This chapter has been so hard to write, I hope I have done it justice. Please review!
Grissom's breath was ragged as he took Sara by the hand, leading her into the bedroom. His lips were on hers before the door even closed behind them. There was an urgency in him now, a raw, consuming need. Once inside, he pushed her against the wall with a force that was at once familiar and new, like the intensity of a storm building in his chest. He kissed her fiercely, his hands pinning her wrists against the cool surface, reminding her that this moment—this passion—was inevitable.
Sara felt a jolt of surprise, but not discomfort. She met his intensity, her breath coming in soft gasps. His lips moved down to her neck, his hands slipping under her tank top and lifting it over her head, discarding it with a casual flick to the side. He then gripped her legs, lifting them easily, parting them with a swift motion, pulling her shorts down before she could even process the action. His clothes followed quickly, his hands and lips now everywhere.
The change in him was undeniable. Where once there was hesitation, there was now only longing—his body against hers, every thrust deeper than the last. He entered her quickly, too quickly perhaps, but neither cared. It was a desperate kind of passion, the kind they both had been craving, silently, in the quiet spaces between them. It was different this time, a hunger that went beyond physical. It was a fusion of two parts, two halves finally realizing they were meant to be whole.
His rhythm quickened, sweat beading on his forehead as their bodies moved together. He kissed her relentlessly, his lips touching every inch of her skin, each kiss more fervent than the last. Sara felt waves of pleasure crash over her, overwhelming, intense. She had never felt anything like it before—every touch, every thrust, sending shockwaves through her.
Grissom followed her, his breath sharp, his body shaking as he came with a guttural sound that vibrated through them both. He held her tightly, his body still pinning hers to the wall, unwilling to let go. He could feel the weight of everything in that moment—the years of yearning, of wanting, of understanding finally being realized.
She shifted slightly, the cold of the wall starting to press into her scars. The memory of the pain, the reminder of the past, crept up her spine. She didn't want to move, but the discomfort was too much.
"I'm sorry," Grissom whispered, lowering her carefully. He placed a kiss on her forehead, as if to apologize for every moment of pain she had ever suffered. "Thank you," he murmured again, as though he couldn't say it enough.
Sara smiled softly, but her thoughts were already shifting. "Let's have a shower," she suggested, taking his hand and leading them to the bathroom.
The shower was soothing, the warm water washing away the lingering tension from their bodies. They massaged each other gently, careful not to overexert, laughing quietly between kisses. Afterward, they lay in bed, spent but content. The world outside the cocoon they had created felt distant, muted.
But then, the dream came.
Sara was back in the morgue, only this time it wasn't Doc Robbins performing her autopsy. It was the university department head, his cold eyes critiquing her body as if it were a mere specimen. The students from earlier—those inquisitive, eager faces—were now circling her, judging her, questioning her worth. They mocked her, throwing accusations like daggers.
"Did you sleep your way into Harvard?" one of them sneered. "Do you really think you belong here? That you're fit to teach?"
Her heart raced. Their words stung.
They continued, relentless. "You never paid attention in class, did you? You just daydreamed about your professors." The mocking laughter rang in her ears. "You're a fraud. You don't belong here."
Sara opened her mouth to defend herself, but no sound came out. She tried to scream, but nothing left her throat. Desperation filled her. She needed to say something, anything, but her words were trapped inside.
The table beneath her suddenly shifted. She was being slid forward, the cold surface beneath her turning red hot. Her heart stopped. She craned her neck, expecting to see the stainless steel drawer at her feet, but instead, she was being pushed into a furnace, the flames licking at her skin.
Her pulse quickened. She looked up, hoping to see a way out, but instead, she was face-to-face with her father's decomposing body. A maggot crawled from his mouth, the stench of decay assaulting her senses. Her body froze, her breath caught in her throat.
Then, she screamed.
And everything went up in flames.
Grissom woke to the sound of Sara shouting in her sleep. She was still tangled in the sheets beside him, her body writhing as though she were trapped in the nightmare she couldn't escape. Her eyes were wide open, but they were unfocused, lost in the terror of the dream.
"No… I deserved to get in… I'm a good CSI… I'm a good teacher… I deserve it…" She was shouting at someone he couldn't see, tears streaming down her face. Her whole body was shaking violently, her hands reaching out, grasping for something that wasn't there.
"Shh… Sara, it's okay…" Grissom whispered, reaching for her, but she recoiled, her body shaking so hard that she nearly knocked him off the bed.
He didn't know what to do. This was different. Her screams—her terror—felt too real. Like she was still trapped in that burning furnace, the heat consuming her. He grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand and threw it over her, desperate to do something, anything, to make her stop shaking, to make the flames in her mind go out.
She gasped for air, her eyes snapping to him as though seeing him for the first time. Her body stilled, but the tremors didn't stop. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she reached for him, clinging to him with a desperate need he couldn't quite understand.
"I'm here," Grissom said softly, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her forehead, his hands gently brushing through her hair. "It's okay. You're safe."
But Sara couldn't stop shaking. Her heart was still racing, her breaths shallow and erratic, and the images of her father's decomposing body, the furnace, and the mocking eyes of her students still burned behind her eyelids.
Her hands gripped at Grissoms shirt, her body still shaking. She couldn't escape the vividness of it—the suffocating heat of the flames, the mocking, disapproving faces. "I can't stop it," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm not good enough, Gil. I'm not worthy of this. I'm not even worthy of teaching."
Grissom held her tighter, not letting her pull away. "You are more than enough, Sara. You've fought so hard to get here, and I'm so proud of you. Don't let that dream tell you otherwise." His voice was steady, a grounding presence as he ran his hand through her hair. "It's okay. You're safe."
She clung to him, the comfort of his embrace doing its best to banish the lingering shadows of the nightmare. Slowly, her breaths started to even out, her heart rate beginning to steady as the warmth of his arms surrounded her. His presence, his touch, slowly helped push away the terror. The comfort of being held was enough to coax her back into sleep, and, after a few moments, her body relaxed into the safety of his hold, drifting back into a quiet, peaceful slumber.
Grissom sat in the chair beside their bed, Sara's head resting against his chest as she drifted back to sleep. Her breathing had steadied, but the remnants of her nightmare still hung heavy in the air. He knew the weight of it lingered in her mind, and no matter how hard he tried to shield her from it, she carried that darkness within her. But for now, he could offer her the comfort of his presence, the warmth of his embrace.
Sara's soft sighs and steady heartbeat told him she was finally asleep again, though he knew it wouldn't last. He had anticipated nightmares, nights when her past would crawl into her mind, forcing her to relive things she could barely put into words. He wasn't prepared for this.
He couldn't fix it, but he was going to do his best to help her through it.
But tonight, she needed more than just his comfort. He needed someone who could help her confront what was still haunting her. His mind turned to the one person who might be able to help—Dr. Heather Kessler. She had the experience with trauma, the understanding of the complexities of the mind that Sara needed. And, maybe most importantly, Heather was someone Grissom trusted.
Grissom quietly slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb Sara, and made his way to his desk. He picked up the phone, fingers hovering over the numbers for a moment before dialing Heather's number. He hadn't called her for advice on anything in a long time, but tonight, he felt the need to reach out.
It rang twice before Heather's voice answered, calm and controlled, as if she had been expecting the call. "Grissom," she said, her tone pleasant but laced with a touch of amusement. "Late night call for you isn't it?. What's on your mind?"
Grissom took a deep breath, his thoughts racing. "Sara's having nightmares," he said quietly. "It's the same one she's had for a while, but last night, it changed. She's reliving old fears, but this time, it's not just her father. It's like she's being judged, questioned about her career, about her worth. I don't know what to do, Heather. I can't seem to reach her when it comes to this."
There was a brief pause, a soft rustling on the other end of the line. Heather's voice softened, her tone both professional and sympathetic. "You're worried about her."
Grissom nodded even though Heather couldn't see him. "I've tried to help, but it's not enough. She's questioning everything—the work she's done, the success she's earned. She's even wondering if she deserves to be where she is."
Heather sighed gently, understanding the weight behind his words. "Nightmares like that can eat away at someone's sense of self-worth. It sounds like Sara's fear is manifesting in her dreams, questioning her career, her success—everything she's worked so hard for. But it's not just the nightmares. It's what's behind them."
Grissom's voice was low, tinged with frustration. "I know. But I don't know how to help her with this. I can't do this alone. She needs someone who can help her understand what's going on in her head. Someone who can break down these walls she's built."
There was a pause before Heather responded, her voice steady. "You're right. She needs more than comfort right now. She needs someone who understands what she's going through—someone who can help her work through the roots of those nightmares. I can help, but Grissom, she has to want it. You know that."
Grissom swallowed, torn between his desire to protect Sara and the knowledge that he couldn't do it all himself. "I'll talk to her. She trusts me, but this… I think she needs to trust you too. She needs to see that she's not weak for needing help."
"Exactly," Heather replied. "I'll be here when she's ready. Let me know if you need anything. And remember, Grissom, you can't carry all of this by yourself. You've done the best you can, but Sara needs to let someone else in."
Grissom sighed in relief, grateful for Heather's calm, measured advice. "Thanks, Heather. I'll let her know."
"Take care of her," Heather said before hanging up.
Grissom placed the phone back on his desk, looking down at the bed where Sara lay. He hadn't wanted to wake her—he didn't want to bring up the nightmare again. But he knew it was time. He had to find a way to help her, to make her understand that her past didn't define her.
He climbed back into bed beside her, holding her close. She stirred, but didn't wake, settling back into his arms. He whispered softly, "We're going to get through this, Sara. Together."
Sara sat stiffly in the leather armchair, her fingers curling around the hem of her sleeve. The room smelled like old books and faint traces of expensive perfume, and the warm lighting did little to soften her nerves. She hadn't wanted to come here, hadn't wanted to sit across from Lady Heather of all people—someone she had only heard about in passing, someone surrounded by rumors.
Yet, here she was.
Heather sat across from her, poised yet relaxed, dressed in a deep green blouse that made her presence even more commanding. Her office wasn't clinical; it felt like a study, filled with shelves of books, an antique desk, and a chaise lounge that was clearly meant for more than just decor. It was intimate, curated for conversation.
"You don't have to be here if you don't want to be, Sara," Heather said smoothly, watching her with piercing blue eyes. "Grissom asked me to help, but I won't force you into anything."
Sara swallowed, feeling the weight of that. It would be easy to walk out, to pretend she was fine. But the truth was, she wasn't fine.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," Sara admitted.
Heather tilted her head slightly. "Why don't we start with why you're here?"
Sara exhaled through her nose. She considered lying, saying it was stress, or work, or anything that sounded more normal than the truth. But Heather was watching her like she already knew that wouldn't be the answer.
"I've been having nightmares," she admitted finally. "For years, really. But they've changed."
Heather leaned forward slightly, but she didn't press. She simply let the silence stretch, allowing Sara to fill it in her own time.
Sara hesitated. Talking about the dreams felt exposing, like peeling off a layer of armor. But she had to start somewhere.
"The original dream," she began, rubbing her hands together, "I'm in the morgue. I'm… on the table."
Heather's expression remained unreadable, but Sara noticed how carefully she was listening.
"Grissom and Doc Robbins are examining me," she continued, voice quieter now. "Critiquing me. But I'm still alive. I can hear them talking about my body, dissecting me like I'm just another case. Then Doc asks Grissom what part he wants to keep, and he says… my heart."
Heather didn't react, just waited.
Sara's throat tightened. "He takes it. Puts it in a jar. Says it'll look great next to the fetal pig in his office."
Heather exhaled softly, but she still didn't interrupt.
"Then he tells Robbins to send the rest of me back to San Francisco." Sara swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because he's got what he wanted."
For a moment, Heather said nothing. Then she leaned back, studying Sara. "And that's the old nightmare?"
Sara nodded.
"And the new one?"
Sara hesitated before answering. "I'm still in the morgue. But it's not Grissom and Robbins anymore. It's a professor. And students. The ones I teach now." Her voice wavered slightly. "They're looking at me, not just my body this time, but… everything. My brain. My intelligence. They're saying I don't belong. That I don't deserve to be there."
Heather's brow furrowed slightly, the first visible sign of reaction.
"They ask how I got into Harvard. If I slept my way in. If I cheated. They tell me I don't deserve to be a teacher, that I know nothing. I try to fight back, to defend myself, but—" Sara's breath hitched. "They don't hear me. No one hears me."
She looked down, blinking hard, as her voice trembled. "Then the morgue table starts sliding, like I'm being put into a drawer. But it's not a drawer. It's… a furnace."
Heather's lips pressed together slightly, but she stayed silent.
Sara exhaled shakily. "I try to move, but I can't. Then I see him. My father." Her voice dropped to almost nothing. "His body. His face." She shut her eyes for a second, then forced them back open. "And then we burn."
Silence.
Heather was watching her carefully now, her hands still folded in her lap. "And when you wake up?"
Sara let out a bitter, breathy laugh. "I feel like I deserve it."
Heather's eyes darkened slightly, but she didn't react with pity or shock. Instead, she nodded slowly, as if she had expected as much. "Tell me something, Sara," she said, voice measured. "What do these nightmares tell you about yourself?"
Sara clenched her jaw. "That I'm not good enough. That I don't deserve what I've worked for."
Heather studied her. "Do you believe that?"
Sara hesitated.
Heather leaned forward, voice softer now. "I didn't ask if it feels real. I asked if you believe it's true."
Sara looked away. She wanted to say no. Wanted to say she knew she was smart enough, strong enough. That she had earned every opportunity she had been given. But some part of her—some deep, dark part—still questioned it.
Heather didn't press, just let the silence settle.
"You know," Heather said finally, "Grissom told me very little about you. He just said you were struggling with something, and that you were one of the strongest people he knows."
Sara's lips twitched slightly, but she didn't look up.
"What I see," Heather continued, "is someone who's been carrying a lot, for a very long time. And that weight? It doesn't just disappear because you're successful. If anything, success can make the doubt louder, because suddenly, you have more to lose."
Sara swallowed.
Heather tilted her head. "You didn't sleep your way into Harvard. You didn't get handed a career. You fought for every piece of the life you've built. But I think part of you still doesn't believe that."
Sara didn't respond.
Heather leaned back again. "I can help you figure out where those doubts come from. And how to stop them from defining you."
Sara looked up then, eyes glassy but guarded. "How?"
Heather smiled slightly. "By starting at the beginning."
Sara's stomach twisted, and she suddenly felt like running.
Heather noticed. "No rush," she said smoothly. "But if you want to untangle this? We have to start there."
Sara exhaled, looking down at her hands again.
She didn't want to.
But she nodded.
Because some part of her knew—this was the only way forward.
Finally, Sara exhaled, barely above a whisper. "She would tie me up at night for hours and beat me."
Heather's face didn't change, but her gaze sharpened.
"She said it was a warning," Sara continued, voice brittle. "That if I ever told anyone, next time she wouldn't stop."
She rubbed at her arms, feeling phantom heat crawling over her skin, the ghost of an old pain.
"She untied me before dawn," she murmured. "Dragged me to my room and told me to go to sleep. As if I could." A hollow chuckle escaped her lips, but there was no humor in it. "Then she acted like nothing happened. Made me breakfast in the morning. Eggs. With ketchup."
Heather's brows twitched slightly.
"It looked like blood," Sara said flatly.
The silence in the room deepened.
Heather still didn't speak. Didn't push.
Sara's throat worked as she swallowed. "That was the beginning of the end."
She looked down at her hands, curling them into fists. "It wasn't the first time she hurt me. Not by a long shot. She had been breaking me down for years. Little things at first—locking me in closets when I talked too much, making me kneel on rice if I made a mistake." She hesitated, then added quietly, "Then bigger things."
Heather tilted her head slightly.
"Once, when I was five, she pushed me into the neighbours pool while they were out of town," Sara whispered. "Just to see if I could swim. She didn't help me when I sank to the bottom. Just watched. Waited."
Heather's lips pressed together, but she still didn't interrupt.
"When I finally made it to the surface, choking on water, she just laughed," Sara said, her voice distant. "Said I needed to learn how to survive on my own."
She clenched her jaw. "She had all these rules. And when I broke them, there were punishments." Her voice was hoarse now. "Once, she locked me outside all night. In the winter. Said I needed to toughen up."
Heather's inhale was almost imperceptible.
Sara's hands trembled slightly as she continued. "But that night—the night she killed my father—was different. Because for the first time, I knew she was going to kill me too."
She was back there again. In that house. In the dark.
"After she tied me to the stove," Sara murmured, "after she burned me, after she left me alone in the kitchen… I thought it was over. That she would just pretend nothing happened, like she always did."
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. "But she came back and told me I was being punished again. That I was ungrateful. That I needed to learn my place."
Heather's voice was low, careful. "What did she do?"
Sara closed her eyes. "She took me downstairs."
She could still smell it. The blood. The decay.
"She opened the basement door and shoved me inside," Sara whispered. "Then she locked it."
The walls of Heather's office felt like they were closing in.
"It was pitch black," Sara continued, voice shaking.
Sara's hands curled into fists. "I tripped over something and fell. When I put my hands out to catch myself, I felt—" She swallowed hard. "I felt him."
"I could hear something moving, but I didn't know what it was. I thought maybe it was rats." Her breath hitched. "Then I realized it was him."
"I tried to scream, but she didn't come back. She left me down there for two weeks."
Heather's inhale was slow, controlled.
"I counted the days by the sound of the mail truck outside," Sara whispered. "At first, I screamed for help. Pounded on the door until my hands bled. But nobody came."
Heather remained motionless, but her gaze darkened.
The room felt too quiet.
"After a while he had started to bloat," Sara murmured. "His skin was slippery. And the smell—" She shook her head. "I didn't know what decomposition was back then. But I learned quickly."
Heather still said nothing, but something in her eyes had shifted.
She exhaled sharply. "After a while, I stopped screaming. I just… started watching."
Heather tilted her head. "Watching?"
Sara nodded, staring at nothing. "I kept track of how he changed. The way his body swelled, then deflated. The way the maggots moved. I made notes in my head. Studied it like it was a science project." A humorless smile flickered at her lips. "Guess I always had a knack for forensics."
Heather's fingers twitched slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
Sara exhaled shakily. "When she finally let me out, I didn't cry. Didn't fight. I just walked upstairs, took a shower, and pretended I was fine." She let out a breath. "And then I went to school."
Heather blinked.
Sara's voice was bitter. "Nobody noticed. Not the teachers. Not my classmates. Not the neighbors." Her jaw clenched. "Everyone knew what she was like, but nobody ever did anything."
Heather's voice was careful, quiet. "How did you get out?"
Sara's throat tightened. "One of my teachers saw the burns. Asked questions." A humorless smirk tugged at her lips.
Heather stayed silent.
"Police showed up," Sara continued flatly. "Took me away." She glanced at Heather. "I was in the system after that. Bounced from house to house. Some were okay. Some weren't. But none of them felt like home."
Heather studied her, then leaned forward slightly. "And now?"
Sara's breath caught.
For a long time, she didn't answer.
Then, finally, her voice broke.
"Now, I have one," she whispered.
Heather's gaze didn't waver. "With Grissom?"
Sara nodded, her eyes burning. "With Grissom."
Heather sat back, lacing her fingers together. "You survived something unimaginable, Sara. And now, for the first time, you're allowing yourself to live." She tilted her head slightly. "But survival instincts don't just disappear overnight. That's why the nightmares are coming back."
Sara swallowed hard.
Heather's voice was calm, steady. "Your mind is trying to tell you something. You're questioning your worth. Your intelligence. Your ability to teach. Because for most of your life, you were told you weren't enough."
Sara's hands trembled.
"But you are enough," Heather said firmly. "You always have been."
The words cracked something inside Sara.
She didn't fight the tears this time. Didn't swallow them down like she always had.
She let them fall.
Heather didn't look away as Sara crumbled. She let her sit in it, let her process it, let her cry.
Sara hated crying. It had never served her any purpose as a child—never earned her comfort, never made the pain stop. It had only made her mother angrier. But now, with Heather watching her, quiet and steady, she didn't feel weak.
She just felt tired.
She swiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, her voice raw. "I hate this."
Heather didn't ask what this was. She knew.
"You don't have to be strong all the time, Sara," she said gently.
Sara let out a shaky breath. "Don't I?"
Heather leaned forward slightly. "You spent your entire childhood in survival mode. You had to be strong just to make it through each day. But you're not there anymore. You don't have to live like that anymore."
Sara stared at her lap. "Then why does it still feel like I do?"
Heather tilted her head. "Because you've never known anything else."
Sara bit the inside of her cheek. That wasn't entirely true.
She knew what it was like to feel safe now.
With Grissom.
In his bed, wrapped in his sheets, listening to him breathe beside her. Sitting in his office, watching him work, knowing he was there. Even in the moments they weren't touching, she felt it—him, the certainty of him.
It was terrifying.
Because if she lost it, if she lost him, she didn't know if she'd survive it.
Heather was watching her closely. "You've been waiting for it to be taken away, haven't you?"
Sara's throat tightened.
Heather nodded slightly, as if she already knew the answer. "That's what abuse does. It convinces you that love is temporary. That you don't deserve it. That if someone does love you, it's only a matter of time before they leave."
Sara inhaled sharply, looking away.
Heather let the silence settle before she continued. "But Grissom isn't your mother, Sara. He's not going to punish you. He's not going to hurt you."
Sara flinched. "He already did."
Heather didn't seem surprised by that. "How?"
Sara let out a humorless laugh, rubbing at her face. "By wanting me but being too afraid to admit it. By pushing me away for years, making me feel like I was crazy for thinking he cared. By confiding in a murderer instead of me." Her voice cracked. "By making me hope and then yanking it away."
Heather sat back slightly, considering. "And yet… you're still here."
Sara scoffed. "Yeah, well, I'm an idiot."
Heather's gaze softened. "Or maybe you saw something in him that he didn't see in himself yet."
Sara exhaled shakily.
Heather leaned forward again, her voice steady. "Has he changed?"
Sara hesitated.
Then, quietly, "Yes."
Heather nodded. "And have you?"
Sara swallowed hard. "I think so."
Heather studied her. "Then maybe it's time to stop punishing yourself for staying."
Sara looked away. "I don't know how."
Heather offered a small, understanding smile. "Then let's figure it out."