Grissom sat behind his desk in the comfort of his Las Vegas Crime Lab office. He fidgeted with a pen as he read through case files of crimes that occurred while he was in San Fransisco. He had been back nearly a week but still seemed overwhelmed by the amount of files stacked high on his desk. Grissom was the sitting Assistant Grave Shift Supervisor, number two in command to Jim Brass.

He and Brass had shared their difference in the past, occasionally disputing the importance of science and evidence versus police work and interrogation tactics. None the less, the two men shared a simple working friendship. Often mulling over particularly hard to swallow cases with equally hard to swallow whiskey.

Grissom slipped the latest case file into the 'done' pile to his right as he reached for another one from the left pile. He pinched the bridge of his nose before opening the file. A week since San Francisco and yet he couldn't shake the image of the young CSI from his thoughts. He opened the top draw of his desk to pull out the photo of them at the Golden Gate Bridge. He sighed inwardly as he thumbed over her face.

It was rare for a woman to take up so much of Grissom's thoughts. And it had been a long time since one had entered his mind at all. The last, he mused, was a woman his mother had set him up with from Gilbert College. God how long has it been? Julia Holdenwas indeed a beautiful girl. She was smart and well liked in the community. Her being deaf had never mattered much to Grissom and his mother really loved her. They had been on several dates and had been intimate on a few occasions but as he reminisced on this fleeting romance, Grissom admitted to himself that their love-making lacked just that—love. That's why he ultimately broke things off with Julia, much to his mothers protest.

But Sara—Sara was consuming his thoughts in ways no other woman ever had. And he didn't like it very much.

He flipped over the photo, realizing he found it incredibly hard to read her chicken-scratch handwriting. The phone number was useless. He couldn't distinguish a 9 from a 0 or a 7 from a 1. The email was much easier though— SFCrimeLab . com. He began to compose an email to her in his head but after a few minutes he retreated. What could he possible use as a guise to begin communication? The idea of emailing her suddenly became incredibly daunting so he quickly dismissed the thought, put away the photo and continued through the paperwork.

September 1999

It had been about a month since the Forensic Academy Conference. At first Sara had expected Grissom to call her or send an email her way, but she received neither forms of communication. Initially she had been hurt, then confused. They had such a great week together and she could have sworn as they parted ways that he was feeling the same as she. But, if she were to be rational and realistic—something she often was—she knew it was a silly thought. Here she was, in San Francisco, first starting out in her career nearly 15 years his junior. He was climbing the ranks at the most prestigious crime lab in the country, a decorated criminalist and widely admired by peers for his breadth of field knowledge and innovative tactics. He was a bit quirky, but she liked that. When it came down to it, it was very impractical for anything romantic to happen. So, she detached from the hope that he would call or write and left the week they had together as a fond memory should could replay in her mind.

She sat in the break room, waiting for assignments when the rest of the team filtered in. There was Jeff, Katie, Brian, Derek and then—of course—Dave who entered with a small cake. One candle perched upon it.

Sara flipped her head back and groaned, "Guyssss."

"Happy birthday, Sara!" Dave placed the cake in front of her and grinned from ear to ear. "Make a wish."

Dave was very much like a father to Sara. He truly took her under his wing and praised her accomplishments the way she knew parents were supposed to. She had a deep rooted respect for this man. Dave—53—was actually the age her father would be had he had still been alive. Her mother and father had her at 22 and 25 respectively. Their story was somewhat romantic, at least the version that filled her bedtime stories as a child.

They had met on vacation in Napa Valley where her father, Richard Sidle, was celebrating his 24th birthday with some friends. It was there that he met Laura, "Instantly mesmerized by her beauty and wit" as he told the story. They eloped that Fall and soon after expected their baby girl. Dave looked a little like what she expected her father would have grown to look like. A solid coat of white hair on his head, freckled wrinkles lining his soft face.

"You really didn't have to..." She smiled up at him. The rest of the team clapping rhythmically for her to blow out the candle.

The last time Sara actually wished on a candle was her 13th birthday. She remembered vividly as she wished for "the fighting to stop." She got her wish just a few short months later when her father died.

So she did what she'd done for every birthday since, she pretended to think hard on a wish and blow out the candle. Though this time, she couldn't stop Grissom's face from seeping into her mind as the candle danced out.

October 2000

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose hard. His team was falling apart. Holly Gribbs laid at Desert Palms hospital in critical condition, Warwick on leave pending investigation, and a lot of murmurs enveloped the halls of the lab. Being promoted to Grave Shift Supervisor should have felt rewarding but it didn't—not under these circumstances. Even still, a year later, and with everything that was going on, he could still only think of one person.

Grissom had eventually emailed Sara. It was back in March, seven months after their initial meeting. Finally he worked up the courage to email her, using a case of his as his stepping stone into conversation.

Sara—

I was working a case tonight that reminded me of the conversation we had all those months ago. DB found two miles off the beaten path where we found Scarabaeus Viettei—your joke about George and Ringo came to mind.

I hope you're doing well.

Best,

Grissom

They had become comfortable pen pals in the months that followed. She eventually provided her phone number, joking that "She rushed through elementary school and never truly learned penmanship." Though they had never had a phone conversation—That is until now.

Grissom dialed the number on the rolodex before him.

"Sidle."

Suddenly he lost his voice. Hearing hers again, over a year later now made all the memories rush back into his mind. Finally, he regained control.

"Sara—it's Gil... Grissom"

"Dr. Grissom." He could hear her smile through the phone. "Quid debeo voluptatem?" [What do I owe the pleasure?]

"You've been brushing up on your latin I see."

"Only slightly."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Look, Sara..." His voice trailed off, "I need your help."

"Is everything alright?" Her tone suddenly taking a sharp turn toward serious.

"A CSI of mine has been shot... she's in critical condition and we're terribly short staffed. I was hoping you could come in to help us investigate it. You know, to keep it impartial but keep out IA." He paused shortly before adding, "I need someone I can trust."

"Absolutely." She didn't hesitate.

Grissom sighed outwardly, "Thank you. I'll email you flight reservation information."

He closed his eyes briefly as he clicked off the phone. What was he doing?