A/N: Thank you for reading. Thank you for your comments and reviews and encouragement.

This is a sad chapter...

Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2

Chapter 22

Sara Sidle sat in a comfortable chair on the terrace after working all morning in the yard. She'd spent months in the yard with a hoe and shovel digging, trenching, and back-filling following instructions from a state issued booklet on landscaping. She had done most of the work by herself. And while she loved the house, decorated with their furniture, books, photographs, and keepsakes, it had been a joint effort.

The yard was hers, a true masterpiece; never thought she'd enjoy digging dirt and planting flowers to attract insects, but she did. She planted drought resistant plants, nectar flowers, ground covers requiring little water—and she'd recently finished a small area with a recycled water-fountain bird bath marking the grave of their dog, Hank, who had died suddenly after suffering a seizure.

Sighing, she picked up a folded fan, opened it and waved it in front of her face, gradually smiling as she thought of its long journey to the table beside her chair. Hot pink, decorated with miniature Eiffel Towers, it was to remind her of Paris breezes. Gil Grissom was delightfully loveable when he presented a gift, even a plastic party fan.

Every time her husband returned from one of his far-flung adventures, he brought her a souvenir, sometimes it was a local trinket like this fan, other times he brought something unique—a fish carved from shell, a lion woven from yarn, a clay face mask, a slim box containing a beautiful necklace.

A week ago, he had sent a plant—a very large, very green one that she'd planted near Hank's grave. The plant would produce spikes of purple flowers in a few weeks attracting hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies. He probably would not be around to see the flowers—or enjoy the bees, butterflies, and birds in their garden—because he was on the other side of the earth.

Sara had never expected him to retire as other men did—playing golf or poker with old buddies; but she'd never thought he would travel the world for months at a time. She thought he would teach—forensics or entomology, most likely—or some similar subject that fit with his years in the Vegas crime lab. He had been good at investigating murders, hunting down killers, serial, singular, or mass murderers, finding evidence that sealed the case.

Instead of any of those things, Gil Grissom was somewhere on the high seas—the Indian Ocean if his schedule, planned weeks ago, was correct—on a ship researching animal life in hydrothermal vents. She'd had to look up hydrothermal vents.

Her smile turned to a cheerless downturn as she thought of the missed calls since he'd been gone, more missed than received. He did not know about Hank and she had made the decision to keep it from him until he got home.

Pushing out of the chair, she wandered around the yard. Life turned in weird and unexpected ways, she thought. She was friends with her mother-in-law—good friends—not to put a fine point on it, but she considered Betty Grissom the best friend she'd had in years. She felt useful and rewarded in her job. And after a life time of guarding every dollar she spent, she had, at age forty, inherited more money than she had ever expected to see.

With the money, her mother was receiving good care in a group home and experiencing more good days than bad ones. Sara, spending money on herself, had purchased a new car, taken a vacation that had turned into a life-changing direction for her husband and had barely made a dent in the trust from a grandfather she'd never known.

Grissom had said, "Enough to pay for anything she wanted but not enough to do nothing."

Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped passed the new mound of flowering plants. Her dog—their dog—had been a good companion but it was too early to replace the beloved boxer.

Wiping her eyes, she had a moment of self pity. Her only disappointment—she had two, she thought, as she pulled a weed hidden among flowers—her husband was away for months at a time and they had not had children—a child.

After months of testing and attempts, having a child was not likely to happen. They had to face the reality of their situation—while her husband had problems that could be overcome with technology, it seemed she had an idiopathic condition of her uterus that made pregnancy unviable. An unknown, unfound reason that her body would not sustain a pregnancy.

Taking a deep breath as she stood, letting the disappointment wash over her before shaking her head and continuing her wander, she—they—needed to decide on their future. A family was still possible; a child of their own with surrogacy or—or adoption through the foster care system. Both options raised dilemmas not easily solved.

There were other options. With her foot, she pushed several round stones out of the path.

She could join her husband on a research project; she'd give up her job with only a few years left until she would be fully vested in the state's retirement program, leave both mothers for months, pull money from the trust account to cover expenses—and that option depended on finding a project where they could both work.

Grissom could look for a project on land—she puffed a breath of air; at one time, she wanted him to be close, in Vegas at the university, but now she'd settle for a place where she could fly. A real named place instead of a dot in an ocean.

She knew there was a restlessness in her husband; one that had arrived, not with his retirement from the lab, but—she could not put her finger on a date with precision—but his discontent came from their decision to have a child—not having a child, she corrected her thoughts.

Neither had said the words, but she knew she was no longer enough for him. He loved her, she had no doubt, but he wanted a child, his—their child. Her quiet suggestions of adoption had vanished, melted away with no response from her husband.

She accepted his reaction; at the time they thought it was his inability to produce mature sperm, but now, she knew, he knew—the chances of a pregnancy, that she would have a baby, were nearly nil. A surrogate carrier had only come to her attention recently—and while laws in Nevada were still being legislated, California was light-years ahead of other states. And not a subject she would discuss over the phone.

Sighing as she walked back to the terrace, she thought she knew why her husband remained absent from home.

It was complicated, she thought, but Gil Grissom had always been complicated.

Finally making her way back to the chair, she heard her phone ping with a missed call. Quickly, she pressed the call back bar with a sense of apprehension.

…Nine days later, Gil Grissom sat in a beautifully decorated room dedicated as a chapel on the campus of Gilbert College. Sara's hand had slipped into his at some point during the emotional service for Betty Grissom.

Squeezing her hand, he glanced at his wife who was watching the woman at the front of the room. His eyes went to the photograph of his mother surrounded by brightly colored flowers; the room was filled with a hundred people he did not know and a dozen of his former colleagues and friends. Thankful his mother had planned her own service, he'd had to do nothing but show up. He entwined his fingers with Sara's and brought her hand to his lap and covered both with his left hand.

Whatever had to be done, Sara had taken care of it. She had sent a message to the ship's captain of an emergency at home involving Grissom's mother. By the time Grissom placed a satellite call, his mother was in a coma with little hope of recovery.

He had made it back to Vegas before his mother died; on a combination of four ships, passing from one to another until a small, fast moving supply boat had landed him in Singapore where he'd flown to Los Angeles and then Vegas. Jim Brass was there to pick him up and in minutes, in clothes he had worn for thirty-six hours, he was standing beside his mother's bed.

Sara had hugged him at the door, saying "I'm so sorry" as she stepped aside.

He had learned how serious his mother was from Sara, a nurse, and, finally, a physician. "Profound" and "brainstem" and "labored breathing" were among the words used. It seemed like a dream as he sat beside the bed, holding his mother's frail hand, soft and warm but no movement, just passive flesh and bone. She appeared to be sleeping except for the monitors and lines and soft sounds of machines.

The physician said, "We've followed her directives."

Grissom had nodded. He also knew his mother's wishes. For hours, he sat by his mother watching her faint breaths, an almost imperceptible movement of air. Sara returned with clean clothes and he had showered and changed in the small hospital bathroom, feeling better in fresh clothes.

And she stayed with him. Occasionally, she placed food or a beverage in front of him which he consumed.

For the rest of the time, Sara did her best to comfort him. He moved between silence and talkativeness, remembering memories with his mother. Finally, Sara handed him her device so he could listen to music. He was surprised to hear Mozart and surprised Sara when he smiled.

After the service, he had done what was expected, greeted those who knew his mother at the college, eaten a little of the food prepared and set out by her colleagues, talked with those who had come from the lab, and, hours later, finally, shed his clothes and gotten in the shower.

Sara waited, handed him a towel as he stepped from the shower. "How are you doing?" She asked.

He smiled. "I was thinking about the day my father died. I didn't know what happened." He dried off and took the offered clothes—a fresh shirt and clean jeans—talking as he dressed. "A neighbor came over and took me to her house where I watch cartoons for a while. And then my grandparents came—they—they had to be in their seventies and lived near Riverside at the time—and brought these cookies." His fingers came together. "There were wrapped in this foil—made like a little boat."

Sara had heard the story before when they had wanted to share childhood memories with each other.

"My grandparents wanted to comfort me," he said with a weak smile. "For a long time, I thought my grandmother had baked the cookies and wrapped them as little gifts just for me." He stopped talking as he towel-dried his hair for a few minutes before continuing, "It was years before I realized she had stopped at a bakery—gotten something special because she didn't want to arrive empty-handed." His voice cracked and his fingers touched his lips.

Sara's arms opened as she stepped forward.

A/N: Again, thank you for reading. More coming soon.