Sorry, another sad/heartbreaking chapter. Skip if you need to. Grissom and Sara will talk eventually (soon even) but not yet.
After calling Catherine with a brief update, Grissom sat in the car, staring at the apartment building he had once called home with Sara. He knew it was simple. Go inside, find Sara some clothes, and then return to the hospital to wait until she was ready to see him. But he couldn't quite bring himself to leave the car. The home was once theirs - they had chosen and set it up together. Every room was full of memories and he so desperately wanted to go inside to relive them.
But it had been almost a year since he had last set foot inside. He was concerned about what he would find when he went in. Had Sara changed everything or kept it the same? Would it still smell like he remembered? What had she done with his things? Were they banished to boxes somewhere or had she disposed of them? Entering the small home would answer questions he had pondered and he wasn't sure he was ready for the answers that may lie there. He was scared that she may have chosen to move on.
A text from Catherine startled him out of the questions he was pondering.
Do you want me to grab some clothes for her?
He considered, for a moment, taking Catherine up on her offer. But he needed to do something to help Sara and this was one of the few things he could think of that she would allow him to do in this moment, so he opened the car door and got out, returning Catherine's text as he headed to the door.
I'm already here, but thank you.
When he opened the door to their unit, he felt relief wash through him when he saw that nothing had been changed. Not a single photo, piece of furniture or appliance had been moved in the slightest. Somehow, a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had lifted. Their home was familiar, and comforting. And it still smelled like Sara.
He made his way to the bedroom, again finding things unchanged. It was as if he had only stepped out for a few moments instead of nearly a year. His clothes hung in the closet except for those that Catherine had retrieved and taken to the hotel. He chose a few more items to take with him and then moved on to Sara's closet. He went through the drawers of pajamas and comfortable clothes that she wore around the house and selected the ones he remembered her wearing the most often. Every few minutes he would bring a shirt to his nose and inhale, feeling the calm washing over him at the familiar scent. Carefully, he chose socks and underwear for her, a hoodie that zipped at the front, shorts and pants. Then he found a travel bag to pack them in for her. He added her toiletries from the bathroom, so she would have something familiar and not smelling of hospital. He returned to their room, and debated if she would want her own pillow as he walked around the familiar room.
As he ran his hands over her work clothing, he noticed the small butterfly covered box wedged in the top of the closet, and brought it down. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained, but without even realising what he was doing, he had lifted the lid and began to remove the items inside. A tiny blanket with a little bee embroidered on the corner was on top. The fabric was delicate and soft, feeling like a whisper in his hands. A small pink teddy bear that fit in his hand was beneath it, a heart embroidered on it's chest. Beneath that, he found an envelope of photos. He gently lifted the tape and allowed the photos to spread across his lap as he sank to the ground. The top photo brought tears to his eyes when he saw a heartbroken Sara holding a tiny bundle wrapped in the blanket he now held. Their baby was small enough that she fit in a single hand, but Sara cradled her so gently and delicately to her chest. His heart ached as he realised just what Sara had gone through - and gone through alone. He carefully set the photo aside and held the blanket to his cheek. This blanket had held his daughter. Then, he began to look at the rest of the photos. A tiny pair of feet no bigger than a thumbnail peeked out from the blanket. A doll sized hand wrapped around Sara's little finger. A tiny face wrapped in an impossibly tiny bonnet - her eyes closed, having never had the chance to open. Each photo brought the reality of what Sara had endured into focus for him. Their child hadn't simply vanished, as a concept taken away. Despite being termed a miscarriage, short a few days to be classified a stillbirth, Sara had delivered and held their baby in her hands. This child hadn't just been a thought or a dream to Sara - she had been a real person whose death Sara faced alone and in silence. Their baby had died before she had a chance to live, and Sara had had to confront that reality head on. He returned to the first photo, this time noticing every detail of his wife - the dark circles under her eyes, gaunt cheeks, the pain on her face, the dampness of her shirt, the tear tracks on her cheeks - and the way she so carefully cradled her baby in her hands as if to protect her from the cruelty of the world.
When he finally put the photos back in their envelope, he carefully placed everything back in the box as he found them. As much as he so desperately wanted to go through everything inside, he knew this was not the right time to do so. Right now, he needed to pull himself together to finish packing what Sara might need for the next few days in hospital. He could be there for her now if she would let him.