of the computer until the sound of his phone startled him back to reality—back to the insistent rain, back to unrelenting work.

In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and then stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face in the mirror showed lines around the eyes and mouth, between the brows. He did not recognize the man who looked back at him.

Grissom arrived at the scene, late; Catherine was already there, working in the rain. His work no longer gave him satisfaction. His life seemed drained—there was no pleasure in anything—as if he were dragging an anvil behind him.

Back in his office, he'd made space for everything he enjoyed, for everything that interested him—but it wasn't enough. None of this was what he needed.

Rain was still pouring when he got in his vehicle and drove across town; a familiar route he had taken several times. Seeking information. He turned into the driveway.

The soft glow from windows indicated someone was awake—in the past, the night would have been the time when people worked in the house, but no longer. It had been nearly two years since he'd left Heather Kessler after finding her granddaughter and uniting them on the porch of this house.

At that time, the house had seemed bleak—cheerless—a house of sighs and sorrow, like its owner.

But tonight, even as the rain became a heavy downpour again, and Grissom stepped around a puddle that seemed to swallow most of the sidewalk and entered through an old wrought iron gate, he could not help but notice the colorful child size toys under the porte-cochere at one end of the house.

Shaking rain from the umbrella, he waited after ringing the doorbell—waited so long that he was startled when the door opened.

Surprise showed on Heather's face as she invited him in. For hours, they talked, drank tea, ate food that seemed to miraculously appear. At times he almost forgot about Sara—Sara's voice became Heather's. Sara's words came from Heather. Exhaustion finally pushed him into a chair. He could hear Sara's voice, see her face.

As the sun rose, as people worked—his team continued to work—as Heather realized, made him acknowledge the reason he had come to her—to her house—in the middle of the night. He missed Sara so deeply it caused deep pain within his chest—and at Heather's home, with a woman he cared for but did not love, with the only person in Vegas who would not judge him, who would not reassure him that he was doing the right thing.

Bluntly, she said what he did not believe—most relationships were over before they began—no, Heather was wrong, he thought. He never said their relationship was over; Sara had said "its better this way."

Heather looked concerned when she offered him a place to sleep.

Grissom knew he couldn't sleep—not in a strange bed, in a house with a history of violence—but things had changed. A little girl slept in a child's bed across the hall. Heather was—Heather—no longer a 'lady of darkness', no longer holding sinister secrets of a hidden society of Vegas.

On Heather's guest bed, his eyes seemed fogged; the pain in his head gnawed its way to the surface causing chaos with his vision. Through the window, he could see light creating patches of color in the trees. Was it dawn or sunset or streetlight; he had no idea how long he had been with Heather. As he waited for the pain to subside, he asked Heather to stay, but the hurt remained even as she covered his body with a blanket.

Grissom felt a breeze, waking disoriented in an unfamiliar bed with unusual sounds coming beyond the closed door. Heather's house—Heather's guest bedroom. He lifted the thin white blanket that covered his body. The breeze came from a ceiling fan, turning silently above the bed, fluttering the white curtains behind the mirror.

Prying heavy lids open as he heard the faint tread of steps, he looked through slits toward the door that was being carefully, quietly opened. His eyes opened fully as four small fingers showed on the edge of the door. Above the fingertips, one bright blue eye appeared.

The two stared at each other for a full minute as his mind cleared and he chuckled. This was Alison, Heather's granddaughter, spying on the rumpled stranger in the guest room.

Another voice caused the door to bump shut and he heard the patter of soft shoes running down the hall.

His eyes closed again; he had slept for hours, he thought. His head sank into the pillow.

"Gil?" A voice whispered into his ear.

This time, Grissom's eyes flew open to find Heather Kessler's face eye-to-eye with his. He gasped as he jerked away only to feel Heather's hand on his shoulder.

Smiling, standing up, Heather said, "You slept—nearly ten hours."

Grissom struggled to move; wrapped in a lightweight blanket, his feet were tangled, his right arm cramped. He still wore the same clothes but his shoes were off.

Seeing his confusion, Heather laughed, saying, "Don't worry. You were the perfect gentleman."

It took a quick second for him to grasp her joke and then he chuckled. "Did we have champagne?"

Another smile from Heather before she said, "Tea—chamomile and mint—it's always helps me sleep." She gave him a searching look. "You needed to sleep."

Finally, pushing himself up, Grissom said, "I—I was exhausted—did we—did we…" he shook his head, finding it difficult to put his thoughts into words.

"We talked—you talked. I listened."

"What did we talk about?"

Heather sat in the chair near the bed. He remembered her sitting there as he had drifted to sleep. He had talked about—about Sara.

"Did you mean what you said?" asked Heather. "Is that how you feel?"

He shook his head, trying to find the words he'd said in the darkness, finally saying, "I know Sara is the one person I love."

Heather's brown eyes were soft yet unyielding. "You need to do something—staying here—working until you are exhausted—will drain your life. I know you are hurt—no two of us hurt in the same way and none of us get better in the same way."

She leaned back in the chair. Grissom realized Heather was as comfortable as he'd ever seen her. Smiling at him, she continued, "You are a private man, Gil. A good man. Trustworthy, smart—out of all the people I've met in my life, you are the one I'd want to help me, to protect me from danger." Another smile, gentle, peaceful, as she softly spoke, "I don't love easily—I—I don't think you do either. When we do find that person—we are fortunate—blessed—my life has never been the same since the day I opened the door and—and you stood there," softly, she laughed, "with a goofy smile on your face—I didn't want to see anyone. I was in a dark and desperate place. In the next moment, I found hope."

She paused a moment, remembering, a smile on her face. "I'm happy, content, in love with a scrap of humanity wrapped in the form of a small child. Funny, isn't it? I had to go to hell to find happiness."

For several long moments, neither one spoke. Grissom had pulled up to sit on the bed; his feet rested on an expensive rug.

He heard himself saying, "People expect me to be skeptical because of what I do. I spend hours, days, looking into the last room in the house, the secret place that most people keep hidden from everyone. I find people who take lives—I get into their heads and into that hidden room where the monsters hide." Spreading his hands, he said, "But I see a beautiful world—alive, exquisite—from the smallest insect to the night sky."

Heather nodded. "When you see evil in the world, you appreciate the best."

Grissom stood, shaking his arms, looking around for his shoes to find them tucked underneath the bed. After slipping his feet into his shoes, he turned to Heather and extended his hand.

"Thank you, Heather."

She nodded, slightly, still smiling, and took his hand.

He knew what he had to do; not because he was good or trustworthy or smart but because he was in love—he'd known for weeks what he had to do and he had hidden behind work, dead bodies, the need to find killers, as though he was the only one who could do it.

Heather stood and folded into an embrace, without embarrassment, as friends, not lovers. And then they parted.

"Will you be all right?"

Grissom nodded. "I'm more than all right."

Thank you for reading, for reviews, for encouragement. A short break as real life events (good ones) take over for a couple of weeks-we'll be back with more.