A/N: Thank you for staying with our story! Read, enjoy, review...next chapter soon!

Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

Chapter 18

Grissom's mother, Betty, had an energy that seemed to charge the air around her; the type of person other people noticed. Always immaculately dressed, her silver-gray hair rarely out of place, the older woman waited at the curb as he pulled in.

Sara was out of the car before it stopped rolling, greeting his mother with sign language before getting a brief hug. Then the two women stood by the car and signed for five minutes before his mother got in the rear seat. Once buckled in, Betty signed 'hello' to him and gave him an affectionate pat on his shoulder, signing to him.

Sara got in the front, saying, "I tried to get her to take the front seat."

Translating what his mother had signed to him, Grissom said, "She's happy I'm finally home."

"So am I," Sara responded with a grin. She turned and signed to her mother-in-law who made an agreeable response. Fingers and hands moved as the two women conversed in sign language.

Grissom was grateful his mother had found a community of friends at Gilbert College. She had worked for several years to raise funds for the small college and at one event in Los Angeles had brought in donations that exceeded a million dollars. After that, it was only a matter of time until she was offered a permanent position and made the move to Vegas.

And now, since his return from Peru, he had noticed a significant 'thaw' in the relationship between his wife and his mother. He knew it had started with the investigation of a death on the college campus—and Sara's introduction to Julia Holden—which he'd heard from Sara. The two women had found mutual interests in plants and books—and in him, deciding the best way for Sara to learn sign language was in the stories his mother shared about his childhood.

From his mother, he'd gotten enough questions to know that Sara had mentioned "family" which his mother had taken to mean she'd have a grandchild soon.

He had chosen to ignore several of her questions on that topic.

Turning to face the window, he headed to a favorite restaurant for dinner. As he drove, he watched the continuously changing landscape of Las Vegas—more casinos, more people, more of everything—and thought as Sara and his mother resumed an almost silent conversation punctuated with an occasional laugh.

He knew his life—married to the woman he loved—was exceptional; together, they enjoyed each other. When apart, they talked frequently, making plans for his return, sharing what happened at work. Only one concern caused grief.

In two years, there had been one month—actually eight days—when their hopes had risen and been confirmed only for disappointment on the ninth day. Sara had comforted him; never a reproach, never blaming him.

Yet he was a husband who could not perform the most basic of male functions; he could not provide his wife with his child. Sara had been the one who endured injections, examinations, probing—the excitement of a family—a child, children now filled him with dread and guilt. Silently, he corrected his disordered thoughts; the dread and guilt came from the science. He had never imagined he could not be a father of his biological child.

Sara, who had shown such resilience and patience, was the one who assured him that they could try again, go through another round of IVF, of more injections and collections, of examinations, probing. His guilt continued even as she encouraged him to resume his research work; and then he felt guilty because work did ease his guilt.

In a brief moment, after the loss, Sara had suggested they could be parents in other ways. When he made no response, she'd not mentioned it again and they had scheduled another visit with her physician who was an encouraging specialist but was also a pragmatist. In her experience, their situation was classed as "unexplained infertility" or she said, "We can't figure out why."

He pulled into a parking lot and for a while, his thoughts were pushed away as his attention was directed to his mother, getting seated in the restaurant, and ordering food. It pleased him to see his mother and Sara communicating in sign language, laughing together, apparently enjoying each other's company.

And guilt swelled in his chest.

While he never considered himself to be the perfect son, his mother had loved him unconditionally, always encouraged him, appreciated his work, welcomed his visits—if not physically present, she had always been with him in spirit. The person who had known and loved him since his first breath; Sara would not have that experience.

"Gil?"

Sara's voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to reality. A question had been asked; his confusion showed.

"Your mom asked about Peru—when will you return?"

It served as a balm to his swirling mind, his adult problems. Turning to his mother, he began to sign, explaining details, processes, the actual location of the Peruvian project, until their dinner arrived.

A few weeks later…

"Gil?" Sara's voice lifted in soft query, drifted across the breakfast table, over the edge of the newspaper, and settled before him as lightly as dust motes. The concern he heard was very similar to what he had heard the day before in another place.

In truth, since the humiliating meeting with a group of physicians, he desired nothing more than to be left alone. Not even Sara's presence or her efforts to make him comfortable could he tolerate for long.

The finale comments of one of the specialists circled relentlessly in his brain: "When sperm counts are low, the body says now is not a good time to reproduce and we have to put our energies into something else."

Knowing his frustration would be heard in his voice, he lowered the paper, indicating the chair next to his, and reached for her hand. Her response was a wry smile and a gentle squeeze from her hand.

He said, "I feel I'm a lose end."

All day he had felt muddled, unsettled, disinterested; he felt like a stranger inhabited his mind. He could not read or write or enjoy music. It had been difficult to organize his thoughts to such extent that he was not confident that he would ever know that state again. Not here, not with the painful attentiveness, given with tenderness and unquestionable love, of his wife.

Sara's hand moved to his shoulder and across his back; gentle, long fingers pressing against his shirt.

"You've had a long shift," he whispered, hoping the low tone would hide his current state.

Her head tilted to touch his shoulder. "It's so different from when you were there."

His fingers stroked her hand. "You—you don't have to stay, you know."

A soft chuckle before she said, "For a while—I need to stay for a while." She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. "And I need some sleep." Keeping her hand on his back, she stood, saying, "Did you sleep?"

"A few hours."

Sara kissed the top of his head. "Join me—for a while."

"I will—later. Hank needs to pee—and—and I have a couple of errands to do—before traffic gets too bad."

Her fingers threaded through his hair as he turned his face to hers and they kissed. He said, "Get some sleep—I'll join you later."

Alone again with the dog, he walked the neighboring streets, gradually becoming aware of all the sounds around him. The sun was high, the temperature rising, and he heard the playful sounds of children. And the noise caused him to reflect on all that had been said at the clinic.

Three specialists, solemn and sincere, tried to explain the unexplainable with a thick medical file spread on the table. Sara—the perfect patient—was not pregnant; healthy and fertile by all scientific indications, her body fit for child bearing—while his body-his inability to produce healthy sperm was the 'period'—the 'exclamation point'—on the last page of that file. Stopping short of saying he would never father a child, the indication was clear. Cautiously, one had proposed options; Sara had shaken her head.

The physicians had offered optimism for the future. "Take a break." "Research continues." He had stopped listening by then. Hope—he closed his eyes—a simple word that belittled their plans.

He had been the one—his suggestion to have a family—he had pressed Sara into testing, continuing all of it—and now—it was his body that failed.

Turning, he walked back along the street, passing the one to his house, even as Hank tugged to return home. Continuing, he crossed street intersections and ambled along sidewalks from one neighborhood to another before the dog abruptly sat on his haunches and refused to go farther. At that point, he stopped, looked around, surprised at how far he and Hank had walked.

The sun had heated the morning; he wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. As he looked at the houses, he was startled to recognize the neighborhood was so far from his own. And he knew where he was.

"Come on, buddy, I think I know where we might get a drink of water before heading back."

A few minutes later, he was standing across the street from a large, imposing red-brick house; one he had visited on several occasions. Instead of going to the front door, he followed a path to a side door. The house had changed, he thought, as he approached the door.

Scattered across the porch were colorful toys; a pink plastic swing hung from a low tree branch. He noticed a grass-free patch, made from frequent use, under the swing.

His foot was on the first step before he hesitated. It had been almost three years since he'd been to the house; that long since he'd talked to its occupant. And, from appearances, Heather Kessler's granddaughter was at the house on a regular basis.

Grissom looked at his dog, sitting near his feet, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He said, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

The words had not cleared his mouth when he heard the click of the door. Too late, he thought, as he looked up.

A/N: Yes, its a 'cliff hanger'-or a 'door opener'! Review, comment, a few words, and next chapter appears in a few days! Yes, it's a bribe! Bit of smut coming soon!