A/N: Here's chapter 4-and Grissom is headed home!

An Unusual Sequence of Events

Chapter 4

Dissonance: an inconsistency

Grissom knew the noise was in his dream—nightmare if he remembered correctly. How on earth had he dreamed of Heather, he asked himself? He had not seen the woman in years even though he had occasionally corresponded with her by an email. And then he realized someone was knocking on his door, a soft rapping, someone saying his name. He kicked back covers and got out of bed, checking his watch for time, surprised it was early morning.

Gloria, the hotel employee who had driven the van, waved when he pulled back the curtain. He opened the door.

She immediately apologized and then said, "Your wife called. Your phone is off—perhaps it's the battery?" She apologized for the early hour. "She said it is about your flight and with the airport damaged, she needs to talk with you."

Sleepily, he nodded. His phone had worked fine when he had made the two earlier calls. Thanking her as profusely as she had apologized, he closed the door, wishing for a few hours of peaceful, dreamless sleep. His hand touched the wall switch and he knew why his phone did not work. He had diligently plugged the phone charger into the wall socket for charging—and then he flipped the wall switch to 'off'—effectively cutting off all power to the room. He pushed the toggle upward and listened as the phone powered on.

Crawling back into bed, he called his wife.

"Hello, stranger," were Sara's first words. "I got the plant," she said, softly laughing. "Greg said you must be apologizing for something." She laughed again, a gentle lilting giggle that sounded like a soothing concerto to his ears.

"Talk to me, honey. I want to hear your voice. Tell me everything—it's been too long." Grissom said as he folded a pillow behind his head. Hearing her voice took away the miserable conditions of the past few days; his body relaxed and his spirits lifted.

Sara could hear the plea edged with exhaustion in his voice. So she talked—not of her loneliness and disappointment, not of the empty bed where she lay, or the sadness of a bride who lost her groom. She told of Greg's teasing, of Nick's latest girlfriend, and of Hodges' mother, giving every detail and hearing a soft chuckle as she related Morgan's role in the story. There were three versions of events—Morgan, Hodges, and Mandy told slightly dissimilar versions. The fabricated engagement, the dinner with Ecklie—by the time she finished with the kidnapping by jewel thieves, Grissom was laughing with true amusement.

"Poor Hodges—his life will never change," Grissom said with a laugh.

They laughed and talked about Hank, and when he spoke of the rain, the tree, the mud and washed out roads, he did so in a light-hearted way that made her laugh. He could not tell her about the cold rain dripping on his bed or eating beans out of a can or the cramped, smelly conditions of the bus. His experience was trivial, a mere inconvenience of a few days when compared to a near-death experience; when she had been thrown into a trunk of a car, fought her way out, escaped certain death, all alone—so he joked and had her laughing as he related his story.

Her longest laugh came as he talked about the bathroom stop—men on one side, women and children on the other. He said "I expected bandits—Billy the kid style—to run out of the fields, Sara. I swear it was the most difficult pee I've ever taken!"

Sara howled with laughter. "This from a man who can make rocks float in a desert!"

"I was having a seriously bad time. Standing in the middle of this deserted road, a dozen men making a waterfall into the ditch and I'm thinking Robin Hood and his merry men are going to show up to take my watch and I've got my dick in my hand!"

She laughed until she hiccupped and then he heard her sigh. "I miss you, Gil."

"I'll be home soon," he promised. "I'm sorry about all of this." His hand raked across his face. "I'm so sorry, Sara. I know I've let you down…"

"Shhhhh," she whispered. "We've been very lucky. Only a few missed connections or weather delays. I've watched your weather—it's been unreal—ten to fifteen inches of rain a day in some places." Her voice softened. "Have you heard about the airport?"

"I've heard there is damage—a runway is blocked or something."

He heard a heavy breath before she spoke. "A large portion of the longest runway washed away—all international traffic has stopped." Hurrying, she added, "That's the bad news and I've known about that for several days. The good news is you have a reservation on a small plane that flies to the coast. From there, you catch another flight into Miami, then Houston, and home."

Before he thought, he groaned. Realizing it must have taken hours to cobble together the flights, he managed to turn his groan into a laugh. "Do I need a parachute? And when do I leave?"

"Not until tomorrow—be at the airport by six. There are several local flights coming in. You should get on the first or second flight—the reservations are tricky but you have enough miles to be high on the priority list. I know it's a long day, but you should get to Vegas by early the next morning. The longest layover is Miami, but you have plenty of time to clear customs and make your Houston flight."

He praised her work in scheduling the reservations, insisting, "I'll be there. I'll call from Miami."

By a miracle, Grissom's flights got him to Miami with ninety minutes to get through customs and to his Houston flight. But a massive thunderstorm swirling in from the gulf canceled Houston. The ticket agent gave him a critical appraisal as she looked him up and down, and then glanced at her computer screen. She smiled and for the first time in years, Grissom was grateful for taking his wife's advice to buy a new shirt for the trip home.

"Mr. Grissom," the smiling woman said, her accent almost hidden, "we have a direct flight to Las Vegas leaving in forty-five minutes on another airline—code share. It's not full so I'm putting you on it. Your actual arrival will be earlier—how does that sound?"

He could barely say "Thank you" because he was smiling from ear to ear and he remembered to call his wife with the new arrival time.

The reclining business class seat was more comfortable than the beds he had slept in for two weeks. The juice in his glass was cold; his chocolate chip cookies were warm. The flight attendant asked him for preferences from a menu. Instead of food, he asked for earplugs; she handed him a toiletries kit with an eye mask, socks, a toothbrush, even a razor attached to a small can of shaving cream, and small white earplugs in a plastic case.

Before the jet left Florida, he slipped into a deep sleep; the sounds of the jet almost muted, quiet noises from inside the plane were hushed and he thought of where he wanted to be…

"You are sleeping so soundly, I hate to wake you" the flight attendant was shaking his shoulder. The plane was nearly empty except for an old lady with bright red hair being assisted by two younger women. The older woman was jabbering about playing slots and winning big money and remembering their kindness.

Grissom grabbed his bag and followed the parade of people toward baggage claim, rental cars, and the exit. Twice he thought about ducking into a restroom and brushing his teeth, but he had called Sara from Miami. She would be waiting at curbside. Passengers swirled around him; those arriving laughed and talked loudly. Those leaving were more sober, quieter.

He increased his pace. Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw Sara walking in his direction wearing a new shirt. Her hair was longer; she was more beautiful than he remembered, and, as he watched her, she looked down and laughed. Quickly, she stopped, bent over and then he noticed Greg. Greg—why was he here? And carrying—an infant. When Sara straightened up, she was holding a toddler in her arms. He stopped walking so quickly he was almost run over by a group of tourists.

Greg saw him first and raised an arm in greeting; Sara waved, a smile spreading across her face, she said something to the child in her arms and the child, a girl, waved at him.

Who were these children, relatives of Greg? No—he knew that was not likely and Greg held the baby easily, in a familiar way, accustomed to holding a small infant. Grissom's mind would not cooperate—too much noise—the swirling in his brain intensified.

Rapidly, they were standing before him. Sara said "You made it! We were worried the weather might delay your flight." Turning to the child, she said, "Laurie, this is Grissom. He sent you the big blue ball and the bug book."

The little girl nodded and for the first time Grissom got to see her face—Sara's face in miniature. Serious dark eyes, a mouth that made a timid smile were framed by soft dark curls.

Grissom could say nothing; he stared, unable to speak.

No one seemed to notice his inability to speak as Greg stepped forward, brought the infant from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow. He said "This is Gregory Warrick Sanders—GW, I call him." Greg laughed a long familiar chuckle. "Sara calls him Gregory but that's a big name for a little guy."

Grissom was speechless. He knew his mouth opened several times. Sara was his wife—these were supposed to be his children—not Laurie and Gregory—but his kids! Not Greg's wife—not Greg's kids. Grissom had loved Sara for years—Greg knew this! Why were they married? His head hurt; he blinked his eyes to prevent tears.

Easily, Sara smiled at him, knowing his thoughts as she had for years. "You waited too long, Grissom. Too long…"

Her face faded as her voice was replaced by another's. "It won't be long—it won't be long before we land, Mr. Grissom. Can you put your seat upright?" The flight attendant handed him a warm towel and a cookie wrapped in paper. She winked, "You missed dinner but you'll be home soon."

Home—he started to pinch himself but briskly wiped the towel across his face. This time he was awake. He raised the window shade to darkness and directed his eyes to the earth below; he knew he would see the lights of Vegas as the plane flew westward.

Home—he could smell it in the air as he walked through the terminal. A light fragrance was pumped into the airport ventilation just as the casinos did, but underneath—or floating on top—was the smell of dusty dry air produced on windy days in Las Vegas. He stopped in a restroom and brushed his teeth with the free toothbrush and used the shaving cream to wash his face.

Outside, waiting at curbside, he watched dozens of blurry-eyed tourists stumble, totter, and lurch their way to taxis and buses for their short trip to hotels and casinos. He realized younger generations did not arrive in Vegas before sunrise. After ten minutes, he called Sara's number which rang four times before a sleepy voice answered. He knew she had fallen asleep while waiting for his flight.

"Are you home?" He asked and before she could answer, he said "I'm on my way."

He heard her exclamation of surprise. "I fell asleep, Gil! I'm so sorry! I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she protested, her voice still groggy.

His arm was in the air for a cab. "No, stay there—I'm on my way." He laughed. "Just open the front door!" Before he finished his sentence, he was opening the rear door of a taxi. Telling the driver the address and adding shortcut directions. He continued talking to Sara, telling her how easy his flights had been, asking questions just to hear her voice.

Sara met him at the door, a broad smile across her face. And she kept smiling—sincere, joyful, welcoming, his Sara, the one person in his life who loved him without question, without judging.

"You're home!" Her arms lifted to circle his neck. Her hands touched his shirt, his hair, her fingers lifted and caressed curls just as her lips met him. Moments later, she parted from him and whispered, "I've missed you, dear!"

He knew she spoke, saying kind, loving words, but all of it was lost on him. His nose filled with the fragrance of Sara; his hands touched, felt her slender body as they hugged, softness, gentleness in all the right places. Her hips fit against his, her firm breasts pressed against his chest. Lips met again, soft, supple, sensitive caresses of mouth on mouth, teasing, tasting, savoring what had been missed. Senses of smell, taste, and touch overwhelmed his ability to speak—all he wanted to do was kiss her—for a while.

Long moments passed before they separated, both smiling, almost shyly as their eyes met, recognizing the passionate needs in the other. Sara's hand touched his bearded cheek, his fingers threaded into her hair. He pressed his hand against her back and brought her into the curve of his neck just to feel her warm breath against his throat.

"I've missed you more than words can say, honey."

He felt a smile spread across her face. "The plant," she giggled, "you didn't have to do that," she whispered.

"Yes, I did. An apology for not being here." He snuggled his nose against her hair. "Did you look it up?"

She made a soft laugh. "I did—Calliandra—the fertility plant." She kissed his jaw. "Are you exhausted?"

This time he laughed. "No, I slept on the plane, but I do need a shower and I'd love clean underwear." By now they were inside the house; the dog was nudging his nose between their bodies. With one hand, Grissom reached to pet the dog, keeping the other one securely around Sara. "You won't believe this, but since that storm—I think it started the night the tree fell on the house—I've had some weird dreams."

"You want to tell me?"

Again, he laughed. "Nope—they will never come true—just weird events scrambled together."

She gave Hank a treat and motioned to his bed in the kitchen. "You are there for a while, baby. Your dad will take you for a long walk later!"

Grissom lifted his eyebrow, asking "What's your plan? Are you working?"

"No, I've got other things to do." She returned to his arms. "First a shower with my husband. Then we'll talk about anything that comes up." Her hand slid along the front of his shirt and to his pants. "I think that will get things started—then we might do it again. And I'm staying in bed for twelve hours—at least twelve—while you walk the dog and feed me luscious bites of food and do other things that I've missed."

He grinned. "Quick shower—clean underwear."

"You don't need underwear for what I've got planned."

Reality, real life—he liked, no—he loved this life. No dream. No nightmare. Loving Sara was all he wanted to do. Finally, he was where he wanted to be...doing what he wanted to do...

A/N: Decided to give that plant a name (not the correct one, for sure!) for our purpose. Thanks for reading, double thanks for your review! And one more chapter-maybe two more chapters-if you review this chapter! And guess what's coming?